Gun Justice

Chapter 1

Cancer! Now ain’t that a heckuva note, I said to myself as I pondered the news Doc Simpson had given me. I sat there behind my desk, slowly shaking my head in disbelief as I recalled my visit to the doctor.

* * *

Doc Simpson lived in a neat little house with a white picket fence around it about a block past the business section of town. Doc had converted the living room of his house into an office and treatment room. The opening of the office door caused a little bell to tinkle letting Doc know he had a patient.

What brings you around today, Ty? Doc Simpson asked as I stepped into his office.

Standing just inside the door, I replied, Just needed to talk to you, Doc. I haven’t been feelin’ too good lately and it ain’t gettin’ any better so I decided to come to see you.

You did the right thing by coming in, Ty, so take your shirt off and we’ll get started.

Doc asked me a lot of questions, did a lot of listening with his stethoscope, poked around on my stomach for a while, and finally gave me the news.

I hate to tell you this, Ty, but from this examination plus what you’ve told me, I think you’ve got cancer.

Cancer? Never heard of it.

It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve never heard of it because there are probably a lot of old time doctors who have never heard of it.

Okay, let’s say that’s what I’ve got. Is it bad?

"It’s as bad as it gets, Ty. There is no known cure for cancer. Cancer is a growth that spreads throughout the body destroying the healthy tissues and organs until the body can’t take it anymore, then you die

You wouldn’t be pullin’ my leg would you, Doc?

No, Ty, I’m not pulling your leg. A doctor would have to have a pretty sick sense of humor to joke about a thing like this.

So there’s nothin’ you can do for me?

That’s right, Ty. There is nothing I can do for you. I did hear about a famous Scottish doctor named John Hunter who was working on cancer in the late 1700’s. He suggested that some cancers could be cured by surgery. I don’t know whether he was right or wrong, but what I do know is this. I would never attempt surgery on you because I wouldn’t know where to start or what to do, so to answer your question again, there is nothing I can do for you.

Just when is this dyin’ supposed to take place, Doc?

That, I couldn’t say, Ty. It could be a year or two. It could be less. It seems to work faster on some than on others. Anyway, my advice to you would be to get your affairs in order.

I paid Doc and walked out, not quite sure what to make of my situation. Thinking about what Doc had told me caused me to lose my appetite, so the next morning I had grits with milk and sugar on them rather than my normal breakfast of bacon and eggs with biscuits and gravy and lots of coffee. After a few days of nothing but grits for breakfast my stomach was feeling a lot better, so I decided to stay on the grits for a while.

That had been eight months ago. Eight months closer to the grave, according to Doc Simpson. I couldn’t believe it. I had been feeling better than ever lately. No more dizzy spells and no feelings of passing out. I caught myself slowly shaking my head back and forth, not willing to accept the fact that I was dying.

Ty Hardin. That’s me. Dark hair, clean shaven, a little over six feet tall in my bare feet, wide shouldered, narrow hipped, strong as a bull, and dying of cancer. It didn’t make sense. I had been in several stand-up gunfights and had never had a scratch. I didn’t figure there was anyone around that could handle me face to face in a gunfight so, unless I got bushwhacked, I figured I’d live a long time.

Time. When you think you don’t have much time it makes you wonder where it has all gone. It didn’t seem that long ago that I had been twenty years old and working for Charlie Hill on his spread south of San Antonio. I leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on my desk and let my mind take me back to that earlier time in my life.

* * *

Chapter 2

I was sitting on the bench outside the door to the bunkhouse just looking around and thinking about how much nicer the evenings were when the wind wasn’t blowing. The bunkhouse facing east was nice because that let us set in the shade whenever we sat out in the evening.

When I heard the cook shack door slam, I looked around and saw Jim Long standing there on the porch, picking his teeth. Jim was always the last one out of the cook shack because he ate the most, yet he never gained a pound. Jim finally strolled over to where I was and sat down beside me.

Jim and I were just shooting the breeze when I noticed Billy Clifton and Seth Adams headed our way. As usual, Billy had that goofy looking grin on his face.

I waited until Billy was within earshot of us and then said, What do you think Billy’s up to this time, Jim? You know it’s gotta be somethin’ the way he’s grinnin’ from ear to ear.

Shoot, Ty. He’s got that grin on his face most of the time. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t know whether he was happy about somethin’, whether he was up to somethin’, or whether he was only about half bright.

Do you think that if we just ignore him, he’ll go away? I asked.

That’s highly unlikely and we both know that he can’t keep quiet very long, so if we just sit here he’ll tell us what he’s up to, that’s for sure.

Jim and I stopped our two-sided conversation and just sat there, waiting. Billy had been grinning and listening to us talk about him and, just as Jim had predicted, as soon as we stopped talking, Billy started.

"Come on, Ty. Let’s go down to the creek and see who’s the fastest with these pistols we’ve been packin’ around. I know you’ve been practicin’ with that Colt, but I’ve been practicin’ too and I want to see who’s the best

I looked at Billy Clifton and Seth Adams as they both stood there waiting to see what I would do. The three of us were all about the same age and were the youngest hands on Charlie Hills C bar H ranch. Billy was almost as tall as me but a lot thinner. He had a mop of unruly light brown hair, a face full of freckles and that ever-present grin that Jim had referred to. Seth was just about medium in size, was the most stable of us three, took his work seriously and was turning into a fine hand.

Just because Seth was the most stable didn’t automatically make me wild. In fact, I had been raised in a Christian home and had attended a Baptist church regularly until I was fourteen years old and my parents had been killed in an accident. After the accident, I lived with an aunt until I was eighteen. Then I had struck out on my own.

After getting a job with Charlie Hill, one of the first things I had bought was a pistol. I had spent a lot of time practicing with that pistol and knew I was really good with it. I had never bragged about how good I was with a gun, so nobody knew about it, but that secret wasn’t going to be a secret much longer.

I just shook my head, looked at Jim, and said, Have you ever, in your whole life, seen anyone as anxious to get put in his place as this guy?

Can’t say that I have, Ty, Jim replied.

What makes you think you might be faster than I am with a gun? I asked as I turned back to look at Billy. You can’t saddle a horse as fast as I can. You can’t throw and tie a calf as fast as I can. You can’t even eat as fast as I can, and now you think you might be faster than I am with a gun? I can’t believe it.

Dang your hide, Ty. I know all that. You don’t have to remind me of it. But there’s gotta be somethin’ I can beat you at and since we ain’t never tried guns, let’s go.

What do you think, Seth, I asked. Do you think either of you are as fast as I am?

I know I’m not and it’s danged doubtful if Billy is either, but he ain’t gonna be satisfied ‘til you prove it to him. Personally, I don’t see the point in it. We ain’t plannin’ on bein’ gunfighters and you don’t have to be fast to shoot a rattlesnake or to shoot a horse that has a broken leg.

That was a typical Seth response. He was never going to be daring or flashy. He was just going to be a good steady cowhand. Therefore, just like he said, he didn’t see any reason to be fast with a gun.

"What you just said is true enough, Seth, that’s for sure, but the point is this. It’s just a natural thing for men to want to see who’s the best at whatever it is they’re doin’. That’s why they have those bronc ridin’ contests at the Independence Day celebrations. The cowboys entered in those contests are ridin’ mostly for the braggin’ rights. The winner gets some prize money, but you can bet your boots those cowboys would still enter even if there wasn’t any prize money. They’d do it just so they could say they’re the best. That’s the same thing as those tales about gunfighters that we’ve heard when we’re sittin’ around the chuck wagon durin’ the roundup. Somebody gets a reputation of bein’ fast with a gun and it isn’t long until someone else comes along and has to try to prove that he’s faster. Right or wrong, that’s just the way it is.

That’s why Billy is all excited, hoppin’ around like a toad on a hot rock. He can hardly wait to see if he’s faster than I am so he can brag about it. Well, there’s only one way to find out so let’s go, I said as I got up from the bench and the three of us started for the corral to get our horses.

My horse was a buckskin that I had bought from Charlie the year before. Charlie had bought a new string of horses and I had taken an immediate liking to the three-year-old

buckskin that was in the bunch. Although the horses belonged to Charlie, they had been bought for the ranch hands to use. The hired hands would pick and choose the horses they wanted and would then use them as if they were their own. I really wanted that buckskin, but I figured he would be gone by the time it was my turn to pick, so I decided to talk to Charlie about buying the horse.

When I told Charlie what I wanted, he reminded me that he supplied the horses for the ranch work and that I didn’t need to buy a horse.

I pointed out the fact that when I had hired on I owned nothing but the clothes I wore. Now, two years later, all I owned was the clothes I wore and a gun. I wanted to own more than that and since it was obvious that I wouldn’t own a ranch or any cattle in the near future, I could at least own a horse.

Charlie heard me out, thought about it for a minute, and finally agreed to sell me the horse for what he had paid for it.

I named the horse Buck. I figured that every buckskin saddle horse in the country was named Buck, but I didn’t care. I liked the name and that was good enough for me. I had spent a lot of time currying, brushing, petting, and talking to Buck. As a result of all that care, Buck would come when I called his name.

When Billy, Seth, and I got to the corral, I called, Here, Buck, and stood there with pride as Buck trotted up to the fence. I rubbed his neck, told him how good a horse he was, dropped my loop over his neck and led him out to be saddled. I did all of that while Billy was trying to get his horse separated from all the other horses in the corral. Then I was able to tease Billy about being slow.

Hey, Billy. I thought you wanted to go shootin’. What’s takin’ you so long to get ready?

Billy just looked at me and didn’t bother to answer.

There was nice creek that ran through Charlie’s ranch. Cottonwood trees bordered the creek and I had spent a number of evenings sitting under one of those trees listening to the soothing sound the breeze made in the leaves overhead.

After the three of us were saddled up, it didn’t take long to ride to the creek and find a place with a high bank for a backstop. We dismounted, tied our horses to some bushes, and walked down to the water’s edge.

Now that we’re here, what are we gonna do? I asked.

I ain’t shootin’, Seth said. I already know that Billy’s faster than I am. Why don’t you two face that bank with me standin’ behind you? When I holler, draw and shoot. If it’s too close for you to tell who shot first, I’ll be the judge.

Sounds fair to me. Come on, Ty. You’re about to meet your master, Billy said.

Wait a minute, I said, as I looked Billy right in the eye. There’s one thing that I want to get straightened out before we go any further.

What’s that? Billy asked.

I know you can’t beat me, Billy, ‘cause to be truthful, I doubt if there’s more than two or three people in the whole state that are faster than I am. When we draw you’re gonna look so bad that you’ll probably be embarrassed and I don’t want you to be mad at me about it. If you’re gonna get mad, then I ain’t doin’ it.

I won’t be mad, Ty. If you beat me I’ll just make sure to hide behind you if we ever meet up with any real live bad-men.

Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure. Too be truthful, I don’t think I can win. I just want to see how I stack up against you.

When we turned to face the bank, I asked What are we gonna shoot at?

Why do we need to be shootin’ at somethin’? I thought we were just tryin’ to see who was the fastest.

What difference does it make how fast you get your gun out if all you do is pull the trigger? You need to be able to hit what you’re shootin’ at or what’s the use of drawin’?

It doesn’t make any difference what target you choose because I couldn’t hit it anyway, Billy replied. I have a heck of a time tryin’ to hit somethin’ when I’m aimin’ at it and holdin’ the gun in both hands.

I scanned the clay bank on the other side of the creek for a target and finally spotted something that would do.

Okay, I’ve got it. See that little white streak of bird droppings on the face of the bank over there. That’s what we’ll shoot at.

Fine with me, Billy said as we got set to draw. Seth moved behind us, shouted, Go, and two shots rang out. The thing of it was they were both my shots.

Good grief, Billy, Seth exclaimed. Just practicin’ against me, I thought you were pretty fast. You didn’t even clear leather before Ty got off his two shots.

Billy just stood there with his mouth hanging open, speechless for one of the few times in his life. He finally shook his head a little, as if to clear his brain, and said, Well, I was hopin’ to do better than that, but I ain’t surprised. I don’t guess there’s any reason to try it again’ cause I did about as good as I could and it wasn’t near good enough.

I know what! Billy exclaimed. Let’s go back to the ranch and play root-the-peg. I know there’s somethin’ I can beat you at and maybe that’s it.

I’ll pass on that, I replied. Call me chicken if you want to, but that just might be what you win at and I don’t have any intentions of chawin’ on that dirt, tryin’ to get ahold of that peg with my teeth while you sit there laughin’ at me.

I could see that my last statement had made Billy feel better, so we started back to our horses. I looked back over my shoulder and smiled. They hadn’t noticed, but the bird droppings we had been shooting at were gone.

* * *

Chapter 3

One evening in early spring, I was sitting on the side of my bunk watching Seth mend a tear in his shirt.

How did you get so good with a needle and thread, Seth? I asked.

My mother taught me. There was a period of time when she had me do all the mending. She said there would be a time when there wouldn’t be a woman around to do the sewing and it would be foolish to throw a shirt away just because it had a tear in it.

It sounds like she’s a pretty smart lady.

She was. She’s dead now, but I keep findin’ that most of the advice she gave me has been right on the money.

Well, if she could see you now, she’d be pleased with the way you’ve turned out.

I think she would. So far I haven’t done anything that would have made her ashamed of me, so I guess I’m doin’ all right.

Looking around the bunkhouse, I saw Billy watching the nightly penny ante poker game. That meant Billy was broke or he would have been in the game. Jim Long was sitting in a chair that he had tipped back on two legs so his back was against the wall, reading an old newspaper. A couple of others were thumbing through some old magazines. It was just another typical night in the bunkhouse. Then Charlie came in with some astounding news.

Charlie didn’t come to the bunkhouse very often, so when he did make an appearance, there had to be a good reason. As soon as he was spotted the conversations came to an end. The card players were the last ones to realize what was happening, but as soon as they saw Charlie, they quit playing and turned to see what he had to say.

Well, boys, there’s gonna be some changes around here this year, Charlie said, after he had our attention. "I’ve been doin’ pretty good every year by sellin’ my cattle in San Antone’, but some ranchers have been gettin’ rich by drivin’ their cattle to Kansas. The cattle buyers are buyin’ entire herds and then shippin’ ‘em back east on the railroad. With the prices they’re payin’, a feller could lose half his herd and still come out smellin’ like a rose, and if you get your whole herd through, you can make an absolute killin’, so I’m gonna give it a try. Now that I’ve decided to try it, we’re gonna get started on it just as soon as we can.

Pete and I will leave in the mornin’ to find a trail boss and to pick up a few more horses. Cookie will take the chuck wagon into town to get the spokes tightened, the hubs greased, and to buy the supplies he’ll need to get us started. When Pete and I get back, we’ll help with the roundup. When we’re ready to hit the trail, I’ll leave Pete and Abe here to look after things while we’re gone. The rest of us will go on the drive. Any questions?

How long will it take to get to Kansas? Billy asked.

From what I’ve picked up in talkin’ to some of ‘em who have made the trip, it’ll be somewhere around three or four months, dependin’ on the weather and whatever else might come up. Anything else?

When there were no more questions, Charlie walked out, leaving us alone. As soon as the door closed behind him the bunkhouse was filled with chatter.

Boy, this is gonna be great ain’t it, Ty, Billy said as he came up to my bunk, grinning, as usual. Just think. We’ll be takin’ a herd of cattle all the way to Kansas. This is gonna be one exciting trip, that’s for sure.

I was not surprised at Billy’s comment because that’s the way he was. Anything new to Billy was automatically exciting.

It’s not gonna be as exciting as you think, Billy. Them cows ain’t gonna fly to Kansas, we’ve gotta drive ‘em there. That means they’ve gotta be kept in line, they’ve gotta be kept movin’, and you’ve gotta eat that trail dust every day for months. No more sleepin’ every night in a dry bunk. No more Saturday nights in town with Sunday off. The only time that drive will be exciting is when there’s a stampede and then that goes way beyond exciting into downright dangerous.

Oh, come on, Ty. You’re always tryin’ to put a damper on everything, Billy said.

No, I’m not. You just think that everything new is exciting and let it go at that whereas I take a closer look at things before I make up my mind.

Does that mean you might not be goin’ on the drive? Billy asked in amazement.

No, it doesn’t mean that at all. I work for Charlie and I’ll be goin’. When I said I take a closer look at things before deciding, I was talkin’ about deciding if the drive was gonna be exciting. I will admit that the drive will be different, I just don’t think it will be all that exciting.

The next morning, when Charlie and Pete were ready to leave, Charlie left Abe in charge with the instructions to get started on the roundup. We normally had a roundup every fall. That is when we would brand all the calves that had been born that spring. When the calves were thrown to the ground to be branded, the bull calves would also be castrated. After the branding was finished, we would cut out the stock that Charlie would drive to San Antonio. This roundup would be different because of it being done in the spring while the cows were still having calves. Since the trail herd would be made up of steers and barren cows, the only branding we had to do was with the old stuff that had been missed in prior roundups. Branding full-grown cattle was a lot harder than branding calves. When branding a calf, the roper would rope the calf and drag it to the branding fire where two guys were working. One of them would lean over the calf, grab a leg, and flip the calf onto its side and hold it down while the other one slapped a brand on its hip. A different method was required to brand full-grown stock. One person would rope the steer around the neck and drag it to the fire where another roper would rope its back feet, causing the steer to fall. The ropers would keep the steer stretched out while one of the guys at the fire would drop onto the steer’s front quarters to keep it from trying to get up while the other guy was doing the branding. Working the branding fire was a dangerous job. The guy with the branding iron had to be very careful when approaching the cow. It was not unusual to have someone get careless and be laid up