1
Guadalupe was not much of a town, there on the border of Mexico, but it had everything that a fellow needed for a short stopover. There was a hotel, a livery stable, a general store, a butcher shop, a grocer’s, two eating establishments, a church and two saloons. There was also a sheriff’s office. The hotel was far from full, and the church had only a smattering of folks inside on a Sunday. The stores did enough business to keep themselves open, but the saloons were packed most all the time, both of them. Several ranches were in the area, and they kept the houses of sin hopping twenty-four hours a day. Two of the several ranches were large. The rest were small. The whole place was split by the main road through town. The ranches were on one side, farms on the other. The large ranches were on one side of town. The small ones on the other. It was a lazy place, a good place for a rest.
The two large ranches were the Circle X and the Zig Zag, run by two old warriors who were always almost at each other’s throat. It was a peaceful country, sort of. One of the main reasons the two old warriors were not actually involved in open warfare with one another was that they were both busy fighting all the small ranchers. That fighting was not open either, not quite.
Now and then the cowhands who worked for the Circle X or the Zig Zag would get into fights with those who worked for the smaller outfits, when they were all in town having a few drinks. And sometimes someone would catch a small rancher or one of his hands with stolen beef bearing the brand of either Circle X or Zig Zag and there would be a killing. It might be a shooting or a lynching, and there would be complaints filed in the sheriff’s office by the small fry, but nothing would come of it. It was expected that cow thieves would be done in. That was the way things were done.
By and large, though, Guadalupe was a peaceful town. Mostly the punchers got drunk and maybe a little rowdy. There might be a fight on a Friday night or a Saturday night, but usually it did not amount to much. The poker games in the saloons were usually quiet, with no one being accused of cheating. The losers just grumbled away from the table to get themselves a consoling drink, if they had the price left in their pockets. Even if they didn’t, the winners would usually buy them a drink.
It was a good place to lay around and rest up from a rough time, and it was for that reason that John Slocum had ridden into town. He had left his big Appaloosa at the stable, gotten himself a room in the hotel and was spending most of his time in the Hogback, one of the town’s two saloons. He was having a pleasant enough time, not doing anything in particular, minding his own business and staying out of trouble. He had looked at all the whores, but he had not seen anyone who really caught his eye, and he did not typically patronize whores anyway.
Slocum’s pockets were full enough for a nice long rest. He had just come away from a job that had paid him well, and he felt like he deserved this long rest. He had been in town long enough to be recognized by most everyone, but he had not made any friends. His acquaintances were all just nodding ones. Everyone liked him well enough, because he left them alone and minded his own business. They left him alone, too.
It was on a Saturday night, and Slocum was sitting alone at a table against the back wall in the Hogback. He had a glass and a bottle of good whiskey on the table. He was quietly sipping the whiskey and casually watching what was going on around him. A young cowhand at the bar was buying a drink for one of the whores, and Slocum silently made a bet with himself that she would be leading him upstairs soon enough.
Suddenly, with no warning, at the other end of the bar, one cowhand slugged another one in the jaw, and the fight was on. Soon there were four cowhands involved. The bartender came up with a shotgun from behind the bar, but he couldn’t seem to decide what to do with it. Another cowboy joined in the fray, and then another. Slocum didn’t mind, as long as they didn’t get too close to his table.
Then the sheriff came in. He pulled his two six-guns and fired two shots into the air. The six combatants all paused to see who was doing the shooting, and the sheriff walked over close to where the fight had been going on.
“All right,” he said, “that’s enough of that.”
“Aw, hell,” said a cowpuncher, “there wasn’t no harm done.”
“Who started it?” the sheriff asked.
The punchers all looked at the floor and shuffled their feet. Finally one of them said, “Damned if I can remember now.”
The sheriff put his guns away and turned to the bar. “Give me a whiskey, Amos,” he said. The fighters, all tamed down by this, turned back to the bar and bought each other drinks. It had looked for a moment like the Hogback would be all busted up, but it had ended as fast as it started, and no one seemed to remember how it had started. It was a typical Saturday night fight in Guadalupe. Slocum downed the drink in his glass and poured himself another.
He was about to get drunk, and the thought did not bother him at all. He’d had a long, hard fight at his last job, and he felt like he deserved this rest. A little drunkenness was in order and really to be expected. Any man worth his salt would get drunk at a time like this. It was one of life’s little pleasures, much to be desired and enjoyed. Slocum felt his last drink go to his head a little, and he decided that he ought to go to the hotel before drinking anymore. He stood up, and he could tell that his legs were a bit wobbly. He grabbed the bottle by its neck and started to make his way toward the front door of the saloon.
About halfway to the front of the room, he stumbled into another man. Stepping back, he said, “Sorry, stranger. I oughta look better where I’m going.”
“You sure enough oughta,” said the other man, and shoved Slocum backward. Slocum fell into a sitting position in a luckily vacant chair that happened to be in just the right position. He set his bottle down on the table and stood up. The shove had sobered him some. His legs felt a bit more sturdy under him. The other man took a swing, but he had telegraphed his punch too obviously, and Slocum blocked it and smashed the man in the jaw, sending him back into a table full of poker players.
At the bar, the sheriff turned just in time to see Slocum’s punch. The other man was getting up, and the poker players were all complaining vociferously because their game had been ruined. Cards and money were all over the floor. The man stood rubbing his jaw for a moment, then he doubled up his fists, ready to go at it again, but just then the sheriff stepped up behind Slocum with a six-gun in his hand.
“Hold it right there,” he said. “All right, partner, I saw the start of this one. Come along with me.”
Slocum reached for his bottle, but the sheriff jabbed him in the back with his six-gun. “You heard me,” he said.
“What? Me?” said Slocum.
“I told you I saw it,” the sheriff said. “There’ve been too many fights in here lately. They’ve got to stop. Maybe a night in jail will cool you off.”
Slocum thought about protesting. No one from the big fight had gone to jail, and he did not feel as if he had really started this one. He thought about it, but instead, he just said, “Can I take my bottle? It’s paid for.”
“Hell,” said the sheriff, “go ahead.”
As Slocum reached for the bottle, the sheriff slipped Slocum’s Colt out of the holster from the back. Slocum turned his head quickly to look at the sheriff. Their eyes met for an instant. Then Slocum picked up the bottle and headed for the door, the sheriff right behind him. When he reached the batwing doors, Slocum banged them open as hard as he could. The sheriff was bumped by their backswing and had to fight his way out the door. He was suddenly alert, thinking that Slocum was planning something, but when he untangled himself from the doors, he saw that Slocum was up ahead, walking calmly toward the jail. The sheriff harrumphed and walked along in Slocum’s wake.
While the short spat he’d had in the Hogback sobered him temporarily, the walk to the jailhouse put the wobble back in his legs. By the time they had reached the combination sheriff’s office and jailhouse, Slocum staggered against the doorjamb on the way in. He stopped for a moment and looked the place over. Locating the cells, he swaggered over and into one of them, pulling the door shut behind him. He checked the bed and, finding it satisfactory, sat down and tipped up his bottle.
The sheriff opened a desk drawer and dropped Slocum’s Colt in. Then he took up a set of keys and walked over to the cell to lock the door. “I’ll just leave you here overnight to cool off,” the sheriff said. “I’ll bring you a breakfast in the morning, and once you’ve ate, you can have your gun back and go your way.”
“It just seems a dirty shame,” said Slocum.
“What does?” the sheriff asked.
“Hell, I’m paying for a hotel room, and here I am sleeping in the jail.”
He noticed that his speech was slurred.
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” said the sheriff. “Just finish your whiskey and then sleep it off. The night’ll be gone before you know it.”
“Say,” Slocum said, “what’s your name anyhow?”
“Cyrus Holbrook,” the sheriff said. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Cy, have a drink with me.”
Slocum held the bottle through the bars out toward Cyrus Holbrook. The sheriff eyed him with curiosity. Then he smiled and walked over to take the bottle. He took a good long slug of the whiskey and handed the bottle back to Slocum. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Thanks,” he said. “By the way, what’s yours?”
Slocum tipped his bottle up again. Then he said, “What’s my what?”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh. It’s Slocum. John Slocum.”
“John Slocum?” said the sheriff. “Say, I’ve heard of you.”
“Oh yeah? What’ve you heard?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” said Holbrook. “From what I’ve heard, I’m lucky to have locked you up in jail and lived to tell about it.”
Slocum handed the bottle back to Holbrook, and Holbrook took another slug.
“I wouldn’t place too much stock in them tales,” Slocum said. “They get built up some in the telling and retelling.”
“I’m taking that into account,” Holbrook said.
“Ah.”
“Slocum, are you here on a job?”
“A job?”
“Yeah. I mean, has someone hired you to come in here for some reason?”
“I just came here for a rest,” Slocum said.
“You sure?”
“Hell, yes.”
He handed the bottle back to Holbrook.
“How come you came along with me so quiet like?”
“I don’t want no trouble around here. I reckon I can sleep in a jail cell about as well as in a hotel room. I shoulda gone on to my room a little sooner is all. I don’t usually get so drunk out in public. It’s a fool thing to do.”
“How come you started that fight in the Hogback?”
“Oh, you just didn’t see the real beginning of it,” Slocum said. “That ranny shoved me. Well, I guess I kinda stumbled into him, but I apologized for it.”
“You mean he shoved you first? I thought your punch was the thing that started the fight.”
“Oh, it don’t matter much,” said Slocum. “I s’pose you could say a shove started a fight, but on the other hand, you might not think a fight was really started till a punch was throwed. It’s all in how you look at it, I reckon.”
Holbrook put the key back in the lock and turned it. Then he threw the door wide open. Slocum gave him a curious look.
“You don’t need to stay in here tonight,” Holbrook said.
Slocum started to walk, but his legs were unsteady. He moved back to the cot and sat down heavily.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I think I’ll stay.” He held the bottle out again toward Holbrook, who walked into the cell and sat down beside Slocum to take the drink.
“I don’t mind a bit,” he said. He took a drink and handed the bottle back. “Slocum, I hope you won’t hold this against me when you sober up.”
“Naw. It just gave me a chance to get acquainted with you is all,” Slocum said. He laughed, and Holbrook joined in the laughter.
“I’ll tell you something, Slocum,” Holbrook said. “When I saw you hit that fellow back there, I thought about my choices. I figured I had two of them. I could either walk up behind you and poke my six-gun in your back, like I done, or I could walk up behind you and wallop you over the head. I’m sure glad I chose the first of the two.”
Slocum threw his arm around the sheriff’s shoulders and with his other hand gave the bottle to the sheriff. “Well, Cy,” he said, “I’m just as damn glad of that myself.”
They both laughed out loud again.
“Slocum,” Holbrook said, “you’re all right. You know, in a way, I’m glad I arrested you tonight, even if I was wrong.”
“Well, by God,” said Slocum, “I think I am, too. You ain’t so bad for a lawman. I ain’t known many that was worth a shit.”
“Mostly they’re just bad men who ain’t never been caught,” Holbrook said.
“By God,” said Slocum, “I ain’t never thought of it that way, but I believe that you hit it just right. Bad men that ain’t never been caught. That’s a good one. I’ll remember that all right. Say, how’d you come to be a lawman then?”
“Aw, it was several years ago right here in Guadalupe. There was some trouble, and no one seemed willing to do anything about it, so I took the job. Just stuck with it after that.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s the whole story.”
“Well, by God, I reckon you took care of that trouble all right.”
Holbrook laughed a little and said, “Yeah. I guess.”
The bottle kept passing from one man to the other, and before long, the sheriff’s speech was about as slurred as Slocum’s. “Say,” he said, “I’ve got to take a leak. I’ll be right back.”
The sheriff stood up and nearly fell back on the cot. He caught his balance and headed for the door. Slocum stood up as wobbly as Holbrook and followed him. “Me too,” he said. They made their way through the office and out the back door and eyeballed the outhouse a ways back.
“I’ll never make it,” Holbrook said, and he turned to face the back wall of the jailhouse. Standing beside the sheriff, Slocum also took his leak against the wall. Done, they headed back toward the door, but Holbrook stumbled and fell.
“Ah, shit,” he said.
Slocum reached for Holbrook’s hand and helped him to his feet. Arm in arm, they staggered back into the office, and bouncing off both walls, they got themselves back into the cell, where they fell to sitting positions on the cot.
“God damn,” said Holbrook.
“You son of a bitch,” said Slocum. “I think you got me drunk. Did you do that on purpose or what?”
Both men laughed at that.
“Slocum,” said Holbrook, “I can’t remember ever having so damn much fun with a bottle of whiskey.”
Slocum looked serious and held the bottle out in front of his face and studied it a moment. “By God,” he said at last, “I can’t either.” He took a long drink and handed the bottle to Holbrook. “Kill that son of a bitch, Cy,” he said. And Cyrus did. He tossed the bottle in a corner of the cell and stood up. Then he wobbled his way across the small cell to the other cot and fell down on it. Across the tiny room, Slocum fell back, and soon both men were sound asleep, or passed out, in the jail cell.