Chapter 14

Wounded Men Get Strange Ideas

It wasn’t till midday when a small crowd began to shuffle into the Foggy Dew, some of them so hungover they thought they were going to die, again. Most just ordered coffee, not being able to hold down anything solid. Wasn’t much to celebrate in Damnation, but Malachi had been unanimously disliked, and his departure was like the Fourth of July. Folks that’d been dead eighty years tied one on like they had croaked yesterday.

“Ah, this belly wash’ll never fix me up,” Spiffy complained.

“Yeah, I’d give anything for a drop a cream to lighten it up,” Red said.

Since you couldn’t get milk out of the dead cows, you had to drink your coffee black. A lot of folks put whiskey in it so it wouldn’t taste as bad after a few sips. Red peeled white paint chips from the wall and stirred them into his cup.

“What the hell you doin’?” Sal asked.

“Ain’t like it’s gonna kill me.” he shrugged. “I like a little color in my Arbuckle’s is all. Sure couldn’t make it taste no worse.”

“Good thing Buddy’s a fat bastard,” Spiffy said. “Otherwise that bullet wouldn’t a just winged ’em. If he was skinny like me it mighta hit somethin’ important.” He grabbed his crotch with a smirk.

“Ain’t much chance of hitting anything important on you,” Red teased. “’Specially your pin dick.”

“And if he was skinny,” I put in, “the bullet mighta missed him entirely.”

“Fair enough,” Spiffy conceded.

“I just hope Buddy heals up before there’s any more trouble with them wolves,” Whiny Pete fretted. “They still got a hankering for Ms. Parker’s baby, don’t they?”

“I wonder why they ain’t come back yet?” Red asked.

“Prolly still healin’,” Spiffy suggested. “When the vampire tossed ’em through the windows they got cut up pretty good, didn’t they?”

“Whatever the reason,” Sal interrupted. “We ain’t got much in the way of defenses if they do come.”

“Nigel’s still around,” I said.

“Vampire’s too unpredictable,” Sal said.

“How about Hardin?”

“After what happened with Stumpy? He’s about as reliable as a woman’s watch. Could shoot one of us just as easily as a wolf. Unless the wolf beat him in dice, of course.”

“Can we arrange that?” Red asked.

“You can’t roll dice with paws. But that gives me an idea, in case I ever need Hardin to get rid of anyone,” Sal said, more to himself than us.

Buddy was recovering in the hotel and couldn’t get out of bed. Folks either healed or died in Damnation. Wasn’t any doctoring or medicines to give you. You just wrapped a wound. If it started to rot, before long somebody usually shot the man for complaining too much. Buddy looked like he’d mend up with proper bed rest. Ms. Parker brought him his meals during the day and sat playing cards with him. I brought him supper. By evening time, he was nearly climbing the walls out of boredom.

“Want me to fetch you a pen and ink?” I asked him one evening.

“What for?” Buddy asked.

“You seem to take to scribbling.”

“Nah.” Buddy waved his hand. “I don’t need that hogwash no more.”

I started to collect the dirty dishes and make my way out.

“Hold it there a minute, Tom. I didn’t mean nothing by saying scribbling was hogwash.”

“Oh, I know, Buddy. No offense taken.”

“No, wait. Lemme explain. It’s just that when my spirits were sunk, I thought I didn’t have the nerve for gunfights. I figured I needed to be good at something else.”

“You wanted to find something else to impress Ms. Parker with?”

“Yeah, but not just that. See a man needs to be good at something. Gives him self-worth, whether it’s pouring drinks like Sal, or scribbling like you, or shooting real fast.”

“I know, Buddy,” I said. “Folks eat lead all the time ’cause they got nothing left, and they ain’t good at nothing. Hell, I almost did before I started The Crapper.”

“Really?”

“Sure, when I first arrived, times were tough. Damnation wasn’t the civilized town you see here today.”

“You sayin’ it was even worse!?”

“Shit, there were gunfights almost hourly some days. I couldn’t shoot or play poker worth a piss, and cripples didn’t stand a chance of lasting more’n a couple of weeks. Too easy of a target for bullies. And everyone had to bully somebody to show they weren’t weak. The boys all bet I’d be smelling sulfur by the end of the week. I knew my chances were slim. Worst part was the waiting—like a death sentence with no guarantee of meals or a cot in the meantime. On my third night, I stuck a pistol in my mouth just to get it over with. Then I thought about how nobody would remember I was even here. Struck me as sad. I reckoned there should be some record that a man had come and passed through this dusty town—even if he only lasted a few days.

“That night I wrote my obituary. By the time I finished, I was blind drunk. Had to pinch off a loaf, so I visited the commode. While I was sitting there, I musta pinned it to the back of the door and forgot all about it. Hadn’t thought of it at the time, but the location offered a captive audience. Everyone’s grateful for something to read while they’re doing their business—least the lettered ones.

“Next day, I was still no good at cards or shooting, but some of the fellas saw my obituary in the latrine. They gave me a few coins to listen to their stories and put ’em to paper. Turned out, they were all scared they wouldn’t last the week, and they liked the idea of a record of their lives. That became The Crapper. I wrote it out by hand every couple of weeks, listing the new arrivals, what they done, and where they came from.

“Every so often, I still had to shoot a quarrelsome drunkard, but most folks let me be. A year later, the woodblock press came down the road on a coach that was headed for a new frontier town. It let me print a mess of copies to sell to each man. Ain’t thought about eating a lead plumb since.”

“Shit, Tom. Why didn’t you tell me that story earlier? It’s downright inspiring! When I hear it put that way, I ain’t sure why I wasted so much damn time sulking and doubting myself. Coulda just pulled myself up by the bootstraps like you done and shot Malachi and them railroad men.”

“Guess it’s not so easy when you ain’t sure if you’re gonna make it through the rough patch,” I said.

“Ah, I knew I was gonna make it.” he blushed. “Just forgot for a spell, is all.”

I finished collecting Buddy’s dishes and put them on a tray. As I turned to go, he called out, “One more thing, Tom. Scribbling’s a lot harder than shooting people. Don’t let anybody ever tell you different. I kilt lotsa people, but I couldn’t fill one single damn page!”

“I’m sure you woulda got the hang of it eventually,” I laughed. “Besides, I filled more pages than I can count, and it don’t mean a one of ’em are any good.”

“Hmm…” Buddy scratched his whiskers. “Guess that’s another thing that’s easier about gunfights. Long as they ain’t standing, you know you done a good job.”

“I reckon so. Anyway, glad to see you got your jolly back, Buddy.”

“My jolly?”

“Yeah, some folks reckon that’s where your speed comes from. Long as you keep laughing, ain’t nobody can outdraw you.”

“That so?” He chuckled until a splinter of pain shot through his side and he had to grip it with a wince. “Tom, remind me when I’m healed that I owe you for that pen you lent me. I snapped it in frustration when I couldn’t use it properly.”

“Don’t worry, Buddy. I made lots of money this month wagering you wouldn’t make much of a scribbler.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s the only reason I’m still around.”

“Guess we’re square.” he shrugged. “Say, Tom, there was another thing I been meanin’ to ask. You really think you’ll get into heaven if you don’t shoot no one for a year?”

“Not sure. Gotta have something to look forward to though, right?”

“I suppose. Why you wanna get to heaven so bad anyway? Ain’t you like it here, playing cards and drinking with us?”

“It ain’t that. There’s some people that got kilt on account of some lies I wrote a long time ago. Their lives got cut short. They shoulda had their time. So I reckon I owe them an apology.”

“You wanna go to heaven so you can apologize to people?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Well that’s the dangdest reason I ever heard.”

“’Sides, nobody around here’s had a bath in years. Ya’ll smell worse than hogs in the heat of July!”

The Crapper

Comings & Goings: Four railroad workers from Pennsylvania departed the same day they arrived after unwisely testing John Hardin’s patience. I am told their names were Fred, Douglas, Paul, and something else. They all had wives and children and bragged of being hard workers. Apparently, they weren’t bad sorts when they were on their own, but when the gang came together they got rambunctious in their one-upmanship. As we can all attest, the company of men often brings out the worst in a fella.

Buddy also shot the good looks off the face of Malachi, who was probably the most unrepentantly evil man ever to set foot in Damnation. Good riddance! He had a long career of killing and raping the innocent, of which he intended to add Ms. Parker to the list. Ms. Parker confirmed that he was from Chicago.