Chapter 21

Hardin v. Buddy

Hardin wasn’t much of a drinker. He could sip the same beer for over an hour, and never drank more than six or seven over the course of a day, which wasn’t a lot in a town full of dead men with no jobs. Since he didn’t have drinking pains to recover from, he rose early. You could hear him outside of town shooting at bottles. He’d set up jugs on crates and walk twenty paces, then turn and blast them apart. Did it for hours without taking a break. One morning, I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the edge of town to watch. I clocked Hardin from when he stopped walking till the last bottle was broke. He hit all six before the second hand on my pocket watch struck four. Then he set them up again and did it in three seconds.

As I walked back into town, Nigel was sitting on a rocking chair in front of the hotel. He kept odd hours, not having any reason to be awake during chow time.

“Mornin’,” I said hesitantly, fearful he might take my arm off if I caught him in a sour mood, but he just nodded. “Couldn’t sleep neither?” I hazarded to ask.

“After a lifetime of dodging the sun, it’s nice to be able to go outdoors at any hour.”

“I guess it might be.”

“So how fast is he?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“You were timing Mr. Hardin.” A hawk wouldn’t have been able to see the shine of my pocket watch from that distance, but he could.

“I reckon he could kill a man in half a second,” I told him.

“Is that faster than Mr. Baker?”

“Not sure. Buddy don’t shoot sober very often. I never clocked him under a second while he was drunk though. He once shot six men, but he took his time, and they was all lined up. Another time, he squeezed off three rounds in a flash at Jack Finney. One hit the ground and another hit a horse. Got Jack in the face with the third.”

“I don’t think Mr. Hardin will permit him three shots.”

“I guess not. Though Jack didn’t intend to either.”

“You don’t suppose Mr. Hardin could be persuaded to not shoot Mr. Baker?”

“Don’t seem like he much likes being told what to do. It’d probably just make him wanna do it even more.”

Nigel took a thoughtful puff on his pipe as he gazed up at the twilit skies. Then he got up and walked off without a word. The reporter in me wanted to ask him questions, find out what it was like being the only vampire in town. And what kept him from eating Ms. Parker’s baby if he was so damn hungry? The coward in me reckoned it wiser to let him be.

That night, the faro and dice tables were still closed. Sal was hell-bent on bringing things to a head no matter what it cost him. After supper, Hardin and Mabel sat down to play five-card draw. Hardin won a few big pots against some newbie cowpokes, then used his stacks to bully the others. All of the tables were full, but a couple of chairs conspicuously freed up at Hardin’s table as soon as Buddy arrived. He drank down a glass of beer as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, then sat down to play. Having the two fastest gunslingers at the same table put some tension in the room, and those nearby scattered for fear of crossfire. Buddy didn’t seem to notice it though. He bet on bad hands, then laughed when he lost. He was down to his last ten chips when Ms. Parker sat down beside him.

“Honey, you sure you should be on your feet in your condition?” Mabel inquired.

“Till this baby comes out, I can’t be comfortable no matter where I am.” Ms. Parker smiled cheerfully. “I might as well have a poker game to distract me instead of staring up at the ceiling.”

Hardin wasn’t much for pleasantries. He silently picked up his cards and immediately bet a dollar. The two cowpokes folded, but Buddy and Mabel saw the bet. Hardin drew one card. When he got it, his expression didn’t change in the slightest. Half the room figured he missed the flush he’d been banking on and was trying his damnedest not to show it. Mabel took two cards, and Buddy asked for four. When he got them, he smiled. No way of knowing what it meant though. After a few beers, Buddy smiled no matter what cards he was given.

“If you’re taking four cards, one of them better be an ace,” Hardin warned.

“Could be more’n one,” Buddy laughed.

Hardin raised four bucks.

Buddy saw it and pushed the remainder of his chips to the center of the table.

“Outta my league,” Mabel said and folded. “You boys can fight this one out while I go to the bar for a refill.”

Hardin studied Buddy’s face for any kind of tell. Wasn’t much use trying to read a man like Buddy since he didn’t care a whit about his cards. His heft made it even more confusing. Some people touched their ear or lip when they were bluffing, but a fat man in a hot room couldn’t keep still even if he was being operated on. Buddy’s hands moved over every part of his body as he fidgeted restlessly in his seat.

“Hot as hell with the blowers on!” he remarked while dotting his temple with a handkerchief.

Hardin took it as a sign and raised ten more chips.

“Hey, you trying to buy the pot?” Buddy asked angrily.

“Ain’t got the money?”

“You can see right here I already bet all I had.”

“Then I guess you gotta fold,” Hardin said.

There was a gentlemen’s understanding that you didn’t bet more than a man had in front of him. If there was a third man in the hand who had more chips, you could always make a side bet with him. Hardin wasn’t known for being gentlemanly though. He wanted to win any way he could.

“I’ll cover the wager,” Ms. Parker said.

“Money’s gotta be on the table, ma’am,” Hardin said.

Ms. Parker reached into her satchel and dropped forty dollars on the table. Hardin was taken aback, not figuring she had that kind of money on her.

“With cards like those,” she nudged Buddy, “I should think you’d like to raise, Mr. Baker.”

“Good idea.” Buddy didn’t look at his cards. He just pushed all forty dollars in. “I see your ten and raise you twenty.”

“Actually, that’s thirty you’d be raising,” Ms. Parker corrected. “If that was what you intended.”

“Right, thirty. Wow! That’s a lot of money.” Buddy picked up his cards for another peek.

“Now who’s trying to buy the pot?” Hardin squawked, wearing a sourpuss. He counted out his stacks twice and was ten bucks shy. “All right, I’ll cover it,” he said.

“The money has to be on the table, Mr. Hardin,” Ms. Parker reminded him.

Hardin started grinding his teeth so loud it sounded like he was chewing pebbles. It ate him up for a woman to give him lip in front of everyone. He looked ready to start making holes in her. And if Mabel wasn’t watching, he might have.

“Sal!” he hollered. “Spot me ten chips.”

Sal finished pouring a drink and ambled over with a show of reluctance, then placed ten chips in front of Hardin. He couldn’t refuse outright, but he wanted to save face in front of everyone.

“Pot’s square,” the dealer declared.

Hardin didn’t even wait for Buddy to show his cards. He flipped over five spades with a wolfish grin. Buddy shook his head in disbelief. “By golly, that’s quite a hand!”

It was the happiest we had ever seen Hardin.

Then Ms. Parker nudged Buddy to flip over his cards. He’d was so impressed with Hardin’s flush, he’d entirely forgotten what he had. When his cards hit the table, nobody looked more surprised than Buddy. He had a full house, aces over queens.

“That beat a flush?” he asked with a crinkled brow.

“Of course it does!” Ms. Parker laughed.

“You cheatin’ bastard!” Hardin yelled and sprang up from the table. His chair kicked over and his fingertips dangled in front of his belly, readying to pluck his pistols from their holsters. Buddy stood as well, staggered some, then cocked his elbow back ready to draw. They both sidestepped to the right, circling around the room with their eyes locked on each other.

Everyone else cleared out. A breeze came through the door pushing the chandelier from side to side with a creak. Otherwise, it was so quiet you could hear a mouse scratch his balls.

“What’s takin’ so long?” Whiny Pete whispered.

“The real loser ain’t just the one who gets shot,” I told him. “It’s the man who can’t stand waiting and pulls just to get it over with. And the real winner is the one who waits long enough to see it and still fires first.”

“What if the man who draws first wins?”

“In the end, whoever’s north of hell can tell the tale however they like.”

I’d never seen two men so eager to draw, yet so resigned to wait. Their eyes were trained on each other’s wrist, watching for the first sign of hurried movement.

“Hold it there!” a voice called out from across the room. Nigel positioned himself between the two gunslingers, and asked, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“He called me a cheater!” Buddy said.

“What about the rules you put on the wall?” Nigel plucked Buddy’s pistol from his holster and turned it over in his hands like he was weighing it. “If you fire this at him, you’ll be ‘fighting over bullshit.’ Remember that? That’s number five on the list. Besides, the wolves could still attack. I dare say we’re going to need every last man to protect Ms. Parker.”

“All right.” Buddy grabbed his pistol back from Nigel and slid it in his holster. “But this ain’t over, Hardin. After them werewolves are gone, I’m sending your ass to hell with ’em.”

Nigel turned and headed for the door so as not to linger in Ms. Parker’s presence. Sal alone looked disappointed that nothing had come of all the hoopla.

Then Hardin called out, “Hell it ain’t! I say it’s over now!” His hand swept across his belly and plucked his pistol like a feather. The well-oiled holster didn’t make a peep as it released the gun. He drew faster than I’d ever seen anyone draw before. Quicker than an eyelid winking at a fleck of dust.

Buddy’s hand dropped to his waistline trying to catch-up, but he was caught off guard and already well behind. Hardin’s vest rigging also gave him an edge, since he didn’t have to extend his arm downward to grab the handle. He could snatch it as easily as he’d scratch his tummy.

Both men’s arms rose. Buddy still trailed slightly. As Hardin winked over the level barrel, Buddy was still cocking his wrist. It looked like he wasn’t going to be anywhere near fast enough. A shot rang out, followed by a clicking noise. A trail of blue gun smoke floated in the air between them. They were still grimacing with their intent to kill each other. Then Hardin staggered two steps backward. Buddy remained in place. A queer look came over Hardin’s face. It wasn’t just disbelief—more like shock. A speck of red appeared in the center of his chest, then quickly spread to the size of a silver dollar before seeping down his breast. He dropped to the floor. Even Buddy looked unsure of how he had done it.

“Hardin musta misfired,” Red said and went to check his gun. “Nope, still got all six bullets in the cylinder with no hammer marks. He ain’t even squeezed the trigger.”

Mabel was standing at the bar beside Nigel. She’d been collecting her drink when all the ruckus started. She gasped and let out a cry. Nigel locked eyes with her. She shuddered then quietly backed out of the saloon.

Buddy scooped up all his winnings from the table, then tossed a pile of it on the bar. “Drinks are on Hardin!” he called out, and everyone cheered.

The Crapper

Comings & Goings: Four cowboys from Wyoming spent the day here last week after they ate some rotten beef. The second mistake they made was messing with Buddy, who sent them to hell before suppertime.

John Wesley Hardin, the notorious gunfighter from Bonham, Texas, and killer of a dozen rangers from said state, was also sent to hell this week with a single gunshot. Hardin claimed to have killed over forty men while he was alive, not including Mexicans and Indians, and he sent a handful of men to hell while among us. For those hankering for more details about his life, there won’t be no shortage in the history books to come. I’d just like to note here that the most dangerous gunfighter in America lasted less than three months in Damnation.