Charlie Martell was drunk for four days before he finally awoke, sick and gagging, just before noon. The empty bottles and disheveled room gave mute testimony to the confined bender. He forced himself off the bunk, and stumped out to the water trough in the livery yard, bending down as best he could to stick his head deep into its cooling contents.
“Welcome back to the real world,” Orv Pickett said. He pointed to where the door hung precariously from its frame. “You fix that before you do anything else, hear?”
Charlie looked up with water dripping from his matted hair. “Huh?”
“Fix the godamn door you busted while you was drunk!” Pickett shouted. “And I got some sweeping for you to do too.”
Charlie nodded. “Sure, Orv.” He pushed himself back up to this feet and groaned through the headache he was beginning to notice.
Orv shook his head. “Damn, Charlie, I’d tell you to straighten up, but I reckon you ain’t got much to look forward to ’cept a monthly drunk anyhow. Take your time with the sweeping. Tomorrow’s as good a time as any.”
“I’ll take care of that door then too,” Charlie said.
“Whatever you want,” Orv said disgustedly as he turned to tend to his more pressing business.
“What day is it?” Charlie asked after him.
“You was out four this time,” Orv answered. “This is Friday.”
Charlie wanted to make sure on that point. That meant he had four meals – not counting that day’s – coming from the city. He could double them up and have two feedings a day all through Monday if he wanted to. Or he could splurge and get in some three a day, but he didn’t think that would be wise. It was too easy to get used to and it made it doubly hard to get back to a single daily supper after that.
He limped back to his room and got a clean set of clothes. He changed monthly, washing out the dirty duds following a hot soak at Sly’s barbershop. After pulling on his boot – he had noticed he was already wearing one – and getting his hat he shuffled out of the livery yard toward the business section.
As usual, Sly Webster was tickled pink to see him. “Howdy, Charlie,” the barber bubbled. “I’m all set for ya. Got some hot coffee a-going and the headache powders too. You’ll be as good as new within an hour. Just wait and see.”
“I appreciate it, Sly,” Charlie said. They went back to the rear and the ex-lawman disrobed carefully. His damned knee always hurt the worst after he sobered up. Somehow he never failed to roll over on it in his drunken stupors, irritating the damaged tissue and ligaments to screaming sensitivity.
“How about a shave today?” Sly asked. “Right after your bath.”
“Sure,” Charlie said. This arrangement was almost a ritual between them. Sly seemed to get some sort of pleasure from shaving the beard that spouted after a prolonged drunk, and Charlie, with his own good hand too shaky, was glad to have him do it.
Sly shook the headache powders into a cup of water and stirred them with his scissors. Charlie took the remedy and downed it in three quick swallows. “Is that coffee ready, Sly?”
“Coming up,” Sly said cheerfully. “Get in the tub.”
The water was cold and Charlie recoiled slightly as he forced himself into it. Sly came back with a cup of coffee in one hand while he toted a pail of hot water in the other. “Sorry the water ain’t quite ready,” Sly apologized. “I didn’t know for sure when you’d show up.”
“Don’t mention it,” Charlie said, sipping the hot brew as the barber carefully emptied the contents of the pail. He went back for another. Soon Charlie was up to his neck in the warmth he craved as Sly settled down beside him on the chair.
“Not much business today, huh?” Charlie asked.
“Naw, Fridays is always slow,” Sly said. He nodded at Charlie’s body. “Your hurts bothering you much?”
“Enough.”
“I reckon,” Sly acknowledged. He started to say something else when the bell tinkled over the door out in the main shop area. “Sounds like a customer. Be back in a bit. You just enjoy yourself there, Charlie.”
“I’ll do that, Sly,” Charlie said, wishing he had a cigar. He finished the coffee and gently massaged the aching, puffy knee, letting the injured limb float weightlessly in the soothing buoyancy of the water. He had begun dozing when Sly returned.
“Want a cigar, Charlie? And more coffee?”
“I’d be obliged.”
Moments later he drew in on the stogie and exhaled before treating himself to a sip of coffee. Sly had lit up his own stogie and was once again seated beside him. “Say, Charlie, how about telling me again how you killed Dan Payton?”
Charlie thought a moment. “Well, that was – let me think – six years ago. There was a warrant for Payton outta Missouri and I’d heard he was in Wichita. But I didn’t know exactly where. He was supposed to be a gambling man so I figgered he wouldn’t be too hard to find. So one evening – a Saturday it was – I commenced to sorta ease myself in and out of the saloons over on the west side there, and I sure enough found him after a bit.”
“What’d he look like, Charlie? Tell me ‘bout that,” Sly urged with an eagerness that belied the fact he had heard the story many times before.
“He was tall,” Charlie said. “With coal black hair and a big ol’ mustache that kinda turned down ‘round his mouth. Payton had them thick bushy eyebrows that slanted up. By God, he was a mean-looking man. Devilish, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, I surely do, Charlie!”
“And he was skinny. Damn, that feller looked like you could hide him down the barrel of a Colt forty-five. Had him a long skinny neck with thick veins in it. They say when he got real mad them veins would stand out like ropes.”
“By God!” Sly said, slapping his thigh. “I bet they did that for sure!”
“That’s right. Anyhow, I seen Payton playing cards toward the back of the room, so I figgered on getting behind him and giving him a hard rap on the head, then dragging him on down to the jail. Only trouble was that he had got hisself a chair next to the wall so’s I couldn’t get in position. But that wouldn’t have mattered no how. He seen me – badge and all – coming across the room. He stood up and got off the first shot, but it went high. I had drawed by then, and he cut loose with the second try that hit that feller who was clerk over to the stage office. Remember his name?”
Sly thought a moment. “Rogers, or something like that, wasn’t it?”
“Prob’ly,” Charlie answered. “Don’t matter now. He died that instant. At any rate, there was a hell of a ruckus what with us shooting, folks yelling and drunks staggering around trying to stay outta the line of fire. And that damned Payton hit two more fellers before I managed to get one in his chest.”
“Knocked him over, did it?”
“I hope to shout. He hit the chair he’d been sitting in and flew into the wall. He just stood there for a instant with them ole neck veins a-puffing out, and them dark eyes looking like they wanted to spit fire at me. Then he slid down to the floor and kinda sat there as he died.”
“What’d he say to you, Charlie? Go on ahead and tell me,” Sly urged excitedly.
“He said, ‘You son of a bitch, why’d you have to shoot me when I was holding aces full?’”
“Then he died, huh?”
“He did that,” Charlie said.
Sly grinned delightedly. “Damn! I like that story. You sure had you an exciting life, Charlie, before you got laid up.”
“I reckon I did.”
“Hell, I’m just a plain ol’ barber. Cutting hair and shaving faces, that’s all I ever do. And all I ever will do.”
“Leastways you won’t get all crippled up,” Charlie said with conviction. “Don’t never forget that.”
“I won’t. But, damn, sometimes I get so bored.”
“Don’t worry none ‘bout that. Even after all the excitement I’ve known, my life sure as hell ain’t as good as yours is now. Got any more coffee?”
“Sure, Charlie, but you got memories,” Sly said over his shoulder as he went to the pot. “That’s gotta be worth something.”
Charlie thought a moment. His memories spanned thirty-seven years of living. The first few were dulled, tangled recollections of dry land farms in Texas that a hardworking father tried to make pay off; but never did. And there were the usual boyhood adventures on the frontier and the more serious ones as a teenager when guns began playing an important part in his life. During the war he had soldiered in Hood’s Texas Brigade and served the lost cause of the Confederacy from start to finish. After the peace he had started back home for Texas once more, but figured he hadn’t had much there before the hostilities broke out and he would have even less during the Yanks’ programs of Reconstruction; so he turned north to Kansas.
Working a farm or ranch was boring after four years of the Confederate army, but he soon discovered the less routine work of enforcing the law, and became a starpacker. Abilene, Kansas, had been hiring town policemen to work during the arrival of the cattle drives in that year of 1871. The town marshal was none other than the famous Wild Bill Hickok. Charlie’s conduct, coolness under fire, and quick decisiveness during trouble caught Hickok’s favorable attention and Charlie’s temporary appointment became a permanent one and he was launched into his career as a professional keeper of the peace.
The life of a frontier lawman was one of contradictions, and on occasion he had lived on the edge of outlawry himself. When a small herd of rustled cattle or horses made their appearance hundreds of miles from their owner, it was sometimes more convenient to make deals rather than arrests. One such transaction got a little out of hand and two enterprising cowpokes were left dead on the prairie south of Abilene. Charlie figured it was to his best interests to move on, and he arrived in Wichita in 1872 after only a year under Hickok’s supervision. He had taken an immediate liking to the town and had been on the marshal’s staff there for four years when he was gunned down by the bank robbers.
Sly returned with fresh coffee. “How ‘bout coming to supper tonight?”
“Sure, thanks,” Charlie said. That would give him five meals due from the city. He was about to have all the food he wanted, and he slipped into one of his rare better moods.
“Did I ever tell you ‘bout the time I got jumped by them Mezkin cowboys up in Abilene?” he asked Sly.
“Yeah,” Sly answered. “But tell me again, Charlie.” The barber settled down to listen with all the excitement and enthusiasm of a child about to hear a favorite bedtime story.
Charlie told the tale with embellishments, drawing out the suspense and playing up an episode which had involved three young Mexicans feeling too much exuberance from over-drinking after a prolonged cattle drive. When he had finished, Sly wanted to hear more, but two customers came in off the street.
The barber reluctantly got to his feet. “Why don’t you drop by at quitting time? We can go over to the house together.”
“I got some things to do,” Charlie said diplomatically. He really wanted to give Sly a chance to tell his wife there would be company that night. “I’ll be over to your place ‘round seven. Let’s forget that shave ‘til tomorrow.”
“Fine, Charlie. “You gonna leave now?”
Charlie stood up. “I reckon. I cain’t spend all day here even if I want to.” He stepped from the tub as Sly left, and toweled himself off. After dressing in his fresh clothes, he clumped out of the shop – with a wave at Sly – and stopped in the warm afternoon sun. He was in a rare contented mood as he stood there momentarily basking in the warm rays. The heat felt good, almost as good to his punished body as hot water, so he decided to soak up some of the natural warmth. There was a bench in front of the dry goods store in the next block and he decided to go ever and sit a spell.
There was only one person there when he arrived, so Charlie settled down in a good spot and tipped his hat over his eyes and was dozing before he knew it.
“Hey! Hey there!”
Someone was shaking his shoulder. Charlie came awake and looked up. “Yeah?”
It was Ned Darwin, the same man who had come to him about the bank robbery and who owned the store where he was sitting. “Why don’t you move on now? You been here long enough.”
Charlie was still a little sleepy. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want you to get off that bench and move along,” Darwin repeated. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“What the hell?”
Darwin lowered his voice as two women strolled by and turned into his place of business. “Good afternoon, ladies, I’ll be in directly.” Then he turned back to Charlie. “I want you get out of here, Martell. Ain’t nobody want a feller like you hanging around in front of his business. You spoil the view. Now get! Or I’ll call the town marshal.”
Anger swelled up in Charlie in a flash flood of resentment and indignation. “Why you son of a bitch!”
Darwin backed away. Even with a cripple he was a physical coward. “I’m going for the marshal right now!” he threatened.
Charlie’s face paled further in rage, but he controlled himself and spun on his good heel to scuffle down the boardwalk toward the livery stable.
When he got there, he picked up the broom from its usual place and, holding it in his clumsy manner, attacked the floor with wide angry sweeps that left clear swaths through the dust and straw that lay there.
Orv Pickett looked in. “Say, Charlie, I said you didn’t have to do that ‘til tomorrow.”
“I want to do it today,” Charlie said through clenched teeth. “And I’ll fix that godamned door too.”
~*~
By that evening Charlie had simmered down some. He sat on his bunk in the livery stable and waited for dusk when he would go over to Sly Webster’s house for supper. After sweeping the floor and fixing the damaged door, he had helped Orv Pickett lug some heavy team harnesses to a new storage area in the back of the barn. The leather implements were heavy and it pained his leg terribly to hobble under their weight, but the toil burned up the excessive energy generated by the anger and frustration brought on by Ned Darwin.
~*~
The sun had reddened into a deep crimson before Charlie finally went outside and stumbled down the street toward Sly’s house. Despite the growing darkness, he could see there were plenty of people out and about. Since he had no desire to speak anyone, he turned off the main thoroughfare and made his way down the alley that ran the length of the business district as he continued east.
When he arrived at Sly’s back fence, Charlie whistled softly to alert the Websters’ dog Toby. The animal recognized him immediately and happily scampered up to be petted.
Toby followed as Charlie went around the side of the house toward the front porch. As he walked beneath the kitchen window he could hear Alma Webster’s high-pitched voice raised in complaint.
“How come you keep inviting him when I ask you not to?” she whined.
“Me and Charlie’s friends,” Sly said. “Cain’t I ask a friend over for supper now and then?”
“The only reason you have anything to do with him at all is because he was a gunfighter hereabouts. You ain’t got nothing in common with him a’tall!”
“I like Charlie,” Sly said. “And I enjoy listening to him tell me about his adventures.”
“And letting him take them free baths ain’t good business neither,” she added emphatically.
“A little hot water don’t cost much,” Sly said.
“It does when he prob’ly keeps other folks away,” she countered. “He’s plumb awful looking, Sly!”
“He got shot up bad. Ever’body knows that.”
“That don’t change a thing ‘bout the way he looks,” Alma said. “Ugh! That awful ol’ hand of his all curled up and funny white-looking like that. Why don’t he at least have the decency to put a glove on? I swear it’s all I can do to eat when he’s here.”
Charlie reached down and gave Toby a parting pat, then limped through the back gate toward the livery stable as Alma’s high-pitched voice still echoed in his ears.
The end of a perfect day.
By the time he was back in his meager lodgings, Charlie didn’t honestly know how he felt. He was drained dry, like a hollow nothingness that mattered not a whit to anyone or anything. A man has to be respected—not necessarily loved—but that esteem, no matter how slight, is a mighty important part of life.
Charlie tried to figure out what he had going for him. He was barely getting by. The only pleasures in his life were getting good and drunk once a month and eating his one supper a day. There was no question he would never go to Sly Webster’s shop or house again. There was absolutely nothing positive in his life; it all added up to zero.
He made the awful decision in an instant.
It was like an instinctive quick-draw when the gun cleared leather in one unthinking flash of a second. But this time the muzzle wasn’t aimed toward an opponent. It would fire into his own head, blowing out the brain that could no longer control part of a damaged body.
Charlie pushed the stool by the bed over to the wall and laboriously stepped up to reach the rolled-up oily blanket he kept on a rafter there. He grabbed the bundle with his good right hand, and stepped down to the floor.
He unrolled the blanket revealing a Colt Peacemaker, single-action .45 revolver and an American Arms 12-gauge shotgun. These were the tools of Charlie’s profession, and like any craftsman he gave them meticulous care. He checked out the weapons, finding them operable, clean and fully loaded.
Now he would choose one—revolver or shotgun—that would take him out of his misery.
The shotgun would blow his head clear off his shoulders. He really didn’t care what his corpse looked like, but that would make a hell of a lot of gore for somebody to pick up. So it would be the Colt he’d use to put a bullet in his head. Charlie decided to go out a ways in the country since he didn’t want to make any messes for Orv Pickett in the livery stable. A close-up shot in the temple would result in a thick spray of brains and blood. At least a portion of his head would be pulverized.
Charlie’s final plans, once formed, were simple enough. He would treat himself to an orgy of eating until he’d used up all the meals he had coming in two days.
Then, on the second night, he would get his monthly whiskey on the cuff from O’Reilly the bartender, go out of town and get as drunk as he possibly could with deep, heavy drinking. After sobering up the next day, he’s do the job on himself.
Charlie could picture Sly Webster spending the rest of his life cutting hair and shaving faces while boring the hell out of everyone in Wichita with his tales of friendship with the legendary ex-Marshal Charlie Martell.
Charlie leaned back on his bunk and smiled to himself. He actually had to admit he was looking forward to the episode with the revelry of food and whiskey, and the final touch on the life of Charles Houston Martell: a self-inflicted .45 slug that would split his skull.
There was one sudden felling of regret that gripped him. He remembered the Indian superstition that if a man was maimed during his time on earth, his soul would carry the inflictions into the afterlife. That was why they always mutilated dead enemies after a battle.
Lord above, Charlie thought, don’t let it be true!