CHAPTER 2
Rachel Gates walked out to the back porch, where her daughter was shelling peas for supper. “Esther, go down to the barn and get your brothers. Tell them to come up to the house.”
Esther was struck by her mother’s grave manner. Spoken softly and calmly, her words conveyed a heavy sadness, causing Esther to drop the pan filled with peas and ask, “Daddy?”
Her mother nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so,” she murmured. “Go fetch your brothers.”
Rachel hesitated a moment or two to watch Esther run toward the barn, oblivious of the spilled pan of peas, half shelled, lying on the ground at the foot of the steps. She turned then and went back to the bedroom where her husband, Nathaniel Gates, lay in eternal sleep.
His death was not totally unexpected, for he had taken a turn for the worse over the last few days, when he appeared to have come down with a pneumonia-like fever that didn’t seem related to his accident. Up until that time, the whole family assumed he would recover from being thrown by a horse, landing him hard on his neck. It was not the first time he had been thrown, and every time before he had recovered, like the indestructible man that he had always been.
Rachel placed her hand on her husband’s cold brow, then gently closed the stark blue eyes that gazed into the world beyond the life he had known. She took a step back when her daughter-in-law appeared at the bedroom door.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Lou Ann implored. Having seen Esther running to the barn, calling out to the men, she had paused only to pick up the pan of peas Esther had dropped before rushing into the house. “Is Papa all right?”
“He’s gone,” Rachel whispered, struggling to hold on to her emotions. “I just came in to see if he felt well enough to drink some coffee, and he was . . .”
Unable to finish, she tried to hold back the tears that choked her. Lou Ann stepped close and took her in her arms. They were both crying when Rubin and John ran into the room, with Esther close behind.
Rubin, the eldest of Nathaniel and Rachel Gates’s sons, moved at once to comfort the two women, with his arms around both of them. Right behind him, John paused to stare at his father, barely able to believe he was dead.
“Perley’s down near the river, lookin’ for a bunch of strays that wandered off after that thunderstorm last night,” he said, his gaze still fixed on his father. “I sent Sonny to find him.”
They were joined then by John’s wife, Martha. “What is it, John?” she asked upon seeing them gathered in her father-in-law’s bedroom. “I was feeding the chickens when I heard you shouting to Sonny to go fetch Perley.”
He held his arm out to her, and she, seeing something wrong, stepped inside his embrace.
“It’s Papa,” John said. “He’s gone.”
She gasped in response, even though she had already feared that to be the cause of the sudden gathering of the family. It was almost impossible to believe that the powerful head of the Gates family had succumbed to a fever that none of the family thought a serious threat.
Nathaniel Gates, having grown up on the small farm his father had abandoned when Nathaniel’s mother died, took it over and built it into the giant cattle ranch it was today. A small empire carved out of the Texas plains, it continued to grow under the hard work and guidance of Nathaniel’s family, who were all gathered now in this sorrowful room, with the exception of one. Rachel, his widow; Rubin, the eldest son, with his wife, Lou Ann; John, one year younger than Rubin, and his wife, Martha; and Esther, Nathaniel’s only daughter, all stood in shocked distress. The one surviving son missing was Perley, the youngest of the brothers at age twenty.
* * *
The Gates brothers, all strong, hardworking men, were cast in the same mold but were not identical after the final polishing. Rubin was born a serious man of high morals, with a sense of responsibility and total dedication to the family. John was equally moral but somewhat less serious in his approach to hard work. He was the strongest of the three brothers, but not by very much. The youngest, Perley, seemed not to be bothered by much of anything, taking whatever was offered at the dawning of each new day with the same open mind that he had the day before. The only one of the brothers who had not married, Perley had never exhibited any urgency to find the right woman, although his brothers accused him of being particularly fond of a young woman who worked in the diner in town. He was awarded the unusual and often fight-provoking name Perley Gates, to honor his grandfather, the original Perley Gates. When his grandfather was born, his mother had named him Perley, in hopes that it might help guide him to a righteous life that would see him approach the Pearly Gates of Heaven at his life’s end. She was not an educated woman, so she misspelled his name, but that made little difference to the family.
The name proved to have minimal influence upon the life of the original Perley Gates, for he was born with a lust for wandering and a constant yearning to see the far side of the mountain. To his credit, he tried to harness his adventuresome nature, even to the point of taking a wife and trying to scratch out a living on a hardscrabble plot of ground in north Texas. His wife died not long after giving birth to their one son, Nathaniel, who was named after his wife’s father. The boy was raised there on the farm by his mother’s parents after Perley reached the end of his patience for the hard work of farming and left Texas to seek the peace he sought in the mountains to the northwest. Some years later, Nathaniel learned that his father had actually made it no farther than the Sans Bois Mountains in the Indian Territory of Oklahoma and was rumored to be living with a Choctaw woman in a shack somewhere in that small range of mountains. Nathaniel had no desire to contact his father upon learning that. It was not until years later, when he started his own family, that he began to understand the nature of his father and truly forgave him for his wanderlust. It was this change of heart that inspired him to name his youngest son Perley to show his sincere forgiveness, unaware that of his three sons, Perley was the most like his namesake.
* * *
“Perley!” Sonny Rice yelled when he saw him near the edge of the river.
Perley looked back from the bank to see the young hired hand loping toward him on the little paint mare the boy most often rode. Perley turned his attention back to the steer on the end of his rope and continued to back his horse up the bank. By the time Sonny rode up to a stop beside him, the cow Perley was in the process of rescuing found solid footing and scrambled up onto the bank.
Perley dismounted and removed the rope from the cow before asking, “What’s up, Sonny?”
“It’s your pa!” Sonny exclaimed. “I think he musta died. Everybody went runnin’ up to the house, and John sent me to fetch you.”
Perley was immediately concerned. Like the rest of the family, he had expected to hear that his father was beginning to recover. “Are you sure?” he asked, for sometimes Sonny got things mixed up in his head. “Did anybody say Pa was dead?”
“No, but they was all actin’ kinda worried, and John told me to fetch you in a hurry.”
“All right,” Perley said. “Let’s get goin’, then.”
He looked back at the cow he had just pulled out of the area of quicksand, to make sure it didn’t venture back toward the same section of riverbank. When the steer trotted away to join the other cows farther up the river, Perley climbed back onto his horse and started toward the house.
Perley was not prepared to deal with his father’s passing. Nathaniel had always been a paragon of strength and endurance that all of his sons tried to emulate. Now, as Perley rode the two miles back to headquarters, as the ranch was referred to, he hoped and prayed that Sonny had leaped to the wrong conclusion—but he feared the worst.
As soon as he pulled his horse up to the front porch of the house, he guessed that Sonny’s assumption had been correct. John and Martha were out on the porch talking, and they stopped abruptly to greet him when he came up the steps. Martha’s eyes were red from crying, and she held tightly onto John’s arm as he relayed the sorrowful news to Perley.
“Papa’s dead, Perley,” John stated solemnly. “Rubin and Lou Ann and Esther are in the bedroom with him and Mama.”
Perley shook his head slowly but made no reply. Martha released John’s arm long enough to step forward and give Perley a firm hug before stepping back beside her husband. She wondered if the youngest son had had a premonition of his father’s death, because he had acted strangely ever since he came back from town a few days ago. John had told her that Perley wanted to work alone out on the range with the cattle. She would not be surprised if Perley had received some kind of message in a dream, or something. There were folks who got those sorts of messages, and Perley was strange in a lot of ways.
* * *
Nathaniel Gates was buried on a grassy slope fifty yards behind the main ranch house, just beyond the two small cabins that his married sons lived in. The funeral was short and simple, just as her husband would have preferred, according to the grieving widow. The three sons dug the grave and built the crude coffin their father was to spend eternity in, using some of the lumber bought to repair the bunkhouse.
On the day after Nathaniel was laid to rest, the family gathered to discuss the management of the ranch from that day forward. It was assumed that Rubin would inherit the role of overseeing the operation of the cattle ranch, with no objection from either of the two younger sons. There was no one better qualified. Near the end of the family meeting, another item was brought up for discussion by the widow.
“There is one wish I know your father would have,” Rachel said. “He talked to me many times about his father and his desire to make amends with him. He came to forgive his father for leaving him with his grandparents after his mother died. His grandma who raised him had always told Nathaniel that his father couldn’t help himself for his desire to wander.” Rachel paused to brush away a tear. “Well, your papa never found time to search for his father and tell him that he had named Perley after him. So now I think we should try to find your grandpa and let him know that his son has passed away. I think he should know this.”
“I don’t see how we’re gonna do that,” Rubin said, “unless we go lookin’ for him. And we’ve got too much work to do here this time of year.” All hands on the ranch were preparing for the spring cattle drive, planning to start out for the railroad in Ogallala in two weeks’ time.
“One of you boys can go,” Rachel insisted. “I think we owe your father that. He wanted so much to make things right with his father, so we can at least let your grandpa know about his death.”
Rubin still looked uncertain, so Rachel continued. “I think Perley should go look for him. You and John have wives to take care of. Perley doesn’t, so I think he should go.”
“Mama’s right,” John said. “We oughta at least tell the old man about Pa’s death.” He looked at Perley then and asked, “Whadda you think, Perley? You wanna ride up in Indian Territory to see if you can find Grandpa? If he’s still up there in the Sans Bois Mountains, you oughta be able to get up there and back before we start the cattle out for Ogallala.”
Perley shrugged indifferently. “I reckon, if he’s still there and if Mama thinks that’s best.”
He didn’t express it, but any chance to get away from the routine of the ranch was always welcome, even in unhappy circumstances like these. When there were no objections from anyone, he shrugged again and announced, “I reckon I can start out in the mornin’.”
Rubin walked out of the room with him after the family meeting. When out of earshot of the women, he spoke to Perley.
“I think it’s important what Mama wants to do, and I hope you can find the old man up in those hills. But Perley, if you can’t find him in a week, come on home. We need you on that cattle drive.”
“I will,” Perley said.
* * *
Since no one in the family knew for sure how to find his grandfather, Perley determined to start out on his search the next morning. He’d follow the Kiamichi River up into Indian Territory until reaching the Kiamichi Mountains. He figured when he struck those mountains, he would head north of the river, hoping to find the Sans Bois Mountains, where his grandfather supposedly had his camp. Once he knew he was in the Sans Bois Mountains, his plan was to find someone who might know his grandpa and be able to tell Perley how to find the camp.
“If that doesn’t work,” he told his brothers, “I reckon I’ll just comb those mountains till I stumble on Grandpa.”
“Well, don’t keep lookin’ for him forever,” Rubin repeated. “If you don’t find him after a week or so, come on home. He mighta moved on to God knows where.”
Perley nodded in reply.
“You got everything you need?” John asked. “You’re gonna be gone for a while. Make sure you’re takin’ enough bacon and hardtack and coffee. I reckon you’ve got plenty of cartridges for your rifle.”
Perley couldn’t help chuckling. His two older brothers were fretting over him like a couple of worried parents. “I reckon I’ll make out all right,” he said. “I think I’ve got everything I’ll need, and as long as I’ve got my rifle and cartridges, I reckon I won’t starve.”
With everything ready, he threw his saddle on the big bay gelding he favored most. Working cattle, he used many different horses, but the bay was his personal horse. He was named Buck after Perley’s brother John bet him a dollar he couldn’t saddle-break the horse. Perley not only won the bet, but in the process, gained a four-legged friend that bucked off every other rider who climbed on his back. It didn’t take long before all the crew at the Triple-G Ranch learned that it was no use cutting Buck out of the remuda, because they wouldn’t stay in the saddle for long before the horse came back to the barn looking for Perley. His brothers chided him for making a pet of the horse, but they could not deny the big bay’s strength and stamina.
On hand to see Perley off, one of the older ranch hands, Fred Farmer, was there to offer his help. Fred had spent a great deal of his life in the mountains of Oklahoma and suggested the best way for Perley to start looking for his grandfather was to go to a trading post he knew about in that part of the country.
“What you oughta do,” Fred advised, “since you don’t really know that country, is to follow the Kiamichi River up through the Choctaw Nation. It’s gonna be about sixty-five miles or so after you cross the Red, but if you stay on the river, you’re bound to strike that store. It’s run by a feller named Russell Byers—I reckon he’s still there. If he ain’t, his son’s most likely runnin’ the tradin’ post. There ain’t any other places up that way for folks to buy supplies, that I know of.”
“’Preciate it, Fred,” Perley said. “That’s just what I’ll do.”
Ready to ride, he held up when his mother came out on the porch and called to him. She walked down the steps to stand at his stirrup.
“Here,” she said and handed him a small velvet pouch. “This is the locket your grandfather gave your grandmother when they were married. Your grandfather might not believe you if you tell him you’re his grandson. Show him the locket inside this pouch and he’ll know.”
She stepped back then, and he put the pouch in his inside vest pocket.
“And son,” she said, “you be careful and come back home safely.”
“I will, Ma.”
He said good-bye then and rode out of the yard on Buck, leading a sorrel packhorse, heading north toward the Red River, two miles from the ranch. Once he crossed over into Oklahoma Territory, he would start up the Kiamichi for about twenty miles or so before resting his horses. Behind him, his brothers stood watching him until he passed through the front gate.
“Damned if that ain’t a waste of time,” John commented after Fred Farmer had left them to return to his work and their mother went back inside. “There ain’t nothin’ up in that part of the country that woulda kept Grandpa there for very long.”
“I expect you’re right,” Rubin replied, “but if it’ll bring Ma some peace, I reckon it’s worth wastin’ a little of Perley’s time. I don’t know if that old man is still alive after all these years. If he was, he mighta come back to Texas before now.” He shrugged and said, “Maybe Perley can at least come back and tell her that Grandpa’s long gone from there.”
“I hope he’ll be all right,” John said. There was a definite hint of concern in his remark.
“Grandpa?” Rubin asked.
“No, Perley,” John answered. “He’s got a natural knack for walkin’ right in the middle of trouble, when nobody else even comes close, and he’s been actin’ kinda quiet the last few days.”
His comment brought a chuckle from Rubin. “He didn’t tell you?”
When John looked puzzled, Rubin continued.
“He thought that little gal in the diner in town was shinin’ up to him, and he found out she’s been shinin’ up to every other bachelor in the county. So, he’s been feelin’ kinda foolish for thinkin’ about courtin’ her.” He chuckled again. “I told him he just ain’t learned enough about women yet.”
“Well, I swear,” John chuckled. “I told him that he’s gonna hafta start goin’ to church to find the kind of gal he’s lookin’ for. Hell, Lucy Tate shines up to me every time I go in there.”
Although his brothers felt a little sorry for him to have been saddled with a futile endeavor, Perley was of no such frame of mind. In fact, he was looking forward to what he perceived as an adventure and a welcome break from the usual mundane ranch chores. He had always held a curiosity about the man he had been named for, so who could be a better choice to go in search of his grandpa? As for the subject of Lucy Tate, he was grateful now that he had found out what a flirt she was before he made an even bigger fool of himself.
* * *
It was toward the middle of the second day when he came to the trading post Fred had told him about. A low log structure sitting in a clearing close to the riverbank, the store appeared to have had two additions built onto the back of it. No doubt to accommodate a growing family, Perley thought. He must be doing fairly well.
As if to attest to that fact, there were three horses tied in front of the store at the hitching rail. In addition, there was a barn to one side of the store with several horses in the corral. Perley dismounted, looped Buck’s reins over the end of the rail, and walked inside.
He paused at the door to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimly lit room. A fire in the stone fireplace at the far end of the room was the only light, other than a lamp on the end of the counter.
“Well, howdy, stranger,” a tall, thin man behind the counter greeted him. “It’s gettin’ a little raw outside, ain’t it? I reckon the Good Lord ain’t ready to call it summertime yet.”
“That’s a fact,” Perley replied. “That fire yonder looks mighty friendly.”
He glanced toward a table near the fireplace to see three men seated and obviously warming their insides with the contents of a glass jar. All three paused to take a good look at him. He turned his attention back to the man behind the counter.
“Would you by any chance happen to be Russell Byers?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “I’m Bob Byers. Russell Byers is my pap. What can I do for you?”
“You know a man named Perley Gates?”
“Pearly Gates?” Bob replied. “Can’t say as I do. Is that really a man’s name?”
“Yes, sir. He’s my grandfather, and last we heard of him, he was roamin’ these parts—thought you mighta seen him down this way.”
“Well, like I said, I ain’t ever heard of anybody named Pearly Gates, but maybe my pap has,” Bob suggested. “You wanna ask him?”
“Yes, sir, I surely would. Is he round about?”
“He’s settin’ in the kitchen, drinkin’ coffee,” Bob said. “Come on and you can ask him.”
He led Perley to a door in the corner of the room that led to the kitchen and a white-haired old man seated at a long table.
When the door opened, the old man looked up quickly and asked, “Bob?”
“Yeah, it’s me, Pa,” Bob answered. “I’ve got a feller come to see you, lookin’ for the Pearly Gates.”
“Well, he ain’t likely to find ’em lookin’ in here,” Russell Byers replied.
“I’m lookin’ for a man named Perley Gates, Mr. Byers,” Perley said. “I’m hopin’ you might know something about him.” It occurred to him that the old man was almost blind, judging from the way his gaze seemed to have trouble finding him. “My name’s Perley Gates, too. The man I’m lookin’ for is my grandpa.”
“Perley Gates,” Russell responded. “That’s a name I ain’t heard for a while, and that’s a fact. Perley used to show up here every now and then, but not since my boy took over the store. And that’s been over a year ago, ever since I got so damn blind I can’t see what I’m doin’.”
He reached for his coffee cup, just managing to grab it before he tipped it over. “You want some coffee? I would offer you somethin’ stronger, but I never sold any likker. It’s against the law here in the nations.”
“I don’t ever turn down a cup of coffee,” Perley replied. He figured that Russell’s son must have branched out into the whiskey business unbeknownst to the old man after he went blind. Thinking of the three men he had just seen in the store, he doubted that was apple juice they were drinking.
“Ruby!” Russell yelled. In a few moments, a woman walked in from a back room. “Pour Mr. Perley Gates a cup of coffee.”
Ruby, who Perley guessed to be a Choctaw, went to the cupboard at once to fetch a cup. She filled it and placed it on the table before Perley, giving him a faint smile before turning and leaving the room.
“Now, about your grandpappy,” Russell continued, “did you look in that camp of his?”
“No, sir,” Perley replied. “That’s my problem. I ain’t ever been to his camp, so I’m hopin’ to find somebody who can tell me where it is.”
He went on to explain why he had never seen his grandfather and the purpose of his search for him after so many years. “I need to tell him that his only son, my father, just passed away. We heard he had a place up in the Sans Bois Mountains, but I ain’t got no idea where in those mountains. To tell you the truth, I ain’t sure how to find the Sans Bois Mountains. I don’t know much about the Oklahoma Territory this far east. The only time I’ve ever been in Oklahoma is on cattle drives up through Indian Territory on the Western Trail up to Kansas.”
Russell slowly shook his head and scratched his beard thoughtfully before responding. “Well, I ain’t never been to ol’ Perley’s camp, myself,” he said. “But I reckon I can tell you how to get to the Sans Bois Mountains.”
“That’s a start,” Perley said. “I’d appreciate it—save me a lotta time.”
“It’s a pretty far piece from here,” Russell started, “about fifty miles, but it’s an easy trail to follow. Just make sure you take the right one, ’cause there’s quite a few trails branchin’ off from the river track that brought you to my store. They’re goin’ to different little settlements and farms, but the one that runs straight north to the Sans Bois is easy to find, if you know what to look for.”
He went on to tell Perley to continue following the river trail for about another four miles until he came to a long, low ridge running parallel to the river. “There’s a gap in the middle of that ridge, and the trail you want runs right through it. You’ll know it; there’s a big old cottonwood bent over almost to the ground right next to it. At least, there was. I reckon it’s still there.”
They talked for another twenty or thirty minutes before Perley took his leave, because Russell was happy to talk about Perley Gates. Listening to much of what Russell remembered, Perley learned that his old grandpa was somewhat of a character.
“I surely do appreciate your help, Mr. Byers,” Perley finally declared, “and I thank you for the coffee.”
“Not a’tall, Perley,” Russell said, extending his hand. “You stop back to see me—let me know if you found your granddaddy.”
Back in the store, Perley thought to thank Bob Byers as well on his way out. Before he reached the counter, he heard the taunting call of his name.
“Pearrrrleeee,” one of the three sitting at the table called out, sounding close to a birdcall, causing his two companions to chuckle.
This was not the first time Perley had encountered someone mocking his name, so he ignored it and kept walking.
“Pearly Gates,” one of the other two called out then. Evidently finding it to be hilarious, they all laughed heartily.
With no desire to rise to the bait to defend his name, especially with three drunks, Perley continued to the bar to thank Bob for his help. He was a little irritated to see Bob with a wide grin on his face and knew at once that he had informed the drinkers that his name was Perley Gates.
“Wanna thank you for your help,” Perley said anyway. “I enjoyed talkin’ to your pa.”
Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of chairs being shoved back from the table, and he knew he was going to be unable to avoid a confrontation. He turned to face the challenge, relieved somewhat to see that there was only one man walking toward him. The other two had just pushed their chairs back in order to more comfortably watch the fun certain to come.
A fairly tall man, although gangly in his build and walk, favored Perley with a drunken grin. It was easy to guess he and his friends were most likely small-time outlaws, maybe cattle or horse thieves. Aided no doubt by the courage found in a jar of whiskey, the man strode up unsteadily, stopping almost in Perley’s face.
“Is your name Pearly Gates, like them gates up in Heaven?”
Aware then that the man was even drunker than he had first appeared to be, Perley took a step back to avoid his breath. “Yes, sir, it sure is, only it ain’t spelled the same,” he answered. “What’s yours?”
This seemed to confound the belligerent drunk for a moment. “Ain’t none of your business what my name is,” he finally slurred.
“I reckon you’re right,” Perley said, favoring him with a friendly smile. “It was mighty neighborly of you to come over to say howdy. I’d like to stay and chew the fat with you, but I expect I’d best get along.”
“What’s your hurry, friend?” The drifter took a step closer.
Forced to take another step backward, Perley was still determined to avoid the trouble the bully was just as determined to provoke. “I’ve got a ways to ride today, so I’d best get started. Otherwise, I’d enjoy hangin’ around and jawin’ with you and your friends.”
He took a step to the side, thinking to walk around his antagonist, but the drunken drifter stepped in front of him again. Seeing he was not to have a choice, Perley exhaled a long sigh of resignation and said, “All right, friend, you’ve had your laugh makin’ fun of my name, but I’ve wasted all the time I plan to on the likes of you. Now, if you’ll step outta my face, I’ll get on my way and you and your partners can get back to suckin’ foolishness outta that jar.”
Perley’s remarks served only to draw another drunken grin across the bully’s face, evidence that Perley had finally responded in a fashion that was going to call for the drunkard to fight or back down. Too late, Perley realized that the man was now even more encouraged to call him out, if only to avoid any appearance of backing down in front of his companions.
“Mr. Pearly Gates,” he slurred, “you’re wearin’ a gun and I’m callin’ you a low-down yellow boot-lickin’ dog. We’ll settle this thing out in the yard, and if you don’t come out to face me, I’ll come in and send your sorry ass to them Pearly Gates you’re named after. If you ain’t man enough to stand up to me, you can get down on your knees and lick my boots. And just maybe I’ll let you live.” He looked back at the table. “That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, boys?”
“Yeah, boy!” one of his friends blurted. “That’d do it all right, Poss—down like a dog!” Both men roared with delight at the prospect.
Perley, you’ve stepped in another cow pie, he thought, remembering what his brothers would say when he found himself in a mess. He stood gazing at his challenger, who appeared to be getting drunker by the moment. Perley had to wonder if the man would be able to walk out in the yard without falling on his face. As disgusted as he was, Perley had no desire to shoot the belligerent ass. It would be like shooting a bird in a cage.
“All right,” he decided. “You want to shoot it out, so that’s what we’ll do. But we’re gonna do it fair and square, Poss.” He paused. “Is that your name?” He received no more than a foolish grin in response. “Bob, here, can be the judge—make sure everything’s on the level. All right, Bob?”
Bob nodded, anxious to see the shooting, and Perley continued.
“We’ll both empty our handguns and leave one cartridge in the chamber, just like a real duel, so we’ll both get one shot. Is that agreed?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Poss mumbled. “One shot, let’s get started.”
“Empty your gun,” Perley said, but Poss made no move to do so.
“That’s right, Poss,” Bob Byers said, taking enjoyment in his role as judge of the duel. “Empty ’em all but one. Them’s the rules.” He watched as both participants emptied cartridges out of their cylinders.
“This duel is between Poss and me,” Perley said, glancing at the two still sitting at the table as he spoke. “Whoever’s left standing gets to walk away without any trouble from anybody else.”
“Sure,” one of the men replied. “You don’t have to worry ’bout that.” He nudged his friend beside him and laughed. “He don’t know how fast ol’ Poss is.”
“All right, then,” Perley said. “Let’s go.”
They all went outside to witness the shoot-out between the two antagonists, some a little more unsteady than others. Unnoticed by the group, Perley pulled Buck’s reins off the hitching rail as he walked past and flipped them over the saddle horn. Bob, still acting in his official capacity as judge, laid down the rules. The duelers stood back-to-back, their guns holstered while he gave them instructions.
“When I say go, start walking. I’ll count to ten, and when I say ten, that’ll be the signal to turn and shoot. The fastest gun will decide the winner, I reckon.”
When both participants nodded agreement to the rules, Bob said, “All right—one,” and they started pacing off the distance.
At the sound of “ten,” both men turned. Confident but not above cheating, Poss anticipated the count early, actually reaching for his .44 a fraction of a second before Bob yelled ten, firing the shot as he turned, before Perley’s gun cleared his holster.
As Perley had gambled upon, however, Poss’s shot was wide by a good five feet because he was too drunk to shoot accurately. His miss served to suddenly sober Poss up considerably, especially since Perley had not taken his shot as yet and seemed in no hurry to do so as he carefully took aim.
Frozen in a paralyzing panic, Poss thought to turn and run, but didn’t seem capable of making his feet move. The few onlookers seemed just as shocked, as Perley cocked the hammer back and drew down on the helpless man. With no real desire to kill a man, even this fool, he lowered the pistol, pulled the trigger, and shot Poss in the foot. The shocked silence was broken by the sound of the .44, followed by a painful howl from Poss, as he hopped around in a circle on his good foot.
Perley pressed a thumb and a finger against his lips to blow a sharp whistle. In a matter of seconds, the bay gelding trotted up beside him, leading the sorrel. Perley holstered his .44 and stepped up into the saddle. Pausing only long enough to bid them all good day, he nudged Buck and was on his way at a lope. When he reached the river trail, he looked back to see Poss sitting on the ground, trying to get his boot off while the three witnesses stood around gaping.
With Perley out of sight, Poss’s two friends helped him up onto the porch and sat him down on a bench. While they got his boot and sock off, Bob went inside to find something to treat the wound with. He was searching under the counter for some rags when his father came from the kitchen.
“You in here, Bob?” Russell asked. When Bob replied, Russell added, “What was the shootin’?” When Bob told him what had just happened, the old man chuckled. “Shot him in the foot?” Bob said he did, causing his father to chuckle again. “Perley Gates,” he said, “just like his grandpa.”