Four

 

Gillom left by a side window in his back bedroom, a new convenience keeping his mother from interrogating him coming and going from their house. He stopped to pull his new guns from their hiding hole in the woodpile next to the storage shed. He fondled his prizes. These were 1890 Remingtons, basically the 1875 model with the webbed underbarrel assembly cut away. They were chambered for centerfire .44-.40 brass cartridges blasted through 5½" barrels. A hot lead load of 40 grains of black powder, the bullets of which could be used interchangeably in the famous Winchester ’73 rifle. He stuck them inside his leather belt, butts forward, out of sight under his blue wool sack coat. Gillom stepped over the yard’s white picket fence and hurried downtown.

He headed up Overland, turned one block north onto noisy San Antonio Street, one of the main merchant byways of booming El Paso at its hard turn into a new century. He strode past the Liberty Bakery, Gamozzi’s Ice Cream Parlor, C. S. Pickerell’s Confectionary, any of which might have tempted his sweet tooth. He headed toward the meat markets farther down the chuck-holed, sand-and-gravel street. Two gigantic Percheron draft horses pulled a long wagon loaded with barrels of beer fresh from the brewery bound for one of the ninety-six saloons crowded all over this border town.

On the northeast corner of Mesa and San Antonio streets stood his favorite, the old Acme Saloon, where he normally would have snuck in the back to check the day drinkers and drunks dozing off a long night before. It was in the Acme’s front barroom where the West’s most notorious shootist, John Wesley Hardin, was rolling dice for drinks on a hot August night in 1895. John Selman stepped inside the batwing front door and dropped his prey like a stone with one lucky shot right in the back of Wes Hardin’s head. Selman got off on that murder charge even though Hardin never had a gunfighting chance. For even as an older man, Hardin was still quite dangerous and generally disliked around El Paso.

The Acme Saloon was thus consecrated ground to Gillom. But this crisp spring day he bypassed his shrine. Jim Dandy’s Leather Goods was near some of the meat markets on San Antonio Street, close to the source of the cowhides they worked into their leather products. And the stench from Jim’s tanning vats blended in with the smell of butchered beeves aging on big iron hooks in the meat markets, so those butchers didn’t complain. To them that stench smelled like money.

Gillom found the proprietor behind a wooden counter in back and told him what he wanted: a double-holster rig in good condition. Mr. Dandy, or whatever his real name was, peered over bifocals.

“New or used?”

“Uh, new.”

The proprietor pulled off a peg a brown leather holster and cartridge belt with a bronze buckle in front and cartridge loops around the back. Two more leather strips were spaced apart and stitched across the gun pockets to strengthen them and support each pistol. Gillom took the double-loop rig and strapped it on.

“Stiff.”

Jim nodded. “It’s new. Leather loosens as it’s broken in, gets comfortable around your waist.”

“How much?”

“Forty dollars. We’ll embross that leather for you, your name, any design you want, for an extra ten.”

Gillom frowned. “Got anything cheaper?”

Mr. Dandy sucked his teeth, moved to a darkened corner and pulled open a bottom drawer of an old desk. He returned blowing dust off another double rig, this one naturally brown.

“This is a money belt. Cowhide’s doubled over and stitched together on top. See this slit inside here you can slip coins in to hide safely? You slide the belt’s billet into this slit, so your coins won’t fall out. Your silver dollars will add weight to this double rig, but no one’s the wiser when you’re travelin’.”

The single-loop holster had several dull-colored silver conchos attached around the belt and on each gun sheath. Its worn leather was very flexible when the young man strapped it on.

“Conchos are a little scratched, but they’ll shine up again, that buckle, too,” Mr. Dandy added.

This time Gillom drew the six-guns from beneath his belt and slid them into the holsters, then raised and lowered the revolvers several times with his palms on each grip, testing for a smooth pull.

He smiled, liking the feel. “How much?”

Mr. Dandy eyed the teenager, calculating. “Twenty-five dollars, for those fancy conchos.”

“Throw in some silver polish?”

“Dollar extra.”

Gillom tried a quick draw with his stronger hand, his right, but caught the revolver’s barrel on the sheath’s lip. There was no front sight on either pistol’s barrel to cause this, so he adjusted the height of the rig on his slim hips. He tried again, cleared leather easily.

“Be faster, you soap that leather good, then oil it,” said Jim.

He tried another draw with his off hand, his left, and was successful. Gillom grinned. He drew both guns. The three-pound revolvers seemed made to fill his strong hands and slid out of their protective pockets slicker than greased piglets. Cocky, pleased with his first attempts, Gillom spun the .44 by its trigger guard, like any teenager trying to show off a flashy spin before jamming his gun back into the leather. His index finger tapped the Remington’s trigger, however, and that was all it took. A bullet banged into the store’s upper wall, ricocheted off the arched wooden ceiling, and zinged harmlessly into the wooden wall directly behind him. A three-bank shot! Jim Dandy disappeared.

Two Mexican leatherworkers piled out of the rear workroom, one of them pointing a revolver! Mr. Dandy rose from behind the counter red-faced.

“Jesus, kid! Put that pistol away until you learn how to use it!”

“Sorry.” Gillom unbuckled quickly and folded holster and guns to lay on the counter. “Trigger’s a little touchy.”

“Are they even yours?” The shop owner was angry at how scared he’d shown.

“Yes! J. B. Books himself willed ’em to me … after he died. They’re special Remingtons, custom-made.”

“Books, huh? You’re the kid mentioned in the paper today.”

Gillom nodded. Jim Dandy eyed him with new appreciation.

“Books prob’ly had ’em sweetened. Gunfighters like to file down the notch on the hammer, loosen the spring on the trigger so it’ll pull sweet. Damn trick guns’ll go off if you breathe on ’em. Oughta get those fixed, before you blow your toes off.”

“I’m sorry.…” Gillom paid with clean bills folded in his pocket—Books’s money left for his mother, which he’d stolen. He didn’t dare complain when Mr. Dandy charged him another dollar each for the saddle soap, bottle of gun oil, and tin of silver polish.

Gillom left the leather shop in a hurry, his ill-gotten goods wrapped in burlap. His mother was right. He couldn’t be seen wearing these famous guns around El Paso, at least until some of the trouble stirred up by Books’s fatal gunfight had died down. Gillom had only John Bernard’s word he could have these weapons, regardless of the outcome of the bloodletting. Books’s letter to his mother that Gillom had found in his room, leaving her a sum of money, $532, he’d destroyed, so that the secondhand man who quickly showed up that night to take possession of Books’s few personals hadn’t been able to snatch his famous guns in the bargain. Gillom professed ignorance of their whereabouts, though Mr. Steinmetz hadn’t believed him. But his bill of sale from Books said nothing about the Remingtons.

“Too bad for that old peddler!” he laughed later.

Gillom would turn eighteen this summer, a grown man. He couldn’t hide something as exciting as these big pistols forever, especially from his pals. As spring weather began to warm the Pass of the North, his restless thoughts turned from readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic, to gamblin’, guns, and gunmen in pretty quick order. Girls, too, figured somewhere in his brain-scrambled equation, but an amateur gunslinger needed time and money for courting, two commodities that had only just fallen his way.

Gillom knew where his pals might be. They often liked to wander down to the muddy Rio Grande after school, to skip stones across the slow-moving water, or watch an occasional train chug across the Mexican Central Railroad trestle heading south into Juarez. Maybe they’d sip a little cheap whiskey or smoke hand-rolled cigarettes if they could steal any liquor or tobacco, or bribe some cowhand to buy these prohibited goods for them.