“Don’t take your guns to town Bill.”
“You too Ted. Leave your guns at home son.”
But it was too late. Ted had already strapped his on.
“Boss you know damn well they ain’t loaded. Ever since that drifter you
hired then fired a couple months got drunk and shot up the place you ain’t allowed
no loaded weapons on the premises.”
“Or any liquor for that matter either,” chimed in Bill. “That’s why we’re going to town.”
“So why do you need your guns then if you’re gonna drink?”
“Because a man ain’t a man unless he’s packing while he’s drinking. That’s why.
Nobody messes with ya if you got a big iron on your hip Boss.”
“A big iron on your hip Ted?”
“Ya a big iron on your hip Boss. Besides we got bullets with us in our gun belts in case
we need ‘em.”
“Well don’t be needing ‘em. I worry about you two getting drunk, doing something
foolish, like challenging someone to a gunfight, and getting yourselves killed. I don’t
want to lose you two. You’re good hands. You know how hard it is to get good help
nowadays in light of that saddlebum I had to fire.”
“Boss, I’ve been practicing my drawing at night after supper. I’m pretty quick.”
“Well, I’ve seen ya out there practicing Ted. Going up against the other guys in those mock draws of yours and I’m not impressed. In fact, I’m under impressed. I’m an old man. I’ve seen my share of gunfights in my day and you ain’t no gunfighter Ted. You’re just a gunfighter wannabe. You’re a cowboy and that’s all you’ll ever be. So stay one.
That remark offended Ted. So he flipped his boss a contemptuous salute and stomped out of the bunkhouse, slamming the door so hard behind him that the whole flimsy building shook.
Bill tilted his head, gave his boss a raised eyebrow wide eyed look that said,’oh well’, shrugged his shoulders, and gently shut the door behind him as he left.
They went to the A Tu Salud Saloon. It was Saturday night, the joint was jumping, the drinks were flowing, the piano was tinkling, the crowd was mingling, the place was jelly jam packed. The two of them sauntered up to the bar when Bill suddenly grabbed Ted by the arm, stopped him, and said, “Watch out for that spittoon there Ted.”
There on the floor was a spotlessly clean gold spittoon with not a drop of spit dribbling down its side. Ted almost kicked it over but he saw it in time and avoided it. But he paid no attention at all to the man standing a few feet from it.
“Two beers Sam,” shouted Ted above the din.
Sam came forward and plopped down two heavy bottomed glasses of beer with a deadening ominous thud. Ted flipped Sam a gold piece.
“Let Bill know when that’s gone Sam. He’s getting the next rounds.”
Sam smiled as he shook his head side to side. He liked these two amiable cowboys who always behaved themselves, were polite, and always let him keep the change.
Simultaneously Ted and Bill each took a good long drink, wiped their mouths with their sleeves, slammed their beers down, and even said, “Ah” at the same time.
“The nerve of him saying I’m a gunfighter wannabe. You’ve seen me outdraw every man at the ranch, Bill. You know that I had my gun out and pointed at them while their hands were still on their holsters. Hell, not a one of them ever got their gun out of their holster did they?”
“Ted, don’t be taking yourself so seriously. Those guys ain’t no gunslingers. They’re just a bunch of wet behind the ears young cowpokes like ourselves. Hell you ain’t never been up against anyone in your life and there’s no way to know how good you are unless you go up against a real gunfighter and I don’t believe it would be in your best interests to do so.”
“You too huh, You think I’m slow too do ya? That I’m just a gunfighter wannabe.”
Ted took a step to his right, stepping over the spitoon, hoping to insult his partner by distancing himself from him. That’s when he felt it on his hand, something wet and sticky. He looked at his hand. Someone had spit tobacco juice on him. He looked at the man to the right of him, the obvious culprit.
“Hey you there,” shouted Ted to the man.
He got no response.
“Hey you old timer.” The man’s stoop shoulders and uncut gray hair sticking out from under his cowboy hat gave his age away. “Hey I’m talking to you old man,” bellowed Ted, tapping him on the shoulder.
The man slowly, and with apparent effort, turned his creaky old frame around to face Ted.
He’s an old timer alright probably in his sixties, thought Ted as he studied the man’s wrinkled up face. Why he ain’t nothing but a washed up old saddle tramp.
“What?” demanded the man in a surprisingly rather loud bold voice.
“You spit on me.”
“No, I spit in the spittoon.”
“No ya didn’t old timer. You spit on my hand. Here, take a look.” Ted held up his hand for the man to see the indisputable evidence.
“That’s your fault then not mine. You walked into it because I was aiming for the spittoon and I alway hit what I’m aiming at.” He turned his back to Ted.
Ted put his hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him around. Then he wiped the spit on the front of the man’s shirt.
Instinctively the man reached for the gun that wasn’t there. He was unarmed. Unarmed by choice. He didn’t wear a gun anymore because if someone recognized him as George Westin the gunfighter, there was always some fool wanting to challenge him to a gunfight. But under the code of the west no one ever shot an unarmed man. No one would gain a reputation as a legitimate gunfighter if he did so. He’d be branded a coward and a poltroon. The lowest life form ever there in the West.
Sam handed Westin a towel. Westin wiped off his shirt, best he could anyway, then threw it in Ted’s face. Ted went for his gun. It was unloaded of course but only he and Bill knew that. He did it for show, bravado.
“I’m not armed,” said Westin, raising his hands in the air, backing away.
“Ain’t armed huh. Well I can fix that.” said Ted as he took off his gun belt, laid it on the bar, and slid it to the man.
“There put it on.”
The man put it on.
Now it was Ted’s turn to get swung around.
“What in the hell are you doing Ted?” demanded Bill.
“Just shut up and give me your gun belt will ya.”
“You know damn well it ain’t loaded,” he whispered.
“Well neither is mine.”
“So what are you doing then?”
“Just funning with the old man. That’s all.”
“You know who you’re funning with?” interrupted the eavesdropping Sam leaning over to the two of them.
“No who?”
“George Westin. One Shot Westin. One and he’s done. That’s who.”
“That old fool is One Shot Westin the gunslinger?” asked an astonished Ted as his eyes lit up. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Now he’d get a chance to go up against a real gunfighter. Find out how fast he really is and not get killed in the process.
“How many men has he killed?”
“Depends on who you ask,” answered Sam.
“That many huh.”
“For god sakes leave the man alone Ted.” squawked Bill. “You don’t want to be messin’ with George Westin.”
“Give me your gun Bill. I’m gonna outdraw the great George Westin. Give it to me now.”
“No.”
“Bill.”
“Okay, okay it’s your funeral, kind of.”
“Bill took off his gun belt and handed it to Ted. Ted buckled it on and turned around to face his opponent who now stared at him with fire and brimstone in his cold steel gray killer eyes. Ted shuttered. The two instinctively started backing away from each other like two wild male of the species animals sizing each other up. The crowd backed away too, making sure they were out of the line of fire. But they still remained of course not wishing to miss the action. Then when Ted and Westin thought they were far enough apart they stopped.
“Your move cowboy. Whenever you’re ready, go for it. If you got the guts that is,” taunted Westin looking Ted right in his blinking twitching dull light brown eyes.
Ted went for it but he never got his gun out of his holster. Westin had clicked off all six empty shots in a blink of an eye, leaving Ted standing there looking like the fool he was. The crowd let out a burst of laughter, christening him the laughing stock of the A Tu Salud Saloon.
Westin holstered Ted’s gun, took off Ted’s gun belt, and tossed it back to him.
“Lucky for you kid that you’re so dumb that you forgot to load your own gun.”
That set off another round of guffaws from the crowd.
“Salud. To your health cowboy,” said Westin raising his shot glass, then downing his drink in one fell gulp and loudly slamming his shot glass on the bar.
Ted slinked out of the bar with his tail tucked between his legs. A few minutes later Bill left. He didn’t want to be seen leaving with Ted.
Word got back to the bunkhouse that night before Bill and Ted did and for the next week the men had trouble keeping from laughing at Ted whenever they saw him.
The next weekend after that fiasco Bill and Ted drew range duty. That meant they’d be out there on the lone prairie all by themselves riding the fence lines checking for breaks, keeping an eye out for lame, sick, or injured cattle, or anything else that might come up and need their attention. This gave Ted the time he needed to work on his draw and his aim. Bill tried to talk him out of it but all to no avail. Ted, insulted and humiliated, had to have his revenge. So he practiced drawing and shooting every chance he got when he was far enough away from the ranch for his shots not to be heard.
But he wasn’t the only one practicing. Oh no George Washington Westin the aging and one of the last of the gunfighters, was practicing too. He’d been in the business long enough to know that if he outdrew someone and he let them walk away, like here, that person would be gunning for him and he wouldn’t quit until one of them was dead. He also knew that he was getting old and that he was that split second slower on the draw now. But he knew how to fix that. He’d make his hair trigger even hairier. Make it so that it went off even quicker. So he worked with the trigger mechanism until he got it to the point that at the slightest touch it would fire. It might not be all that much that he gained, maybe a tenth of a second, but that tenth could be the difference between life and death.
Next Saturday night, the same place, the same cast of characters, met for the final showdown.
Westin was at the bar talking to Sam when Bill and Ted strolled in. He spotted them first. He wanted to get this over with.
“Loaded for bear this time are ya kid,” hollered Westin.
“Yes I am,” answered Ted, “but it looks like you aren’t.”
Westin was unarmed.
“You afraid to face me since I’ve been practicing.”
“Sam,” said Westin.
Sam reached under the bar, took out Westin’s gun belt, the notches in his gun handle clearly visible for all to see, and handed it to Westin who strapped it on.
“I am now. Got bullets in it too. You remember to put bullets in your gun this time cowboy. I don’t want to be shooting me no unarmed dumb kid.”
“Yah, I got bullets in it this time, old timer.”
With that said the patrons scattered like rats deserting a sinking ship out the door. They knew the bullets would be flying this time and no one wanted to be anywhere near them when they did. Sam went over, closed the front door, locked it shut, returned, and took his place behind the bar. Just the three of them were in the place now. Bill was gone. He didn’t want to see his partner get killed.
Westin backed away from the bar and assumed the gunfighter position.
“Still your turn to go first, kid.”
Ted went for it and again he was too slow. Westin got off the first shot but because he had fine tuned his hair trigger so, he missed his mark. His gun went off before he got it aimed at Ted’s heart and the bullet hit Ted in his left shoulder, knocking him to the floor, and sending his gun flying from his hand. Ted put his right hand over his wound. It hurt like hell but he never let on. He’d be damned if he’d give Westin the satisfaction.
Westin held his fire, satisfied the fight was over now.
“It’s over, kid. I don’t shoot injured unarmed men.”
Westin holstered his gun, turned around to Sam, and signaled for him to pour him a drink. And as Sam did so Ted stayed where he was and surveyed the situation. He saw his gun was three feet to the left of him. He thought about going for it but since Westin’s back was to him he couldn’t shoot him in the back. The man who killed One Shot Westin had to shoot him face to face.
The crowd began beating on the door after having heard the gunshot demanding to be let in.
I have to get him turned around to shoot him, thought Ted. I can’t be a back shooting coward now can I.
Sam was pouring Westin a second drink when he saw Ted reach over, grab his pistol, and aim it at Westin.
“Westin turn around and face me you coward,” shouted Ted.
That was the last thing Ted ever said. In the blink of an eye Sam took his pistol out from under the bar and shot Ted dead center in his breast killing him before Westin ever got turned around.
That second shot was too much for the crowd. They had to know what was going on and had to know it now, even if they exposed themselves to danger. So they beat down the door and rushed in. Bill ran over to the fallen Ted, knelt down, and propped up his buddy to his chest. He began to cry. Then he saw the two gunshot wounds on Ted’s chest and smiled.
“Look at it this way Ted old buddy, old pal,” chuckled Bill, “it took One Shot Westin two shots to kill you. No other gunfighter can say that.”
The author is a retired attorney.