what he’d do. The gunfighter they happened to pick that morning was the Louisiana Creole, Pistol Le Roux.
Ol’ Pistol and Bobby were working some strays back toward the east side of the Smith when the three gunhawks spotted Pistol and headed his way. Just to be on the safe side, Pistol wheeled his horse to face the men and slipped the hammer thong off his right hand Colt and waited.
That one of the men held a coiled rope in his right hand did not escape the old gunfighter. He had him a hunch that these pups were gonna try to rope and drag him. A hard smile touched his face. That had been tried before. Several times. Ain’t been done yet.
“Well, well,” the hired gun said, riding up. “What you reckon we done come across here, boys?”
“Damned if I know,” another said with a nasty grin. “But it shore looks to me like it needs buryin’.”
“Yeah,” the third gunny said, sniffing the air. “It’s done died and gone to stinkin’.”
“That’s probably your dirty drawers you smellin’, punk,” Pistol told him. “Since your mammy ain’t around to change them for you.”
The man flushed, deep anger touching his face. Tell the truth, he hadn’t changed his union suit in a while.
“I think we’ll just check the brands on them beeves,” they told Pistol.
“You’ll visit the outhouse if you eat regular, too,” Pistol popped back. “And you probably should, and soon, ’cause you sure full of it.”
“Why, you godda—” He grabbed for his pistol. The last part of the obscenity was cut off as Pistol’s Colt roared, the slug taking the would-be gunslick in the lower part of his face and driving through the base of his throat.
Pistol had drawn and fired so fast the other two had not had time to clear leather. Now they found themselves looking down the long barrel of Pistol’s Peacemaker. The dying gunny moaned and tried to talk; the words were unintelligible, due in no small measure to the lower part of his jaw being missing.
“Shuck out of them gun belts,” Pistol told them, just as Bobby came galloping up to see what the shooting was all about. “Usin’ your left hands,” Pistol added.
Gun belts hit the ground.
“Dismount,” Pistol told them. “Bobby, git that rope.”
“Hey!” one of the gunnies said. “We was just a-funnin’ with you, that’s all.”
“I don’t consider bein’ dragged no fun. And that’s what you was gonna do, right?”
“Aw, no!”
Pistol’s Colt barked and the bootheel was torn loose from the gunny’s left boot. “Wasn’t it, boy?” Pistol yelled.
On the ground, holding his numbed foot, the gunny nodded his head. ”Yeah. We all make mistakes.”
“Git out of them clothes,” Pistol ordered. “Bare-butted nekkid. Do it!”
Red-faced, the men stood before Pistol, Bobby, and God in their birthday suits.
“Tie‘em together, Bobby. But give them room to walk. They got a long way to hoof it.’
The gunny on the ground jerked and died.
The bare-butted men tied, their hands behind their backs, Pistol looped the rope around his saddle horn and gave the orders. “Move out. Head for your bunkhouse, boys. Git goin’.”
“What about Pete?” one hollered.
“He’ll keep without gettin’ too gamy. Now
It was a good hour’s walk back to the Circle Double C ranch house, and the gunnies hoofed it all the way. They complained and moaned and hollered and finally begged for relief from their hurting, bleeding feet. They shut up when Pistol threatened to drag them.
“Pitiful,” Pistol told him. “Twice the Indians caught me and made me run for it, bare-butt nekkid. Miles and miles and miles. With them just a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ right behind me. You two are a disgrace.”
Cord stood by the front gate and had to smile at the sight as the painful parade came to a halt. He had ordered his wife and daughter not to look outside. But of course they both did.
The naked men collapsed to the ground.
“Mister McCorkle, my name is Le Roux. They call me Pistol. Now, sir, I was minding my own business, herdin’ cattle like I’m paid to do, when three of your hands come up and was gonna put a loop around me and drag me. One of them went for his gun. He was a tad slow. You’ll find him dead by that big stand of cottonwoods on the Smith. He ain’t real purty to look at. Course, he wasn’t all that beautiful when he was livin’. I brung these wayward children back home. You want to spank them, that’s your business. Good day, sir.”
Pistol and Bobby swung their horses and headed back to Box T Range.
Cord looked at the naked men and their bloody feet and briar-scratched ankles and legs. “Get their feet taken care of, pay them off, and get them out of here,” he instructed his foreman. He looked at the gunslicks on his payroll. “Pete was one of your own. Go get him and bury him. And stay the hell away from Box T riders.” He pointed to the naked and weary and footsore men on the ground. “One man did that. One ... old ... man. But that man, and those other old gunfighters over at the Box T came out here in the thirties and forties as mountain men. Tough? You bet your life they’re tough. When they do go down for the last time, they’ll go out of this world like cornered wolves, snarling and ripping at anything or anyone that confronts them. Leave them alone, boys. If you feel you can’t obey my orders, ride out of here.”
The gunfighters stared at Cord. All stayed. As Cord turned his back to them and walked toward his house, he had a very bad feeling about the outcome of this matter, and he could not shake it.
“It’s stupid!” Sandi McCorkle said to her friend. “They don’t even know why they hate each other.”
