to enjoy it. He was killed within six months of opening the saloon, and, because he died intestate, the saloon was put up for sale at a city marshal’s auction.
Announcement of the auction appeared as a two-line entry in the
Pair O Dice Saloon to be sold at city marshal’s auction, 2 a.m. Saturday.
Andrew Cummins was the city marshal of Purgatory. It was not by coincidence that Andrew Cummins was also the only one who showed up for the auction. And because the city marshal owned Pair O Dice, the saloon soon became the de facto city marshal’s office as Cummins spent all his time there.
Although there was a mayor and a city council, the real power in town belonged to Marshal Cummins. He backed up his power by having a personal cadre of eight deputies, all chosen for their skill with a gun and their willingness to use physical force when necessary. In fact, they often used physical force when it wasn’t necessary, but complaints to the city council fell upon deaf ears. One reason the city council was not responsive to citizens’ complaints was because four of the seven council members were Cummins’s deputies.
Marshal Cummins was able to maintain a large force of deputies because the town had imposed a draconian tax, which was extracted, not only from every business, but from every household, every week.
“Hey!” Cummins shouted to the others in the saloon.
Cummins was standing at the front of the saloon, looking over the batwing doors out onto the street. The westbound train was sitting down at the depot, waiting to continue its journey. Half-a-dozen passengers had detrained, and one, who had separated himself from the others, was standing in the street, looking around as if trying to get his bearings. From the way the man was dressed, it was obvious that he was from the East.
“Hey!” Cummins shouted again. He laughed, then pointed. “If you boys want a laugh, come over here and take a look at this.”
“Take a look at what?” Emil Jackson asked. Jackson was one of Marshal Cummins’s deputies.
“Take a look at the hat on that little feller out there,” Cummins said, pointing.
The object of Cummins’s derision was a bowler hat with a small brim and a low round crown.
“What is that thing he’s wearin’ on his head? Is that a piss pot?” Moe Gillis asked. Like Jackson, Gillis was a deputy.
“What are you three laughing at?” one of the other deputies asked.
“This here fella and the piss pot he’s wearin’ on his head,” Moe said.
Soon, all the other deputies were standing at the batwing doors, looking out into the street at the smallish man who was wearing, not only a bowler hat, but a three-piece suit.
“Hey, Marshal, I’ll bet you can’t shoot that hat off his head,” Jackson said.
“Sure I can.”
“A beer says you can’t.”
“You mean you’ll buy me a beer if I shoot the hat off his head?” Cummins asked.
“Yes. But you buy me one if you miss.”
“All right,” Cummins said. “I guess it’s about time I showed you boys why I’m the marshal and you are the deputies.” He drew his pistol and aimed, then lowered it.
“What’s wrong? You can’t do it?”
“Stand here in front of me and let me use your shoulder as a brace,” Cummins said.
“Hell, no, you have to do it yourself. Or admit you can’t do it.”
“You don’t worry about me, I can do it,” Cummins said. He aimed again, then, sighing, leaned against the wall and braced the pistol against the door frame.
Cummins pulled the trigger and the pistol roared and jumped up in his hand.
“Oh, shit!” Jackson shouted.
The little man wearing the bowler hat fell back in the street. Several of the deputies ran out to him.
There was a small, dark hole in the man’s temple, and a trickle of blood ran down across his ear.
“Son of a bitch, Marshal, you kilt him!” Jackson said.
“It was an accident,” Cummins said. “You all seen it. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shoot him.”
By now several others from the town had been drawn to the scene and they stood around, looking on in horror and morbid curiosity.
“What happened?” someone asked.
“Who is this fella?”
“Anybody know him?”
“He just got off the train,” another said. “I saw him get off, but I don’t know who he is.”
“Who shot him?”
“I did,” Cummins said.
“Good heavens, Marshal, why?”
“I didn’t shoot him on purpose,” Cummins said. “I was—uh—”
“He was showing me his gun,” Jackson said. “And it went off.”
