Showdown at Dead End Canyon

“I ain’t goin’ to just stand by while my own kin and a bunch of brave men are being insulted by some ass- faced son of bitch who doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Boomer said.

“Cowboy, no!” the bartender gasped, reaching across the bar. “My God, do you really not know who this is?”

“Whoever he is, I reckon I can handle the likes of him,” Boomer said.

“Boomer,” Dooley said. “Come on, have your beer and leave this be.”

Boomer stared at the man for a moment longer, then, with a shrug, he turned back toward the bar. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll let it go this time. Maybe folks up here just don’t have as much sense as the folks do back in Texas.”

“Texas,” the scar-faced man snorted. “If it weren’t for whores and their bastards, there wouldn’t be anyone in the whole state but Mexicans and coyotes. You don’t look like a Mexican, and you didn’t come in here walking on all fours. I guess that means your mother is a whore.”

“That’s it, mister!” Boomer shouted in almost uncontrolled anger. “I’m going to mop the floor with your sorry hide!” He put up his fists.

The scar-faced man smiled, though it was a smile without mirth. “Well now, cowboy, if we’re going to fight, why don’t we make it permanent?” he asked. He stepped away from the bar and flipped his jacket back, exposing a pistol that he wore low and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.

“Mr. Dancer, I’m sure these boys would apologize to you if you asked them for it,” the bartender said. “There’s no need to carry this any further.”

“Dancer?” Dooley said, his voice cracking. “Did you call him Dancer?”

“I tried to warn you boys,” the bartender said. “This is Ethan Dancer.”

“Boomer, back off,” Dooley said. “Back off. My God, you don’t want to go bracing the likes of Ethan Dancer!”

Boomer realized then that he had gotten in much deeper than he ever intended, and he stopped, then opened his fists and held his hands, palms out, in front of him.

“My friend is right,” he said. “There’s no need to carry things this far. This isn’t worth either one of us dying over.”

“Oh, it won’t be either of us, cowboy. It’ll just be you,” Dancer said. He looked over at Dooley. “Both of you,” he added. “You came in here together, you are going to die together.”

Dooley shook his head. “No, it ain’t goin’ to be either one of us. ’Cause there ain’ neither one of us going to draw on you,” he said. “So if you shoot us, it’s goin’ to have to be in cold blood, in front of these witnesses.”

“Oh, you’ll draw all right. You’ll draw first, and these witnesses will say that.”

“They ain’t goin’ to be able to say it, ’cause we ain’t goin’ to draw on you,” Dooley said. He looked over at the four card players, who had stopped their game to watch what was going on. “I want you all to hear this. We ain’t goin’ to draw on Ethan Dancer.”

“Oh, I think you will,” Dancer said calmly, confidently.

“Please, Mr. Dancer, we don’t want any trouble,” Dooley said. “Why don’t you just let us apologize and we’ll go on our way?”

Dancer shook his head. “I’m afraid not, gents. You brought me to this ball, now it’s time to dance with the demon.”

Boomer and Dooley looked at each other, then, with an imperceptible signal, they started their draw. Though the two young men were able to defend themselves in most bar fights, they were badly overmatched in this fight. They made ragged, desperate grabs for their pistols.

So bad were they that Dancer had the luxury of waiting a moment to see which of the two offered him the most competition. Deciding it was Boomer, he pulled his pistol and shot him first. Dooley, shocked at seeing his friend killed right before his eyes, released his pistol and let it fall back into his holster. He was still looking at Boomer when Dancer’s second shot hit Dooley in the neck. He fell on top of Boomer.

Dancer stood there for a moment, holding the smoking gun. He put it back in his holster, poured himself another drink, then turned his back to the bar and looked at the four card players. Their faces registered shock and fear.

“Is there anyone who didn’t see them draw first?” he asked.

“They drew first, I seen it,” one of the card players said.

“Yes, sir, I seen it first too. They drawed first, the both of them.”

“Bartender, you saw it too?”

The bartender was staring down at the two young men who, but a moment earlier, had been laughing and joking with him.

“Did you hear the question, bartender?” Dancer asked.

The bartender looked up at Dancer. His face showed more sorrow than fear.

“You goaded them into that fight, Dancer,” he said. “They was just two cowboys mindin’ their own business, and you goaded them into it.”

“Did they draw first or didn’t they?”

“They drew first,” the bartender said. “But you prodded them until they did.”

Dancer put a silver dollar on the bar. “Give these boys a drink on me, and have one for yourself,” he said.

“A drink, yes,” one of the card players said. “Damn, do I need a drink.”

The four card players rushed to the bar. Dancer reached over and picked up one of the beers Dooley and Boomer had left behind.

A tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man sat at his breakfast table reading the London Daily Times. Brigadier Emeritus of the Northumberland Fusiliers, Sir James Spencer Dorchester, Earl of Preston, Viscount of Davencourt, was wearing a wine-colored, silken robe. Over the left breast pocket was his coat of arms, a white shield with a blue mailed fist clutching a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.

The remnants of his breakfast, the bottom half of the shell of a soft-boiled egg, was still in its silver cup. The rind of half a grapefruit and the crust of a piece of toast were pushed to one side.

A balding, older man wearing a morning coat and striped trousers came into the room. Stepping up to the table, he raised a silver teapot.

“Would you care for more tea, sir?” Terry Wilson asked.

Wilson, Dorchester’s valet, had served him for thirty years. Before that he had succeeded his own father in service to Dorchester’s father. In all, the Wilsons had been “in service” to the Earls of Preston for five generations. When Dorchester got ready to leave England, he gave his valet a choice. He would either find a position for Wilson somewhere else, or Wilson could come to America with him.

Wilson could not imagine serving anyone else, so he chose to come to America. Here, even though the trappings of peerage were removed, Wilson continued to maintain a “proper” separation between them. Dorchester would have preferred a less formal relationship between them, but he honored Wilson’s wishes.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Dorchester said as his valet poured the tea.

“Is there anything of particular interest in the Times today, sir?” Wilson asked.

Dorchester took a swallow of tea as he perused the newspaper.

“It says here that Mr. Dickens may come to America to do a series of lectures,” Dorchester said.

“That would be nice,” Wilson replied. “It would give Americans an opportunity to meet one of our really fine authors. I’ll just clear this away, sir.” Wilson took the empty plates and withdrew, leaving Dorchester to read the paper.

The newspaper was actually six weeks old, having made the journey from London to New York by ship, then from New York to Green River, Wyoming Territory, by train. The papers arrived every month in one big bundle, but Dorchester very carefully read them in chronological order, reading only one newspaper per day, and lingering over it during his breakfast.

For the one hour each morning that he devoted to his breakfast and the newspaper, he could almost feel as if he were actually back in England.

Five years ago Dorchester had been a man with a title, a 102-room manor house, and a dwindling financial