Gunned Down
By Dale Chase
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2018 Dale Chase
ISBN 9781634866026
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Gunned Down
By Dale Chase
Jack Milby has a kid maybe twenty in tow when he comes in and I’m thinking to call him on it, but he says it’s Evan Langer so I hold off. I’ve heard of the Langer brothers, and Jack says Bart’s been killed in a robbery, so it’s just Evan now and can he join up with us? Jack’s impulsive like that, doesn’t always think before he acts, but this time I let it go because the kid has a look that stirs me.
“This here’s Roy Fitch,” Jack says, nodding my way, “and that’s Wade Farrow. They run this outfit.”
Jack then states Evan’s case and Wade and me listen to how the robbery failed, which appears a repeat of what Evan has told Jack. I start getting how Jack and Evan maybe did more than talk because what I’m picking up off the kid is that used feel and I know Jack will get into anything that holds still. As he rambles on about Bart being gunned down in the bank and Evan getting away with the money, I’m hearing only half the story because I’m wondering if Evan took it standing, or did they stop and spread out on the ground? I’m liking such thoughts because they get me going. I’ll have to give it to Wade pretty soon.
Jack has stopped talking and stands with a grin while the kid looks lost. He’s hurting from the loss of his brother who, being older, probably taught him everything he knows, and it makes me want to go to him, tell him how we all lose people along the way, put my arm around him, and stick my dick in his mouth.
“Wade?” I ask because the two of us run things. “It’s fine with me if it is with you.”
Wade is stretched out in a chair, whiskey bottle on his knee. He eyes the kid up and down, likely seeing what I do, maybe also getting that Jack’s had him.
“Can always use a good man,” Wade says, and so it’s done, and I introduce Evan to the others. Being between robberies, two men have gone to see their women, one to his wife in Nevada, the other to a cat house in Greenlee. This leaves Wade and me plus Virgil Story and Dewey Quittman. Dewey’s been known to get up to stuff and I see him eyeing Evan while placing a hand to his crotch, like maybe he’s horse-dicked, which is wishful thinking on his part.
Camp at present is on the Switzer ranch outside Greenlee, Utah, with Noble Switzer being cousin to Leland Mulkey, the one down at the cat house. Noble is married to Hannah, who gives him a brat every year, which now number eight. He lets us use a cabin on his spread. It’s not far from the house and next to a quiet river. For this, we give him a cut of our take and also help out with the horses. The cabin has no more than beds, stove, table, chairs, but it’s big enough for us all. Hannah, God love her, gives us meals at the house. I think Noble likes having outlaws under his roof. Hannah says he gets after her something awful when we’re around. I tell Noble to join up with us, that he’ll near come in his pants at robbing a bank, but he won’t budge. Good man, Noble. What we all would have been had we not gotten sidetracked early on.
Evan goes to tend his horse, get his gear, and Jack goes with him. The kid is not real tall and looks to have a fine body, but it’s that head full of gold that strikes me most. When he first took off his hat it turned loose a bunch of curls that drew me to think how they’d feel on my fingers, even if they are badly in need of a comb. His face is much the boy even though he’s a man, bearing none of the creases the rest of us have earned. He appears untried when I know he’s not.
The Langer brothers are known, Bart having killed the sheriff in Colby some time back, and they’ve maybe robbed more banks than us, but nobody’s keeping count. I know Bart was near my age, thirty-two. I glance at Wade, who takes a long pull of whiskey, and I think to comment on the kid but don’t because something in me is snagged right now, like I’ve run up against barb wire and dare not move. Or speak. Wade catches me looking, takes another pull, and announces he’s going to have a bath. When he gets up, I know to follow.
The kid’s got me going, but that doesn’t matter now. Wade walks to the river, where he’ll strip and bathe,
