O.C. Writers

Author’s note: This excerpt has been edited for content to meet community standards.

It was Shaw who had drawn first.

As I put in my notes, they had come in, ordered their drinks, and then looked around the room.  Of course they noticed the huge stack of money.  We were all watching the progression of the game.  Everyone in the room was watching that stack of money.  Which is why none of us even noticed when Shaw drew his pistol and started towards the table. 

Smith, the elder of the two, had been reaching for his shot on the bar when he caught on to what Shaw was up to.

“Son of a whore,” he had spat, and then drew so as to back the play that his friend had made.

We all watched as the two approached the table.  I took a bit of liberty with the truth at this point with my description, when I described the two like anonymous tumbleweeds.  They were in fact regulars at the Wigwam.  Everyone in the bar knew their names, knew their faces, had likely bought them drinks and been bought drinks in return.  While it was true that they weren’t of the town, sure, they weren’t exactly strangers either.

“Jesus,” Frank Ketchum, the man who ran the dice table, spoke up at their approach.  “Johnny, Billy, you boys sure about this?  You smile, laugh, and put those back in their holsters, and I’ll laugh right along with you.  No harm done by a joke, ain’t that right?”

“Keep your hands on the table, Frank,” Shaw spoke quietly.  Smith, his lips pressed into a thin line, simply nodded.

That was all that had been said.  Ketchum kept his hands in plain sight, and Smith swung his gun slowly around the room to make sure that the few others there were doing the same. 

I sat at the bar and kept myself busy by downing the two shots that they had left behind.

Except for the clink of coins, the room was silent.  It stayed that way until both men had backed through the door to the street and into the night.

When it was sure that they were gone, Ketchum broke the silence.

“Anybody seen the sheriff tonight?”

“Not lately,” said one of the men at the table.

“Mark down what you bet,” Ketchum said to the men who had been playing, pulling a paper and stub of a pencil from under the table.

“Is anyone going to go after them?” I had asked.

“No point,” the bartender shook his head slowly.  “Too bad, though.  Nice boys, for the most part.”

“But, they’re getting away,” I said, attempting to affect the same stoic nonchalance as the bartender.

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head again slowly.  “We know ’em, you see.  They can’t spend any of that money here in town, which means they gotta head out of town.  If they got horses, which I’m pretty sure they ain’t, well,  I s’pose they could steal some, anyhow that don’t really matter.  If they get a hold of some horses, the law will take the train and be waiting for ’em at the next stop.  If they take the train, then we know where they’re headed, and the law from that town will be waitin’ for ’em when they stop.”

“The train just goes East and West from here.  They could ride North or South.”

“North goes straight into the heart of the  Navajo Nation, and South is a lot of hard, rough trail and nothin’ else for several days.  Like I said, we know ’em.  They gotta move fast now if they want not to end up in Yuma.  My bet is that they’ll try to catch the train East for New Mexico.  “Course that don’t leave ’til tomorrow mornin’, and the sheriff’ll round ’em up before then.”

He poured me another round.  I tossed it back out of habit, and dropped a coin on the bar.

“Right, then I’ll be off too, I suppose.” I said, and the barman, whose name I had been told several times but still could not remember, bid me goodnight with a nod.

I had no real intention to follow them.  I spotted the first coin on the ground just a few feet from the doors to the saloon.   The second lay just a few paces beyond that, and then another, and then another.

“Like a pair of babes in the woods,” I mumbled, scooping up the hefty chunks of silver as I followed this truly inept get away.

I caught up to them just a few streets, about a dozen dollars, further on.  They appeared to be at a metaphorical and literal fork in the road.  I could hear them argue in whispered shouts from the relative safety of the shadows, and what I heard left no doubt that this was not a well thought out plan.

“Let’s just take it back,” Smith reasoned.  “We could just tell ’em we was joking, like Frank said, or just leave it in a pile outside and get gone.  If they get the money back, they ain’t gonna waste time looking for us.”

“Use your goddamn head, Billy,” Shaw said with barely contained contempt.  “We can’t turn back now, unless you want to spend the next few years in leg irons.”

“Goddamn you,” Smith whined.  “Why in the hell did you. . .”

“It was there for the takin’,” Shaw interrupted. “Ain’t you sick of a day’s work here, an odd job there, choppin’ wood, cleanin’ out horse stalls, or whatever scrap work we can get?”

“Well, it ain’t prison, an’ . . . an’ . . . an’ all that unpleasantness.”

It seemed an opportune moment.

“Gentlemen,” I called softly, though not stepping forward to reveal myself.         

A gun returned to each man’s hand.

“No need for all that, now,” I soothed. “I happened to be in the Wigwam a few moments after your rather hasty departure. The barman informed me that they’re not quite sure where the sheriff is at the moment, but they expect to locate him shortly.”

The news had the desired effect on Smith, he looked positively miserable, but Shaw appeared to take the news as heartening. Not yet meant there might still be a chance.

“They expect you to take the train east, to New Mexico.”

“Don’t leave ’til mornin’,” Smith grumbled.

“Just the same, that’s what they figure,” I continued. “Or, they think you’ll try to make Flagstaff before word catches up. You won’t, by the way.  Word’s already gone out on the wire by now.”

“What’s your angle, friend?” asked Shaw. “You got a dog in this fight?”

“Lost a week’s wages at that table night ’fore last,’ ‘ I lied with ease. “Just happy to see it lining someone else’s pocket instead of that chiseler.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes, slightly turning his body to bring his gun closer to bear on where I stood. If he had been certain of a clean shot, I have no doubts that I would not be here to continue my narration of this particular tale. 

Instead, he asked, “You got a way out?”