THE LITTLE SHOOTIST
Hank awoke a little after noon. Usually an early riser who enjoyed watching the sun rise over the Palo Duro canyons, deep below the Texas plains—last night’s binge at the Rock n’ Bull Saloon had laid him low.
He took a swig of the “hair of the dog” to quell the shakes and pulled on his boots. One boot, actually. He’d slept, shirtless, with the other one on, caught up in his pulled down denims which hung at his knees. He was a bleary-eyed mess. Changing his clothes, he noticed blood on his shirt and jeans, but wasn’t cut anywhere. Wonder what the other guy looks like? He was too sick to give it much thought. Half a dozen eggs over easy, hash browns and a rasher of bacon would settle his rocky stomach. Hank tried, but couldn’t remember much of the tear he’d been on that night. Scary. The blackouts were becoming more frequent now. Gotta cut down on the booze, he thought. “Not as young as I used to be.”
Hank scratched his unshaven face, but didn’t shave. Not yet—way too shaky for that. “Where are my damn keys?” he spoke out loud. His half-wolf, half sheepdog, Alpha Blue, raised his shaggy head. The animal grunted and went back to sleep. He’d seen it all before.
Hank’s keys were in the jeep parked next to the scruffy pine tree he’d barely missed hitting the night before. He swung his legs into the four-wheel vehicle, revved the engine and headed for town; stopping at the mail box standing at the edge of his long driveway. While shuffling through junk mail and bills--planning on dealing with them on a full and sober stomach, a large flyer caught his eye.
What the hell is this? He wondered. More junk mail? Yard sale poster? No, this was a personal cardboard message with large letter, stating: MEET ME AT THE CORRAL BEHIND YOUR BARN ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNSET. I PLAN TO SHOOT YOU DEAD. IF YOU REFUSE, I WILL SHOOT YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. YOUR CHOICE, MISTER. WHAT YOU DID WILL BE AVENGED.
There was no signature. Damnation! Hank thought. What did I do last night to deserve this? His appetite for breakfast left as he returned to the house to think. His mind was blank, then slowly images flitted across his vision—a young raven-haired woman with sensual green eyes and a body a man would die for. Would he? He remembered no more. A nap would be just the thing to revitalize his body and jog his memory of what he might have done to be challenged to a shoot out. It was 1998, for Pete’s sake. Who does shoot outs? A chill down his spine warned him not to take this threat lightly.
Hank rose from his nap around three in the afternoon, showered, shaved and searched the fridge for something to fill his grumbling, queasy stomach. He chugged another shot of bourbon whiskey, and drank a pot of strong black coffee. The grandfather clock that had been in his family for generations, chimed the hour—four o’clock. The sun set early above the canyon. He’d need to face the shootist soon, hoping to make him see reason. Flashbacks of dancing with a darkhaired beauty came to his mind. He remembered leaning her back to for a long, hungry kiss, just as a huge man with red hair and matching beard, swung the saloon doors open and strode across the room. Hank laughed briefly, thinking he looked like an actor in a spaghetti western. The first punch slammed him across the floor, followed by a pummelling so fast and brutal that he passed out cold. He never saw the man grab his screaming woman by her long hair and drag her out the door. He remembered nothing, except waking in his own bed, stiff and sore. His bleary eyes missed the bruises rising on his face and the bloody cuts around his nose and mouth.
Now he figured this fight was triggered by a jealous boyfriend, or worse, an irate husband. Hank usually steered away from married women . . . but most of the past night was still a blank. He hoped not to need it, but loaded his 22 calibre pistol, shoved it into his holster and headed for the coral. Alpha Blue tried to follow his master, but Hank locked him in the house, something he hoped not to regret.
He spotted a small figure walking toward the corral. Sagebrush tumbled across the barren plains as the sun, about to set, glared brightly in his eyes. Hank was not in the best position for a shoot out, but then this was his first. As the small figure approached, it grew no taller and Hank figured he was either facing a midget—better known now as ‘little people’, or a young lad of ten or twelve.
“What can I do you for?” Hank called out to the short stranger, whose western hat covered most of his head and fell down over his eyes. A grin spread slowly across Hank’s face as he observed him lugging the shot gun in both arms. He was dressed all in black; a leather vest over a black tee-shirt with black jeans and boots. Even with three inch heels on his knee-high cowboy boots, the lad could not be more than five feet tall.
“You caused my mama to die. Now you will die too.” The steely cold voice was deadly and resolute, spoken in an obviously low tone.
“What’re you talkin’ about, son? I ain’t killed no one. Put down that heavy gun and let’s talk some.”
“No need for talkin’ Mister. And this gun ain’t heavy. You die today as my mama died last night.” The last sentence was spoken with a slight tremble.
“I’m no angel, Boy, but I never kilt no one in my life, whether they deserved it or not.” Hank startred to walk toward the boy, but stopped as the shotgun rose up straight at him.
“I saw you with her last night. Disgusting. Dancing and kissin’. I followed her to the saloon to get her home before it was too late. Pa dragged her home and slit her throat and” . . . the voice quivered, Mama died in my arms. When my Pa fell asleep, drunk like always, I took the axe Mama used for beheading the chickens, and cut him across his throat.”
Before Hank could digest the impact of the small figure’s words, a blast from the shotgun blew out his guts. He dropped to the ground, still able to pull off a shot, but had no heart for it now. It was just a boy, avenging his mother. Not firing, even as he felt his life slipping away, make Hank feel as if he’d somehow atoned for his part in this tragedy. He realized that while he hadn’t harmed the child’s mother, his actions led to her death. “Justice served,” his last gasp through blood streaming from his mouth, as his lungs filled with fluid and his pulse slowed to a flutter of a beat.
As he lay dying, the child walked up to him. Eyes as blue as the Blue Bonnet blossoms of Texas brimmed with tears. He aimed again, but then sure his first shot was true , he dropped the shotgun and stood over Hank, tears streaming down his face.
“We’re even now,” he said, sobbing. I would wish that you rot in hell, but instead I asked God to forgive you your sin against my mama. The fault now lies with me as killin’ is a big sin.”
The boy knelt and pressed something into Hank’s hand, then rose and walked slowly away, bent over like an old man, dragging the shotgun behind him. Hank’s watched the boy’s hat slip off his head from a gust of desert wind. Long raven curls sprung loose, blowing in the breeze.
Lord Almighty, I’ve been shot by a wee snippet of a lovely young girl. May God forgive us both. Hank’s last thought as his guts spilled out on rivers of blood was whether Hell really was hotter than Texas.
Hank’s drinking buddies found him a few days later, after he’d not returned their calls. They weren’t his first visitors. Buzzards, coyotes, crows the size of hawks had dined lavishly on his sun-baked corpse. Alpha blue had broken out of the ranch house by hurling himself through a window, chasing the scavengers away. He lay by his master as the blistery sun baked them both during the day and bore the frigid cold of the desert nights. Rigamortis had set in from the first day he’d died, but his friends were able to pull out a hand carved wooden cross from Hank’s half-closed fist. The words, “Forgive me.” were etched along its length.
