Purgatory

A Western Short Story

As the sun rose over the deep blue, snow-capped mountains, my black roan slowly cantered down the quiet, dusty main road of Purgatory. It was early for most folks; the blacksmith, the hostler, and the hotel restaurant cook were a few of the ones up this early. I'm sure it was the same for most days in Purgatory. Purgatory was settled by gold miners and outlaws back before The War; its women were mostly whores and its men mostly thieves, card-sharks, an' outlaws on the lam. For me, places like this were home.

The smell of burnt bacon an' fried eggs hit me like that hot wave of lust a man gets when he sees a pretty woman - I wanted nothing more than to satisfy that lust with the saltiness of bacon, the taste of fried eggs, an' pipin' hot, black coffee. That was another thing I loved about driftin' - bein' able to taste all kinds of people's cookin'. I quickly scanned the hotel lobby as I entered and found a seat in the corner where my back could be against the wall and my sight was unobstructed.

A fat, but light-on-her-feet woman approached my table.

"What'll ya have, mister?" she asked in a voice that could've easily been mistaken for that of a man.

"Black coffee to start, then, some bacon an' eggs, ma'am, if'n ya would."

She nodded and headed back to the kitchen to give the cook my order.

Only three others were in the restaurant: an older man sitting opposite me across the room, and a couple sitting together to my left. The old feller had grey hair, a scraggly grey beard, and lines on his face that indicated he'd been places. The couple looked to be in their early 30's, the woman slim and porcelain-skinned, and the man all dressed up like he was headed to a funeral or something - all dressed in black. My eyes rested on his Colt .44, pearl-handled and tied down - the sign of a gunfighter.

The pudgy waitress brought me my coffee and as I took my first swig, I heard the younger man's voice slightly raise in volume:

"What do you mean you don't want to go any further? We traveled all the way here from New York and we are going to keep going until we reach San Francisco," his tone was harsh and his thin lips curled into an evil sneer as he spoke.

The woman quietly replied, "I'm going no further, Thomas. I'll see to it that you have enough money to reach San Francisco, but I will not go any farther."

Instantly, I saw that her defiant tone had jolted the man. He hadn't expected her to resist his wishes.

With what seemed to some like lightning speed, he backhanded her hard across the face. Her head jerked hard to the side and she slowly, delicately, brought her head back square on her shoulders and simply stared the man in the eyes.

The old man hadn't been surprised by the backhand. I could tell he'd expected it. Yeah, this old feller was one wily coyote and he wasn't about to stand for such abuse of a woman. Out West, there were two things you didn't touch without permission - a woman and another man's horse.

The old man slowly stood up and sauntered over to the table. I couldn't make out what he said to the younger man, but the younger man's head jerked up and his hand flashed for his six-killer. His hand never made it halfway to his gun.

Even before the man's hand went for his gun, the old feller had hooked the leg of the chair with his boot and jerked it out from under the man. His hands flew up, his head back, and he came crashing down hard onto the floor. The old man kicked the six-gun away and stood over the trembling man. This young buck was down, but I had a feelin' he hadn't learned his lesson... Yet.

The man slowly slid himself on his rump out the door, followed by his pride. His eyes never left the old timer, his glare mean and evil. The old timer simply turned away and attended to the woman.

I stood up and strolled over.

"Nicely done, old timer," I said.

"Yeah... He'll be back, I reckon," he replied, gazing out the hotel lobby door.

"Reckon so, but he won't be too much to handle. He's a tinhorn and thinks himself a gun hand, but he's nothin'."

"Thank you, sir, for your help. May I pay you for your services?" the woman asked in a quiet but firm voice.

"No, ma'am. That won't be needed. We don't take kindly to fellas layin' their hands on womenfolk out here. It was my pleasure to help. I need to be meanderin' up to the bank. Y'all take care."

And with that, the old timer headed for the door and onto the boardwalk of Purgatory's Main Street.

The woman paid for her meal, thanked me for my interest in her safety, and returned to her hotel room. Me, I just sidled up to the table and ate the best breakfast I'd had in nearly six months. The pudgy waitress refilled my coffee mug nigh on three times before I took my last bite of eggs. As I finished the last swig of my coffee, two men entered the hotel lobby and looked around.

A man with a long scar on his right cheek and a battered, flat-brimmed black hat let his gaze settle on me from across the lobby. His grey wool shirt and buckskin chaps were thick with dust. He'd just come in off the trail. He moved like a snake toward my table. My right hand slid under the table and onto my hip, my coffee mug still in my left hand.

"Hey, mister, you seen an' older fella with a grey beard this mornin'?" he asked me in a casual, yet cold tone.

"Don't reckon I have," I replied, my ocean blue eyes ice cold and my gaze unwavering.

"Don't you be tellin' no lies now, mister," the second man said. This one I could tell instantly was wet behind the ears. His talk came from the security of Scar Face's reputation, I imagined.

I slowly let my eyes wander to lock with his.

"I'd be careful what you say to someone you just met, son. Less words in these parts have gotten many a man killed."

He stiffened and went for his gun. He was stopped short by Scar Face.

"Don't be a fool, Johnny; this man will cut you down an' not think twice about it," he said calmly. His eyes held mine and I sensed he recognized me.

"Listen to yer friend, son," I said. "You're a light-foot an' might just be dumb enough to get yerself killed. Or you may be smart enough to walk away from my table and leave me in peace. My coffee's gettin' cold."

He jerked his arm from the grasp of Scar Face, turned on his heel, and hurriedly walked out the door. Scar Face looked me over carefully.

"You're Lance McCord," he said.

"And you're Tom Steele," I replied.

He wasn't surprised.

"That's right. Now I'm gonna ask you again, did an older fella with a grey beard eat his breakfast here this mornin'?"

I leaned forward in my chair and spoke slowly,

"And I said, I didn't see no old timer in here. Now my coffee's gettin' cold and if you don't light a shuck, Steele, you and I are gonna have a problem."

Steele nodded and said, "Fair enough," and he turned and left the hotel.

After finishing my breakfast, I headed upstairs, washed up, and decided to catch some shut-eye before heading down to the territorial building to stake my claim to a piece of land I'd found me back up in the hills.

The bed was hard and it sagged low when I laid down, but I welcomed it over the cold desert ground that had been my bed for the past two months...

Four hours later and nigh on to noon, I awoke, dressed, and headed downstairs to the hotel lobby. The pudgy waitress was hurriedly waiting on tables in the crowed dining area and the aroma of steak an' potatoes and coffee filled the air. I saw no sign of the old timer or Steele and his sidekick. I figured Steele hadn't found the old timer or I would've been awoken to the sound of gunfire; the old timer was one cagey and wily feller from what I could tell and he wouldn't be taken by surprise nor would he be taken easily.

Although it was really none of my business what Steele wanted with the old man, I couldn't help but think that the old fella was in some sort of trouble and that Steele had been sent to take care of the issue. Obviously, whoever wanted the old man killed had no notion of who they was dealin' with. Tom Steele was, by reputation, one of the fastest guns around. In reality, he was fast, but not the fastest I'd seen - and I had seen Steele in a showdown with the Bigelow brothers down in the Nachez a few years back. He was fast, I had no doubts about that, but he wasn't smooth and accurate like he should be.

That night in Nachez, I'd seen him take down the Bigelows with six shots - too many for my taste. He had fired 10 shots total... His first shot had missed and, if he hadn't been as fast as he was, he'd have taken more than three bullets and woulda died with the Bigelows in that tiny bar. He was fast, I'd give him that; but being fast without being calm and accurate in a gunfight wouldn't keep you alive for too long. Sooner or later, you'd come up against someone who was better than you. With gunfighters out there like Lance Kilkenny, Wes Hardin, Tell Sackett and the like, you'd be a fool to think speed was the only necessity in a gun fight.

I pushed through the bat-wing doors of the hotel and stepped out onto the dusty boardwalk. The sun was hot today, like most days this time of year, but a slight breeze made it a little more tolerable. As I scanned the street, I noticed two horses tied up in front of the Purgatory Palace - the local brothel. The brands on the horses were from the McCallister ranch, where Tom Steele supposedly was ridin' these days. If they had found the old man, they'd have lit out by now for the ranch. My guess was they had found out his location, but were waiting for something... Maybe other hands from the ranch.

I turned left and headed down the boardwalk toward the bank. Crossing the street, I strolled past the livery stable and up to the bank. A lone teller was behind the steel-barred window. No one else was in the bank.

"Howdy," the teller said.

"Afternoon."

"What can I do fer ya?" he asked.

"I'd like to lay claim to some land," I said, pulling a piece of paper out with a crude sketch I'd drawn of the land in wanted to stake claim to.

I slid the paper through the slot under the window and he took it. His eyes scanned the drawing and he took a quick breath upon seeing one of my labels on the map. He pushed it back to me.

"Sorry, mister. Reckon that piece of land is claimed already," he said in a shaky voice.

"By who?" I asked him, looking him straight in the eyes.

"That's none of yer business, mister. That is private information," he replied stiffly.

"Private as in McCallister told you not to give anyone a deed to it?"

He looked down at his feet and shifted his weight, "I just can't let you claim it, sir. I'm sorry."

I could tell his apology was sincere. In most cases, people like this fella did as he was told by the ramrod that ran everything in a small town like Purgatory. But I figured I might run into this situation and I'd prepared for it.

I pulled another piece of paper out of my pocket and slid it to the teller.

He picked it up, read it over, and glanced up at me.

"This looks official," he said, surprised.

"It is," I replied. "Now, like I said: I want to file a claim and that there is the deed to that land."

"Yes, I can see that." He rubbed his jaw and pondered his predicament.

I felt bad for him, I knew what kind of trouble this would put him in, having to answer to McCallister for giving away a deed to land he'd been told to keep secured.

"Listen, mister, I don't want no trouble, not from you, not from Mr. McCallister. If'n you can get Mr. McCallister to let you have it, I'll be more than willin' to file this deed and give you the stake to the property."

I simply nodded, he returned me my papers, and I left the bank. It was time to stir up some trouble.

The saloon was crowded. I pushed my way through the crowd and bellied-up to the bar.

"Whiskey," I said.

The bartender was a broad-shouldered man with a black beard. His hands were like bear paws and his forearms were thick with muscle. He poured my whiskey and set it in front of me.

"New around here, ain'tcha?" He inquired.

I nodded.

"Piece of advice, mister," he said, "newcomers ain't much welcome here. Purgatory is pretty much settled and we don't like outsiders. I'd suggest you finish yer drink an' get back in the saddle."

I looked up at him with an icy stare.

"And here's some advice for you: Keep yer nose outta my affairs."

His fists clenched and his eyes narrowed.

"Do you know who's town this is?"

"I do."

"Then you know you'd be mighty foolish to not heed my words."

"And McCallister would be foolish to think that I'd let some no good, loudmouth bartender scare me off," I responded quickly.

He straightened up and looked hard at me. His eyes wandered over to a corner of the saloon. In the mirror that hung behind him, I could see Steele and his sidekick looking my way. Steele stood up and strode over. I watched him carefully as he approached the bar. He sidled up next to me on my left; his sidekick walked up and stood to my right, his hand on his gun.

"What's the trouble, Sam?" Steele asked the bartender.

"This fella thinks he should stick around town."

"Do you know who this is, Sam? This is Lance McCord."

A look of panic filled the bartender's eyes. He stepped back and stuttered, "I'm sor- sorry, McCord."

I ignored him.

"What do you want, Steele?"

"You don't talk to Tom Steele like that, mister. I don't care who you are," the young buck said.

"Keep your mouth shut, boy, before I give you a whoopin'," I replied, without a glance toward him.

"I want to know why you're here, McCord," Steele asked.

"I'm here on business."

"Business, eh? What kind of business?"

I finished my whiskey and looked up at him.

"I'm about to have business with your boss," I said, letting a long pause pass by. "Now make yourself useful and go get 'im."

Steele hadn't expected me to talk to him like that. He shifted his weight to his gun hand side.

"I don't think you're in a position to be givin' orders," he replied, a slick smirk coming to his face.

I caught a movement out of the corner of my right eye.

The old timer appeared from the crowd and snaked the young buck's gun from its holster. The youngster whirled around and the old timer back-handed him with a solid blow to the face. The youngster dropped like a sack of flour to the floor.

"Now it's just you an' Steele," the old timer mused, a wide grin stretching across his face.

Steele hadn't moved a muscle. His eyes were thoughtful as he considered his situation. Just as I figured he make a move for his six-killer, a large man pushed his way through the crowd and put a hand on Steele's arm.

This was McCallister.

He was a good inch taller than me, maybe 20 pounds heavier. His thick neck and broad shoulders were bulging with muscle underneath his shirt. His giant hands were calloused and rough; they were hands that had experience in a bar room brawl.

His eyes were cold and black as he said, "You've been stirrin' up some trouble, McCord. I think you need to get outta town before you've dug yourself too deep a hole. You won't get your claim and you won't be takin' my land from me."

I stood. The crowd backed up and he squared off with me. I took off my gun belt and handed it to the old timer. A sneer emerged on McCallister's face.

"You think you can --" he started.

Then I hit him.

My fist plowed into his thick chin. He swayed back then threw a left-handed cross while moving toward me. This man was quick. I had thrown everything I had into that punch. He had merely shook it off and moved in after me.

I took his cross with a glancing blow off the side of my ear, as I'd stepped in to soften the hit. I jerked my knee up hard into his gut, but his right elbow blocked it. His left fist came crashing down on the back of my head. My skull lit up inside with stars, but I head-butted him in the face; blood started gushing out like a waterfall from his broken nose.

I stayed close to him so his blows had less effect on me. He shook me off and shoved me back. We circled, the crowd silent as they watched two giants in a life-or-death fight.

He bull-rushed me. I fell backward as he got near and shot my legs up, pitching him headlong into the crowd. He sprang up and charged again. This time, I put my fist into his throat, side-stepping to the left as my fist crushed his windpipe. He stopped in his tracks and grabbed his throat, gasping for air.

My chest was pounding and my breathing was rapid. Sweat trickled down into my eyes, smarting them. I touched my hand to my ear - it had swollen up pretty good. My hands throbbed. The room was quiet. The townspeople hadn't seen McCallister lose a fight before. The old timer brought me my guns.

"We'd better get outta here, son," he said, his keen eyes warily scanning the crowd. His gun was in his hand.

I looked at Steele, who had moved to his boss's side and watched me carefully. He was as quick as a cobra and deadly, but he also had honor when it came to a gunfight. He wouldn't draw on me.

"Two days from now, sun-up," I said, belting my guns back on.

He nodded.

The old timer and I left the saloon and headed to the hotel. The moon was bright and it lit the way down the boardwalk. As we started to cross the street, a glint of moonlight on metal made us turn our heads just in time to see the flash of a muzzle in the alleyway.

The old timer dove right, I dove left. I had drawn as I dove and I came up firing into the alley. A thud and a groan after it and I knew I'd hit the bushwhacker. I looked to my right. The old man was lying still in the dust. I holstered my gun and walked over to him. Rolling him over, I saw he'd been struck in the chest, just above his heart.

He moaned as I picked him up and threw him over my shoulder. I headed for the hotel, my body in pain from the brawl and the gun fight, but my second wind kicking in, urging me to get the old man to my room and tend to his wound.

The next day, I awoke long after sunrise. I had slept on the floor, using my bedroll, but I had slept well, despite the hard surface. The old timer was sitting up in the bed, examining the make-shift bandage I'd made from the bed sheet. He glanced up.

"I'm guessin' it was that youngster from the lobby who took that shot. Ain't no one else besides Steele lookin' for me, an' no way he made it out if that bar afore we did and got ahead of us."

I rubbed my eyes and responded, "Reckon so. Seemed like the bushwhacker type."

"Well, I'm no good to ya now, McCord. You'll have to face Steele on yer own tomorrow mornin'. An' he'll likely have a few gun hands with 'im."

I threw back my bedroll and sat up. My body was stiff from the hard blows McCallister had landed and my hands were swollen. I got up and strolled over to the wash basin. The cool water felt great on my face and hands. I dried my face and faced the old timer.

"Never did catch your name."

"Dan'l. Dan'l Vicker."

"Well, Dan'l, thanks for the help last night back there in the bar," I gratefully said.

He nodded.

"My pleasure."

I quickly dressed and headed down to the lobby to get breakfast for Daniel. The young woman from the first day I was in town sat alone at a table. After I ordered, I walked to her table.

She looked up and I tipped my hat.

"Mornin', ma'am."

"It is a good morning, isn't it?" she replied.

Her expression was much different from the first day I'd seen her. Her face glowed and her manner was light and jovial.

Our eyes held as she took my hand. Her touch was gentle, her skin soft.

"Thank you. Thank you for yesterday. You and the older gentleman truly saved me from a marriage and life of despair. I haven't seen Thomas since he left yesterday."

I thought of telling her that he was dead, but decided against it.

"I don't think you'll see him again, Miss."

A gleam in her eyes told me she already knew that he was... gone.

"I better be gettin'."

I grabbed the two plates the cook had prepared for us and headed upstairs to the room. We ate heartily and then shared stories while drinking a pot of coffee the pudgy waitress had seen fit to bring to our room. Daniel was healing quicker than I'd anticipated, but I didn't figure he'd be able to lend a hand in tomorrow morning's showdown. He was worn out and pale still, and there was no reason to risk his life when mine would probably be lost tomorrow.

I planned on taking a few men with me, though - Tom Steele being one of them for certain.

My eyes fluttered open. It was near five o'clock in the mornin' and Daniel was sleeping soundly. I quickly and quietly dressed and threw on my guns. I grabbed my hat off the back of the only chair in the room and, with one last glance at Daniel, I headed downstairs to whatever fate awaited me. The cook was up already and had made me a nice breakfast. I'd requested a last meal of sorts yesterday and he'd obliged. I figured if I was gonna die, it'd be on a full stomach.

It was nearing six o'clock when I took my last bite of breakfast and one final swig of hot, black coffee. I stepped through the hotel door and onto the boardwalk. A slight morning breeze blew a dust devil through the middle of the street. It reminded me of a time long ago, when I'd been forced into a showdown with Charlie Kind, a gunfighter who's reputation for violence and death had preceded him. He had been faster than me, but I had been more accurate. Six months later, I was able to walk again after the doc pulled three slugs out of my chest and two from my right leg. I'd been lucky. Facing Steele would be no easy task either, but sooner or later, as long as I planned on settling here in Purgatory, I'd have to face him, or always watch my back trail. For me, facing possible death was more comforting than the anticipation of not knowing when it was comin'.

Fifty yards up the walk, Steele stepped out from the Palace and into the street. Just as I'd enjoyed possibly my final cup of coffee, he'd enjoyed possibly his last night with a woman. I stepped out into the street.

The sun was cresting over the ridge behind me, an orange tinge lighting the horizon. It wasn't hot, but I felt a bead of sweat roll down my back from my neck. Like so many times before, my life flashed before me as I prepared for almost certain death.

I faced Steele. No words needed speaking. We both accepted why we now stood facing each other and what was about to transpire. He had an obligation to his brand and his boss. Me... well, I was a stubborn bastard and would never let anyone like McCallister run roughshod over me.

A top-floor window of the Palace was open and I saw the curtain move ever so slightly. The breeze had already stopped. There was someone with a gun on me in that room. If Steele was like others I'd faced, he'd want to try and take me himself. If that failed, the man in the window was to gun me down. I had a hunch that the person in that room was the youngster who could never shut his trap. The window was to my right, 40 yards down the street and about 30 feet off the ground.

With the sun rising quickly, I knew it'd soon be in Steele's eyes. My only chance to survive was to outsmart the two men. There may be others, but I doubted it. Steele wouldn't want that. He wasn't the type, which is why he'd only brought the kid along when chasing after Daniel. While swapping stories, Daniel had revealed why Steele was after him. Daniel had been a hand on McCallister's ranch. When he'd caught McCallister's 20-year old son rifling through his gear, he'd given the boy a beating. Before McCallister could take action, Daniel had headed for town, where he'd figured to hole up and make a stand. Me comin' along and stirring the pot was a stroke of luck for him.

It was time. The sun was just right.

My hand flashed for my guns. I drew fast, but steadily. If I missed my first shot, I wouldn't get another. My first and second shots hit Steele in the chest, but not before a searing, white-hot bullet tugged at my shirt around my right shoulder. Steele was falling already, his guns blazing, but his bullets missing wide by several inches. As my bullets pounded Steele in the chest, I dropped to one knee and sent lead flying in the direction of the Palace window.

My aim - which was more point-and-shoot technique - was true; the young loudmouth's lower body struck the window sill and he plummeted downward, dust and blood splattering when he hit the dirt.

I stood and reloaded my Colts as I walked toward Steele's body. He tried to raise his gun as I drew closer, but he didn't have the strength. I looked down at him.

"Never... figured... you was... that fast," he muttered, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. He coughed, spitting up dark, thick blood.

I replied, "I wasn't."

A slight smile came to his face as he drifted off into the blackness of death.

One month later, Daniel's health had returned and he looked younger somehow. He had staked his own claim on the opposite side of the mountain from mine. Several men from McCallister's ranch had left to join Daniel and start a spread together, rounding up wild steers and horses from a nearby canyon.

As for me, I had been elected sheriff after it all ended. I figured it would be a good thing and it had helped to pay for some help to build my house.

The best thing about bein' sheriff, though? The hot, black coffee every mornin', free... courtesy of the hotel restaurant.