Dead Eye Dick is a Frend of Mine

A tale of the frontier, highlighting America`s love afair with the gun.

Dead Eye Dick is a Friend of Mine

 

            I first met Dick Claypole in 1880, at the Bi-annual Wing Ridge Shootout. It was undoubtedly the richest marksmanship contest in this area, sporting a first prize for both rifle and pistol of one thousand dollars each.

           

            At a food booth, I purchased what was advertised as a roast beef sandwich and a got a cup of coffee to go with it. Armed with my lunch, I scanned the area for an available table. One stood out because it was occupied by a single boy of about twelve, I guessed. 

 

Making my way over, I said,     “My name is Dave Stone. Do you mind if I sit here?”

           

            “No, sir, I will enjoy the company.”

 

            I sat down and sampled my sandwich.  It was very good, but certainly not roast beef.  My guess would have been elk.

           

            “You come to watch someone shoot? Maybe, you’re Dad.”

           

            “No I haven’t got any family.  They are all dead, have been for a couple of years. I was hoping to enter this contest.”

           

            “Well, I don’t see why you can’t; there isn’t any age barrier that I know of.  Course you have to be able to shoot. There is some awesome talent here, and there is the matter of an entrance fee of one dollar per event.”

           

            “Oh, I can shoot pretty well, but I’m a little light on money. Maybe I’ll have to limit myself to one event.”

           

            “Tell me, what’s a young guy like you doing living all on his own? It seems to me, if you’re parents died two years ago, you would have been put in a foster home by the authorities.”

           

            “Yeah, well, I guess they would have, if they could catch me. Why would I want someone who is too stupid to find me, deciding what’s good for me? My name’s Dick Claypole. I’m fourteen and I have been living on my own for about three years now--that’s the way I like it.”

           

            “That’s okay by me, pal. Let’s go over to the range; you can show me some of your shooting. Perhaps I will back you in a couple of events, if I think you’re good enough.”

           

              As we walked to the range, Dick rambled on about his father. “My father, I mean my real one, name was Clair Claypole, had quite a reputation as a fighter. He took on eight guys at the local saloons one night. The fight lasted over an hour, and my father was the only one that walked away. It was said that one of the guys insulted a lady and that was what the fight was about. The other side of the story was that the lady in question was a local w***e who cheated one of the guys. I don’t know which story was true, even now, but it really didn’t matter to me. I was only seven at the time. My father was a big man, about six-five and around two-hundred-sixty pounds in the raw. He prided himself on his size, strength and ability in the manly art of defending himself. I was a terrible source of embarrassment to him. I was born at just four and a half pounds, a sickly, scrawny example of humanity, and certainly the opposite of what he had expected in a son.”

           

            “Sorry to hear that, Dick.  Well, here’s the range. I’ll set up some targets, and we shall see what you can hit.”

 

            I put up six targets about three feet apart, after pacing out thirty yards. The range was a stretch of land that had been cleared. Logs were piled up at the end to form a sort of back stop.

           

            “Okay, the trick is to put a hole in the center part of as many targets as you can with the ten shots contained in your magazine.”

           

            I was rummaging around in my pack for a pair of binoculars, when the firing started. It was a non-interrupted steam of sound, a shot followed by the distinctive sound of the lever action and then another shot and so on. By the time I had located and retrieved my binoculars, the sound had stopped. Dick was leaning against the table watching me. The rifle was lying on the table, a curl of smoke twisting its way up from the barrel.

           

            “I only counted six shots. You have another four shots available.”

           

            “Yeah, well I guess I didn’t need them. You said to put a hole in each of the target bull’s eye, and I did that.”

           

            I brought the glasses up and scanned the targets one after the other. Each target had a hole in the bull’s eye. In four of them the hole seemed perfectly centered. The other two were only slightly off center.

           

            “Do you realize that the level of skill you just demonstrated would be sufficient enough to win you any marksmanship contest in this country, ninety-nine times out of a hundred?”

           

            “No! I mean, I know I am a good shot, but I never shot in a tournament. I have no idea what level of skill it takes to win something like this. Well, that’s it then, I will shoot in the rifle category and we shall see what happens.”

           

            “Not so fast, young fella. I want to see what you can do with the pistol.” I took off my gun belt and holster and tossed it on the table. The set was a prize I had won some years earlier, at a shoot in Miller Hollow. The belt and holster were hand-tooled black leather, with silver inlays along its length, and a silver buckle to complete it. The revolver was a Colt Frontier Model, silver plated with pearl handle.  It was quite a beauty. 

           

            “You can use these if you like.” I walked out onto the field with a target stretcher. That’s a plastic card with a series of little circles stuck to it. One simply peeled off a circle and stuck it over the hole in a target and it’s like new. When I got back to the table, Dick was wearing his old belt and holster.

           

            “What’s the matter, you don’t like the fancy one?”

           

            “Oh, yes, it is quite handsome. It just wouldn’t fit me. Even at the last hole, it’s still two inches too big.”

           

            “Ha! Ha! Yeah, I can see that. Well, you can still use the gun, if you’ve a mind to.”

           

            My words had barely faded away, when Dick picked up the gun. He almost seemed to be weighing it, tossing it from hand to hand. Before I realized it, the gun was spinning around his finger, five or six times it continued its rotation, and then became airborne. It rose a foot above Dick`s head, doing a slow summersault, butt over barrel. As it descended, it seemed to find his hand. A simple tilt sent the gun sliding snuggly into the holster. The maneuver was so smooth and perfectly timed; it was almost like watching a symphony in progress. I found myself involuntarily applauding the demonstration.

           

            “That is a very good demonstration of pistol mechanics. Now, let’s see if you can hit anything with it.”

           

            To call what I saw next a draw, would be an over-simplification of the maneuver. His hand slid smoothly forward and the gun seemed to leap into his grip. Six times he fired as fast as one could pull the trigger. The gun never rose, but was held at belt height. As the thunder of the gun died, the pistol spun several times, and settled back into the holster.

           

            I checked the targets with my binoculars, four bull’s eyes and two just outside. Dick stood waiting for my comments. When I told him the score, his shoulders slumped just a little.

           

            “I thought I was better than that.”

           

            “You have no reason to be ashamed of your score. I forgot to move us up to the pistol range. You shot this test at rifle range, and it’s a wonder you even hit one bull’s eye. Where did you ever learn to shoot a pistol like that?”

           

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never had any lessons. My father gave me the gun and holster when I was about seven.

 

            “Dad said, ‘Play with it. Get to know it like it was your brother. Take it apart and see how it works. Know it so well you can reassemble it in the darkness. In a couple of years when you know the gun, I’ll show you how to shot it.’

 

            “Well, my father never lived to fulfill that promise. A year after he made it, he was killed in a fight at the Walkersville Trading Post. A drunken Indian took exception when the proprietor wouldn’t give him whiskey. My dad tried to intercede and got a seven-inch knife buried in his stomach. I had never shot the gun. I mean not with real bullets in it until after my father’s death. When I tried, I just pointed the gun at the target and fired.

           

***     

 

After a few moments’ pause, Dick continued his story.  It took him the better part of the next few hours to tell me how he got to be here.

 

“The trader and a couple of my father’s friends came over to tell my mother. I was out by the workshop playing with my gun. Two of them went in the house to tell my mother about Dad and give her the money he had on him. They had taken up a collection, so the figure was a little better than two hundred dollars.  The other man stayed out by the corner of the house, watching me do my rituals with the pistol. After I finished about three of them he came over to me.

           

            “He said, ‘You’re pretty good with handling that gun. Can you hit anything with it?’

           

            “I told him, I don’t know, sir. I have never had any bullets to try with.”

           

            He pushed out ten bullets from his gun belt and handed them to me.

           

            ‘Don’t tell your maw I gave these to you, promise?’

           

            ‘Gee thanks, mister.  I promise I won’t tell.’

           

            Then Mom was calling me in, and the men were leaving. I stashed my stuff in the workshop. Mom told me about Dad, and how things were apt to get tough for us for a while. We had to try and make the trap line work because that was our only way of making a living.   I tried. God knows I did, but I knew nothing about trap lines and such. Dad always said I was too little, that I needed to put on some beef before he would show me.

           

            “Almost from the start our trap line production dropped to near zero, and I knew I had to do something. About a half mile from our cabin, there lived a trapper by the name of Nudder. I never knew his first name. Most locals called him Nutty Nudder, because of his anti-social behavior. He lived the life of a hermit. His only adult interchange was with the trader, and this was more by necessity than choice. I suppose I was the only youngster he had ever met, because I lived so close and went past his place whenever I went to Walkersville. He was always nice to me in a crusty sort of way, so I had no problem asking him to teach me about trapping.

           

            ‘Sure, you come out with me. I can’t pay you, but I’ll teach you trapping.’

 

I worked both trap lines, seven days a week, ten to twelve hours a day, but I learned and gradually our line started to pay. One day about six weeks after my father’s death, I came home with a really good catch, the best I’d ever had so far. I usually stored the furs in the workshop before going in the cabin, but that day I was excited, so I took them into the house to show mother. She just sat there as if she couldn’t understand what I was saying.

           

            ‘Listen, things have changed, I have met a man. He has asked me to marry him and I have accepted. Things will be easier with a man around. His name is Wally Bear, and I’m lucky to have him. It’s not easy for a woman my age to find a suitable mate, especially when I have a half-grown child.’

           

            I told her, “Wally Bear is Walkerton’s resident boozer. He only works when he runs out of money for whiskey. Add to that the fact that he’s a bully, extremely abusive, and you’ve got trouble.”

           

            ‘I was told you would rebel, son. A boy needs a male influence in his life. There are things you’re just too young to understand. Anyway I have made my decision. You will just have to get use to it.’

           

            “It is your decision,” I came back at her. “It is you who will have to live with it. I’m going to leave this house, but I will be in the area for about a month. I will run the trap line for a while, if you find you have made a mistake, leave a note in the workshop. If I don’t hear from you I will assume you are well and happy. I hope that is the case.

           

            I picked up a silver fox hide off the table and left the cabin. I ran the trap line for a time, keeping only enough furs to cover my needs. The rest I put in between the doors, or on the kitchen table, depending on the circumstances.

           

            About three weeks after the break with Mom, I was heading back from the trap line. I was upbeat as I passed Nudder’s cabin. The day’s catch had been very good, and I thought of it as a sort of omen. Nudder was standing outside his cabin as I came down the trail. He waved me over.

 

‘Hi, youngster. How are you doing?’

           

            “I told him I was doing just fine thanks to him, and showed him my take--less than nine hours too,” I said.

           

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you aren’t living in that cabin since your mother took up with that Bear guy are you?’

           

“No sir. I moved out the day before he moved in.”       

           

            ‘If you’re going there now, watch your back. He came by here about three- quarters of an hour ago, drunk as a coot and as nasty as a she-bear with cubs.’

           

            “I’ll watch him, sir and thanks again.

           

            I altered my course so as to approach the cabin from the rear. After depositing my bale of skins in the workshop, I strapped on my holster and checked the loads as I entered by the rear door. I entered into the kitchen. The place looked like a cyclone had hit it. Most of the furniture was broken or laying on its side. In the center of the room my mother lay in a pool of her own blood. Her face looked like it had gone through a meat grinder and her right arm was broken, at least once, but judging by the angle at which it lay, probably twice. I touched her left hand gently. She turned her head, holding it at an unusual angle so as to be able to focus with the one eye that wasn’t yet closed.

           

            ‘Dick, run. He’s a devil. He’s killed me. Don’t let him kill you as well,’ she whispered.

           

             “I was afraid to move her, so I went to the sofa and got a cushion for her head. By the time I got back to her, she no longer had any need for a cushion. I put it under her head anyway. Picking my father’s sixteen-gauge shotgun from the rack by the fireplace, I inserted a shell into each barrel. Out on the porch I threw the shotgun butt-first into the snow at Wally’s feet.

           

            “Pick it up, or I’ll kill you where you stand, you cowardly b*****d.” He seemed to take a long time trying to figure out just what I had said.

           

            ‘I don’t need a gun to kick your a*s up between your shoulder blades.’

 

He started for me and I felt the gun in my hand. It kicked and the little finger on his left hand exploded in a cloud of red mist.

           

            ‘You shot my finger off, you idiot.’

           

            He went down on one knee and plunged his damaged hand into a snow drift. I didn’t know if he thought the cold would stem the flow of blood, or relieve the pain. The scene before me was like a panorama of motion, played in slow time. While he made a great deal about his injured hand, the other one was creeping ever closer to the butt of the shotgun. When he thought the time was right, he acted with incredible speed for such a large man. His hand curled around the stock, cocking the gun as he rolled upon his knees in one fluid movement.

 

I watched as the barrel came down in an effort to alien it with the target of my chest. I heard the sharp distinctive report of the Colt in my hand, followed by the louder roar of the shotgun as it hurled a handful of pellets harmlessly over the roof of the cabin. The shotgun fell to the snow, torn from his grasp by the force of the powerful weapon’s recoil. For the most part, Wally didn’t seem to be able to understand what was happening. However, just by glancing down, he could see the small hole in his parka with a thin trickle of blood oozing from it. Still, he didn’t seem to grasp the importance of this information. He crawled a couple of feet, and then rolled over with his back to a snow drift, as spasms of pain swept over his body. I brought the chopping block over near him and sat on it, just watching him.

           

            ‘Get me some help, boy. I need a doctor. I’m bleeding to death for God’s sake.’

           

            “I know you are, but there will be no doctor. You are going to die, slowly and in agony, so you will know how my mother felt as you beat her to death.

           

            I must have sat there about an hour when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

           

            Mr. Nudder said, ‘Don’t you think we should put him out of his misery?’

           

            “Go in the cabin and see what he did to my mother. Then tell me to go easy on him.”

           

            ‘I’m not concerned about him, son. I’m concerned about you.’

           

            “Okay you deal with him, because I can’t do anything for him that may be interpreted as a kindness.”

           

            I packed the toboggan with what I thought I would be able to use in the wilderness, bearing in mind that I had to pull it. My labor was interrupted by the roar of a sixteen-gauge shotgun and I had the fleeting thought that Wally Bear in all likelihood was dead. The notion didn’t give me the satisfaction I thought it would; on the other hand it didn’t jerk any tears from me either.

           

            Mr. Nudder came around the corner of the cabin.

           

            ‘You know where Squaw Lake is? Well there is a cabin on the far side of it. I built it a number of years ago when I ran a trap line over there. It’s isolated; I lived up there four years and never saw a soul.  There is plenty of game and the lake will keep you in fish winter and summer. You better stay up there two or three months, till I find out which way the wind is blowing on this thing. I’ll bring you supplies and news every week as near as I can, but I think you need to stay there at least two months.’

           

            I gave Nudder my bale of furs.

           

            “Here cash these in and use the money for the supplies you get me.”

           

            ‘No need for that, boy. I didn’t ask for anything.’

           

            “They aren’t a lot of good to me up at Squaw Lake, now are they?”

           

            ‘Okay then, that’s the way it will be.’

           

            Well I lived at Squaw Lake for almost two years. Oh, I knew they weren’t looking for me for the death of Wally Bear, but they did want to put me with a family. I asked Nutty Nudder if he received any problem over the death of Wally Bear.

           

            He said, ‘Well the law did come out to my place. They wanted to know what happened to Wally Bear. I said, ‘He attacked young Dick with a sixteen-gauge shotgun. Dick pulled his gun and shot him in the stomach. Then he fled, (I think to be sick.) I looked at Wally Bear. He was dying. It was just taking a painfully long time for him to finish it. Now, I didn’t like Wally, not even a little bit, but I don’t believe any living thing should die like he was doing. I picked up the sixteen-gauge and shot him. I thought it was the decent thing to do.’

                       

            The Lawman said, ‘That’s against the law. It’s called murder and you could be charged.’          

           

            ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure just how old I am but I’m at least sixty eight and probably a couple of years older than that. Now if you think what I did was wrong, you need to send someone out here to arrest me, and when you do, tell them to come a smoken’. Well, that was that, I never heard another thing about it.’

 

 

              “I tried different methods of handling and shooting a hand gun, but nothing showed the same results as my method. After a half a box of shells, I gave up.”

 

“Well, if it works for you, why change it? There is one other contestant who shoots the same as you, that is to say he just points and fires. He is very good also, not as flashy as you, but as far as accuracy goes I’d hate to try and live on the difference. His name is Man Mountain Dean, and you won’t have to ask how he got the name when you see him.”

           

            Dick Claypole took the prize for all specialty categories, including trick pistol, trick rifle and cowboy shoot; which involved moving targets and was the only timed event.

           

            Pistol accuracy was next, and one of the two premiere events of the shoot. From a field of thirty-three contestants, it took only four rounds to reduce the field to two. Dick Claypole would shoot it out with Man Mountain Dean. Most of the money was going on Man Mountain and with odds of five for three; I chanced a hundred on young Dick. Standing side by side at the shoot line they were a study in contrast. Man Mountain Dean stood six-foot-six and was an easy two hundred and sixty pounds. Dick was five-foot-six at best, and probably weighed in at one hundred and forty pounds. Man Mountain Dean never holstered his weapon, preferring to keep it in hand for the entire shoot. Dick on the other hand, always holstered his weapon each time he shot. Dick won the coin toss and the right to decide who would shot first in this round. Of course, it alternated for the rest of the shoot.

           

            Dick opted to shoot first and scored a bull’s eye. This was quickly duplicated by his opponent.  They moved five yards further away for the next round. The shoot-off went that way until the fourth round, it was Man Mountain’s first shot and the judge ruled a miss. Dick shot a bull’s eye, and Man Mountain immediately appealed the call. Man Mountain’s target was brought to the appeal judge’s table, along with both shooters.

 

            This event was sponsored by Colt. They supplied the prize money, as well as the judge. The judge was always a super qualified employee of Colt and generally a senior member of the company. The decision of the judges was rarely appealed, and had never been overturned on appeal. The appeal judge was supplied by the National Rifle Association and was also an expert in the field.

           

            As a charter member of the N.R.A., my presence at the table was tolerated as an observer only. The judge only glanced at the target before saying, “My opinion is that the judge’s call is the right one, but we will test the target so there is no doubt.”

           

            To accomplish this, he applied an adhesive backed disc the exact size of the bull’s eye, to the target. With the target flat on the table he positioned the disc exactly over the targets bull’s eye and pressed it down firmly. He held it up to the sun, and then passed it around the table. A thin slice of light showed though the target by the side of the bull’s eye.

           

            “This shoot is over. Dick Claypole is hereby declared the winner.”

           

            Man Mountain Dean’s face was a study of emotion with the appeal judge’s proclamation: disappointment, disbelief and confusion were all too obvious. He had never considered that anyone could best him in the pistol event.  Now the impossible had happened and he was lost. His shoulders sagged noticeably as he left the field, and he kind of dragged his feet in a sort of shuffle. I slapped young Dick on the shoulder and congratulated him on his win.

           

            “God,” Dick said.  “If I had known how much this shoot meant to him, I wouldn’t have entered. He was just like a kid who found out about Santa.”

           

            “He’s a mountain man and his people skills are not so very good. That’s what happens when a man lives alone too much of the time, but he will be okay.”

           

            The next event was the rifle shoot and the highlight of the meet. It was also the only event that I had entered. I also knew that Dick was registered, because I had registered him myself. Had I the option of doing it now, I probably wouldn’t register in this event either. It’s not that I wasn’t a good shot; the fact of the matter is I was one of the best, with the emphasis on was. Time has a way of changing things. The hand is not so rock steady, the eye is not so keen, and the mind perhaps not so sharp. Anyway my dollar was paid, I was in this shoot. Whether I liked it or not was of little importance.  I would do my best to win, because that was my nature.

           

            This event drew eighty contestants. Many were trying to beat the odds, to score the upset victory, to change a dollar entry fee, into a thousand dollars. The first round cut the contestants down to thirty two. After five rounds, it boiled down to a shoot-out between Dick and me. I shot round for round with him until our fifth round. It was my first shot and I scored a bull’s eye. Dick shot and the judge called no bull. The shoot was over and the prize table called Dave Stone the winner. I turned to Dick, but he only had a sheepish look on his face.

           

            “I thought I could beat you,” Dick stammered.

           

            “Me too, and I’m not all that sure you didn’t give me a little help.”

           

            “You mean you think I cheated?  No, I don’t think so, that doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

           

            “Hang around while I pick up my money. Maybe we’ll grab a bite.”

           

            When I returned with my winnings, Dick Claypole could not be found. I never saw Dick again for a very long time, almost eight years. I read of him as he made a name for himself. He was mentioned often in the trade journals as well as the N.R.A. publications. Four years later all reports about Dick stopped without any explanation. About the same time a new personality was emerging, simply calling him self Dead Eye Dick. I of course made a connection between the two of them. Although it was just a conclusion on my part, it was very strong.

                        

***

           

            In 1888 I attended a shoot at Jackson, Wyoming, which was a town very close to Jackson Hole. The town had the reputation of being a mixing pot for mountain men, fur trappers and cowboys. Because of its location near Jackson Hole, it also had its share of those that live on the wild side. I no longer entered shoots, although I liked to watch them when I got the chance. At age sixty-eight I thought I was just too old to compete with the youngsters that made up the bulk of the contestants these days.

           

            I arrived in the town of Jackson a little late, but the diner was still open so I decided to have a bite. I mused, a couple of drinks before bed sounded good. The diner was almost empty. There were five very loud cowboys at the table near me and one lone man at a table near the far end of the room.

           

            “Is it too late for a man to get a bite to eat?”

           

            “Not at all Sir. What can I get you?”

           

            “A small steak, medium rare, fried potatoes, well done, a slice of bread and of course a cup of coffee, black if you please.”

           

            “Very good, that will be just a few minutes.” She pushed a cup of steaming coffee in front of me, and picked up a plate for the lone customer. When she returned to the counter it was hard not to pick up on her reluctance to serve the rowdy five. I was just about to offer my assistance when she called upon some inner strength, picked up her note pad and made her way to their table. The leader of the group, or at least the one that seemed to have the most to say, was red haired, with a full beard. He was about thirty-five. As the waitress neared the table, he became noticeably louder and definitely lewder.

           

             “You guys want any dessert?” She asked, not too enthusiastically, as she moved around the table stacking the dishes. Red beard reached out easily and grabbed her wrist.

           

            “Come on, you sit down right here on Buck’s lap and we’ll discuss the first thing that comes up.”          

           

            I had heard enough. Picking up my Winchester, I walked over to the table. The five bullies were so engrossed in terrorizing the young lady; they didn’t even see me until I stood beside the table. I brought the rifle butt down sharply against the man’s head that was unlucky enough to be sitting across from the redhead. While he was still stunned, I pulled his chair over backwards, and placed my left foot on his neck. My rifle came in line with the redhead’s face.

           

            “You have until I count to ten to release the young lady, pay you bill, and haul your a*s out of here.” He released the girl, probably without realizing it.

           

            “You’re dead! Do you know who you’re talking to? Buck Owens, that’s who, I hope you enjoy your meal, because you’re not going to live long enough to eat another.”

           

            “I didn’t ask anything about you. I already know more than I want to. I know what you had for your last three meals because there are pieces of it encrusted into that piece of filth you call a beard. I know you haven’t bathed in a very long time because I can smell the stench of you all the way across the room. Now, your time is running out and I don’t see any money on the table.”

           

            He fished in his pocket and came up with a crumpled, filthy, five dollar bill which he flung on the table. Grumbling, he and his pals left the diner. I went back to my seat and was served one of the finest meals I have ever had. I shoved the plate back with a sigh and swallowed the last of my coffee.

           

            “What’s the damage, young lady?”

           

            “The cook said to tell you the meal’s on the house, and he said to thank you very much for your help.”

           

            “Oh, that’s not necessary. What I did, I did for myself. I just can’t tolerate a bully, especially one that smells as bad as that one.” I dropped two silver dollars on the counter. “That’s just a tip. You can share it with the cook, if you like.

 

She put her hand on my arm.  “Be careful. Those men are very dangerous, and they won’t forget what you did.”

           

            “Oh, I know this isn’t finished, but don’t you worry. It’s my problem now.”

           

            As I picked up my rifle and made my way to the door, I noticed the man at the far end of the diner walking toward the waitress. When I exited the diner, I was on a small veranda about six by four feet. Four steps led to ground level. As, my feet touched the ground, Buck Owen and two his little band, stepped out of some bushes.

           

            “Well, what have we here? It’s the old timer, who can’t mind his own business. Don’t you worry, old timer, after what I’ve got planned for you, we’ll never have to worry about you meddling again.”

           

            “Okay, let’s get on with it, I figure I can get two of the three of you with no problem at all. The Winchester is an awesome weapon when in the hands of someone who knows how to use it. The question, it seems to me is, who in your group wants to go up against those kind of odds?”

           

            “No, no you’ve got the wrong slant on this old timer. Two of my boys are in the bushes with guns trained on you. If you don’t want to play this by my rules they will shoot you down where you stand. I will fight you man to man with the pistol, if by some remote chance, you manage to kill me; my men will cut you down, so you see, even if you win, you still die.”

           

            “Dying isn’t that big a price to pay for the removal of a festering, scab like you from the face of society.” I propped my rifle against the porch and step away from it.

 

            “I disagree!” The voice came from behind me, but I dared not look. I’d seen too many men in this position, die from a distraction.

 

             “I don’t think even a dozen redheads like you are worth the life of Dave Stone. I’m known to my friends as Dead Eye Dick, and Dave Stone certainly is a friend of mine. Therefore, this will be a fair fight between Buck Owen and Dave Stone. I will kill anyone who interferes or tries to.”

           

             “You call yourself Dead Eye Dick. Is that supposed to make us think you’re hell with a gun?”

           

            “Not at all; I got the nickname, because of an accident I had at age sixteen, lost my left eye. I saved my money and bought a glass one, but my friends said how it didn’t move, so they started calling me Dead Eye. Because my name is Dick, well, I guess they just sort of went together, but I am as you say, hell with a gun.”

           

            “Okay, boys, we have an old moss horn, who should have died years ago, and a crippled youngster with one eye. Sure scares the hell out of me.”

           

            I watched Buck carefully, determined to make this a contest between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of his backers start his draw. I forced myself to wait for what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality the smallest fraction of a second. Buck was good with a pistol. His draw was smooth and fast, probably as good or better than I ever was, and a whole bunch better than I was now. His gun was swinging up to the aim position just as I cleared leather.

 

I thought, well, this is it; this is the way Dave Stone is going to die. The night was full of the sound of gunfire, so the voice I heard had to be in my head. It said, I just point the gun at the target and fire, and that’s exactly what I did. I saw the bullet hit Buck high in the chest, dead center, and I knew it was a killing shot. At almost the same time I felt his bullet tear into my left shoulder. I felt the jarring impact as it collided with a bone, then it was over. The night was silent, as waves of nausea swept over my body; I knew shock was setting in. I forced my eyes to focus; five dead men lay in the dirt before me. Shudders shook my body, as I moved back to the veranda for support.

           

            “How bad are you hit, old friend?”

           

            “I’m not sure, but I think he got a fair piece of me.”

           

            “Come on over to the steps and sit down, while we get you some help.”

           

            I moved toward the steps, and then there were arms helping me. God, that boy sure smells sweet, I thought. I forced my eyes open, but all I could see was an image of the waitress. She had her arms around my shoulder and was supporting me. I searched the area, but it was dark, and I could see nothing else. Then everything went black.

           

            I woke up in a white room. For a moment I thought I had gone to heaven, but the pain in my shoulder and the hospital-like smell soon gave me reason to reconsider. A man sat at a desk to the other side of the room and he came over when he heard me moving.

           

            “Well, we are finally awake are we?”

           

            “How long have I been out?”

           

            “You came to me about seven thirty last night. I spent most of the night fishing the bullet out of your shoulder and resetting the bones. I have bound your shoulder very snuggly and I want it to stay like that for several weeks. At your age bones don’t heal like they do when we are younger, but you’re strong and healthy. I anticipate a complete recovery.

           

            “The fight--what happened?”

           

            “We had hoped that you could shed some light on that. The Sheriff said when he arrived at the site, he thought you had faced five gunmen and killed them all. When he investigated, he found your gun had only been discharged once, that means you would have had to kill four of them and then reload to kill the fifth. He said that was highly unlikely, and he suspected you had an intervention of some sort. I suggested that perhaps you received divine intervention, but he didn’t seem to find that amusing. The men you killed were a gang of cut throats called the Buck Owen Gang. The good news is Buck Owen had a price on his head, of seven hundred dollars, it belongs to you. The bad news is none of the rest is worth a plug nickel.”

           

            “What about the shoot? I came here to watch the shoot.”

           

            “The shoot is over.  Funny thing though, a young fella, called himself Dead Eye Dick took every category. It’s never been done before, at least not in this shoot.  He rode out of here with almost three thousand dollars prize money.”

           

            There was a faint smile on my face as I lay back in the bed

           

            “That’s good, because Dead Eye Dick is a friend of mine.”

 

 

                                               The End--by ablelaz.

           

 

 

Author's Note

Have critical read and any help youm can give n meid is a bonus.