Requiem for a Gunfighter

REQUIEM

FOR A

GUNFIGHTER

William Davis

Copyright © 2003 by William Davis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 1

It was two in the afternoon, siesta time for many of the locals, when Jake Winston and Kirsten McKenny strolled into a false-fronted brick building just off the South East Plaza. They were looking at wedding rings when a rifle shot broke the window, throwing glass along the floor. Jake pushed Kirsten down behind an iron wheelbarrow and then kneeled beside her. He heard a voice outside say, Get yourself out here, girl. I won’t have you disgracing the family name with such shenanigans.

Papa, Kirsten breathed.

Jake crawled to the window and peered out under a corner of a curtain. Kirsten’s father, brother and another man Jake didn’t recognize were standing in the middle of the street, all holding guns. The father cradled a shotgun and moved like he had been drinking, and the brother and the other man held Winchesters. They all looked angry.

Jake turned to the clerk who had been waiting on them. You got a back way?

The store clerk pointed to a door behind the counter.

Come on, he said to Kirsten, edging to her and holding out his hand.

You just going to sneak out the back? Kirsten asked, seemingly astonished that Jake wasn’t going to stand up to her father.

You want me to have a shoot it out with your pa? asked Jake. That don’t seem like the best recipe for working out our disagreements.

No, but I’m just going to tell him I’m old enough to make my own decisions. She stood up and walked to the door. Papa, she yelled. I’m coming out to talk some sense into you. She turned to Jake. You coming?

Jake brushed glass off his pants and rose to his full height, just over six feet. He was a handsome man though in the right light his visage could appear menacing. He had brown hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of sinewy muscles that only came from long years of hard work. He wore a slouch hat, Spanish hand-carved boots, and on his hip a tied down Colt Single Action with seven inches in the barrel, (one of two given to him and his brother Jim by Ned Buntline, the writer). From his vest pocket hung a chain attached to a broken, stem-winding American Horologe watch with a picture of his mother tucked in the case. A broadcloth coat, nankeen pants, and linen shirt completed his wardrobe.

You think you can talk to him? Jake asked.

He’s my pa. He’ll listen, she responded. I want you. Once he sees that, it’ll be okay.

Jake had met Kirsten in El Paso, Texas, the previous summer, when she and her father had visited looking to purchase longhorns. They hadn’t bought any, but Jake had shown her the sights, taken her to eat at the Globe, and, because she insisted, escorted her to the Coliseum Bar to meet the Manning brothers, outlaws Kirsten had heard about and wanted to meet.

When they left the Coliseum, she said, They seem like nice people. They weren’t so bad.

They’re rustlers and killers, replied Jake. They don’t make ‘em no worse.

They were nice to me.

Yes, they were, said Jake, touching the six-gun in his holster.

He also introduced her to Solomon Schutz and George Campbell, the mayor and sheriff respectively, and the Texas Rangers who resided at the Overland Building. Kirsten seemed especially thrilled to meet the Rangers and talked about them for the next several days. Six days after her arrival, she asked Jake to take her across the border into Mexico.

It’s a mite dangerous for a woman, he cautioned.

Yes, I know, she replied. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat.

How about your father?

I won’t tell him.

Jake shook his head.

Please, she said, taking his big hands in hers and kneading them like dough, then smiling up at him with full lips and wanting eyes. I ain’t never done none of this in my entire life, and it’s so exciting.

He and his brother, Jim, ended up taking her. They visited Mexican friends, toured Paso del Norte, saw a bullfight, and wound up in a bar in the northern part of town. It was an old bar without glass in the windows, but a nice breeze was blowing, and the drinks were cheap and well made. A band was playing, and though Jake could not understand all the words, the song had something to do with love. While they were drinking and listening to the mournful tones of the singer, three Mexicans approached, each displaying more pistols than he had hands. The tallest Mexican grinned somewhat sardonically, his tongue flicking at his lips like a serpent’s, and looked lustfully at Kirsten’s full figure. He said he wanted to dance, holding out one hand to her while the other rubbed his inner thigh.

Kirsten rapidly shook her head.

But I insist, Senorita, said the Mexican, young with a broad face and pencil mustache.

No, you don’t, replied Jake.

The Mexican’s smile grew wider. His teeth were uneven and stained with tobacco juice. Gringo, you do not know me? he asked. His hand swung next to the butt of his gun. He looked like someone who had a secret and wanted to tell it.

And it matters? asked Jake. He dropped his hand below the table.

Si, it matters, the Mexican said.

It matters, said Jim to Jake.

We are the Garcia brothers, said the Mexican, putting emphasis on the word Garcia as if the name were synonymous with gold. I am Jorge. This is Jose and Jesus. He said it with pride but when this revelation did not appear to affect Jake or Jim, his eyes crinkled in disappointment. The singing stopped and only the guitar player continued, picking a slow and mournful tune.

So now I will dance with the Senorita.

Jake shook his head slowly. No, he said. You won’t.

Jorge furrowed his brow. You do not understand, he said. A crooked smile of pleasure spread across his face. A knife appeared in the palm of Jesus’ hand.

Jake and Jim got up from their chairs and moved apart. Their hands were limp by their sides. Jake could hear Kirsten breathing.

Jorge looked puzzled. I not joke. We are the Garcia brothers, he said again. He spat on the floor as if this was all a disgusting business. It is sad you have not heard of us. Sad for you.

We heard of you, replied Jim.

Jorge looked down at Jim’s holster.

He seemed to hesitate. And still I cannot dance with the Senorita?

Jim shook his head. It don’t matter who you are.

Jorge studied Jim carefully. At twenty-seven, Jim was one year younger than Jake, two inches shorter, thinner, and more of a dandy than his brother, but still had those same hard muscles.

Jose wrapped a hand around a pistol at his waist. He fingered it idly, almost lovingly. I do not feel you show us respect. You gringoes, you always look down at Mexicanos even when you are guests in our country. Maybe we need to teach you some respect.

Jake and Jim stepped further apart and unstrapped the leather loops holding down their six-guns. You feel like you can teach it, the school’s open, Jake said.

Jesus and Jose seemed about to step forward in answer to Jake’s challenge when Jorge raised his hand and stopped them. Something is not right. I have seen you somewhere. May I ask who you are? He looked at both brothers.

Jake, said Jake.

Jim, said his brother.

Jorge bowed his head, seeming to think for a moment. You are not Jim and Jake Winston?

Jake nodded slightly. Does it matter?

The guitarist stopped his picking.

Jorge half-smiled, showing his teeth again, though this time his smile seemed as tight as a guitar string. I guess we both have misunderstanding. You friends of Mexico, si? His hand trembled slightly.

Que passa? said Jesus. We can cut these gringoes into little pieces and feed them to our hungry chickens.

Jorge threw his brother a dirty look and turned back to Jake. You friends of Mexico, si?

Jake nodded. Si, he said. We do not wish to kill our Mexican brothers if we do not have to.

Jose took one step in their direction, but Jorge grabbed his brother by the hair and pulled him against a table. He turned slowly back toward the Winstons.

Then you can go, Jorge said, lifting his hands away from his pistols. We no wish to harm our friends. Jesus began to protest, but Jorge quickly in Spanish told him to shut up.

I say we kill them, said Jesus, still not convinced.

Jorge’s lips barely moved when he replied. I see them last year in Sonora. They killed Roberto and four of his banditos. As quick as dios in his anger.

It was an ambush? asked Jose.

Jorge shook his head.

They were more than two? asked Jesus.

Again Jorge shook his head, his lips pale as they pressed together.

It is not possible, said Jose, for only two to stand against Roberto and his men.

They are dead, said Jorge. And these men are not.

The Garcia brothers looked at Jake and Jim with a mixture of fear and respect, as an amateur pugilist might when he first meets a professional, perhaps still not convinced of his inferiority, but also not confident enough to try his luck when unlucky means death.

We’ll be leaving, said Jim, and, never turning their backs, the brothers, grabbing Kirsten by her shoulders, quickly withdrew from the saloon.

Kirsten was breathing heavily when they reached their horses. Her face was flushed, and she had trouble mounting. Finally when she was on her horse, she said, You were really gonna shoot it out with them?

Jake shrugged his shoulders.

That was so exciting. I can’t believe it. They were gunmen, right?

They think they are, said Jim.

But they backed down. Why’d they back down? Are you really friends of Mexico?

Jim half-smiled. They didn’t want to die, he said.

Didn’t want to die? asked Kirsten. And who is this Roberto? What happened to him?

Jim was about to explain when Jake mounted his horse and looked at his brother as if to say enough had been said. They spurred their horses down the street toward the border.

The night before Kirsten was to leave, she sneaked out of her hotel room and met Jake by the courthouse and they walked along the Rio Grande, a thin, mean stream that meandered through mud flats and seemed overwhelmed by the Texas heat. They found a small hill and sat watching a longhorn munching grass under a full moon.

I ain’t as good with words as my brother, said Jake.

You do just fine, said Kirsten.

Jake looked at Kirsten, wondering if she sensed the feelings he’d developed for her these last days.

I mean there ain’t a lot of nice girls in this part of Texas, and the ones that are, I ain’t spent a lot of time talking to ‘em, so I ain’t sure if what I say is right or not, I mean for nice girls.

She looked at him fully, but the moon was at an angle where he could not clearly see her face. He knew he was overstepping some boundaries they had created in their short relationship, but he didn’t know if this was okay. They had never spoken of anything between them. But now with Kirsten leaving tomorrow, Jake felt a need to say something.

He was unsure about what she thought of him. He knew she liked him, but maybe she liked his brother better and maybe that is all she felt—just liking and nothing more.

He could come out of this looking pretty darn foolish, yet it would not be the first time he had fallen on his face for a woman. He could handle men, mean as polecat longhorns, and the Texas weather, but women scared the hell out of him. And they never seemed to make it easy for him. Like they were mountains he had to climb and it was always the cliff side he was scaling. At least with good women.

What I mean to say is I have feelings for you, he heard himself say.

He heard a gasp, but still couldn’t see her face.

After what seemed like forever, he heard her say, You do?

He took a deep breath. I reckon I do, he said.

What do you mean you have feelings? said Kirsten, softly, her voice no more than a whisper.

He cursed silently to himself. This was not going well. He still couldn’t see her face, but from the timbre of her voice she didn’t seem enthusiastic. She sounded far away.

Still, he felt the need to go on. I mean the way a man can feel about a woman, Jake said, cursing to himself that he didn’t know any fine words to say.

You mean love? Kirsten asked.

He panicked a little, and his heart began thumping like a rabbit’s. I mean we’ve only known each other for a week, and I don’t mean to seem forward, and maybe you like my brother better, and if you don’t want me to continue, I’ll understand.

Her voice sounded disappointed. You mean you want to be friends?

Jake gritted his teeth together. More than friends.

More than friends? Jake heard Kirsten say.

He swallowed hard. I reckon.

But not love. You mean more than friendship, but not love.

Well, love’s a strong word and I don’t use it much. But maybe that too.

When she spoke next, her voice seemed to tremble, like she was on the verge of tears. But I’m leaving tomorrow.

Yeah, said Jake. I know. I don’t know what to do about it.

Suddenly Kirsten got up and Jake thought she was crying, but he could have been mistaken, and suddenly she was walking away from him, back toward town. Jake watched her go, thinking he had made a fool of himself again, that good women just didn’t take to him. Then she started running and he was sure she was crying, and he didn’t know whether he should go after her to see what was the matter or not. Finally he decided that he had caused her enough pain, and he sat down in the grass and watched the moon and wished for some Apaches or banditos to come along because he felt that only a good fight would give him any peace.

The next day, Jake met Kirsten and her father at the stagecoach on the corner of Overland and El Paso Street.

She turned her eyes away from him when she saw him coming.

I had to see you, he said.

She glanced up at him. Her eyes were red, but she didn’t look him in the face which he took to be another bad sign.

I want to see you again, he pressed forward. I need to see you.

She looked up at him. I live all the way in Las Vegas, New Mexico. The way she said it made it seem like Las Vegas was at the end of the world.

I know, Jake said. I’ll come to see you. Would that be okay?

She nodded quickly and a thin smile appeared briefly on her lips and Jake thought that maybe her eyes misted over, but if they did, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

As she and her father boarded the stagecoach, he told her again that he’d come to see her. Her father didn’t seem to approve, but didn’t say anything. Kirsten appeared to hesitate.

Come on, said Kirsten’s father, seemingly angry.

Kirsten turned to Jake. I want you to come, she said and then turned and disappeared inside the coach.

His chance had come when the youngest of the Winston clan, Matt, ran afoul of the law. From what Jake had heard, Matt and some other boys had drunk too much and shot up El Paso’s Gem Saloon. A deputy tried to stop it, and in the confusion the deputy had been shot. No one was sure who had wounded the law officer. Matt swore to Jake that it had not been him, but because of their reputations, many of the townspeople blamed him anyway. To let things cool off, Jake, Jim and Matt decided to go on a vacation somewhere outside of the state of Texas. They had arrived in Las Vegas, New Mexico six days ago.

Three days after their arrival, Jake and Matt had gone to the McKenny ranch to visit Kirsten. It wasn’t much of a ranch. It consisted of a decaying barn and a Texas ranch house, one section made of sod, the other of adobe, with a dogtrot separating the two. It was obvious that Kirsten’s family just did scrape by.

The father marched out a door, scattering a few chickens before him, a double barrel shotgun tucked in his arm.

I came to see Kirsten, Jake said.

The father cocked the shotgun. Kirsten ain’t for you, he replied. His voice seemed to quiver.

Figured it might be up to her.

The father shook his head and licked his lips as if they were dry. Might as well mosey out of here.

Jake saw Kirsten looking out the window, trying to mouth something to him.

Jake nodded. I don’t mean no disrespect.

No disrespect taken.

My intentions are honorable.

I read those stories about ya. I won’t have no daughter of mine associatin’ with someone like you.

What are you implying? asked Matt, kneeing his horse forward and resting a hand on his six-gun. Matt was the smallest of the brothers, wore mule-ear boots, a sombrero and two six-guns carried butt forward for a cross-body draw. Though the smallest, he carried the most anger.

The father let the barrel of the shotgun arch in Matt’s direction. I reckon I said it plain enough. He seemed to be having trouble with his balance.

We ain’t good enough for ya, is that it? asked Matt.

Jake nudged his horse beside Matt’s. It’s okay. Leave it be.

My family’s just as good as yourn if not better, Matt said.

A man of around twenty stepped around the far side of the house. He was thin and nervous, and he was aiming a Winchester rifle at them. You give the word, Pa, and I’ll shoot these lobos out of their saddles.

The color in Matt’s face heightened. We’re good enough for you to look at our cattle, but not good enough to come calling. His hand tightened on the handle of his six-gun.

That’s enough, said Jake sternly. He grabbed Matt by one arm. You hear me?

Yeah, I hear you, said Matt, not taking his eyes off the Winchester.

Jake looked toward the house. Kirsten was still saying something in the window and pointing off to the southwest. Her mother was standing in the doorway, now, an apron tightly wound in her hands, her face full of worry and resignation as if she had seen this coming. A dog was growling somewhere. Jake turned toward the father and nodded. We’ll be goin’.

They’s yellow as corn, shouted Kirsten’s brother.

Matt went for his gun, but Jake jumped his horse into Matt’s, and both horses careened off to one side around a corner of the house as a rifle fired.

When they were several hundred yards down the road, Matt turned to Jake angrily. What’d you do that for? I could have plugged that no-good son of a bitch.

Jake leaned out over his horse and smacked him squarely on the chin. Matt, stunned, slipped from his horse onto the road.

Matt lay there for a minute shaking his head. When it cleared, he said, Hell, Jake, that weren’t called for.

You almost got us killed.

But that old man was saying we weren’t good enough to court his daughter.

He was saying I wasn’t good enough, and maybe he’s right.

I don’t like it when people look down their noses. Especially sod busters that don’t have a dollar to their name.

A lot of people got nothin’ better to do than to look down on folks.

You ain’t never killed no one ya didn’t have to.

Jake shifted on his saddle, suddenly uncomfortable.

And he had no call to point that gun at us.

How’s your jaw? asked Jake.

Matt rubbed his jaw, nodded and then smiled.

Jake dismounted and helped Matt from the dust of the road. You can’t always get into every fight that offers itself up to ya.

Matt picked up his sombrero. Well, damn, big brother, what we gonna do now? We rode all this way for nothin’.

How ‘bout let’s go to town and tie a good one on. Jake rubbed his lips and looked back toward where they had come from.

You okay about Kirsten? asked Matt.

Jake shrugged and grimaced. It ain’t like I couldn’t imagine it happening.

The next day Jake received a note from Kirsten asking him to meet her that evening outside of town.

Jake wasn’t sure he wanted to go. It wasn’t because of how he felt about her. He wouldn’t have traveled all this way if he didn’t have feelings for her and those feelings hadn’t changed. She had the qualities he liked in a woman. Guts and beauty and a full figure that seemed to belie the miserly conditions she lived in. Also, though she hadn’t said it, the more he thought about that last evening in El Paso the more he reckoned she had feelings for him too. And, for Jake, that was worth a lot, for though he had known some women that weren’t whores, there weren’t many of them who really liked him.

Jake was worried about her father. He didn’t want to kill him and he felt like it might come to that if he persisted with Kirsten. After stewing over it for most of the afternoon, he finally found Jim and Matt on the veranda of the hotel. Jake spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to broach the subject to his brothers when he finally just showed Jim the note.

Jim read it slowly, having difficulty with the handwriting, then asked, I don’t reckon she’s just another woman to ya?

I knowed her just that week in El Paso, said Jake. But no, I don’t reckon she is.

She’s old enough, Jim said. She writes pretty, too. Big long looping l’s.

Her father don’t take to me none.

"Maybe he just needs some time,’ said Jim.

Don’t seem right you can’t even say a howdy-do, said Matt.

I just don’t want no violence, said Jake. I don’t want to have to kill nobody.

Jim nodded. Well, explain it to her. Maybe you’re reading everything all wrong. Maybe the family just wanted to show you that they were tough enough to be worth something, and now that they showed you, they won’t mind you courting their daughter. After all, I can’t imagine there’s a lot of eligible suitors in this here flea bag of a town.

Jake rubbed his chin. The sky was a clear blue, spotted here and there with puffy cumulus clouds. A breeze blew a newspaper down the street, tumbling it along a sidewalk like a wounded bird. It was a beautiful day, and, in the aching of his loins, Jake couldn’t remember when he’d more wanted to see a woman. Maybe, he said.

She was standing beside a bent pine that looked like it had suffered as much from the torments of New Mexico’s weather as any prospector or farmer. She was dressed in a loose cotton dress that when she moved seemed to play with the lines of her hips. When he rode close, she pushed back her hair revealing brown eyes that spoke to him only of his need. He dismounted and, as casually as he could, tied his horse to a small cottonwood tree. He was trying to think of something smart, something someone more sophisticated than him would say, when she held a book up to his nose.

This is about you. It was a statement not a question. He wasn’t sure if it was an accusation. On the front cover was a picture of two men shooting each other over a game of cards. Each seemed to be mortally wounded.

Jake muttered softly between his teeth.

It’s about you, ain’t it?

Jake looked down at his boots. He should have gotten a shine, but he had been so preoccupied.

It says you’re a cold-blooded killer.

He shook his head. I ain’t read it.

She breathed deeply, her bosoms swelling against the fiber of her dress, the material seemingly in vain trying to corral them. She looked at him directly in the eye. Pa gave it to me. Said it would show me what kind of man you really are.

Jake took a handkerchief out of his back pocket, took off his hat and wiped his brow. Damn book, he thought. One of these days, he was going to go back east to New York and find that writer and give him a real whipping.

So, how come you ain’t saying nothing? Is it true what it says?

I don’t know, but I hope not.

How can you not know? You’re either a killer or you’re not one.

Jake bowed his head. Well, if those are my only two choices, then I reckon I am.

Kirsten sighed deeply and tears came to her eyes. They ran down her cheeks and fell on the material that was arresting her breasts, causing the fiber to darken and embrace even more tightly her nipples.

Jake almost panicked. I’m sorry. I should have told ya, he said, trying to look elsewhere.

That’s why those Mexicans backed down from you, ain’t it?

I reckon, he said, looking out over the low hills.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and Jake extended his handkerchief to her.

How come you ain’t looking at me? Don’t you like what you see?

Yes, said Jake. He hadn’t felt so awkward since he was a teenager and maybe not even then.

Look at me.

Jake slowly pulled his eyes back to her face. The nipples seemed to have an existence separate from anything else. They stuck out so far from the rest of her that all he had to do was shift slightly and they would touch his chest.

I didn’t know you were famous, she said, taking the handkerchief and wiping at her eyes.

It’s just a book. Jake wished he could concentrate better. He wished he could think of the right thing to say, and he wished those nipples, so close as to be painful, would either disappear or transform into something not so desirous.

What am I going to do? she asked. I been thinking about you ever since last summer.

Jake shook his head. I ain’t good at figuring out things like this.

Pa don’t want me to see you.

I guess ya can’t blame him, said Jake.

I want to see you. Can you blame me for that?

I came up here for ya. I rode all this way.

Kirsten blushed and