The Pistoleer by James Carlos Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

to what’s happening at the table, and as he heads toward us he cocks the hammer on the Sharps. Wes and Frank are locked up in a staring match and don’t see him coming. When he gets within two feet of the table, Simp gives me a wink and fires a round into the floor.
    Sweet Christ almighty! You ever hear a Sharps go off indoors? There we all were, wound up tight as cheap clocks, and BOOM!
    Frank jumps straight up out of his chair like he’s been stung in the ass and his pistol goes twirling out of his hand like he’s doing some kind of trick and it comes down on the table and goes off—BLAM!—and he falls back into his chair and crashes over backward and lays there on the floor, stock-still.
    I never saw Wes move—but there he was, turned half around in his chair with his cocked Colt in his hand and square in Simp’s chest.
    For a second nobody moved—then Wes hollers: “You stupid dumb jackleg asshole! You looking to get shot?”
    “Say now, cousin,” Simp says, grinning like the damn crazy man he was. “Mite jumpy, ain’t you?” He looks at Frank laying on the floor and says, “You don’t reckon he’s done killed hisself with his own gun?” And he laughs.
    That’s for damn sure what I thought happened. But then I notice a thin cloud of dust floating down on the table, so I look up and see where the ball of Frank’s pistol went through the ceiling and shook the dust loose. Now everybody else is looking up there too. Then Frank lets out a low groan and stirs some, then sits up and rubs the back of his head and looks all around like he ain’t real sure if he’s dead or alive. Simp points at him and says, “Lookit here, boys, it’s Lazarus come back from the dead.”
    Not a one of us could keep from laughing, not even Frank, he was so damn glad to find out he wasn’t dead. He’d just lost his balance, was all, and knocked himself silly when he landed on the back of his head. But for years afterward, those who’d been there—and a whole lot who hadn’t—would tell the story of the time they saw Frank Polk beat himself to the draw and shoot himself down.
    N ot too long after that, Frank got drunk and careless in a Corsicana saloon and was taken prisoner by a Yank posse. Wes had been taking his pleasure at Mary LaBelle’s sporting house at the time and said he didn’t learn about Frank’s capture till the next day. I was sorry to hear about it myself, but I won’t deny it was a relief to have one less worry at my cow camp.

I served up more than a few glasses to Frank Polk in the Empress Emporium, I did. First met the rascal when he came to Corsicana on the run for shooting some soldiers—in Dallas, I think that was. And there was a rumor about him shooting some shopkeeper. But hell, there was always rumors about Frank and all fellas like him. Sure, he had a temper when he was in his cups—but don’t most other fellas as well? A bit quick with his mitts sometimes—and not afraid to fill his hand, as they used to say, when that was what was called for. But mostly he liked a good laugh and a hand of cards and a sweet time with the ladies. Just a regular fella, he was.
    It was Frank who introduced me to the Hardin lad. They came in the Empress one afternoon when I’m back of the bar, see. They’d just brought over a herd of steers from Pisga, so they had gold in their pockets and were looking for a bit of fun before heading back. So I set out a bottle of the good stuff and hand over the dice cup, and they while away a few hours sipping that good whiskey and rolling the dice. Some friends join them by and by, and they’re all drinking and rolling and swapping whoppers loud enough for everyone in the place to get some pleasure out of all the lying.
    Well now, by that evening the whole lot of them are drunk as lords and playing poker at a table at the back of the room. They’re all laughing and talking at once and so drunk they keep losing track of who’s dealing and whose bet it is,