A card game. A beautiful horse. And how a gambling debt gets paid. In The Gutter.
There's Just No Figuring by Oliver Brennan
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Before he
climbed out of the old pickup Marshal Henshaw grabbed his Colt .45, popped open
the cylinder and rolled it to make sure there was a full six. Fence posts stood
sentry, unfinished soldiers waiting for their orders. The rails were nowhere to
be seen, could be they’ll use wire instead. He chewed on a tab with the texture
of chalk, for the particularly nasty heartburn that started after the chorizo
omelet Annie made special for him before his trip — it was worth every burning
burp. Marshal Henshaw popped another chalk-tab and put his hat on. The wet
grass under his boots wasn’t too saturated. Must not have rained here like it
had in Galveston. Thunder clapped and he looked to the sky. He put a boot onto
the old porch, rested a hand on his holstered weapon and waited. A horse
whinnied, maybe because of the thunder.
“That badge
give you rights when you’re trespassin’?” The over-under shotgun came up with
the voice of Eddie Harbour.
“Eddie.”
“Yessir,
that’s me.”
“Well, sir.
I’m a United States Marshal, so I’d say this badge gives me some leeway on
trespass laws, even in Texas.”
“Could be
no one knows you’re out here,” Eddie said.
His teeth were stained yellow with tobacco and he spit a long line of
brown juice toward Marshal Henshaw’s boot. “That truck don’t look like a
company car.” He didn’t mention the horse trailer attached to it.
“It’s the
one I like havin’ in my company. Always feel too uneasy in them old Crown Vics
from the office. As for someone knowin’ I’m here… I’d put my money on the
knowin’ part.” Marshal Henshaw stepped
full onto the porch. It creaked under
his weight. “That a Spanish side lock?” He pointed to the antique shotgun Eddie
was aiming in his general direction.“It is,” Eddie said.
The United
States Marshal planted his feet, took a sideways stance, motioned toward the
three horses out under the Spanish moss, leaned against a post and said, “I’m
here to collect.” He’d won the Arabian out there fair and square. He didn’t know before the hand was dealt,
before he made the bet, that it was on Eddie’s property, might’ve walked from
the table if he had.
“Well,
Goddamn. It is personal.” Eddie put his shotgun down, rested it barrel up
against the old house. “Beer?”
“Won’t say
no.”
Eddie opened
a cooler and pulled out two Lone Stars, tossed one at the Marshal. The moisture
from the ice sweated down the side of the tall can. They cracked them open at
the same time. Foam popped out of Eddie’s and he sipped off the top.
“That a
catfish pond down there?” Marshal Henshaw nodded his head toward a small brown
pond with a short dock and what looked like a feeder.
“You know,
I never figured you’d be the one,” Eddie said while he sipped his beer.
“Not
planning on givin’ that horse up too easy then?”
“Not
planning on givin’ it up ’tall.” The Arabian dug its hoof into the ground, sick
of being behind the electrified rope. “Was my sister’s, that horse.”
“Hard to
believe you had family.”
Eddie spit
another long line of brown juice out past the porch.
“Hard to
believe a lot a things, Sheriff.” Eddie smiled and spit again.
“You sell
those catfish to a restaurant?”
“Fished it with
my nephews is all,” Eddie said. He finished the beer, crumpled the can and
tossed it into an old paint bucket.
“That horse
I won fair and square,” Marshal Henshaw said.
“Not from
me you didn’t.”
“Well, Eddie,
per the papers I got here, he’s mine now.” Marshal Henshaw pulled out a folded
proof of purchase for the Arabian.
“I don’t
give half a shit what’s on that paper.” Thunder clapped again. Lightning
tickled the horizon. Eddie stood up and reached for the shotgun.
Marshal
Henshaw drew and fired. He got Eddie Harbour in the heart, he suspected,
because the man went down like a heavy sack. The Marshal walked over, looked
down at Eddie and shook his head, mumbled a prayer for the poor man’s soul and
put a copy of the proof of purchase on Eddie’s chest. Blood bubbled from the
wound like the spring in a creek. Marshal Henshaw walked toward the corralled
horses — two Tennessee Walkers and the Arabian, who’d settled down and watched
him. Maybe the horse was happy Eddie was gone.
“Seems
you’re coming with me,” he said to the Arabian. The animal walked a tight
circle in anticipation of potential freedom. Marshal Henshaw observed the
handle on the roped electrified fence.
Plastic, round, not meant to conduct electricity, as it should be. Eddie
was a slick son-of-a-bitch but, the Marshal figured, not smart enough to rig
the fencing. He grabbed the handle and set to open it. The jolt of electricity shot
through his arm so fast he lost his breath, couldn’t move his hand away. Spittle
flew from his quivering lips. The charge twisted through him, and straight to
his old heart. Marshal Henshaw went down, rolled on his back and had a moment
with the clouds before his eyes closed for good. The fence fell open. The Arabian made another
tight circle then stepped over Marshal Henshaw’s body. The Tennessee Walkers
followed and all three animals ran the ranch.
