Revenge is a long, winding road.
But sometimes, The Gutter shows compassion.
But sometimes, The Gutter shows compassion.
Fool's Trigger by Gabriel Land
The ambush
occurred just outside of Santa Fe. What I was doing heading towards Santa Fe instead
of further south to Lamy—where the railroad was—was trying to avoid ambush.
Didn't work.
My accosters were
the Wickart gang, three outlaws I had recent trouble with back in the Texas
panhandle. Only one among them actually carried the surname of Wickart, and
that was Jessup Wickart. Jessup saw to it to adopt a few brothers. I was outnumbered.
Jessup must have
figured that robbing me blind would have incurred less wrath from my employers
than killing me. He and his boys took everything. My horse, money, rifle, my nice colt
pistol, and the native artifact I was employed to deliver. In all his
intellectual glory, Jessup couldn't have known the artifact's worth.
"You can hike
south to Lamy. I'll leave you a canteen," Jessup said. "Don't you let
me see you in Santa Fe today or ever. I'll shoot you on sight."
Then they left for
Santa Fe, I assumed.
My own horse kicking up dust in my face, I was unscathed, which was a mistake on Jessup’s part.
My own horse kicking up dust in my face, I was unscathed, which was a mistake on Jessup’s part.
*
* *
After a few hours
of hiking, I made it to Santa Fe.
The Wickarts would
be in one of the saloons, no doubt, drinking away my dime over a card table.
I found them at
the Rio Bar.
As if nothing had
happened between us, I walked in, strode up to the bar, and ordered a whiskey.
The bartender obliged.
The bartender obliged.
Took Jessup a
minute or longer to peel his eyes from his cards and recognize me. My back was
to him but my eyes were fixed on the mirror behind the bar.
I heard his chair
scoot out as he stood to face me.
"Before you
drink that last gulp of whiskey you'll ever taste," he said, "I want
you to tell the bartender you can't afford to pay for it."
I raised the glass
and drank, figuring it may or may not be my last, depending on what occurred
over the course of the next few minutes.
My stomach
burning, I turned slow on my stool and stood, facing Jessup in kind.
"What are you
going to do, Jessup? Shoot me with my own Colt?" I asked.
Jessup grinned.
His teeth were rotten. Had he sneezed, he might have lost a few. "You know
what? That's a hell of an idea. I'm gonna' shoot you with your own gun."
He cleared my Colt
from his holster and aimed it at me.
I heard the
bartender behind me twitch.
Jessup cocked the
lever.
I waited for it,
figuring I didn't have a lot to lose.
Soon as Jessup
squeezed, the Colt blew up in his weathered face. He screamed.
I turned and dove
over the bar expecting a hail of bullets from the other two Wickarts. All I
heard after landing was more screams.
Looking up, I saw
the bartender had a double-barrel shotgun trained at the Wickarts, deterring
them from shattering the shelves of good whiskey behind him.
"You go on
and get him out of here," the bartender said to the gang. "I imagine
medical attention won't be helping him much."
I rose to my feet,
standing next to the bartender, and surveyed the scene.
The two were
crouched down by Jessup, who was wailing as would anyone with their fingers and
face blown off.
Never did get that
Colt fixed. Didn't have time to on account of my employment, so I was relying
on my rifle, should the need arise. I planned to have a gunsmith attend to the
pistol soon as I completed my delivery to Albuquerque.
As the boys
gathered Jessup to drag him out, I told them to leave the native artifact.
They fetched it
from Jessup's coat pocket and set it on the card table.
I also told them
to let my horse stay tied up outside.
