 "The
Gunslinger's Code"
by David M. Fitzpatrick
“You kill that vile son of a bitch, Mr.
Wilmington, and don’t you do it in a fair fight,” the fat man with the
greasy hair and the big cigar told me. “Stick to the shadows, and you
shoot that bastard in the back.” We
were sitting at a small table in the corner of the train station’s
saloon, waiting for the eleven o’clock bound for Baltimore to
arrive. A dozen people murmured around us, at the bar and at other
tables; they were well-dressed sorts, the kind apt to ride trains
instead of horses or wagons. There were men in elegant suits, gold
and pewter pocket watches dangling on fobs from their vests. There
were women in pretty bonnets and elegant petticoats, sometimes with
well-dressed children in tow. Outside, the platform had another
three dozen passengers waiting for their train to arrive.
The fat man was Luther Varley, a rich urban type who’d come all the
way from Baltimore to meet with me once I’d contacted him about his
too-good-to-be-true offer. I watched as he struck a match and
brought fire to his waning smoke. The cigar flared like a little sun
as he drew on it, and then he blew out a cloud of dirty smoke that
floated around him like swamp gas. “Ten thousand dollars, Mr.
Wilmington. Even the law only has three grand on his head.”
“The money’s fine, mister,” I said, “but I’ve never shot a man in
the back, and I don’t plan to start now.”
Varley guffawed, spitting bursting puffs of smoke everywhere like a
belching locomotive. “Listen to you, all righteous and such. You’re
a bounty hunter, for Christ’s sake—a killer for hire! A truly
righteous man would have asked why I want this man dead.”
“Make no mistake, sir, I don’t kill people just because someone
doesn’t like them. I only go after the really bad guys. You won’t
ever find me taking a job to kill an innocent, no matter how much
money is offered.” He nodded.
“Fair enough. You fancy yourself some kind of hero, protecting the
innocent?” “Maybe,” I said
with a crooked grin, ignoring his sarcasm. “So Two-Face Trenton
McCallister is wanted for robbing eleven stagecoaches, seven banks,
and four trains. He’s killed forty men while committing those
crimes. But why are you willing to personally spend a fortune to see
him dead?” His face darkened and he leaned forward, and his big belly squashed
against the table and shoving it into me. “Maybe I just don’t like
criminals, Mr. Wilmington.”
“Yet you’re hiring an assassin,” I noted, tipping my brown hat back
on my head and upending my beer for a good quaff. “I checked on you,
Mr. Varley, to make sure the money is real. Thanks to a good friend
who works a telegraph station a couple counties over, I’ve learned
you’re something of a criminal yourself back in Baltimore.”
He settled back in his chair and puffed on his cigar again. “Maybe I
manage questionable business ventures, but that’s different,” he
said in a low and gruff voice. “Two-Face Trenton McCallister kills
innocent people. I got no patience for that.”
“But why do those innocent people matter so much to you?”
“Because that bastard killed my boy!” Varley cried, pounding the
table with a meaty fist, drawing the attention of alarmed patrons.
He lowered his voice and hissed, “My only boy! So you kill him,
Wilmington, and you bring his head to me to prove it. You do that,
and I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”
# Jedediah Varley had been
aboard a train bound for Baltimore from San Francisco when Two-Face
Trenton held that train up. The boy had tried to play hero, going
for a little single-shot Deringer he had tucked in his vest pocket,
and Trenton had gunned him down without a second thought. I guess I
can understand a father’s need for the kind of vengeance Luther
Varley wanted me to exact upon this man. I preferred to think of it
as dispensing justice—and getting paid handsomely for it.
Two-Face Trenton was becoming something of a legend, even among
other outlaws. He operated alone, without a gang, a partner, or a
single henchman. He was a quick draw and a crack shot, and
exaggerated stories claimed he’d taken several bullets—but never so
much as broke his stride.
As soon as Varley’s train chugged out of town, I saddled up and rode
those two counties over to the telegraph station where my old friend
Bill Chane worked. He was on duty, as he was seven days a week,
twelve hours a day, and he greeted me with his usual nod-and-grunt
combination. I offered him a
nip of whiskey off the silver flask he’d given me for my
twenty-fifth birthday ten years before, three years before he told
me he was getting out of the business and going straight. We chatted
about nothing in particular for a few minutes before I filled him in
on the job. He listened with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, and
when I was done, he said, “We go back twenty years, Charlie, so
listen to me when I tell you this job ain’t worth the risk.”
“Listen to you!” I said, laughing. “You’re the toughest bastard I’ve
ever known, and you’ve never been afraid of anybody. Remember when
we took on the Belmont Gang, just the two of us? We emptied four
six-shooters and they emptied twenty. We didn’t take a single hit,
and we left them all dead. Charlie and Chane, best shots in the
West. Nobody messed with us.”
“That was a long time ago,” Chane said. “But ten thousand… a pretty
payday, indeed.” “You should
come out of retirement for this one. You can make five thousand for
doing practically nothing.”
“I can’t do that, Charlie,” he said, and I could hear in his voice
how much he meant it. “I’m not that man anymore. I work a regular
job running this telegraph station. Got me a beautiful half-Indian
wife and four quarter-Indian kids to think about.” He turned to his
telegraphy equipment, made like he was inspecting it. He was just
trying to end the discussion. I understood.
“Well, I’m going after him alone, then,” I said.
He sighed. “I don’t think all I’ve heard about him are just tall
tales. So if you want to live to tell me about it, you do like this
Varley said and take him down like a coward—shoot him in the back of
the head and be done with it. Don’t give him a chance to draw on
you.” I couldn’t believe I
was hearing that from Chane, the last man who’d ever be so
dishonorable. “You know I can’t do that. Even outlaws have honor.”
He laughed, rough and scratchy. “Bullshit. There’s no honor among
thieves, and you know it.”
“Oh, there’s honor among thieves,” I snapped, maybe a bit too
harshly. “It’s the kind of honor where I’ll avenge the innocents
he’s killed—but, by God, I’ll give him the respect of facing me when
I gun him down.” Chane shook
his head in frustration. “Honor, my asshole! That ain’t honor.
That’s stupid rules for stupid thieves. Pretend honor, that’s all it
is.” “Your point is taken.
Now tell me where to find him.”
“What makes you think I know?”
I laughed. “You hear everything, Chane—on that telegraph and off.
You might be retired, but you’re not that retired.”
Chane sighed. “All right, then. But don’t get yourself dead over
this. Ten thousand isn’t much money when you’re not around to spend
it.” The telegraph sounder
began to beep, relays clicking, and Chane scrambled for his pencil
and paper to write down the incoming message. I waited patiently
while he did his job, but I was eager to get rich.
* *
* I usually like to chop
off the excerpts at a nice cliffhanger, but I also like to keep them
under half the story. The real cliffhanger is 55% of the way
through. Suffice it to say, there's more to Two-Face Trenton than it
seems. And I'll give you a hint: He isn't a robot or an alien, but
there's definitely some science fiction on its way. Order this issue
at
www.ScienceFictionTrails.com. |
After David Riley accepted my story "A
Fistful of Bad Guys, and an Ugly" for Science Fiction Trails, I
realized writing a sci-fi Western was quite a bit of fun. When he opened
submissions for the next issue, I worked up a new tale, and he bought that
one, too. I went through many title ideas before submitting, and to make a
long story short, David didn't like any of them. I could see his point. He
suggested "The Gunslinger's Code" because he thought my original title,
"Honor Among Thieves," was too much of a cliché. Well, it was, but it was
supposed to be. But I'm okay with his title.