Welcome To The Bullpen
Fletcher’s Pride
By Robert Nicholas
Ol’ Fletcher pulled himself up from the rectangular hole in the ground and sat atop the mound of freshly dug earth next to it. As he inhaled deeply, a smile spread across his weathered face. This had to be what the Great Hereafter smelled like; dirt, fresh wood, and flowers.
He took a long sip from a silver hip flask and grimaced. The last of the burial witnesses had left with the Parson, and all was once again quiet in the cemetery.
Fletcher allowed himself another generous swig of whiskey with the hope of chasing the chill from his aching bones. Leaning on the handle of his well-used spade, the man surveyed the ever-expanding bone yard with a fierce sense of pride. While towns or churches owned most cemeteries, this particular memorial park was Fletcher’s own.
Years ago, he came to town with a soldier’s pension, a tangle foot mule, and an odd calling. He asked around about a large lot outside of town and ultimately bought several acres. The town folk at the time thought him a fool.
“The soil’s laced with alkali, Fletch!” Doc reasoned, “You won’t be able to grow a weed out there!”
“Doc,” Fletcher replied slyly, “What I’m aiming to plant out there, we don’t want growing!”
Fletcher set to work building a fine funeral parlor and in no time started an interment business that became second to none.
That was twenty years or more past. Doc, that old codger, he up and died, and is planted right up there in forty-two south. That was in the section Fletcher referred to as “society hill”. That was where the finest plots were, reserved for the movers and shakers whose end had come while in his jurisdiction.
In the time that passed since, the town grew and flourished. When the railway came through, Fletcher found himself burying twice each day more often than not. The work was rigorous but satisfying. There was always a need of his services and as his craft improved, so did his reputation.
Fletcher was a man who strived for quality and represented his trade accordingly. With his experience in the army as a medic’s assistant, and the fact that he owned the cemetery, he took on the mantle of mortician, undertaker, and gravedigger. He treated each of his clients with equal diligence whether they are peacekeepers, proprietors, saddle bums, outlaws, wealthy, or pauper.
While the town folk would merely cock an eyebrow and shake their heads when he passed, they had to admit, never was a man more dedicated to his trade. A quality respected by everyone in town, and Fletcher was the best.
This particular afternoon found him laboring in his favorite section of the necropolis, his “Rogues Gallery”. This parcel of land welcomed an assortment of outlaws and gunmen known or unknown, some just plain old forgotten over the years.
Forgotten by everyone but Fletcher, that is. The old man could walk you around to each marker, and recite a thumbnail history of the life and death decedent.
The old man looked down at the finely made pine box wherein the remains of the Arizona Kid lie. Oh, the Kid was a dandy, a tall walking, and big talking hard case. He had a reckless, cruel look that made women swoon and men think twice. That, combined with the big Colt he carried in a cross draw holster, marked him for trouble and no mistake.
The kid came into town on his black mare, a sneer on his face, his flat black eyes taking the measure of every man jack he passed. In a town such as this, trouble comes swiftly to those who come a-seeking, and for the Arizona Kid trouble came in a package that went by the name Red Weston.
Red banked a crooked faro game in a saloon called the White Wolf. While he was not a gun fighter by trade, he was mean and easily riled. As it happened that day had been a bad day for Red. He was losing big and he could not get his deck snuck in the game. He noticed the kid when he entered and immediately took a strong dislike to the swaggering young man.
Now, the Arizona Kid cut a wide swath for himself over the last few months. He had a lot to prove and he was the impatient type. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the bear of a man running the Faro bank was the king of this here roost. It also was clear that he did not care for the young man’s manner.
“I’m the Arizona Kid.” he proclaimed, eyes ablaze. “I rode in here on a tornado with fifty dollars and two fists of hell-fire that says I can put to ground any man who’s of a mind to try his luck.”
Fletcher loved the flamboyant ones. More than one or two had rolled through town in the old man’s time. Some joined his Rogues Gallery, others passed through on their way to a greater destiny he could only speculate. These were the figures that made life interesting and truly gave Fletcher his inspiration.
Violence in the west was prevalent and happened quickly. This was a situation no different. Red listened to the Kid boast from across the room until he had heard a belly full. He closed the bank, took a cheroot from his vest pocket, and bit off the end.
The big man slowly crossed the saloon to where the Kid stood at the bar. He shouldered his way through several of the town folk whom were gathered listening, thus interrupting the young man’s tale.
“Got a light, sonny?” Red put as much contempt into the request as was possible, a fact not lost on the other.
Now, Arizona, being of ornery disposition under normal circumstances, was on his way to a full-fledged lather. That was when Red, with a slight, cruel grin on his face produced a match from his own pocket. He struck it on one of the Arizona kid’s vest buttons, and followed it with a hard left to the Kid’s nose.
“Never mind, sonny,” Red chided, “I found one.”
He kicked the Kid in the ribs sending him sprawling across the floor. The younger man sputtered and coughed in futile rage as blood flowed freely from his flattened nose. He got to his hands and knees, and the bigger man kicked him in the hindquarter, sending him out of the saloon and into the street.
Red followed him out. He hunkered over the furious, bleeding gun fighter and punched him in the mouth, dislodging a tooth. He pulled a small money purse from the Kid’s belt.
“Fists of hell fire; pah!” he snarled, pocketing the money.
Red’s mistake in not finishing off the Kid proved fatal. While the big man enjoyed a congratulatory drink, the Kid crazed, humiliated, and bloodthirsty, threw the open the saloon doors.
“You there, bushwhacker!” he called.
Red turned, drawing and simultaneously falling. He squeezed off a hip shot from his thirty-eight, while bringing his left hand up and letting loose with a twin barrel hideaway.
The slug from the thirty-eight whined as it whipped by the Kid’s ear. However, one of the slugs from the hideaway pistol took him high on his shoulder, nicking his collarbone.
Red was done in before he hit the ground. Betwixt the thirty-eight firing and the hideaway firing, the Kid shot him in the dead center of his forehead. Well that sure enough left the saloon in silence. The Kid was faster than a snakes tongue.
Fate has a way of playing funny when it comes to a man’s destiny. No sooner had Fletcher finished tucking Red in for his eternal rest, word came he was needed in town.
The Kid was on his way to becoming a legend. Word of Red being dispatched spread like a prairie fire. He was finally getting the recognition he felt he deserved; the people of the town were cow towing to his every whim.
Well, the Kid had it all going for him, alright, but he had a lot to learn about the nature of things. Now, there is no accounting for taste, and it has been reckoned that one cannot choose where one’s heart goes. Such is the case of a saloon girl who had set her cap on Red.
To hear her tale, she had Red coming around and ready to change his ways that is until the Kid ended all that. She told one or two of the other girls about her plan of vengeance, and though they tried to talk her out of it, they understood.
“One thing is for sure,” Fletch mused, looking down at the coffin, “some lessons are harder learned than others.”
The Kid let that saloon girl snuggle up to him nice and cozy enough alright, and the next morning they found him. Two bullets in his heart, Red’s hideaway pistol on his chest, the girl took his money and was never heard from again.
The old man began to fill in the hole. As the dirt thudded on the top of the pine box, Fletcher hummed “Nearer My God to Thee”, as was his custom.
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