Welcome To The Bullpen
Texas Coup
By Dan Devine
I've heard it said that running away from your problems never solved anything, but I've made my living by knowing how to get out of Dodge before the shooting starts.
The shooting was going to start soon, mark my words.
At the banquet last night, honoring those visiting foreigners from New England, Mayor Thompson had gone down from a stroke. He spent a good few minutes twitching on the floor, soiling his finest suit, right where everyone could see.
He'd tried to play it off since. The Posse was putting out the word that it was some sort of allergic reaction, but we all knew that we weren't fooling nobody. The mayor had ignored Doc Brown's orders to keep to his bed, knowing that staying out of sight would damn him as much as showing up in a wheelchair. He'd spent the whole day prancing about town, making as loud a ruckus as he could to show off all of his manly vigor.
Only anybody paying attention couldn't have failed to notice the sweat on his lip, or the way he started to tremble when he stood still for a moment's respite. And there were a lot of interested parties keeping a very close eye on things.
Me and Wendell had figured it was even odds that he'd drop again before the sun went down, but the tough old coot made it through. He wouldn't feel the need to put on as much of a show tomorrow, so he might even have a chance to catch some rest and recuperate. Too bad that I figured that someone would make their move by tomorrow.
Normally in a situation like this, you'd worry about the boys, but Thompson only had one son and Brett was a lanky, timid little man whose hands were so shaky that he wasn't no threat to whatever he was aiming at. I didn't figure Brett as ambitious or deluded enough to try and take over, and since no one respected him enough to consider him a contender, he'd probably fumble his way through this thing alive if he didn't do anything stupid.
That left the usual gunslingers and the higher-ranking members of the Posse. Gunslingers, we had a few. Bart Blackstar and Chester Gitts were the two strongest forces in town outside of the Law, and there was no doubt they'd make their runs for mayor. I expected one young hotshot or another who didn't know any better would give it a go, too. I could see Denny Clairboix or Whiskey Tim throwing their hat in the ring.
The Posse were harder to figure. Thompson had never officially endorsed someone as a successor in place of Brett, that would have been like painting a bullseye on his back and handing one of us his pistol. Royce Bowland had served the mayor the longest, and pride alone would force him to make a claim. Problem was, he had too much love for the old man to be the first to act, and I was betting that someone else would catch him flat-footed before he ever had the chance. Wendell wasn't smart enough to win, but he was certainly dumb enough to try. The others could go either way. I might shoot Spikey at some point just for the hell of it, I never did trust his slimy ass.
I spent that night packing my bags.
* * *
The trick to provisioning was not to buy too much. You look a tad conspicuous heading out for your morning rounds if you're carrying a rack of lamb on your shoulder. You've got to remember that the next watering hole's never all that far away. I made sure that my saddlebags weren't much heavier than usual. Not that my chestnut mare, Tally, didn't nicker in complaint anyways. He was as stubborn as he was strong.
Wendell approached me while I was tying on the last of my bags.
“Where've you been all morning?” he asked. He was trying not to sound suspicious and doing a bad job of it.
“Had to run some errands,” I grunted and waved my left hand vaguely towards Tally as a bit of misdirection. I stared him square in the eye. “Why?”
His scowl softened and his expression became a little uncertain.
“Have you really not heard? Someone's done for Royce.”
So it had started already.
I drew with my right and put a bullet into Wendell's big fat head. That's what he got for asking questions first. It was too bad, I sort of liked Wendell, but I couldn't risk that he'd decide he needed to take me out.
No one came running at the sound of the shot, not the rarest song sung at the best of times in these parts, and anybody worth their snuff already knew that they'd be hearing a lot of it today.
Tally wasn't ten steps from the stables when a piece of lead took my hat off. My left hand had fired back before I'd had time to turn and look what it was doing. Seventeen year old Denny Clairboix dropped into the dust, one hand clutching at his chest. I was lucky. He'd planned a good ambush and an older, steadier hand wouldn't have botched his first shot.
If Royce was already dead that meant Thompson wouldn't be long in following. I turned Tally's head away from Town Hall and set his feet firmly on the shortest path to the country. There wasn't much point left in trying to look casual, so I rode like a bat out of hell.
* * *
There was some sort of commotion up at the city limits, so I had to pull up short. Fortune favored me, they was all so busy shooting at each other that they didn't hear me coming.
Here lie the last of the loyal Posse. Jordan and Spikey had met their ends staying true to the Oath. Whoda thunk it? Mayor Thompson's body was propped up against a wagon's wheel nearby, staring glassily up into the sky. There wasn't a mark on him, his heart must have finally given out from all the excitement.
Bart Blackstar and Chester Gitts had turned the road ahead of me into a crossfire. Bart was firing from between the slats in the window of a boarded up old saloon. Chester was hunkered down beneath a big stone well with just his six-shooter showing.
Most likely the two had worked together to take down the mayor and his men, then turned on each other the moment that the deed was done. I shook my head. If they'd just stuck together they'd have been running the show by now.
I shot Chester in the hand and he cursed and dropped his gun down the well. As his other hand came up, I dismounted, and his bullets whizzed over my head. He peeked his head above the lip of the well to see who he was shooting at, and Blackstar blew his brains out from across the road.
“Morning Bart,” I called out, running up to the side wall of the saloon and placing it at my back. All the windows in the building faced out onto the street above the front door, so he wouldn't have a shot at me unless he came outside and leaned around the corner.
“That you, Cale?” he asked.
“The same.”
“You never struck me as the mayoral type.”
I shrugged.
“Never said I was. It just happens that I'm still standing.”
“Well then,” said Bart cheerily. “How about you and I work together. I'm gonna be needing some good men and it appears that Royce's old job is open.”
“Count me in,” I said.
While I was speaking a bullet came through the wall behind me, but it's travels through the cement had deflected it up towards the sky. It had been a few feet to my left anyways.
“That didn't work,” I observed.
“I figured, what the hell?” replied Bart.
I was glad he hadn't said it was 'worth a shot.' We were silent for a moment. Tally, standing over by the well, began to scratch at the ground impatiently.
Another horse was coming down the road. I tensed, ready to bolt for better cover, then relaxed as I saw that the rider was the mayor's son, Brett. He rode forward, noticed me, and opened his mouth to speak; but I put a finger to my lips hoping that my standing in the Posse and the boy's natural docility would cause him to obey. It did.
I pointed towards his father's corpse and his eyes got real wide, he hadn't spotted him until then. I motioned around the corner towards the door to the saloon.
“What're you up to out there, Cale?” said Bart, as if on cue.
Brett nodded, I didn't reply. I was focusing my attention on devising a plan whereby I could use the unexpected arrival of Thompson's son to my advantage.
Unexpectedly, the boy screamed “You murderer!”, let loose with a wordless howl of animal rage, and threw himself towards the saloon's doorway, guns ablazing.
That'd do.
I swear the kid came closer to hitting me than taking out Blackstar, even with me standing behind him like I was, but at least he created a bit of a diversion.
Bart was smiling as he unloaded a few rounds into the boy's chest, but his lips straightened into a thin line as I stepped in behind and he realized his mistake.
Blackstar was quicker than I'd expected, and I think his last panicked shot would have done me in even as I put my bullet between his eyes, but he was out of ammo from his earlier exchange with Chester so I'll never know for certain. Not that I'd want to.
I kicked Brett over onto his back. The kid had breathed his last. At least he'd died helping avenge his father, exactly the sort of stupid thing I'd said would get him killed.
Bart had been wearing a nice fine hat that he wouldn't be needing anymore, so I took it to replace my own. Then I spent a moment cleaning and reloading my guns. I'd never have myself a better chance to move into that swanky mayorial mansion. There wasn't hardly anybody left alive who could stop me if I tried.
I gave Tally a drink from the well and waved the town goodbye. Never did have much interest in public office. You have to deal with way too much scrutiny. I preferred me a cushier position in the Posse. They'd always served me well until the mayor's death did us part.
Besides, there was always another mayor who needed help from a man with a steady hand, and he never lived farther than a little ways down the road.
|
|
REVIEW 1
First major problem I had with this story. A mare is a female horse, but the main character talks about his "chestnut mare Tally" then goes on to refer to the horse as "he" and "him" throughout the text. Knowing a mare is a female, a stallion or stud is a male, and a gelding is a castrated male horse is just basic information, plain and simple. So this error is pretty much unforgivable, and would cause instant rejection if this story were being submitted to a publisher for consideration.
I also had trouble keeping track of who was whom. The story either needed fewer characters or a better explanation of who was whom. I wasn't sure who was on what side and why.
I think the author, Dan Devine, does have potential. Just needs to be more careful with facts and research and tighten up his writing. The story does have lots of action, which I always like to see in a Western.
REVIEW 2
I found it a little difficult to read due to too many characters moving in and out too quickly for such a short story. To me, if you had spent more time on less characters it would have been better.
I thought it was a decent story.
REVIEW 3
Having read the best, both fiction and non-fiction Western writers, I'm pleased to find an authentic voice in the Bullpen. Maybe calling a mare "he" is considered a grievous fault by some, but that's fixable. Writing without having found one's voice is a more serious problem. Perhaps there wouldn't seem to be too many characters if the paragraphing/spacing were more open. That's probably not a fault in the writer, but in the formatting.
REVIEW 4
I really liked this story, But there was a few paragraphs were I became a bit lost, but the ending was good. Well done , DAN DEVINE.
Review 5
Not bad, but, as the first reviewer has stated, the author cannot keep the gender of his horse straight. He first references Tally as a chestnut mare, and in the next breath addresses Tally as he, and through out the rest of the story as 'he'. Mare is female.
It is attention to the fine details that I look for. I love to find the 'errors'. How many authors have made the mistake with weapons, they will refer to the character beeing armed with a .44 revolver, make not stated, and then, in the next sentence or two, will have him carrying a .45 Colt.
Or, will describe the horse that is being ridden as a line back dun, only to later refer to it as chestnut. Big difference.
The story does hold ones attention, but, was the real West as bloody as described in this tale?
|
|
