Free The Book of Duels by Michael Garriga Page B

Springfield, Missouri,
    July 21, 1865



James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok, 28,
    Abolitionist, Union Scout, & Gambler
     
    W as a time I rode with Colonel Lane and we took shot from border ruffians; or ’at knife fight with Conquering Bear, who I gave the old sockdolager to, till his blood soaked my buckskin britches; or how I bluffed Kit Carson with a two and a seven, my last ducat laid out on the table afore me; or the shootout I had with ’at cockchafer McCanles at Rock Creek when he bullied me as I mended the stamina I allers had; or when I ran the skirmish line at Wilme Creek and a dozen Johnny Rebs shot my way at’wonce, somehow, God only knows, missing me each and ever time—now here’s square-fisted Tutt, the sodbuster in a linen duster, dead set on giving me Jesse—he stands afront of me, thumbing my eye by wearing the Waltham watch my weeping ma give me when I left home ten year ago—I broke her heart on account I thought I’d killed that cunny-fisted Colston boy—I swear, ain’t a single damn thing scared me since that black bear in Raton Pass swiped me off my horse and took my six shots in her belly like runaway orphans and tore my shoulder clean out its socket and I even took my Missouri toothpick and stobbed her neck and I stobbed her thigh but she clean tore my head wide open, took my scalp half off like a swinging saloon door, and my fears musta fell out in the rock-strewn dirt, I swear, ’cause right then and right there I was reborn, fearless, and I buried that blade in her heart and killed her graveyard dead, I did.
    My trigger finger taps the pistol butt as calm as turning a trump—there are so many ways to die, I reckon a man oughtaconsider hisself lucky, notorious at the least, to celebrate these victories over Death—specially, when it gets told and retold, if he’d shot twenty-four border ruffians with only six bullets, killed the strongest gotdang Indian chief with but his bare hands, or had the hair on his ears singed off when ever durn two-bit Reb shot his way at’wonce—they all wanted me affrighted but really what is there to fear? Nothing, ’cept being forgotten and I don’t reckon that’s gonna happen to me neither: so buck up, Tutt—you ain’t got to grieve too deep ’cause after I kill you here and now, you’ll be infamous too, and I’ll be hanged if you won’t have been the fastest gun in all the West, until you met me.

Davis Tutt Jr. 29,
    Confederate Veteran, Perpetual Sidekick, & Gambler
     
    I come out the livery stable to find him cool as Ozark dew and leanin caddywamp on a pillar of The Lyon House and I stand tall as can do and open my coat to show his watch hangin from my fob chain for all who care to see—his bright blue eyes turn that steel gray they get when his blood is up—he is a Yankee, Bill is, and I kilt a dozen or more of his kind in the war but all of em taken together ain’t his equal—he and I rode the ranges this spring and drank the taps dry and I brung him out to my kinfolk farm where he sweet-talked Sissy and sneaked off with her to canter rear of the barn and he went off and did her dirt—before then I’d have torn the eyeteeth out a wolf’s mouth just to get corned with him again—I swear I wisht I ain’t knowed what all he done, so I ain’t have to make this choice here—family or friend, honor or fear—’cause I’ve seen him shoot and he is true with a bullet and he got the good nerve cept when it comes to cards—that tick in his jaw means he ain’t got the trick nor the bluff he shows and so I aimed to beat him out his bankroll but snatched his watch instead, just to break his heart a bit, and now he wants this spectacle show so he hollers across the square and I, I tug my piece from the holster slung low across my hip and I am in the dad-blamed war again—brother versus brother—I see my shot bury in the dirt, spittin up a tornado gainst his moccasins, his thick thighs in leather leggins, his narrow waist, his broad