Trick-Shot Posey

“Good day, Deputy Posey,” a lady nodded and smiled as she passed, her daughter in tow. I nodded my head with a good afternoon. Her daughter gave a more suggestive smile with eyes carrying a little too much curiosity. Oh Lord, not another one. Every available young woman in town had suddenly found me very eligible. Some of the not-so-available ones too. I’d had more Good Mornings, Good Afternoons and Good Evenings in the past week than all last year.

Just seven days ago I’d been blissfully invisible. A man in a leather apron, smelling of sweat, hot metal and horses. I was a farrier after all, and that goes with the territory. Well, a farrier and a deputy. The sheriff thought it best to keep me deputized until things returned to normal. But nothing was normal or anything close to it. My part in the fall of the outlaw Sam Butcher – also known as the Butcher – was not even worth mentioning. Yet people now saw me as their resident lawman and pistoleer, gunman, shootist, whatever you want to call it. That didn’t sit right with me. Why? Because it was completely ridiculous and I had to put a stop to it.

The Sanders boys, who’d been following me like a couple pups for days, finally worked up their courage. I found them walking at my side, one seven, the other no more than ten. “Is that the six-shooter you used?” one asked.

“To gun down the Butcher?” the older one added with awe in his voice. God, I hate this. Would it ever stop? I wondered. “They say you left the posse to find him on your own. Tracked him before running him down into the canyon.”

“No. That ain’t how it goes,” the older one interjected. “He rode to that canyon and waited on the Butcher. Then he faced him down before beating him on the draw.” He reached out to the firearm tucked in my belt. “See? Tucked right in his belt. Fast as lightning.”

“Boys, go find your mama,” I said, making them jump. “I ain’t got time for this nonsense.” They stared at me amazed that I’d spoken to them. “Now git!” With a slap of my leg, they took off. Ignoring the talk in town hadn’t been easy. The tall tale of the man who took down the Butcher was taking on a life of its own, and I was trapped at the center of it. The story was already far beyond the truth.

Taking down the outlaw Samuel Butcher single-handedly - that’s where it all started. Why not add stopping a stagecoach heist or rounding up every last rustler in a hundred miles? Who knew how far it would go or what nonsense the next telling would add.

“Deputy Posey?” a soft voice called from behind me. “Deputy!” I turned to find a young woman waving as she hurried along, a basket swinging on her arm. Ms. Mable Jones, just great. Mable had latched onto my newfound notoriety more aggressively than most and turned up with an incredibly annoying frequency. Wednesday, she accidentally interrupted me at the bath house. Using a hat to cover one’s gentlemanly particulars while not wearing a stitch of clothing does little to foster endearment.

“Good morning, Deputy,” she said breathlessly. “I had some extra muffins this morning and thought of you,” she beamed, handing me the basket. I was about to refuse them, but then the wonderful smell got to me. Warm muffins. Damn you, Mable. I couldn’t resist anything freshly baked. She had undoubtedly been doing research. And these weren’t extra. They probably came right out of the oven just before she tracked me down. “Just another way to apologize. You know,” she glanced down to where my hat had hidden… my dignity. “The bath house,” she said quietly. I thanked her before assuring her no more apologies were necessary. Mentioning a meeting with the sheriff, I made a hasty retreat.

I hated being the talk of the town. But that’s how it goes in small communities. So little happens that when something does happen, it’s all anyone talks about. Before the Butcher began holding up travelers and making a run or two at the stagecoach, the focus of conversation was John Alston’s pigs getting loose and stampeding through the saloon. I still suspect those Sanders boys pulled off that little caper.

I turned the corner and entered the jail. Jasper was still a small town, even by frontier standards. Though things had been growing fast, half the town spent last winter in tents. The jail, justice of the peace, and sheriff’s office all shared the same whitewashed clapboard building beside the general store. That’s right. You could get married next to the town’s only forged iron cell with an unruly drunk or perhaps a petty criminal as witness. Our courthouse was still little more than a stack of lumber. That’s Jasper for you.

“Arthur! How’s our local hero?” the man behind a large desk welcomed me. The sheriff had been in Jasper since the first wagons rolled in. “What do we have today? Are those muffins?” I just scowled. “Oh, come on, Posey. Why not enjoy a little fame?” he picked a muffin off the top. “Mable again?” he said after an exaggerated sniff. “Say what you want about that girl, but she’s a hell of a baker.” I just shook my head. He took a bite, and around the muffin said, “The town needs someone to look up to. What’s the harm?”

The posse to take Sam Butcher into custody was ill-conceived from the outset. When the sheriff asked me, I agreed to go. It was a slow day in the shop, and I’ll admit that being handed a tin star was a bit exciting. Without a real horseman or a tracker among them, there had been little chance that bunch would find anything, much less bring in Butcher. But those lucky bastards had found him. He was right there, in broad daylight, watering his horse at the stream crossing just north of town. We were all surprised, Sam Butcher included.

“I didn’t do anything, damn it,” I sighed, getting my own muffin. “I wish I’d never agreed to that damn posse.” The story, the real one, I’d told the sheriff over and over. How that old nag they’d put me on had spooked when the Carlson boys fired off a couple shots while in pursuit. Bolting away from the posse, I finally regained control at the mouth of the canyon. That’s when I heard rapidly approaching hoof beats. Butcher had turned away from the road, circling back to disappear in the more treacherous canyon terrain. More shots rang out, echoing off the canyon walls and making my horse rear, throwing me.

By the time I was on my feet, Butcher was riding in with fury and a cloud of dust. At the sight of me, he reined in his horse. I pulled my gun as he fell from his saddle. He rose, pale with a bloody torso. Firing, he sent a bullet whizzing past my ear. I shot back, missing by a mile, but the Butcher staggered and fell anyway. The posse rode in to find me standing over the now expired outlaw, gun in hand. The killing shot had obviously been made while fleeing the posse. Maybe one of the Carlson boys had gotten lucky after all. They weren’t the best shots, but they more than made up for that with eager repetition. Everyone had heard the two shots from the canyon, though, and only I was left standing.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I work with horses, not guns,” I said more to myself than him. Hell, I didn’t even have a holster for my pistol. It was a miracle that old army sidearm I’d tucked in my belt hadn’t gone off by accident while I was riding. All that didn’t matter, though. Sheriff Walton was perfectly happy with a quick-draw deputy. Especially one who’d taken out such a notorious outlaw.

“Aw. A story like that keeps the riffraff away. Don’t you like free drinks at the saloon? When have you ever eaten so good? And it seems to me, the ladies like the protection of a lawman like yourself,” the sheriff said with a wink, as he reached for another muffin. I tossed my badge on the desk. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed on that silver star. “Hey now, what’s this?”

I looked hard at him, wanting him to understand, “I rode in that posse of yours. It’s done. I stayed on as your deputy, but I’m done too.” Walking out despite his protests felt good. I was no good with a gun. Or even being a lawman. The longer people believed that I was either, would only make me a bigger the fool when the truth came out.

Worse still, men with reputations had a way of attracting other men wanting a reputation. Arthur Posey was not going to be a target for someone with a gun looking to make a name for himself. For men down on their luck, fame spent just as well as coin. Steak dinners and whiskey came a whole lot easier with the notoriety a gun could bring. Heck, my money had been no good in the saloon since the Butcher posse. My insistence on paying somehow only made me more heroic. If this kept spreading, it was going to come to something bad. Someone riding into town looking to beat the man that had taken down the Butcher. And that’s exactly what happened.

* * *

After retiring from my duties as deputy, life almost seemed normal. Shoeing a few horses, doing a little smithing when needed. I loved the rhythm of that work. Helping people and caring for their animals. I still got a few looks or random comments from people here and there. But, for the most part, I went back to living the little-noticed life I’d grown accustomed to in Jasper.

One day, a man came in to get his horse seen after. It needed a new shoe, he said. All the shoes were in good order, without even a stone threatening to make the mare go lame. Then, the way he was eyeing me caught my attention. An appraising stare which was not-too-kindly. Anyone with that look and a gun on his hip? That’s not something to be ignored.

“I’m not the one,” I said evenly, realizing why he was really in my shop. “The Butcher. I didn’t shoot him.”

“Not what they say.” The man said back. Now, you might think he was some menacing rider from parts unknown. He wasn’t. Threadbare trousers and shirt under a dirty coat, a beaten hat with a turned-up brim covering dark oily hair. He needed a wash, too. You could smell him over the two stalls I’d yet to muck out. That’s saying something. He eyed me coolly, “Ways I hear it, you rode the Butcher down before taking him with one shot.”

We saw all types passing through. Folks heading to unsettled lands to stake a claim, start a homestead or begin again in one way or another. Strong, prepared frontiersmen full of grit. Prospectors and settlers with more optimism than good sense. Charlatans hawking bad maps or questionable supplies. Harder men who may hold you up at gunpoint. Cutthroats keen to share their whiskey before knifing you in your sleep for what might be found in your pockets. And a pitiful few who had lost their sanity by the sheer harshness of the wilderness itself.

That’s who was standing in my shop. A man showing all the warnings of an unsettled mind. If you told me he was a cutthroat, I may have believed you. His possessions were a patchwork that could only be from past victims. The state of his clothing, the ill fit of his gun belt, and the health of his horse - none of it made sense. The look in his eyes told me everything, though. He was dangerous.

“People say a lot of fool things,” I said, sticking another iron rod into the forge. I’d packed my pistol away, and I was glad it was out of sight. At least I wouldn’t be gunned down only to be armed after the fact. “Sam Butcher was shot in his saddle by the posse. I should know, I saw him fall dead from his horse.” The billows made the forge flare orange as I pumped. “There’s a stable down near Bixby’s Hardware, for your horse,” I said, trying to treat this like an everyday occurrence. I just wanted him to move along. Nothing to see here. Just a man shoeing horses. Instead, he flipped me a coin.

“I’ll leave her here if it’s all the same to you. Name’s Bill Grant. I won’t be in town long.” I watched him walk down the street and disappear into the saloon.

* * *

“Sheriff, I told you something like this was going to happen,” I said, pounding my fist on his desk. Old Walton just shook his head with what he thought was a calming smile. He liked to do that to assure people everything would be alright. Thinking it made him seem like he knew what to do, that he was on top of things. It wasn’t working. Not on me.

“I’m sure it’s just someone passing through. Wanting to get a look at the man who, you know…,” he paused but kept smiling. Don’t you say 'took down the Butcher.' Don’t you do it. “…took down the Butcher,” he finished. Goddammit.

“I DIDN’T DO THAT!” I was yelling now, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’VE TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER!”

“Now listen to me, Arthur,” he said with well-practiced authority, leaning forward. “If someone does something besides look at you funny, I’m happy to step in. Until then, I’d advise steering clear of anyone you deem undesirable. I’ll send someone to collect his horse.” He settled back, “That way, this Grant fella won’t be back to bother you.” I just laughed at that, moving to the door. “And Posey,” he called to me. "Maybe arm yourself, just in case.”

“Arm myself. Just in case.” I fumed as I walked back to my shop. “Why not just give him an invitation to shoot me?” Sticking a pistol in my belt is all it would take. I’d seen men shoot someone and claim self-defense just because they had a gun on them. Few contradicted the gun-wielding winner of a shootout. Just stay in the shop until he moves on. That would be enough, surely. It wasn’t.

* * *

I went about my work with the focus of one trying to forget their troubles. Hopefully Grant was on his way out of town. I stoked the forge for some shoes and nails I’d been meaning to make. A clatter from behind made me jump. Whispered bickering under a worktable revealed the Sanders boys. I asked what they were doing, and after an uncertain silence, the older of the two spoke up.

“We just wanted to see you in action,” he mumbled.

“Yeah!” the younger eagerly agreed, quickly pulling a finger pistol from his hip. His more remorseful brother elbowed him. “Ow! Why’d you do that? It was your idea!” Before his brother could reply, they stilled, eyes wide. Bill Grant was in my shop, pistol in hand.

“You know, we could have settled everything this morning,” he said with wild eyes.

“What everything?” I answered, trying to remember where I’d left my gun. “I’ve got no problem with you.” Grant just smiled, throwing a gun at my feet. If I picked it up, I’d be dead before my finger found the trigger. That’s when I noticed my pistol. It was right there in my toolbox. I’d have to be quick and, more importantly, accurate. I needed more luck than I’d ever had to get out of this alive.

A jangle of tools startled Grant, shifting his eyes off mine. The older Sanders brother lost his nerve and was making a run for it. Grabbing my pistol, I brought it up, surprising Grant. I pulled the trigger with a deafening boom.

The thing about my shop is that it’s usually a cluttered mess. So much so, I had to put any completed repair work on a small shelf by the two huge doors that faced the street. There it awaited the owner’s return. Mrs. Tanner had left her favorite cast iron skillet for me to mend. The shelf was so full, I’d hung it up by its loop, just to the right of where Bill Grant stood.

Of course, my shot went high and wide. It would have missed him completely, except for dear Mrs. Tanner’s skillet. With a glint of sparks and a bell-like gong, the ricochet took Grant’s hat from his head. The shocked would-be gunman dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards, muttering barely coherent apologies, before tripping and falling into the muddy street.

He lay there, staring down the barrel of my pistol until Sheriff Walton ran up, winded and red-faced. Grant wasn’t in any real danger since I’d probably miss anyhow, but he didn’t know that.

I was so relieved. Finally, it was all over. I couldn’t hit a man not more than six paces away. Surely, the stories would fade away now. Maybe people would talk about the mad man who came into town. Hopefully, Wild-eyed Grant would take my place as the story told by firesides or in the saloon over whiskey.

But that wasn’t meant to be. The youngest Sanders boy, wearing an old beaten hat with a turned-up brim and a bullet hole on the left side, made sure of that. He told everyone he could about how Trick-Shot Posey beat another gunman right here in town.