Episode 38
Say a Prayer, Cowboy
The cowboy stepped over the deputy’s body to make his way through the flap into the cool night of the street. Those that could still stand and still walk, followed behind to see how all this was going to play out.
Cal caught up with the marshal in the center of the street. Joe Wiley turned at the gunshots from within the Paradise in time to see Cal stepping toward him, grinning, the big revolver wavering in his direction.
“I had your deputy and now I’m gonna have you, lawman,” Cal said, childish mirth in his voice. “Then I’m gonna have that pretty bitch behind you. Gonna ride her over a barrel till the sun rises.”
Joe felt Adeline stiffen with a hiss behind him. He reached a hand back to hold her in place.
“You got me flat, Cal,” Joe said and relaxed his hand to drop the empty Colt to the dirt. The butt was matted with the hair and blood of the men he’d buffaloed.
“I do indeed,” Cal said and worked the hammer back, barrel trained on the badge on Joe’s vest.
“Do me one favor and let the ladies step clear. You have a story to tell your grandchildren. Don’t spoil it by killing any innocent women,” Joe said, low and smooth. He was gratified to feel Adeline step away from the touch of his fingers, retreating with the other sisters.
“Fair enough,” Cal said. The pistol wavered as he waited until the street behind the marshal was clear.
“Mind if I say a prayer, cowboy?” Joe said, fingers touching the silver crucifix dangling from the loop of chain at his waist.
“If you think it would help,” Cal said, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Oh, I do.” Joe yanked the chain and a small derringer at the end popped from the watch pocket on this vest. It was in his hand with blinding speed and held straight armed at Big Cal’s face. The derringer exploded with a boom surprising for the size of the tiny pistol. Joe’s arm flew upwards with the wicked kick of the stubby piece.
The single .30 carbine slug drove through Cal’s right eye to explode out of the back of his skull in a shower of blood, bone and greasy brain stuff. The little cowboy stumbled back a pace on his heels. His revolver swung loose at the end of his arm and discharged into the dirt just before he crashed like a pine plank to the street.
“Anyone else?” Joe said through clamped teeth and spun the smoking midget gun at the withdrawing crowd of drovers. The derringer was empty—only they didn’t know that for certain.
He looked past the dispersing pack of cowboys to see T.J. Bratt standing spread-legged on the boardwalk of the Paradise, his coach gun cradled in one arm and Bear looming behind him. The ends of Bratt’s mustache danced as the grin on his face broke open to show yellowed teeth.
“See what you wrought, marshal? You brung all this down on your own head. No one to blame but yourself.”
Joe stooped to retrieve his Colt and recalled that his .32 still lay in Coolie’s hand inside the Paradise.
He promised himself he’d be back to retrieve it once he saw Adeline and the sisters back safe to their revival tent.
