Gunfighter's Tale

In the words of Jelly Hoskins, all around handyman and horse wrangler at the Lancer ranch, I made a Jackass of myself yesterday. I have to agree with him. Never in my life, have I done anything so dumb. Nobody’s ever gunna let me live it down. Never!

I suppose I got yuh curious and now you wanna know what I did. Well, it was like this:

Scott and I took the day off to go fishin’. It was Sunday, and we figured we’d have a little fun and relaxation. Murdoch had taken Teresa with him the day before to spend the weekend with an old friend in Green River, so nobody’d know we hadn’t spent the day workin’. Not even Jelly knew what we had planned.

Well, we set out real early and reached our fav’rite fishin’ hole up Clover Creek a little after sunup. Have you ever seen sunlight dancin’ on water? Every little ripple glistens like diamonds. It’s pure magic when the trout are as rambunctious as they were yesterday mornin’.

Anyway, forgive me for gettin’ sidetracked. Scott says I have a pro . . . propens . . . propensity for takin’ my listeners down every side trail I come to. So . . . back to my story.

We turned over a few rocks and hunted us up some big ol’ fat night crawlers. Boy, did the fish ever go for them. In no time we had a whole carpet bag full, so we headed back to the ranch. Just don’t let on to Teresa about us usin’ that bag. She’d have a fit if she knew. You wouldn’t wanna be responsible for my ears gettin’ blasted, would you? Didn’t think so, so back to what I was sayin’.

I was starvin’ by the time we got home and so was Scott. Neither one of us had breakfast that morning, so we went right into the kitchen and dug out the biggest skillet we could find. In no time, fish was sizzlin’ in that pan. Hm-mmm. Yuh ain’t never smelt nothin’ so good.

Like I said, I was real hungry. I couldn’t wait to fill my plate, so I grabbed the handle of the pan and headed for the table. Have yuh ever tried to hang onto somethin’ that was burnin’ the hide off yuh? Well, it ain’t too smart. I didn’t drop that pan, but I sure paid the price. My hand is covered with blisters.

Scott slathered some of Jelly’s salve on the burns. I sure was glad Teresa wasn’t home. She seems to think Castor Oil is a cure-all for everything. I’m not sure whose remedies are worse: hers or Jelly’s.

Anyhow, once my hand was wrapped up, Scott fried up some eggs to go with the fish. Then we sat down to eat—talkin’, jokin’, and havin’ a good time. It sure helped take my mind off the pain gnawin’ at my fingers and the palm of my left hand.

Say, did I ever tell you that Scott went to Harvard? He’s real smart when it comes to words. Did you know what tabletops, fence rails, and lines all have in common? Fetor. That’s right, f . . . e . . . t . . . o . . . r. Fetor. Sounds like somethin’ that smells awful, don’t it? I guess it can mean that, too; but it also means flat, straight, level, or parallel.

Enough of that, though. You’re prob’ly anxious to hear the rest of my story.

Well, we had just cleaned up the last of the fish, and I was about to put my plate in the sink, when I heard something rattle. I looked around but couldn’t see anything at first. Then there it was: the wigglin’ tail of a rattlesnake behind the bowl of apples just inches from where my left hand was restin on the countertop.

In a flash, I dropped the dishes, grabbed the revolver from my holster, and snapped off several shots as the snake’s monstrous head appeared. Bits of apple flew in all directions as bullets ricocheted off the stone wall in front of me. Finally my gun was empty and I surveyed the damage. The snake was nowhere in sight so I looked behind me. I tell yuh, my heart jumped into my throat an’ nearly choked me when I saw Scott lyin’ on the floor next to the stove’s island.

“Scott! Scott!” I yelled, rushin’ to his side. He looked up at me and glared? “What’re mad at me for?” I asked him.

Scott didn’t answer me at first. He just got up and dusted himself off then bent over and picked up this ugly looking giant of a fly off the floor. He dangled it by the tail for a moment. Then he says, real threatin’ like, “Brother, I’ve been through some crazy battles in my life, but this is the most ridiculous war I’ve ever had the misfortune to be a party to. The next time you get a wild notion to take on a Dragonfly in a gunfight . . . don’t! I’ll abrogate abrogate the fracas by laying you out horizontal horizontal on the floor so fast you won’t know what hit you.” With that, he dropped the dead fly on the table, told me to take care of it, and then walked out—leavin’ me to wash the dishes!

I hollered at him that he’d been readin’ too many of those fairytales. ‘Dragonflies!’ I thought. ‘Next he’ll be tellin’ me those huge flies breathe fire.’

All would’ve been fine, if Jelly hadn’t walked in about then with this yoke slung over one shoulder. You know Jelly. He has to know everything. Can you believe he had the nerve to laugh when I told him what happened? By dark, everyone on the ranch will know about me mistakin’ a harmless fly for a deadly snake. I ain’t never gunna live it down. Never.