The Second
Fastest Gun in the West
by Roger
Pattison
It was strange
inscription for a tombstone; but it had a kind of
prophetic ring to it. Puzzled, Hank pushed a well-worn
Stetson back from his brow with the barrel of his
Colt .45 and inadvertently blew his brains out.
It was precursor of things to come; but not for
Hank.
Mort Darthur drove the complaining hearse through
town up towards Boot Hill. There was a good crowd
up there today, it being the Tuesday shoe sale.
“Is that
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort?” called a
voice from the upper window of the saloon. A
fitful breeze banged a bored shutter.
“Yep; it
wuz when I put him in there. Unless he’s
gotten out a way back.” Mort spat a chunk of
cheroot to the dust. “Seems a mite unlikely.”
“Y’
can’t bury Hank up thar on Boot Hill, Mort.”
The shutter fell off into the street, the breeze
bemoaning its’ passing through a lone
telegraph wire.
“Well,
Seth; I ain’t a-heard him complainin’
none.” Mort chomped the cheroot between
anthracite dentures, and the hearse groaned off;
“but then he wouldn’t if he’d
gotten out a way back.”
Seth pushed
the Stetson back from his brow with his sawn-off,
shook his confused head and blew it off. Mort
joined in with the head shaking.
“Seems
like a’ reg’lar epidemic o’ head
blowin’ off,” mused Mort Darthur to
himself.
“Is that
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort?” Mort jumped
down and walked across the street. But Seth,
having fallen from the second floor window of the
saloon without a head seemed curiously silent on
the subject.
“Ah’m
over here, Mort.” It came from the hotel
across the road. “Y’ can’t bury
Hank up on Boot Hill, Mort.”
“What
makes ye say that, Tex? He’s dead ain’t
he?” The scrape of match on boot echoed in
the tense silence of the whistling telegraph wire,
battering shutter, the hum of customers for the
shoe sale, and sound of a Winchester repeater
blowing Tex’s head off. “Ye should be
more careful with that in future, Tex.”
Along the
street stood a lone figure, adjusting his holster
under a copious belly.
“Is that
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort?” he shouted
in the silence of the whining telegraph wire, the
battering shutter, the crowd on Boot Hill, and
Mort’s approximate harmonica rendition of
‘Red River Valley’. Jesse lifted the
Colt in its holster and stomped a cigar butt
under his boot. Mort charitably slid his
harmonica into a shirt pocket. He quietly hefted
a ‘Peacemaker’ the size of a Howitzer
and blew Jesse’s head off.
“Just
savin’ ye a bullet, Jesse; thar’s a
terrible run on head blowin’ off’s,
lately.” Mort proceeded unhurriedly towards
Boot Hill.
“Is that
Hank in that thar coffin, Mort?” said Wally,
the cemetery janitor. Mort nodded and looked
along the line of headstones marching off into
the distance.
‘The
Second Fastest Gun in the West; The Third Fastest
Gun in the West; The Fourth Fastest......’
Mort was wondering just how much cemetery was
left for Hank, when his reverie was interrupted
by Wally.
“Ye
can’t bury Hank up here on Boot Hill, Mort.”
“That
seems to be the gen'ral opinion, Wally; why not?”
“Cause we
lost the shovel.”
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