The Pearl Handled Pistol

The butcher was a burly man. He wore overalls, work boots and a blue work shirt. He didn’t know what to think when he saw three men approaching his land. They didn’t appear to be anyone he recognized— and he knew pretty much everyone in Redfield. Another troubling factor was the way these men were dressed. The butcher didn’t dwell on other people’s clothing, mainly because he didn’t dress like a dandy himself. But the way these men were dressed was somewhere between caring too little and not enough.

One man had boots that appeared worn, but his coat looked new. Another man wore a dirty brown derby with a hole in it— a bullet hole, perhaps— but his white shirt, with its collar undone was devoid of wrinkles and stains. Then there was the one man who looked like he had just stepped out of a clothing store. His hat was a black gambler with a brown band. His pants were black denim and tucked into a pair of leather boots the color of chestnut. He wore a black vest over a white shirt. They all wore red bandanas around their necks.

“Evening,” said the man in the gambler hat.

“Hello,” said the butcher.

The two locked eyes, but the man in the gambler’s hat wore a demented grin. It was the kind of grin that could only belong to the devil himself. But the man in the gambler’s hat somehow scared the butcher more so than Satan— a feat accomplished by no man.

“You know who we are, old-timer?” he asked, grinning that awful grin.

“Not really,” the butcher replied. “Am I supposed to?”

The one in the derby chuckled as if he found some unknown humor in the butcher’s question only he was privy to while the other man just shook his head, his face expressionless as he cut off a piece of jerky with a skinny knife.

“The butchers of Chester Valley,” said gambler hat. “That mean something to you?”

“I think I hear a gang go by that name.”

“You’re looking at them.”

“What do you want with me?”

“What you got to give?”

“Not much.”

“Mr. Henry and Mr. James are going to help themselves to whatever you got. And you ain’t lifting no finger in hinderance, you hear?”

“I hear,” said the butcher with reluctance. “You get not protest on my part.”

“Swell,” said gambler hat with that same sinister grin. “Mr. James, Mr. Henry, proceed.”

The butcher helplessly watched as the men named James and Henry looted his home.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” he asked gambler hat.

“I think it would be best to keep an eye on you, old-timer,” he said. “For all I know, you just may be packing a pistol in them overalls.”

“What’s your name?” the butcher asked.

“Schumacher,” he said.

“German.”

“Hated it.”

“That you’re German?”

“My name. Don’t know what possessed God to born me a Schumacher. ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t see myself making shoes for a living.”

“But you saw yourself being an outlaw?”

“Just one more thing I had no control of.”

“At a certain point, son you got to start taking accountability for your actions.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, old-timer,” said Schumacher, drawing his Colt and pulling the hammer back. “You ain’t my pops. And I ain’t your son, you hear?”

“I hear,” the butcher nodded. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“What’s your name?” said Schumacher, holstering his weapon.

“Butcher.”

“A butcher named Butcher?”

“Like my father and his before him.”

Then he said with a grin, “Well, ain’t you grow up to do like your daddy done.”

Mr. Henry and Mr. James came out with various belongings, but for the most part clothes.

“We’re going to be taking your wagon,” said Schumacher. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not that my minding makes much difference.”

“It don’t.”

“I figured.”

The butcher watched the men carry out his belongings. Apart from not having a choice on having these men raid his home, the butcher felt personal belongings can always be replaced, but at least he had his life. But then he saw the man called Mr. Henry carrying a familiar case under his arm.

“Schumacher,” said Butcher. “Take whatever you need. But you see that black box under Mr. Henry’s arm? My only request is that you don’t take that.”

“I ain’t taking no requests, old-timer.”

“Please,” Butcher pleaded. “Most everything else I can replace. But I can’t replace what’s in that box.”

“You saying it’s valuable, old-timer?”

“You have no idea.”

“All the more reason for us to take it off your hands.”

Butcher shoved Schumacher and ran after Mr. Henry. He felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. Butcher was on the ground when he realized he had been shot. As he tried to get back up, the impact of another shot brought him down again. Mr. Henry stood and watched as Butcher crawled towards him. He watched as Mr. James fired his third and final shot in the man’s head. Butcher stopped moving as blood pooled into the dirt. Mr. James pulled the lever on his sawed-off Winchester 1892, ejecting the spent shell.

“Open the box Mr. Henry,” said Schumacher. “Wonder what was worth dying over.”

“Okay,” Henry said, giggling as he undid the latch and opened the box.

It was a Single Action Army in a blue finish with pearl grips. A snake was carved into the grips.

“Fuck,” said Schumacher. “Bastard died for some goddamned pistol.”

“Maybe it had a sentimental value or something,” said Henry.

“Or something.”

“What about the rest?” said James. “We still taking the loot?”

“Course we still taking the loot. Pack it up before we end up leaving more corpses.”

5 Years Later

Henry hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the corner when he came in. It wasn’t like the saloon was lit up with excitement or something. It was dimly lit, never crowded, and without music— mostly because he shot the piano player over an argument he couldn’t remember. He stood at the bar and drank his whisky straight from the bottle and ranted about killing a man. He wasn’t worried the patrons— what few there were— would try to turn him in. It wasn’t that they feared him. But rather, they too had their faces posted on flyers throughout the territories.

“Then he says, don’t kill me son,” said Henry. “I won’t tell ‘em what you look like. Then I says, I wasn’t even thinkin’ that. I was just thinkin’ to have a reason to shoot something. So, then the dumb fuck thought he was fast. Thing is the bullet was faster.” Henry punctuated this with boisterous laughter.

Maybe it was because he was drunk. But Henry hadn’t noticed the man get up from the table in the corner or felt him as he leaned against the bar to his right. It was when the man spoke did Henry become aware of his presence.

“Beer,” said the man in a voice like a whisper.

Henry looked at the man as if he had materialized out of thin air. He was ready to write him off and get back to his story but as the man went for his pocket, Henry noticed the butt his gun which he wore on his left hip with the butt facing outwards— an indication this man was a right handed shooter. Henry wasn’t a knowledgeable man, but he knew enough about guns and gunmen. But it wasn’t the way the man wore his pistol that had gotten his attention. It was the carving of a snake into the pearl handle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the design, though he had only seen it on one other gun.

“What you packing, mister,” Henry asked.

“You talking to me?” The man asked.

“Yeah.”

“Single Action Army. Blue finish. Pearl handle.”

“You gots snakes on that handle?”

“I believe I do.”

“If ‘n you don’t mind my asking, may I ask where you gone and get that gun?”

“You may,” the man nodded once and proceeded to drink his beer.

Henry waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “And?”

“Bought it off a gunsmith in Milton some years back. Had to pay extra to get that carving.”

“You sure about that, mister?”

“Why care about my gun so much? You want it?”

“No, mister. I know a man who just so happens to have the same exact pistol.”

“Down to the pearl handle?”

“Down to the snakes on the handle.”

“Maybe your friend just so happen to get his gun from the same gunsmith from the same town as me.”

“I doubt that.”

“I told you where I got mine. Where your friend get his?”

Henry didn’t know what to say. Maybe the stranger had a point. Maybe the gun wasn’t the same gun. Maybe a carving of a snake on a pearl handle is just a carving of a snake on a pearl handle.

“Maybe I’m mistaken,” Henry said before draining the last of the whiskey.

“Maybe you is.”

His pants were blue denim and untucked into his boots, his shirt black, and his boots were brown and worn. He also had a tan coat, and a black stalker hat. Henry watched as the man left the saloon. He moved away from the bar to watch the man as he walked down the main street, past the store, the bank, and the only other saloon in town, to the hotel. Mr. Henry wasn’t much of a thinking man, but he thought he better tell Mr. Schumacher.

15 minutes later

“Maybe we ought to quit,” said James. “While we’re still ahead.”

“Getting too old for the life, Mr. James?” Schumacher asked.

“Maybe the life is getting too old for us.”

“Say you retire. What then? What else kinda life you know to live?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“And if you don’t what then?”

“There’s got to be more than this. All this robbing and killing. There ain’t always going to be people who’ll back down. Like that man a few years back.”

“As I recall, you didn’t hesitate to kill him.”

“Don’t mean I can’t feel bad about it.”

“I just always thought we were going to be outlaws to ‘till the end.”

“Thing about the end,” said James, chopping off a piece of jerking with his skinny knife. “It can come now, or it can come later. Ain’t nothing stopping it from coming. I suppose I prefer it come later.”

“Sounds nice and all,” said Schumacher, holding his hands out over the campfire. “But that involves me having to be something I can’t be. I rather die now doing this than down the road being something I ain’t got the patience nor the heart for.”

Schumacher heard the galloping of a horse followed by a neigh. But his guard went down when he heard Henry call out to them.

“You’re back early,” said Schumacher. “What happen, you burn down the saloon?”

“What is it?” said James.

“Saw a man at the saloon,” said Henry, recounting his encounter. “He had a gun that look a lot like your gun.”

“For Pete’s sake,” said Schumacher, frustrated. “Who don’t carry a gun.”

“It was a Colt with a pearl handle. And a snake on the handle. Just like yours.”

Schumacher thought back to all those years ago. Back when they came across the butcher. It was just a gun like any other. Sure, it had a pearl handle. So what? Plenty of people carried pistols with pearl handles. It was about as original an idea as carrying two pistols. It was the one killing that bothered him.

“So, what,” Schumacher said after pondering. “It don’t mean nothing. All it means is that snake ain’t one of a kind.”

“I guess,” said Henry. “Maybe two of a kind.”

Whatever dread Schumacher had was replaced by another idea. He carried around the butcher’s gun but hadn’t had occasion to use it. Mainly because he was more accustomed to his Colt 1878— a double action revolver. But the idea of walking around with a pair of twin snakes on his hips was exciting, though as vain as it was.

“Let’s find the find the sonofabitch,” said Schumacher.

“What?” said James.

“Let’s find him and take his snake.”

“We don’t even know where to look for him.”

“He’s at the hotel,” Henry provided.

“There you go,” said Schumacher, grinning that grin even a madman would fear. “Probably sleeping by now. Let’s go procure that pistol.”

“Something don’t feel right, boss,” said James.

“What’s the matter? You turning yellow?”

“Not a chance. I ain’t never been afraid to pull the trigger. Not then, not now.”

“That settles it,” said Schumacher. “Let’s go.”

20 minutes later

The three men entered the hotel. Schumacher approached the man at the desk.

“Evening,” he said, tilting his hat. “Was wondering if you mind telling me which one of these rooms I might find a man in a black stalker hat and light brown jacket. You might’ve also noticed he was walking around with a pearl handle on his pistol.”

“I’m sorry mister, but I can’t just go around giving out that kind of information.”

Schumacher slowly unholstered his pistol, placed it on the counter and pulled the hammer back for effect.

“3B second floor end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.”

Schumacher held out his hand. At first the clerk was confused. But after a second he understood what Schumacher was asking for as he took out a spare room key and placed it in his open palm.

“Appreciated,” said Schumacher, grinning.

The three men ascended the stairs to the second floor towards the room number the clerk provided.

“This is it,” said Schumacher. “Mr. Henry you stay out here. “Mr. James, with me.”

James worked the lever on his sawed-off Winchester rifle in acknowledgment. Schumacher quietly unlocked the door. Then the two men rushed into the room and opened fire. eight shots had been fired between the two gunmen before they realized the bed was empty.

“The hell?” said Schumacher.

“What is it?” said Henry in the hallway. “You get him? You got that sumbitch?”

“No, it’s—” James didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence when the shot came from the door.

Instinctively, Schumacher took out his second gun, a Schofield with a shorter barrel, and fanned the hammer to fire rapidly. He had emptied the revolver by the time he realized he was shooting at Henry. Why was he shooting Henry? Did Henry shoot James? Before he realized Henry was being used as a human shield, Henry’s body was shoved onto him, pinning Schumacher to the ground. He had gotten the corpse of his friend— if he could call him that— off him when hands grasped the collar of his coat and sent Schumacher crashing through another set of doors.

The night air told him he was back outside— balcony most likely. The kick took him by surprise, before he could get his bearings. The banister gave way, sending Schumacher over the ledge. His right leg and back took most of the impact from the fall— he might’ve heard something crack. Schumacher was on his stomach as he crawled. Where? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he got away from the sonofabitch trying to kill him.

It was no use. He was suddenly devoid of moonlight. He turned his head to look back at the stranger. Schumacher turned his body over to draw the Colt. Before he could even pull the hammer back, the stranger kicked the gun out of Schumacher’s hand.

“How many guns you got?” he asked out of jest.

“Damn you!” Schumacher spat.

“I believe this belongs to me,” said the stranger, kneeling down to pick up the Colt with the pearl handle. “Yup, that be my pa’s handiwork.”

“Your pa?”

“Being a butcher was his trade. Carving was his hobby though. See, I got us a pair of pistols— one for me and one for him. It was supposed to be a tool. At least that’s how I handle mine. But he had to go and replace the wood handles with pearl ones and carve snakes into them.”

“What that mean?” Asked Schumacher, who was still very much in pain. “The snakes.”

The stranger examined the Colt as he held it by the barrel.

“I don’t really know,” said the stranger. “Maybe my pa just fancied snakes. Or maybe he thought the carvings would look neat and scare folks into surrendering. You kind of robbed me of the opportunity to ask him.”

“So, now you going to rob me of my life?”

“The way you live, I wouldn’t call it robbing.” The butcher’s son stood up and tucked the second pearl handled pistol in his belt. “I ain’t going to kill you. I just came to get what’s mine. But I did promise to hand you over to the Santos Brothers.”

The Santos Brothers were a gang made up of Americans, Mexicans, and at least one Indian. After doing a bank job in Smithfield, Schumacher had left the gang to fend for themselves as he managed to slip away unscathed. Schumacher knew they blamed him for the job going south, and that they wanted his head.

“I know there’s a price on your head. But I think Mr. Henry and Mr. James will more than suffice.”

“You a bounty hunter?” Schumacher asked distastefully.

“You ought to have been a shoemaker. There’d have been a living in it.”

“You’re one to talk, bounty hunter.”

“My pa slaughtered animals. I slaughter men. Ain’t much difference.”

Butcher walked away as thunderous gallops grew louder. Pretty soon Schumacher would meet his end. He would’ve preferred the bullet or the gallows, instead of a rusty machete. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid.