A Rootin' Tootin' Fight

A Rootin’ Tootin’ Fight

a short story by Nathan Baylet

6-29-2023

Reedsy short story contest #204

wild, wild west catagory: stranger comes to town

word count: 2,958

“He’s here!” someone shouted.

Rex clacked his empty shot glass on the bar, dawned his dusty hat, and strode out the saloon doors, silver gun ready on this right, and steel eyes fixed on the stranger down the street ridin’ into town, and dismounting a great horse.

Patters of footsteps echoed around the wooden two-story buildings and clicks of locking doors, then silence, sunlight, and the soft crunches of the two men’s boots over the main street gravel and dirt, until the crunches stopped dead.

They stared statue-still at each other, one outside the saloon, the other down by the post office, hands hovering above their glimmering guns, birds circling high above them both, and the future unknown.

“Have they shot each other yet?”

“Have you heard shots yet?”

“Don’t be snippy.”

“Shots are pretty loud. If you haven’t heard shots then they haven’t shot.”

“Well, with your gripin’ ‘bout the heat so loud I may not have heard the shots.”

“I haven’t said a word in five minutes.”

“Well, you’ve been griping so much lately that in my head you’re still gripin’.”

“Don’t put your clothes in the drawers. We’re only stayin’ at this hotel one night.”

“Now you’re gripin’ ‘bout my clothes.”

Henry rolled his eyes and wandered his boots from the window to his wife. “I’d keep gripin’ but I know you won’t listen to me.”

Penelope scoffed. “Oh, I have to listen to ya all the time: ‘Minnesota to San Francisco is too far.’ ‘This train is too slow.’ ‘This bed is too hard.’”

“It is too hard.”

“So what? We’re only stayin’ here one night.”

Henry frowned. Then slumped into a chair. It was hard too. Or maybe his derriere was so numb from that dang 2,000 mile train trip that everything seemed hard. Maybe everything would be hard for him forever. Now he wanted to stand back up, but Penelope was flittin’ around everywhere and he’d be her way and get scolded again, so he just stayed put. The far away farm spread through his mind again. His wished these armrests were dirt. He still felt like he was sitting on that moving train that kept taking him further and further from home, into the desolate west where there were gunfights in the street – not an ideal honeymoon. He stayed sitting, stewing. His knee bounced, and his eyes swished around this cramped place, watching his wife whoosh around their room like a swingin’ bell, her dress sweepin’ the dusty floor as she pointlessly folded and stuffed clothes in these cockamamie drawers, and singin’. He rolled his eyes again.

Penelope, finally out that marvelous but tobacco-stickin’ train, feeling free as a seagull, though she’d never seen a seagull. Mama never got to see a seagull. She would see a seagull for mama and everyone back home. She’d scamper barefoot on the beach, see the ocean, see that sun sink into that big ocean, see it for everyone, see all those famous hilly streets in San Francisco for everyone too, then head down to Monterey, spruce up their new home, wherever Henry built it, and – ”

“Where’s my Dickens?”

“Where it should be, I hope.”

He grinned.

“You wanna read now?”

“I need to distract my mind.”

“From the gunfighters.”

“From . . . ” He breathed big and looked around, then back at her. “We shouldn’t pass through San Francisco.”

She stopped. “What?”

“Let’s just get right to Monterey.”

“Why?”

“I just wanna.”

“You wanna hurry and settle down in Monterey right away so we can start havin’ proper relations.”

He smirked.

She smiled.

“I’ve just been thinkin’,” he said. “San Francisco’s not a place for us. I’ve read all about it in the papers. Thousands of folks poured’ in there for gold and findin’ none, so instead they hoot and holler in the city and make mayhem.

“I wanna see the steep, hilly streets.”

“There’s con men.”

“There’s Victorian houses.”

“Gamblin’.”

“Cable cars.”

“Prostitution.”

“People from all over, new inventions, and all kinds of goings on. I’ve got my whole list of things to do and see there.”

“You and your lists.”

“Besides, you don’t want to get to Monterey without seeing and knowin’ San Francisco. Monterey folks will be talkin’ ‘bout that big city and we won’t be able to add to the conversation.” She shut the stuffed drawer. “Besides, we have to go to San Francisco. I wanna buy spoons.”

“Spoons?”

“Spoons.”

“What spoons?”

“San Francisco spoons. I heard about a lovely little shop there that just sells spoons.”

“Why do you want spoons?”

“I collect spoons.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Since when?”

“My whole life.

“Really?” Henry sank in the chair and tilted his head. “I’ve known you for five whole months and you never mentioned spoons.”

“Well now you know.”

“Do you collect forks too?”

“Who collects forks?”

“Who collects spoons?”

“Me, my mama, my sisters, my aunt.”

“Sounds like an epidemic.”

“I wanna mail San Francisco spoons back to my family for their collections.”

Henry’s thumbs thumped the armrests, while watching his wife, and thinking. “Maybe I should collect forks. Then with all our spoons and forks we can invite everyone from Monterey over for a big gettin’ to know everybody dinner.”

“You don’t use the spoons, silly.”

“You don’t use ‘em?”

“No.”

“Then what’da ya do with ‘em?”

“I hang ‘em on the wall.”

“They just hang there?”

“Yes.”

“Unused?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you buy spoons to just hand on a wall?”

“They’re pretty.”

“Pretty useless, just hangin’ on a wall.”

“Like pictures. Some things are just for bein’ pretty. Don’t you have things that are pretty?”

“I’ve got you.”

She grinned. “But I’m also useful.”

He grinned.

“Not just for that, dirty bird,” she said, and smiled. “I can sew and sing and ride horses.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Since when?”

“My whole life.”

“Really?

Henry sank in the chair even more, tilted his head at her even more.

Shots thundered!

Penelope ducked down!

“Now they’re shootin’.”

“Get down, you fool.”

“They’re shootin’ each other. Not us.”

She rushed into the other chair on the other side of the room, safer, she hoped, facing Henry’s tense expression, and glancing right towards the bright window, hearing random shots continuing, wishing the shots would end, so Henry’s shoulders would stop flinching with every shot, making his expression even tenser, until he finally stood up.

“Is a gunfight on your list of things to experience? ’Cause now you can cross that off,” he said as he bee-lined to the window.

“Get away from the window, Henry.”

He marched back, and paced around. “We’re skippin’ San Francisco.”

“No we’re not.”

“No more mining towns. No big cities. I wanna get straight back to farm land.”

“You think there won’t be gunfights in the farm land?”

“Less of ‘em.”

“You’re being silly.”

“I’m being . . . responsible.”

“What does that mean?”

He went silent.

“Henry what the heck is bothering you? Spit it out.”

“I need to get workin’ on a farm again. Now.”

“Why?”

“So they know I’m not out here for folly.”

“Who?”

“My family. They need to know I didn’t come out here to just have fun. That I’m workin’, just as hard as them, on a farm. They need to know that I didn’t leave ‘em high and dry to go play.”

Penelope stared at her husband and tilted her head at him, and his pacing around like a fluttering bird in a cage. “We left for a better life.”

He went silent again.

She started to stand, but more shots rang out around the town. This fight clearly was gonna continue. She stared staring up at her husband. “Your brothers don’t need your help on that farm. You don’t owe them nothin’. You have every right to set off on your own.”

“It feels like I’m runnin’ away.”

“You’re runnin’ from nothin’.” She reached out and and touched his legs, and looked straight up at those gorgeous eyes of his. “We’re not runnin’. We’re adventurers. Like all our favorite Jules Verne characters.”

“Captain Nemo didn’t leave a fully functioning farm to collect spoons.”

“Henry.”

“There’s no Journey to the Center of the Spoon Shop.”

“Henry. It’s all goin’ to be a wonderful adventure.”

“They don’t see it that way. They need to know I abandoned them for a good reason.”

“I’m a good reason,” she gruffed.

His face blushed.

“The doctor said I needed to move out west.”

“I know.”

“My lungs need the fresh ocean air.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad at me for makin’ us move out here?”

He stayed silent.

An ache pinched her heart, a heaviness weighed down her gut, a fire filled her veins. “Henry, you could’ve stayed back home and I could’ve come out here on my own.”

“We’re married now. Where you go I go.”

“You could say that more passionately.”

“I’m not feelin’ passionate today.”

She huffed. “Is this how the rest of our marriage is gonna to be? You makin’ me feel guilty for forty years ’cause I made you move out here?”

“You’re givin’ us only forty years?”

“You’ll probably die earlier than me. A tragic plowin’ accident or bar fight. I’ll still go on. But we’ve probably got forty.”

“You imagine my death?”

“I imagine all kinds of things. I gotta fill my day with somethin’.”

“You fill it with my death?”

“And our lives, our future children’s lives, other people’s lives. And I’m gonna sit by that big, beautiful ocean and write about all our lives, write ‘em up in happy stories like Jane Austen or poems like Emily Dickson. Sit with my writing paper and breathe in that fresh ocean air, and feel inspired, and write wonderful things.”

“Hmmm.”

She saw his frown. “I gave ya forty years. I think that’s pretty generous.”

“Golly. Thank ya. He signed. “You sure speak honest.”

“And that’s why you fell in love with me.”

“I fell for ya ’cause you’re good lookin’ and you read Shakespeare.”

“Yep.”

“And you can shoot back whiskey.”

“Yep.”

“And you were the new girl in town. You seemed exotic.”

“Am I still exotic?”

“Less and less each day.”

“But more and more loveable.”

“More confusing since I’m findin’ out all these new things I didn’t know about ya.”

“Don’t be sore.”

“What else don’t I know about ya?”

She sighed. “I like readin’.”

“I know that.”

“I like dancin’.”

“I know that.”

“I like fishin’.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

“You fish alone?”

“No.”

“Who’d you fish with?”

“Jacob.”

Henry startled. “Who’s Jacob?”

“Someone I knew.”

“When?”

“Back in Ohio. Before daddy moved us to Minnesota.”

“You knew him right before you moved?”

“Yes.”

“You kiss him?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“Some.”

“Was it serious?”

“Yes.”

“How serious?”

She paused, and inhaled as big an inhale as her fragile lungs could and released. “He proposed.”

“What?”

Gunshots continued. But Henry didn’t flinch. His eyes were right on her, his mouth wide open, and his butt landed on the hard bed, as if punched, as if his lungs now needed a whole heap of fresh ocean air. “You’ve been proposed to before?”

“Well sure.”

He leaned sideways. “More than once?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Half a dozen.”

His shoulders slumped. “I never knew any of this.”

“There was no need for you to know. I turned ‘em all down. And I said ‘yes’ to you. So why do you care?”

“It’s secrets,” he said, tossing his hands onto his lap. “I don’t like secrets. Now I don’t know what else you’re hidin’ that’s one day gonna jump out at me.”

“Like my health?” she shot back

He stiffened, stammered, and shot back too. “So, all this time you’ve had all these hobbies and you never told me?”

She looked at him. “So, all this time you’ve been acting like you’re fine with moving out west, but you’ve secretly been hating me for it?”

His face fell. “I don’t hate you. I’m – I’m – I’m flummoxed. Why didn’t you tell me about your spoons and horse ridin’ and fishin’ and other proposals? I thought I knew you.”

“You do.”

“Maybe we got married too soon.”

Penelope’s heart felt shot . . . and shattered to pieces. “You – you think we got married too soon?” she fired back. “You mean you got married too soon, to the wrong woman, who became unhealthy, that made you leave your family and farm and move out west so she could breathe better, a woman who ruined your life!” She rushed back to the drawers, flung them open, and threw her clothes back into her suitcase. “Well, I’m not gonna live with you makin’ me feel guilty and hatin’ me every day for forty years. You can put your Dickens on an eastbound train and run back home. I’m goin’ west, I’m goin’ to San Francisco, and I’m goin’ to find me a man that loves me more than his family’s opinion of him. You don’t really care about me. To hell with ya, Henry. I’m done with ya!

More shots!

Their window shattered!

Henry flung his arms around Penelope and pulled her down to the floor with him, behind the bed, holding onto her, keeping her safe. He looked in her eyes as she breathed fast and wild. He worried.

He felt her grip on his body for dear life. He loved her grip. He remembered how much he loved her grip, and he gripped back onto the person who made him feel more happiness than he’d ever felt. That shattered glass and the bullet hole on the wall above them suddenly scared him to his core, scared him with the thought of being without the happiness she brought him, scared him more than what anyone thought of him. And he gripped onto her even tighter. His embrace was firm, his eyes were gentle, trying to calm her so she could breathe normal again, and undo the damage to her. “Breath, my love. Breath,” his voice said softly now, with renewed affection. “I’m so sorry, Pen,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to hurt your heart with my stupid words.”

She felt his embrace, his love, it was back, suddenly stronger than ever before, and she tightened her grip, not letting go. She slowly calmed.

“You chose me, and I’m so glad you did, and I wanna be the man you chose, the man you need me to be, the man who loves you more than his family’s opinions. Because I do. I do love you, more than anyone and anything ever, and I will follow you to the edge of the world, and care for you, for however long. We’ll go to San Francisco, and see the hills and houses. We’ll get your spoons. And I’ll build you a perfect little house by the ocean, so you can write. And I’m gonna give you the best life ever. I promise I will, my love. I don’t wanna ever lose you. I love you.”

“Oh, Henry, I love you too.”

“You’re more than pretty, Penny. And you are useful, to my life, so useful I don’t ever wanna live without ya, for a lot longer than forty years, four thousand. Could you love me for four thousand years, Penny?”

“When you talk to me like that I sure could.” She touched his face, breathing a whole lot better.

“And I won’t keep no more secrets from ya.”

“I won’t either. No more secrets. Only love.”

“And I’ll tell ya honest right now, my Penny. I don’t wanna wait until Monterey to have proper relations with ya. In this dangerous, gun-shootin’ west we may not have forty years. We could die any day. I don’t wanna waste time. I want ya now. I wanna know everything about ya. Will you let me know ya, my love, know you fully?”

“Oh, Henry, yes. Yes, yes, yes!”

They kissed, passionately!

“I don’t wanna fight like this with you ever again. No more arguin’. I just wanna love ya.”

“I don’t wanna fight with you either. Let’s be good to each other from now on.”

They tore each other’s clothes off and began making love behind the bed on the floor!

A single gunshot blasted!

Rex’s body burst through their shattered window and tumbled to the floor, like a tossed ragdoll, no control, just along for the ride as his aching legs and arms flopped to a rest, and his head swung back with a clunk.

Stillness.

Gotta get back up and keep shootin’, he thought. But his thoughts weren’t enough to move him. He couldn’t move anything no more. Just stillness. Gosh. That last bullet was a doozy; right to the chest, hard and powerful. His hot gun outside on the ground, his bleeding back growing cold against the hotel wood floor – colder and colder. Uh oh. He knew. It was over. Really over. The stranger had won their fight, whatever it was about. Now there was nothing to do but be still, savor these last breaths, and let whatever was gonna happen next happen.

His blurry eyes saw bright sunlight above him. His ears heard the soft joy of angels around him – beside him? With the little bit of strength remaining, he willed his head to the side, further and further, until he saw the source of the joyous sound, not angels; instead it was a naked couple, writhing in pleasure on the floor beside him with kisses and motions and exclamations of affection, in the same room as him but in their own wild world. Gosh. They looked so much happier than him, he thought, hearing their whoops of love for each other, as he lay dying.

THE END