A Dish Best Served

It’s a classic double cross. Except, the thing of it is, I see it coming a mile off because I’ve known all along it’s going to happen. I’m ten steps ahead and playing a different game entirely. The men involved won’t draw iron when the con goes down since it’s too crowded to get a shot off, and besides, no one’ll be the wiser by the time I’m gone.

“Maybe I should elaborate,” I say to the saloon girl to my right.

She bats her eyelashes, an attractive girl for sure, but only a distraction. “If you’d kindly,” she says in a voice as smoky as the room.

“I was in a gang, see,” I say, telling the truth of it. “I wasn’t such a nice guy, lady.”

“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “You’re having me.”

I get it. I’m well dressed, suit and tie and slicked back hair, mustache groomed and pointed. I don’t look like a gangster. I don’t talk like a gangster. “I assure you I don’t jest. I used to be downright vile. I am ashamed to say it. However, I met a woman who, well, let’s just say she softened my rougher edges.”

“She must be quite a lady.”

This part always hurts. “She was. Greatest person I’ve ever known, no offense, miss.”

“I—” I can see the saloon girl doesn’t know how to continue, propriety and all.

I save her. “It’s okay,” I say. “My previous gang was upset with me trying to abandon them as they saw. They took retribution. They took my Anna.” It’s been months since Anna died. In the dead of night, my old gang crept up on us at our farm and burned our home down. I would have died too, but I had gone into town for supplies earlier that day and wouldn’t return until the next.

“That’s awful, mister,” she says, empathy in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, dear. I’m here to right wrongs.” I throw back the whisky I’ve been nursing and flag down the bartender for another.

“Mister, I don’t understand. What are you here to do?”

Down goes the second shot; fire fills me. “Miss, I’m here for revenge, plain and simple. I left them well enough alone, yet they still came after me. That I cannot abide.” I lean in close before she can think too long on it. “Say, would you mind doing me a favor? It’s nothing too big.”

“Well, I don’t know, mister.”

I slide a dollar her way. Her eyes widen at the sum. “I only want you to check on my friend. He’s in the last room on the left,” I say as I move my eyes to the second floor. “You know, where the working girls go.”

The saloon girl blushes. She’s not the type. “I can do that for you, mister. Be right back.” She hikes her skirt so it won’t drag and heads to the stairs to the second floor.

Things are going to happen very quickly now.

The first part of the con’s taken place while I talked to the girl: My old gang has been fixing to rob this place, staking it out for the better part of two weeks. Oh yes, I’ve had my eye on them. I was right when I thought they were here to hit the gambling proceeds.

Their plan is working well, too, as far as I can tell. Keller Aldridge, the gang’s smooth-talking con, is at the tables cheating his ass off. He kept it subtle at first, enough to raise his pile of coins and get people to notice; then, he started being more obvious to attract further attention. The real job is going on while everyone else is drawn to the poker room—an inside man is breaking into the safe.

The double-cross would come when the inside man found himself on the outs and gut shot, probably by Lew Morgan, the backstabbing leader of those rabble-rousers. I know this because I was the one who came up with the plan all those years ago. It worked like a charm, time and again, but when your finger’s the one pulling the trigger, you start counting your own days, too, because your time’s coming faster and faster.

I order one more whisky. I should have just enough time.

Someone bumps into my left elbow as they sit down, spilling some of my drink.

“Sorry, mister,” they say with a grumble.

We both look at each other at the same time.

Well, you know what they say about best laid plans?

“Jefferson? Lee Jefferson? Well, I’ll be,” the man says in shock. Except, it’s not just a man; it’s Sage Wilson, moonshiner and general ne’er-do-well. Remember in the beginning when I thought they wouldn’t draw iron? That’s out. Sage is ready to let slip his shooter and punch my ticket.

The saloon girl screams her lungs out on the second floor. “He’s dead! My God, he’s dead! Someone’s cut his throat!” She faints to the ground; the room goes silent.

“You killed Lafferty!” Sage says, all wide eyes.

“I did. Say hello to him for me.” In one smooth, practiced motion, I slip my pearlescent-handled six-cylinder revolver out of its well-oiled leather holster and add another black mark to my soul.

Sage Wilson falls to the floor dead before he can understand what I said or what happened.

I whirl around off my barstool towards the crowded room. I remember seeing three of my old crew scattered around the floor to monitor things. 

Mitch Hanson’s the first man I see, gun already out and aimed in my direction. He pulls the trigger a second early, the bullet whizzing by my ear and hitting the bartender. I can’t stop to think about the collateral damage.

On reflex, I return fire, my aim is true. Mitch goes down, strings cut.

Another bullet rings out from the right-hand side. My empty whisky glass shatters, glass exploding in all directions as some flying shrapnel cuts my cheek. It puts me off balance and causes me to stumble to the side just as another bullet whizzes by me.

I pop off two shots, one, two; leg, chest. The offender is Sam Higgins, the gang’s tanner and drunk. By the look on his face, as the bullets hit, it appears he doesn’t register the pain—probably too drunk to notice he’s out of commission.

That leaves only one.

Keller Aldridge had a time of clearing his holster, his seat at the poker table hindering his acting. It’s the only reason I’m alive four seconds into being discovered by Sage. The fifth second will be the telling one.

We shoot at the same time.

My left lung fills with a fire as cold as ice; the air’s driven from me and I am finding it very difficult to breathe. I realize I’m down on one knee, a trickle of blood running from my mouth. I see Aldridge’s been hit in the shoulder. He tries to raise his pistol but finds that his arm refuses to cooperate.

His smile makes my blood run cold, colder than the chill of death creeping over me. My vision swims as I try to stand; I can’t make it. Aldridge grabs a nearby bottle of whisky, compliments of the house for his hot streak during poker. He takes a big swig and withdraws handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his brow. The alcohol fuels him. Stuffing the handkerchief into the bottle, Aldridge strikes a match off his cowboy boot and sets the cloth aflame.

He raises the bottle.

Cocks his arm back.

And throws.

I don’t believe in miracles, not after the life I led. Not after my angel was taken from me. But if there’s a heaven above, it might explain my aim. My bullet shatters the improvised Molotov; fire sprays outward to my left and right setting the floor ablaze.

But not me.

My next bullet ends the threat of Keller altogether.

Standing takes a monumental effort, one that I’m unable to do on my own. But I’m no longer alone. I’m being helped to my feet by the last person left in the saloon after the mass exodus of scared patrons, the last person I ever expected: Lew Morgan himself.

“Lee, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes,” Lew says to me, as if I didn’t just shoot down the inner-circle of his gang.

“You’ve seen better days yourself,” I respond.

He nods, hoisting me onto a stool. “That I have.”

The fire spreads around us, slow at first, at a billow. I try to take a breath, but it comes in as a gurgle on one side. My stomach turns; it takes all my energy to keep from throwing up. Instead, I spit at Lew’s feet, a thick mixture of saliva and blood. I’m ready to say my piece. “You’re a hateful man, Lew Morgan. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? Why couldn’t you just be happy for her? It was Anna’s decision, not mine. We don’t choose who we fall in love with.”

Anna and Lew were a couple before she and I were man and wife. It’s a long, complicated story that doesn’t matter much now that I’m dying. The months I spent with her were the happiest of my life.

Lew pokes his finger into my bullet wound, a child poking a frog for fun. I scream, on the verge of blacking out. Anna’s face flashes before me.

“She was mine, Lee, not yours,” Lew says, hotter than the fire growing around us. He brings me to my feet and throws me away from the fire to the floor. “You had no right!” he screams.

I sip air, just enough to answer, holding out my hand while I stall for time. “Lew, you knew Anna. She was her own spirit. No one on this earth could tell her what to do.”

It softens him a moment. Makes him pause. Lew Morgan is a lot of things: Prideful; Jealous; Possessive; Stubborn; and full of Wrath. He is a cocktail of violence, but worst of all, he’s charismatic. He could spin you a yarn, take you in with a story like a spell, and make you feel like family. You’d do anything for your family. I thought he was my friend once. No longer.

The moment’s gone. Lew winds up for a kick and lands his foot on my right side. My ribs crack and break, his steel-toed boot causing internal damage. Anna’s there, behind Lew, a distraction from the pain. I don’t understand how she’s here; the pain makes it hard to think. I try to tell her I love her, but my words run red with blood. She seems to be pointing to something.

Another kick lands.

I shudder awake, throwing up blood and bile. It’s only been a couple of seconds; Lew still hangs above me, yelling, all fury. I can’t hear anything through the ringing in my ears and the roar of flames encapsulating the saloon.

I shake my head, clear my vision and see Anna again. God, she’s beautiful. How did I get so lucky? Why did things have to end this way? She points again, and this time, I see it’s my pearlescent-handled pistol, the one she had custom-made for me for my birthday. A new gun that hadn’t taken a life and would only be for defense. Tonight I’ve killed three men with it; I plan to kill a fourth.

It’s defense, plain and simple. I’m defending Anna’s honor, her memory. Revenge won’t bring her back, true, but the men responsible don’t deserve to walk this earth. That’s the way of the West.

I may be dying, but I’ve yet to even the score. Clearing my throat for one last gambit, I play Lew Morgan like the fiddle he is. “You’re scum, Lew. Always were, always will be.”

It works. Lew hauls me to my feet. I use the last of my strength to fake like I’m attacking him. He throws me in the direction I want to go, tumbling to the ground. I come to a stop facing Lew with my pistol in hand, cocked and ready to go.

I fire.

Lew’s head snaps back, the shot perfect. There’s no satisfaction to it. It’s done. Nothing will bring my Anna back, but hopefully, I’ll be brought back to her. If there’s an afterlife, a Heaven, I don’t think I belong there, but if God could forgive me for my life before her, I’d be mighty thankful to see her.

As Anna walks over to me, the smoke and fire consuming the saloon thick and heavy, I like to think we’ll be reunited. She leans down, her face radiant even as my eyes close and she kisses me.

My last thought on earth isn’t of revenge, it’s love.