Bad News Comes to Buzzard Gulch

Bad News Comes to Buzzard Gulch

Except for the fun-starved, thirsty, horny (on steroids) cowhands from the surrounding ranches, no one ever comes to Buzzard Gulch. There’s no point to it. One dilapidated hotel, two run-down saloons where the booze flows faster than water over Niagra Falls and the “women of the night” work day and night upstairs (and sometimes in the woodsheds out back during the rush hour), a blacksmith shop, a general store, a feed mill, a school with a fifth grade average age of 27, and a church where the good Reverend Barnes looks out over empty pews once a week. A modern-day promotional pamphlet would have described the town as “a dirty, dusty place where your horse can feel at home.” Oh, there was one other thing to be found in Buzzard Gulch- a secret.

 The silhouette of a lone rider against the setting sun grabbed the attention and curiosity of one stumbling drunk.

“Clem, I’m pretty drunk, but it looks like someone’s ridin’ down this way from Boot Hill.”

“Yeah, you’d be drunk alright, Fess.”

Fess squinted his bloodshot eyes and gave it his best zoom-in look over the horizon.

“A beer and a shot of whiskey says there’s a man on a horse comin’ this way, Clem.”

“You’re on.”

Clem, only half-blind drunk at this point, took a look and immediately realized he was out a beer and a whiskey, that is, unless the rider passed by this little hell-hole of a town. No one had come to Buzzard Gulch for years, and even without a background in statistics, Clem figured it to be a good bet the horse and rider would pass on by, and Fess would be none the wiser.

“Nope. You’re seein’ a tall cactus at the top of the hill, Fess. Let’s go to Big Bertha’s for my beer and whiskey.”

“Damn.”

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Big Bertha’s was noisier than usual, and a smokey haze engulfed the entire bar. The Commander’s boys had just returned from a big drive running cattle to market, and they were loaded with cash and full of fire. Clem and Fess elbowed their way up to the bar.

“Evening, boys. What can I getcha?”

“First, I gotta ask ya, Bertha, did I spend a hundred dollar bill in here last night?”

“Uh, yes, yes you did, Fess.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. I thought I lost it. Get my pal Clem here a shot and a whiskey, and put it on my tab."

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There were but a few children in Buzzard Gulch, and most of the adults weren’t sure where they came from or who they belonged to. As the youngins weren’t saddled with the debilitating effects of demon rum ( or beer, whiskey, bourbon, whatever they could find that clouds the mind), they were the first to notice- a big man, black hat tilted downward, on a tall horse slowly coming down main street. The children stood frozen in place as the man cast a nasty look their way as he passed by. Even the horse appeared menacing, and the pearl-handled revolver at the man’s side had their eyes popped wide open.

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It was Moses parting the Red Sea. The swinging door flung open and the place stopped. The players at the poker tables dropped their cards and turned their heads in unison. The last honky-tonk note from the piano floated up to the ceiling, and even the smoke pushed out to the sides to clear a path for the foreboding figure as he strode across the room.

The men sitting at the bar quickly made room for the approaching, mysterious stranger. The lone unintimidated soul was Big Bertha.

“What will you have, Mister? We got beer, whiskey, and girls. We got all a man needs.”

The voice sounded like a rumble from the canyon out yonder.

“Booze, a big bottle, no glass.”

The man took a few swigs from the bottle and then surveyed the room as everyone quickly went back to what they were doing. The unfortunate duo of Clem and Fess happened to be closest to the gun-toting stranger, and they spoke in whispers.

“That looks like the guy I saw riding on Boot Hill, Clem.”

“No, I would have remembered him. It was a cactus, alright. Look at the size of that pistol, Fess. That thing looks like a cannon. We ain’t seen a man with a gun and holster like that around here for years.”

The patrons continued their drinking, smoking, and card playing, all the while shooting occasional glances at the man in the black hat. They were all thinking the same thing. Who was he, and why was he here? Halfway through his bottle, an answer began to unfold.

“Did anyone here know a fella by the name of Henry Parker?”

It was another silent bomb drop. Everyone looked at him, but then immediately lowered their heads and pretended to be someplace else. “Henry Parker”, the forbidden words, had just pierced the sleeping conscience of Buzzard Gulch.

Only those seated at the far end of the room didn’t notice his thumb gently massaging the trigger on the huge pearl-handled pistol.

“Holy crap, Clem, he’s here about Henry Parker!”

“I heard. Now just be quiet.”

The thumb rubbing stopped, and the man turned toward Clem and Fess with a steely-eyed look. Both men nearly wet their pants.

“What did you guys say?”

“Who us? Nothing.”

“I heard you. You both said something. If you knew Henry Parker, you better tell me now.”

The thumb trigger-rubbing started up again. Clem’s keen instinct of self-preservation kicked in, and he immediately pointed at Fess with his finger wagging faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

“Fess here, I think he knew him. You knew him, didn’t you, Fess?”

There was no close call this time. Fess stopped breathing…and then wet his pants.

“Uh…”

“So did you know Henry Parker?”

“Uh…Henry Parker…yeah…I’ve heard the name. I think I might have met him once.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

In deference to the sensitive reader, I’ll spare you the details. Fess’s reaction wasn’t to pee again, but it was in his pants.

Everyone was stunned. The question they all hoped and prayed would never again be asked had just rattled their lives to the core. It was ten years ago this September, a card game In Big Bertha’s. Henry Parker was cheating…again. The kid stood up and called him out. Henry Parker reached to his side, and the kid pulled his gun and shot him. He was dead before he hit the floor. No one will ever know what Henry Parker was reaching for, but it wasn’t a gun. He was unarmed.

The Territory Marshall came to town to investigate. No one knew a thing. Must have been a stranger passing through. The wagons were circled to protect Kyle, the Commander’s son. The Commander had the biggest ranch within a hundred miles, and he had enough cowhands to invade a small country. Rule # 1 in Buzzard Gulch- don’t cross the Commander. The Marshall left town, and the secret was buried…until this moment. And then it got a whole lot worse.

“I want to know who killed my Pa.”

His Pa?! A mission of revenge! It had only been rumors. Henry Parker was once married and lived in Kanas City with his wife, Gerta, the only female blacksmith west of the Mississippi. The drinking, cigar smoking, cussing, and constant butt-scratching proved to be too much to bear, so he left. A lone traveler once stopped at Big Bertha’s and told of a child born to a female blacksmith in Kanas City shortly after the time Henry Parker would have hit the road. He was a contrary child, and possibly exaggerated reports held that he left home when he was seven, lived alone in the mountains surviving on a diet of rattlesnakes and spiders, and later robbed banks to buy feed for his horse. He was known throughout the territory as “Mad Dog”, but his birth name was Henry. And now he was here…looking for the man who killed his father.

“I know he was killed right here in this barroom by one of the local cowhands. I ain’t leavin’ until I find out who it was that killed my Pa. I’ve got some business to settle.”

Bertha snuck off to the side of the room where she slipped a note to one of her girls: Get the Sheriff!

Mad Dog turned his sights back onto poor old Fess.

“You said you knew him. Do you know who killed him?”

Fess was shaking and could barely get the words out.

 “Nope. I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

Mad Dog scanned the room in search of his next target. He sensed somebody knew something.

“Anyone here know who killed my Pa?”

The tone was angry, and the message was received with a fear few have known. Everyone in the bar knew who killed Henry Parker, but no one spoke. They were all hovering around somewhere in that discomforting zone found between a rock and a hard place- cross the Commander or tick off the man with the gun.

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“Sheriff!”

“Betsy, what are you doing here? If it’s about your bill, I can settle up with on Friday when I get paid.”

“It’s not about the bill. Bertha needs you to come to the saloon right now.”

The sheriff laughed.

“Let me grab my hat, and I’ll be right with you. What is it? Are the cowboys havin’ a little too much fun tonight?”

“No…it’s…it’s Henry Parker’s son. He’s looking for the man who killed his father.”

“What?! Henry Parker’s son?! I thought that was just a rumor.”

“Well, the rumor’s at Big Bertha’s right now.”

“Lookin’ for the guy who killed his father?”

“I guess.”

“Holy Mother of Jesus! This is bad, really bad. You better high tail it out to the Commander’s ranch and let him know. I’ll get over to Bertha’s…as soon as I finish my regular rounds.”

“Your regular rounds? They need you now!”

“You don’t understand sheriffin’. It’s all about routines. It’s in all the manuals. I’ll get there…eventually. Say, do you think you’d be free around ten, Betsy? My credit’s still good with you, right?”

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It was a standoff, Mad Dog staring and the patrons sweating.

“No one leaves until I get my answer.”

Mad Dog mosied around the saloon, making inquiries of everyone in the bar. The responses varied in specifics and degree of creativity, but no one knew anything about the killing of Henry Parker:

“Beats me.”

“You sure got me on that one.”

“I dunno. Can I please go to the bathroom now?”

“Henry who?”

Mad Dog sensed vulnerability when he approached Fess so he got real close and leaned into him a bit. But before he could say a word, he smelled a foul odor, the consequence of their previous encounter.

“Jesus Christ, man, did you shit in your pants?!”

“Uh…yes, yes I did.”

“Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“I might not be done yet.”

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Clocks move slower for those under pressure. Minutes passed, then hours. No movement, not a word. Mad Dog remarkably downed another bottle of rot-gut whiskey as everyone in the room hoped that someone else would crack. It was near midnight when fate intervened.

A small group of cowhands, already lubed up from three hours of imbibing at Willy’s Watering Hole down the street, busted through the swinging door hootin’ and hollerin’ to beat the band. The crowd in the barroom let out a collective gasp- the Commander’s son Kyle was in the group. The rowdy newcomers stopped in their tracks when they saw all the stunned faces and the ominous figure in the black hat at the bar, and Mad Dog sensed that new information may have just come his way. He slowly walked past the group, thumbing the trigger on his pearl revolver the entire time, and stood in front of the swinging doors. As he surveyed the room, the darting eyes and squirming bodies told him he was close. He could smell it; someone in the room killed his Pa.

“I know one of you did it. We’re going to sit right here until one of you will fess up.”

Fess nearly had another incident at the sound of his name.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna have me another bottle and sit down right here, and give you all a chance to talk about it. Get together in the corner of the room and figure it out. Give me the man who killed my Pa by midnight.”

All heads turned toward the clock behind the bar. They had thirty minutes.

The men gathered off to the side of the bar, and Bertha took charge of the meeting. Everyone knew that the odds of Kyle- rich, spoiled, pampered, and the son of the most powerful man in the territory- stepping up and taking responsibility were nil to none. But Bertha gave it a shot.

“Kyle, for once in your life, do the right thing.”

“Are you out of your freaking mind? No way. Hey, here’s an idea. You tell him that you did it. He ain’t gonna shoot no woman.”

Holy crap! Kyle just threw Bertha under the bus wagon!

“Dammit, Kyle, he ain’t gonna believe no woman killed his Pa. We need a volunteer. Come on, one of you guys man up and tell him you did it. He probably won’t kill ya’ with all these witnesses around. He’ll probably just rough you up a little bit.”

Silence. Spartacus had never been to Buzzard Gulch.

Bertha suggested they draw straws, but they all deemed it too risky. The clock was ticking. Clem, not known as a stalwart of courage and integrity, cast a glance at Fess, who was now barely conscious and leaning on the bar just to remain vertical. Clem motioned for the men to draw closer and spoke in a hushed tone.

“Listen, fellas, what we need is a fall guy.”

Clem turned his head in the direction of Fess, and all understood. Fess was the town drunk, had no family, no job, and his only friend was Clem, and as we can see, the depth of that friendship was suspect.

“We can’t do that to this poor guy, Clem.”

“Why not, Bertha? Fess is, shall we say, the most expendable among us. But let’s be fair about this and do it in the democratic way. Let’s vote on it. All those in favor of giving up Fess, raise your hand.”

Every hand shot up. Even the oblivious Fess flipped his hand upward to signify agreement.

“ Mad Dog, we’ve got your man!”

Á la Pontius Pilot, Clem attempted to distance himself from the act by stepping back and allowing two other men to take hold of poor Fess and drag him over to the man with the pearl-handled gun. Many worried that Mad Dog might not accept a blithering drunk as the man who gunned down his Pa, so the testimony was detailed and embellished in order to bolster credibility.

“Here’s your guy. He shot him dead right there at that table.”

“It was just after ten o’clock. I remember cuz it rained that day.”

“He may not look like much, but he’s a dead-eye shot.”

“Yep, I saw the whole thing. He emptied his gun on him.”

“And then he kicked him.”

“Your poor Pa never had a chance.”

Mad Dog studied the empty shell of a man before him, bleary-eyed, unshaven, disheveled hair, and unsteady on his feet. All present were praying he would accept Fess as the man who killed his Pa. Having just refinished the barroom floor, Bertha added the special intention that he would at least take Fess outside before he shot him.

“So, you’re the guy who shot and killed my Pa?”

“Huh? Shot who?”

Oh-oh, a problem. Clem hadn’t sufficiently thought through the range of possibilities. He wasn’t expecting even a minimal level of coherency from Fess. He quickly lined up behind Fess, grabbed hold of the back of his long, shaggy hair, and pushed his head up and down, while murmuring, “Yes, I killed him. Shot him dead.” The entire crowd crossed their fingers hoping that Mad Dog would buy the Edgar Bergan and Charlie McCarthy routine. After three bottles of booze, Mad Dog didn’t suspect a thing.

“Well, it’s been a long road, but I finally found the man who shot my Pa.”

Clem released his grip on Fess’s hair, the onlookers breathed a sigh of relief, and Bertha opened a swinging door hoping to entice the man in the black hat to take Fess outside to exact his revenge.

Mad Dog stood in place. Bertha and all the men quickly moved back in a wave as he lowered his hand toward the pearl-handled pistol. But his hand passed by the pistol, slipped under his holster, and into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to Fess.

“Five hundred dollars, my reward for you killing that son-of-a bitch. Good job.”

A very surprised and very confused Fess opened his eyes wide and held the cash high above his head.

“The drinks are on me!”

The place went nuts. The two men who had been holding Fess upright hoisted him onto their shoulders and paraded him around the bar as everyone cheered for their new unlikely hero. The piano player banged out a tune, the girls danced, and Big Bertha poured drinks until her hand hurt.

 A good time was had by all…well, for all except Clem who sat grousing in the corner lamenting the fact he missed out on the reward money and who was already scheming for ways to get his hands on some of it.