Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

Town of Torrington

Wyoming Territory

1882

Gower Gaston races down the sidewalk, his boots clomping against the sidewalk’s wooden planks, his spurs jingling out a frenzied beat.

Rushing through the door of the Marshal’s office, the tousle-haired young deputy points at the cover of his dime novel shouting, “It’s him! It’s The Preacher!”

Marshal Myles Gaston adjusts his specs, looking at the cover of “Say Your Prayers… The Preacher’s Coming,” which depicts a well-dressed dandy brandishing a pair of smoking pearl-handled guns.

The pair step outside and Gower points at a handsome, immaculately dressed man trying up a horse outside of the Silver Stallion Saloon.

“Dang it.”

Even in the encroaching darkness, Myles can see the gleam of the man’s polished pearl-handled guns.

“Like Lucifer, his peace and happiness were torn away by the deeds he had committed and was replaced by a never-ending thirst to inflict pain and misery,” Gower says.

“You’ve been reading that malarky again, haven’t you?”

“It’s true. The book says an Indian holy man put a curse on him. Men are compelled to challenge him like bees take to honey.”

Cash Murnah moves the shotgun he keeps under the bar closer. Stocky, with placid blue eyes and a comically large mustache, Cash prides himself in keeping his rowdy clientele under control. He often mans the hand-carved mahogany bar that oversees the emporium’s large dining room and acts as his own bouncer. The back of the room is reserved for the profitable faro and card tables bird dogged by beautiful hostesses.

Spitz Pringle rolls another cigarette, his stare crinkling into a thin band of hatred as he watches The Preacher slice into a Porterhouse steak.

Lighting the cigarette he hacks loudly, spitting a wad of phlegm into a nearby spittoon.

“You all right, Spitz?” Cash asks.

The reed-thin rancher reaches for his double whiskey.

“I’m in the pink, Murnah.”

Cash knows when Spitz has had enough libation, and Spitz is way over his limit.

“Guess you got a right to tie one on, what with your beeves comin’ up with anthrax and your wife runnin’ off,” Cash says.

“She didn’t run away. That son-of-a-sheep dipper, my friend Axl, filled her head with lies about how he was gonna giver her baubles n’ fancy dresses…”

“Didn’t help that you got sick…”

“Like I said, Murnah, I’m fair to middlin’. I been ‘round a long time, forty-some odd years, and I got nothin’ to show fer it. God has turned his back on me. No wife. One kid dead from influenza and the other stomped to death in a roundup. This cough has stole the meat off my bones. I don’t want folks to remember me as some lunger who slowly faded away. I want people speakin’ my name with respect after I’m gone.”

Spitz’s thin, shaky hand drops to his gun.

“YOU! PREACHER!”

“Don’t, Spitz, you challengin’ him is like committin’ suicide,” Cash says.

“Get over here devil!” Spitz shouts. “Let God bring forth justice that is partial to the wicked!”

The Preacher slowly rises from his table.

“I don’t like having my dinner interrupted, especially by some balmy bible belter.”

“Well, then, you’re gonna hate what’s gonna happen next!” Spitz says. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he lets out a ragged cough.

“You sure you’re up for this, old sod?” The Preacher asks.

“I want the people of Torrington to remember me, to be proud of me.”

“Then somebody’s going to have to write you one helluva obituary.”

“Put your money on the bar, Preacher.”

“The price to face The Preacher is two hundred dollars, fifty of which goes toward your burial. Do you have that kind of money, sodbuster? I don’t take I.O.U.s.”

Spitz reaches into his faded jeans, slamming a stack of wrinkled bills on the bar. “Ain’t no sodbuster. I’m a rancher.”

The Preacher pulls out a money clip, peeling off two-hundred-dollar bills. “You could be Chester A. Arthur for all I care.”

Reaching into his vest pocket, he takes out a silver dollar.

The other men at the bar inch toward the back of the room. Waiters hurriedly gather dishes from patrons, who drop their money on the table and sneak out the back door. The painted doxies who hustle men for drinks titter excitedly, gathering around the faro table.

“You know how this works,” The Preacher says. “The bartender’s gonna toss the coin. When the coin hits the bar, draw. Last chance, sodbuster. You want to be famous or alive?”

“My life ain’t worth much right now. Neither is my name. Killin’ you can fix both.”

“All right then. Say your prayers if you know any,” The Preacher says.

“That’s your job.”

“Sorry, I’m not very spiritual.”

Cash flips the coin in the air.

Myles stands over Spitz’s corpse.

“Dead as a doornail. Right between the eyes.”

“I can see that, Cash. Did The Preacher draw first?”

“Nope. In fact, he let Spitz shoot first. Spitz’s hand was shakin’ so much I was surprised he didn’t shoot me. That consumption he had made him weak and onery. I don’t think The Preacher would’a fired at all if Spitz didn’t cuss at him and fire a second shot.”

“So, in your eyes, it was a justified killin’.”

“Spitz was headin’ for the bone orchard and he knew it,” Cash replies. “If he won, all he was gonna do was stay drunk and diddle women ‘til he died. The Preacher did him a favor. And yeah, it was righteous. Spitz wanted to die. He found the means to do it with some grace.”

His hand close to his gun, Myles walks toward The Preacher’s table, where The Preacher and Vera Ralston are talking. China white, with sad eyes, straggly blond hair, and a long face with oversized teeth, twenty-two-old Vera Ralston bears the pain of her hard upbringing, seldom looking up at the world.

The Preacher pushes a stack of money across the table at Vera. “There’s three thousand. I know it’s a poor substitute given what you’ve been through, but I want you to be secure in the world…”

The Preacher looks up at Myles. “You here about the sodbuster?”

“The witnesses say it was justified. I don’t.”

“Lawmen seldom see things my way.”

Myles’ left eye spasms.

“If you’re going to preach to The Preacher, Marshal, may I suggest learning how to control that tick of yours?”

Reaching into his vest pocket, The Preacher hands Myles fifty dollars.

“Can you see to his burial, Marshal?”

“Sure. You don’t strike me as a preacher.”

“It’s not my nom-de-plume. It was bestowed upon me by the writer of that horrible dime novel about me. He was referring to my attire and my way of speaking rather than my religious beliefs, of which I have none.”

“Yeah, well, you really are a silver-tongued devil, aren’t you? A real carefree killer. My deputy, my little brother, Gower, thinks you’re the greatest man on earth, that you can’t be killed.”

“Everybody dies, Marshal.”

“That’s right. How about you exercise some control while you’re in Torrington so nobody else dies before their time.”

Myles looks down at the money, then at Vera, who smiles weakly, looking away.

“I don’t understand what’s goin’ on here…”

“You don’t need to, Marshal.”

“If you harm this girl in any way, or try to use her…”

“Or what? You’ll shake your finger at me? Pout? Cry? You should thank Vera. It’s because of her kind nature that you’re still above ground.”

Cade York looks over at The Preacher’s table. He rubs his coarse thick beard, adjusting his gun belt around his thick middle. The older of the two Cade brothers sucks his teeth, harumphing loudly. With each successive shot of liquor, Cade grows more resentful of the broken-down ranch his father left him, the lack of respect he’s shown, and having to look out for his half-wit eighteen-year-old brother.

Giggling as he downs his beer, Keenan York flashes a boyish, devilish grin, reaching for Maggie Lefay as she passes by. Spinning on her heels, the New Orleans-born, fiery redhead glowers at Keenan. Pulling her arm free, Maggie slaps him.

“C’mon, Maggie, that hurt!”

“It’ll hurt a whole lot more if you ever try it again,” Maggie responds. “You’re nothin’ but a lunkheaded clodhopper. You can’t even afford the laces in my corset.”

Cade grabs Keenan by his abundant sandy hair, shaking him.

“You still don’t get it, do ya, Keenan? Get yourself a roll, then you can grab all you want.”

“I ain’t got that kinda money.”

“Man, mama, and poppa gave you looks but they sure skimped on brains,” Cade says. “How much money you got?”

“About forty.”

“Don’t spend no more. I’m gonna need it.”

“But you said I could get a poke.”

“I need it for him,” Cade says.

Keenan turns, trying to get his blurry eyes to focus. “The Preacher? You aimin’ to challenge him?”

“Not me. Us.”

“Uh-uh. That’s too hard a row to hoe. Besides, two against one ain’t fair.”

“You think us tryin’ to keep them scrawny cows of ours alive while he eats Porterhouse steak for lunch is fair?”

“He’s sittin’ with horse-face Vera. That kinda makes up for it.”

“So, he’s got bad judgment when it comes to women. We put him in the boot yard, and it’ll be us lightin’ cigars with twenty-dollar bills, and you’ll have Maggie eatin’ out of your hand.”

“But I can’t shoot. And you’re no Wild Bill Hickok.”

“You skip school the day they told you two is better than one?”

Myles looks over at his brother, who has his nose buried in “Say Your Prayers…The Preacher’s Comin’…”

“Put that infernal book down, Gower, and go do your rounds.”

“I’m doin’ due diligence, Marshal. It says here The Preacher was a sniper in the war for the blue coats. That’s how his aim got to be so good.”

“Anything in that book of wisdom on how to handle him?” Myles asks.

“It says don’t an…tag..gonize…

“Antagonize. That means don’t make him angry, which means you do your hero worshipin’ from afar, you got it?”

“I just wanna pick up a few pointers on how to handle hard cases. What do you suppose he sees in Vera?”

“I don’t know, but it’s obvious he cares for her.”

“It don’t make sense,” Gower replies. “He’s the fanciest dressed dandy I ever seen. He could have any of the girls in the Silver Stallion, but as soon as he sees plain Vera, it’s like there’s nobody else in the room.”

“Maybe he sees her as some kinda kindred spirit.”

“You think it’s possible he loves her?” Gower asks.

“Men like him don’t know how to love.”

Cade squeezes Keenan’s shoulder, pushing him down in a chair.

“Don’t get afeared now.”

“But this ain’t right, Cade. It’s bushwhackin’.”

“The townsfolk’ll see it as one brother defendin’ another.”

Keenan looks around the bar, cradling the shotgun inside his overcoat.

“I wish you’d let me keep my watch,” he says.

“I gotta use it to pay The Preacher to fight. You’ll get it back. And with the money we make sellin’ our story, you can buy all the watches you want.”

“You sure this is gonna work?” Keenan asks.

“It’s cut and dried so long as you don’t cut and run. You cleaned the gun yourself…”

“But it’s old, and I ain’t used it in years.”

“All you gotta do is sit calmly at this table, pull the trigger, and it’ll blast him to kingdom come. Think about the high times you can show Maggie.”

“Why can’t I face him and you back shoot him?”

“Because I’m a better shot and I want to spare you the misery,” Cade says.

“There’s plenty of misery in havin’ to live with shootin’ the biggest toad in the puddle in the back.”

Cade pulls a coin from his pocket. “All right, we’ll toss for it. Heads I win, tails you lose.”

“HEY, PREACHER!”

The Preacher groans, patting Vera’s hand. She looks down at the floor, distressed.

“Aw, ain’t that sweet?” Cade says. “The Preacher, pettin’ his favorite horse. You may be a fast gun, Preacher, but you sure ain’t no judge of horse flesh. Ain’t there a law against buggerin’ farm animals?”

“If you wanna die, do it outside, Cade,” Cash says. “Blood stains on wood floors are hard to clean up.”

“Get horse-face to do it. She can lick it up.”

The Preacher glances at Keenan sitting alone with his hands under the table as he strides toward the bar.

Reaching into his vest pocket, The Preacher slams two-hundred-dollar bills down on the bar.

“It’s always a pleasure to rid the world of filth.”

Cade puts his money on the bar along with a pocket watch.

“That’s all I got. A hundred and fifty and my poppa’s watch.”

“I’d kill you for free,” The Preacher replies.

The Preacher gives Cash the coin.

“Don’t be a drunken dunderhead, Cade,” Cash says.

“Me? Look at him. He’s twice my age. I’ve been practicin’ ever since he came to town. Shot six bottles with six bullets yesterday.”

“Bottles don’t shoot back,” Cash replies.

“The way I figure it, this is gonna be easy money.”

Cash shakes his head. “If you were nicer and a better payin’ customer I might care more. Just don’t get your brains on my wall.”

Cash tosses the coin in the air, moving aside.

The coin drops onto the bar.

Cade draws his gun, shocked to see the bullet destined to kill him already heading for his head.

Keenan pulls the shotgun’s trigger. The old weapon explodes, backfiring. Shards of jagged metal tear through Keenan’s stomach. Holding onto his intestines, Keenan moans as he falls face forward, his head slamming against the table.

The next morning, Myles spots Vera on the opposite side of the street, calling to her. She comes toward him, her pasty features hidden beneath a broad hat as she looks down at the ground.

“You got a moment to talk?” he asks, ushering her inside the jail.

Looking up as they enter, Gower closes his novel, offering Vera his chair.

“It’s about The Preacher, ain’t it? Them York brothers goaded him into a fight. They insulted me. He was just defendin’ me.”

“Why’s The Preacher so interested in you?”

“I get it. Before he came to town, I was dishpan ugly Vera, plain as milk. Now all of the sudden everybody wants to know me.”

“Why is that?” Myles asks. “And what do you talk about?

“Us. He wants to know what life’s been like for me since I left the orphanage.”

“This book I got about him says he’s a cold-blooded killer,” Gower says. “Why would he care about some little girl in an orphanage?”

“Because he’s my father.”

Gower’s eyes pop. “The book says he’s got no kin.”

“You should throw that book on a manure pile where it belongs.”

“So, he wasn’t born of fire and vengeance?” Gower asks. “He wasn’t no army sharpshooter?”

“He was a rancher, like most of the men that come to town. When I was little, a tribe of Crow Indians, mostly women, and children, was massacred by the army. We didn’t even know nothin’ about it until some Crow braves attacked our ranch lookin’ for revenge. They tied my mother up and held me and my brother captive. Then they made my father flip a coin. If it came up heads three times in a row, we’d all go free. Each time it came up tails, they’d shoot my mother. They called it the white man’s justice. It came up tails twice in a row. Momma died after the second shot. My father got free while they was takin’ down her body. He grabbed a gun and killed one of them, a boy. The boy turned out to be the son of Mataca, their holy man. Mataca put a curse on my father. He said my father would kill more white men than any Crow ever could, and that he would never rest They took us with them when they left. My father was so grieved that he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. But the curse of Mataca wouldn’t let him die.”

“And a deadly game of life and death was born,” Myles comments. “But you got away.”

“My brother and me escaped that night. The Crows found us. He held them off long enough for me to run away.”

“Did the Preacher ever catch up with Mataca?” Gower asks.

“He did. He died the same way as my mother.”

“What does he want?” Myles asks.

“To be with my mother.”

Marshal adjusts his glasses, thinking out loud. “I’ve seen a lot of dead Indians who thought their magic made them invisible. It didn’t. I don’t believe in magic or curses.”

“You will if you try to face him. Mataca said that no man was fast enough to kill my father, that only someone who understood the coin’s magic could end his suffering.”

His left eye twitching, Myles enters the Silver Stallion Saloon. The Preacher stands, pushing Vera away from him.

“I thought you were smarter than this,” The Preacher says.

“I’m a lawman. I make seventy dollars a month, so. I can’t be that smart. But I know this, you’re dead, and I can’t let you keep on terrorizing the living.”

The Preacher puts his money on the bar. Myles puts his on top of The Preacher’s.

“Let me toss the coin,” Myles says.

The Preacher looks at Myles suspiciously, handing him the coin.

Myles throws it high in the air.

Pulling out his gun, Myles shoots the coin, putting a hole through it.

The coin rattles as it spins to a halt on top of the bar.

“Thank you,” The Preacher says, as his body vanishes.