A Dollar for God

Rance Jenkins arrived in Muleshoe, Texas around 1:00 P.M. He was hoping to kill a man before the sun hit the horizon.

Sweat and tobacco juice stained his dusty clothes, his blue eyes narrowed and searching. He spotted a pump handle by the horse trough and immediately took himself there. With a little effort, Rance had clear, cold water gushing out, splattering the dry street. He doused his head under the water before slaking his thirst. The July heat had settled in and was going to stick around for the duration of the summer.

A cat sat on one of the rocking chairs in front of the saloon, finding the only available shade to be had. Rance strode to the doors of the Stray Cat Saloon and walked in, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom of the room’s interior. He looked around, as men in his profession do, noting everything. There was little to take in.

The saloon was empty, save for the bartender. Ceiling fans spun lazily on their axes, doing little to dispel the heat but doing an excellent job of moving around the dust. The bartender was reading a dime novel about gunfighters, glancing up when Rance entered. His eyes appraised the horseman with something approaching boredom before returning to his book.

“How’s the beer in this place?” Rance leaned on the bar and stared at the bartender. He already didn’t like the man behind the counter.

“Warm,” the bartender said. He sat his book down and pulled a beer for the new customer.

“How ‘bout the whiskey?”

“It’ll take some years off your life.”

“Gimme a beer and a shot. And leave the bottle,” Rance said, tossing three silver dollars on the bar.

The bartender did as instructed and went back to reading his book.

“You got a sportin’ woman in these parts?” Rance swallowed a shot of whiskey and grimaced. He was of the opinion that horse piss probably tasted better, but that didn’t stop him from downing another shot.

“We had three. Two took off for San Antonio and the other one got herself married.”

Rance hooted.

“Who’d marry a whore? Only a damn fool, you ask me.”

The bartender didn’t comment. He put his book down and pulled another beer for the stranger. The stray cat wandered in and climbed up on the bar. The bartender stroked its back before picking it up and putting it on the floor behind the bar.

Rance leaned forward.

“Say, you know a man named Rondo Cord? I hear he lives in these parts.”

The bartender looked up and nodded.

“Yeah. I know the man. Owns a small spread north of here. Runs a few cattle.”

“He ever come in here?”

The bartender picked up the stranger’s empty mug and shot glass. He supplied the man with a clean glass and an ancient cigar.

“Yep. You can find him here from time to time. Usually makes an appearance every day.”

“What you know of the man?” Rance sipped his beer and pushed the whiskey bottle away. A man can drink only so much of that stuff, he figured, before he went blind. The cigar burned his throat but he smoked it anyway.

“Not much. He bought a little ranch about ten years ago. Got a wife and two kids. They stay to themselves, mostly. Ain’t nothin’ special about the man far as I can tell.”

“No? Well, you ain’t up on things, old man. Rondo Cord is the most famous gunfighter there ever was.”

The bartender nodded and put his book down.

“I heard something like that from men passin’ through here. I never paid it no mind. Rondo don’t seem the type. Figured it was all just talk from drunk men.”

“Uh huh. Well, take it from me, old man. Rondo Cord is a stone cold killer. Or used to be. They say he’d get $500 a head for killin’ a man.”

“He was a bounty hunter?”

“Damn right he was.”

The bartender whistled.

“Well I’ll be. He don’t seem dangerous. Kinda quiet and peaceful. I don’t even think he wears a pistol.”

“Then he’s a jackass.”

“Maybe so.”

“I aim to put that dog in the dirt,” Rance said. He fingered his pistol lightly, a faraway look in his eyes.

The bartender put down his rag and leaned on the bar.

“Why you wanna do a thing like that?”

Rance pulled out his gun, quickly and smoothly, aiming at the far wall. He saw glory at the end of the barrel.

“Make a name for myself. Rance Jenkins, the man who gunned down Rondo Cord. Then I’ll make as much money as ol’ Rondo did, you see. Plenty of men’ll be hirin’ ol’ Rance. Pay top dollar, too.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do, old man. I’m a top-notch bounty hunter. Just like Rondo. Only, I get about fifty dollars a head. After I kill ol’ Rondo, I’ll be a gittin’ considerable more.”

“You don’t make enough now? Fifty a head’s good money, son.”

Rance rounded on the bartender, his face flushed and his visage grim.

“I ain’t your son, old man. Hell,” Rance relaxed a little when the bartender shrank back, “I make plenty for a regular man. But good whiskey, good clothes, fat steaks, and pretty whores cost money.”

“I don’t know much about that.” The bartender resumed his reading.

The afternoon wore on. Rance drank beer and paced the saloon, his nervousness in sharp contrast to the quietness of the bartender. The cat sat in a corner, occasionally licking itself and dozing peacefully.

“Say, why’d you name this place the Stray Cat? Odd name for a saloon,” Rance said. His voice sounded harsh against the filtered quiet of the afternoon.

The bartender pointed at the cat.

“The cat came with the building. Acted like he owned the place, so I named it after him.”

Rance scoffed.

“Damn fool name for a saloon, barkeep. Besides all that, you don’t seem to do much business here. How you expect to make a livin’ outta this place?”

“I got me a small spread outside town. Run a few cattle. The missus grows vegetables and such. We get by.”

“If you had some sportin’ women ‘round here you might get by a little better. Hell, the saloons in Arizona’s chock full of whores. Pretty ones, too.”

“This is Muleshoe. Ain’t much call for that kind of woman.”

“Yeah. Well, I wouldn't a come out here except some fellers told me to go to the Stray Cat out in this part of the country. Said I’d find Rondo out here, so I come out. No one told me about this damn state. Texas is a pure bitch, barkeep. No women to lay with, warm beer and bad whiskey. And no Rondo showin’ his ugly face, to boot.”

“Texas has its moments, young ‘un.”

“Ain’t seen none yet that’re worth keepin’.”

The bartender continued reading his dime novel. Rance continued to drink warm beer and spit tobacco juice on the floor. The cat decided that it had had enough of this excitement and went prowling outside. It succeeded in cornering and killing a mouse. The stray cat proudly presented it to the bartender.

The bartender took the mouse and disappeared in the back room. He came back out a moment later, sans mouse, and set a saucer of milk out for the cat. The cat lapped it up greedily. Milk clung to its whiskers after it had finished. He looked up at the bartender expectantly. Sighing, the bartender set his book down and got the cat more milk.

Rance watched all of this with amusement.

“You treat that cat like a king, barkeep.”

The bartender settled back on his stool and picked up his book.

“Yep. He kills all the vermin ‘round here. Mice, spiders, even little ‘ol rattlers. He’s fearless. I reckon he deserves some milk.”

Rance glared at the cat. In his drunken state, he took a dislike to everything and everybody.

“Damn cat. Somebody oughta shoot the thing and be done with it.”

The bartender looked up at Rance, his mild blue eyes turning to cold blue steel. He stood up, shook his head, and then shot Rance twice in the chest.

Rance’s eyes widened in surprise for just a few seconds before they started to dim. His body fell awkwardly on the floor, his legs splayed in different directions and blood spurting from his chest. He coughed a couple of times, clutched his chest and died. The cat watched the goings on impassively before returning to the certainty of the shade.

The bartender dragged the body outside and let it rest against the steps leading to the saloon. He locked the saloon doors, went home, and got a shovel. His wife looked at him with amusement, mingled with mild consternation.

“Another one?”

“Yep. Wanted to kill the cat.”

“He a gunfighter?”

“So he said. Came lookin’ for Rondo.”

The bartender’s wife chuckled as she dried her hands and kissed her husband on the cheek.

“I don’t guess he knew that you’re Rondo.”

“Nope.”

“He deserved to be shot for wantin’ to do away with the cat. Were you gonna kill him anyway?”

“Yep.”

Rondo’s wife walked with him back to the saloon and helped him load the body into a wheelbarrow. She watched as he dug yet another grave at the top of the rise behind the saloon.

“Eleven.”

“Huh?”

“You done put eleven gunfighters a lookin’ for you in the dirt.”

“They keep comin’ and I’ll keep killin’.”

“I reckon you’ll run out of gunfighters to shoot some fine day.”

“That’d be nice.”

The couple dumped the body in the grave and Rondo covered the dead man up. He didn’t bother to say a prayer over the grave site. He didn’t figure the man deserved one.

“Ain’t we a pair? You married the last whore in Hondo and I married a shy bounty hunter.”

“It worked out all right, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, exceptin’ you can’t run from your past.”

Rondo nodded and sat down beside his wife. The setting sun still blazed with heat and illumination, offering up impossible colors to the countryside before it went to bed.

“Let’s go home and eat supper. Chance killed three rabbits today, so we got rabbit stew. I’ll fry up some taters and make some biscuits.”

“They do their chores today?”

“Yep, and they was right smart about it.”

“I reckon you gave me a coupla real good kids.”

“I did.”

The couple turned towards home.

“You finish the book?”

“Just before I plugged that young feller. Seems that Rondo Cord is now livin’ in Old Mexico with several pretty señoritas.”

Rondo’s wife laughed.

“And the last dime novel you read had you dead and buried somewhere in Wyoming.”

“They say I killed 178 men. Hell, I don’t even know 178 men.”

Rondo opened the door to their house and ushered his wife in. The kids were out back, chasing fireflies and playing tag. Rondo’s wife yelled at them to clean up for supper.

“Made an apple pie for the church social tomorrow.”

“I’ll put a dollar in the plate.”

She kissed Rondo on the cheek before speaking.

“Gotta keep God happy. I reckon a buck’ll do it.”