Take Me Home, Maureen

Fontanelle, Nebraska

1882

Myles Killebrew coughs up blood.

Doc Hurtz wipes Myles’ lips with a rag, saying, “It won’t be long now.”

Deputy Tennessee Longacre mutters, “Good riddance” under his breath.

“I may be dying, but I’ve still got ears, you know,” Myles gasps.

The rail-thin deputy pretends to spit. “Then hear this, you back shootin’ sidewinder. I hope you suffer for an eternity with that hole in your belly, then Ole Scratch comes and takes you straight to Hades where you belong.”

Myles coughs, chuckling.

“Still mad that I killed your brother, Deputy? That was ten years ago. You were just a little shaver then. You need to let it go.”

“I will when I help toss your festerin’ carcass into an unmarked hole.”

Doc Hurtz pulls Deputy Longacre aside. “That’s enough, Tennessee. There’s no need for you to fret over this scoundrel.”

“Maybe you should go cool off with a beer,” Marshal Clem Varsho suggests.

“Fine and dandy with me,” Tennessee replies, his spurs jangling as he stomps off.

Doc follows up with, “Maybe you should have two beers.”

Short and sinewy with flaming red hair, Doc’s face is always clenched with worry, and he looks at his patients with a concerned squint.

Big and bold with a waxed handlebar mustache, Marshal Clem Varsho’s chiseled features give desperados second thoughts about drawing on him, but if the truth be told, he lives off people’s fear of him and has never drawn his gun.

Myles spits up more blood. Doc wipes it away.

A fetching blonde woman with a dimpled chin sits at the edge of the bed, giving Myles a coy smile.

“…Maureen…”

Clem looks at Doc quizzically.

“Who’s Maureen?”

“Probably some soiled dove he jilted, or worse,” Doc replies. “He’s delirious. Anything he says from now is gonna be far-fetched.”

“I’ll reiterate what Tennessee said, “Good.”

“…Hello, sweetheart…”

“Hello, Myles. Are you ready to go with me?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Don’t you want to be with me?”

           “Of course, Maureen. But I’ve got some unfinished business with the Grimm brothers.”

“Thunderation. There’ll always be some sort of fracas keeping us apart unless you come with me. They’ll get theirs, Myles.”

“…I’d like to be the one to give it to them…Sit closer, Maureen…Stroke my hair… Hold my hand…” Myles whispers.

Maureen’s voice is a soft aphrodisiac.

“What happened to you to leave you in such a state?”

                                               ***

Myles pours himself another drink from his half-finished bottle of rye.

A cowboy saddles up next to Myles. Recognizing Myles, he wilts into a corner.

Standing at the end of the roughly hewn bar, Gaston Grimm’s confidence soars as he slams down his fifth shot of whiskey.

“You, Killebrew! We found my oldest brother Grover today off’n the side of the road. You didn’t even have the decency to cover him up! You just left him with half his head blowed off, his body bloatin’ from the sun. You bushwhacked him, didn’t you? Answer me, killer!”

“Someone wanted your brother dead, and they paid me handsomely to make him that way. You’d better stop robbing people, or you could be my next payday.”

Gaston moves away from the bar, his hand poised above his gun.

“I beg ta differ, ya lily-livered coward! You’re next for the boneyard!”

Myles swiftly draws his revolver, pointing it at Gaston’s head.

Gaston freezes in fear, his eyes bugging out.

Myles puts his gun back in his holster, smirking at his chubby foe.

As Myles turns back toward the bar, Gaston whips his gun out, firing at him.

The bullet lodges in the wall behind Myles.

Running out of the saloon, Gaston shouts, “Ya lily-livered back-shooter!”

Incensed, Myles chases after him.

Gaston turns down a blind alley.

The heavy shells from a shotgun blast tear into Myles’ belly as he runs into the alley.

As he loses consciousness, Myles sees Gaston hug his younger brother, Gary, who kisses his shotgun.

                                               ***

“…It doesn’t pay to be a hired gun anymore, Maureen…,” Myles whispers. “I miss you, sweetheart.”

Maureen strokes his hair. “I miss you too, darling. Come to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Is the fearless Myles Killebrew afraid?”

“You know me better than anyone else. I’m just an ordinary man…But I’ve got an extraordinary love for you…”

“Prove it. Come to me.”

“…I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you…”

                                               ***

Lying on a blanket under the stars, seventeen-year-old Myles and sixteen-year-old Maureen Devine enjoy the crisp autumn evening.

The couple hold each other tightly, smiling at each other.

Maureen looks up, oohing at a falling star.

“That’s a good omen.”

“Not for the people it hits,” Myles replies.

“I mean for us, silly, for our future together. My Poppa wants me to marry a rancher like him, but I’m leaning toward a more educated type of man.”

“Maybe someone who works at a newspaper?”

“Do you know anyone like that?” Maureen jests.

“I’m not going to be a printer all my life. I might own the Gazette someday. Better yet, we can go to Omaha, and I can own two or three newspapers.”

“How ambitious.”

He kisses her. “I’ve got plenty to be ambitious about.”

Maureen cuddles closer. “I should be getting home. Poppa hates it when I’m out late at night because he knows I’m with you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go back there anymore.”

“What are you saying?”

Myles gets down on one knee.

“I’m asking you to be my wife, Maureen Daisy Devine.”

He places a silver ring on her finger. Maureen rushes into his embrace.

“But we’re so young, and you know how Poppa feels.”

“Romeo was only fifteen, and Juliet was thirteen.”

Maureen grins. Her disarming smile quickly disappears.

“It didn’t work out so well for them.”

                                               ***

Maureen and Myles exit the Elam’s Eatery arm in arm, lost in each other's eyes.

“Is it always going to be like this, Myles?”

“Every day will be like Christmas, so long as we’ve got each other.”

A horse thunders to a halt in front of him.

Vaulting from his mount, Dan Devine pulls a rifle from his scabbard, pointing it at Myles.

“I told you to keep your hands off my little girl!”

Myles boldly replies, “She’s not a little girl, and she’s not yours anymore.”

“I love him, Poppa!”

Dan’s porky features redden. “You’re too young to know what love is!”

“But we’re not too young to get married. Not in Nebraska.”

“Well, I’m gonna annul your marriage, paper boy.”

Sensing a fight, Myles tries to pull out the derringer in his vest, but he’s so frightened that he drops it on the ground.

Raising his rifle, Dan pulls the trigger.

Myles squats to reach for his derringer. He hears Maureen grunt and fall to the ground.

Picking up his gun, he shoots Dan in the chest.

Sobbing, Myles holds Maureen in his arms, watching the light in her eyes fade away.

                                               ***

Myles utters, “… Maureen…”

“He’s catatonic,” Doc says.

“What do you think he’s staring at?” Clem asks.

“I’ve seen that look before. People who are about to die think they’re seeing their loved ones. He’s probably seeing his Maureen.”

Doc follows Myles’ stare. Turning to look at the window behind them, he adds, “Or maybe he’s just looking at the stars in the sky, reminiscing.”

                                               ***

Myles enters the Sourdough Saloon, sauntering up to the bar.

He notices the barroom is divided into two factions: a rough-and-tumble collection of scruffy outlaws to his left and a group of nervous-looking ranch hands to his right.

He orders a whiskey.

A rail-thin outlaw with weathered skin and a brushy mustache covering his thin lips moves alongside him. He glances at Myles’ impeccable suit and takes a whiff of his cologne.

“You got yourself in the middle of a dust-up, professor.”

“Names Myles Killebrew.”

“Ty Longacre… Best you step on. We don’t cotton to fancy Dan’s buttin’ on ‘round here.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Big T outfit. We come a long way from the South to the West for the freedom of the open range only to find out Will Veale and his curs have fenced it all in.”

“Making it hard for you to rustle his cattle, no doubt.”

Ty squints at Myles. “You cuttin’ wise with me?”

Myles downs his whiskey. “It’s no business of mine.”

“First righteous words outta that gullet of yours. I’ve heard about you, Killebrew. You’re a shootist for hire.”

“Not at the moment.”

Ty pats his gun. “Best you keep it that way, ‘less you wanna taste of Ole Betsey.”

“You’re either drunk, Longacre, or somebody’s stolen your rudder. Why don’t you take Ole Betsey for a walk somewhere.”

Ty backs away from the bar. “Dontcha crack wise with me, back shooter.”

“I’m sure you mean sharpshooter.”

Ty reaches for his gun. Before he can bring it up, Myles slams the barrel of his gun against Ty’s forehead, knocking him out.

Two outlaws, Bodie Boseman and Touch Holt, drag Ty out of the saloon. Keeping their eyes on Myles, the rest of the outlaws slowly back out.

Myles orders another drink.

“Quick thinkin’,” a gruff voice says.

Myles turns to face a spiffy rancher with bright blue eyes and a wide, gold-tooth grin.

“Name’s Will Veale. I own the ranch that the Big T boys have been stealin’ from. How’d you like a job preventin’ that from happenin’?”

“I’d rather not take sides.”

Ty bursts through the swinging doors, his hands poised above his guns.

“Nobody makes a bummer outta Ty Longacre.”

Veale retreats into the background as Myles turns to face Ty.

“You’re a tiresome little fellow, Longacre.”

“And you’re a yellow-bellied sidewinder.”

“Your play, little fellow.”

Ty pauses, shaken by Myles’ calm demeanor.

He draws his gun. “Gotcha, back shooter.”

Ty fires at Myles, missing him.

Myles’ return shot strikes Ty above the heart, causing him to totter backward. A second shot strikes his cheekbone. Ty stiffens as he falls backward through the door, landing in the street.

“Looks like you’ve picked a side,” Veale says.

                                               ***

Standing on a hill overlooking the Gore River, Myles lines up the sight on his rifle.

Bodie Boseman and Touch Holt slap each other on the back as they guide four cows toward the river.

“All in a day’s work,” Bodie says, spitting a stream of tobacco juice.

“Yep. Mister Eiler’s gonna be tickled pink we found four strays,” Touch replies.

Bodie spits. “Eiler? These is our cows, boy.”

Touch snaps upright in his saddle. “This ain’t right, Bodie. You know rustlers get a short rope and a long drop in Nebraska.”

Bodie gets off his horse, nudging one of the cows toward the river. “Look at it his way, Touch. We’s just borrowin’ these cows. We’ll sell ‘em, buy a few of our own, and return Eiler’s original investment.”

“You mean it?”

“May God strike me dead if I’m lyin’.”

A bullet passes through Bodie’s skull, and his body flops into the river.

Touch turns his horse around, digging his spurs into its side as a bullet tears into his throat. He falls to the ground as the horse gallops off.

                                               ***

Tom Eiler, owner of the Big T Ranch, casually enjoys a cup of coffee with a stranger who shares his fire.

“I just sold a thousand beeves, and I own most of the valley,” Tom says. “Never got past the first grade, and I’m the richest man in Blaine County. Life is good. There’s enough good grass for my rival Will Veale and me to share. He swears I’m stealin’ from him, but I wouldn’t have it. All I gotta do is get Veale to realize that we can both live in high cotton. You look like you’re doin’ all right. Them fancy duds you’re wearin’ and them pearl-handled pistols look new.”

“I get by,” thirty-year-old Myles replies.

Tom looks up at the night sky. “I come out here every so often to remember who I am—just a simple man lookin’ after his family. I don’t drink, cuss, or cheat on my Dolly. The stars are my tonic.”

Tom points at the stars. “You see that bright one? That’s my star. We all got one, and we get to go to it when we die. In the meantime, our star keeps watch over us. It helps us walk a straight line.”

Tom closes his eyes, smiling wistfully.

Taking out one of his pearl-handled revolvers, Myles shoots him dead.

He takes the twenty-five thousand dollars in Tom’s saddle bags, salivating over his promise of a four-thousand-dollar payment from Will Veale for killing his competitor.

Pausing to look up at the stars, Myles picks one as his own.

                                               ***

“Can you imagine the life he’s led?” Doc asks.

Clem huffs. “Yeah. Fine clothes, gourmet meals, and the prettiest women. And it’s all over at thirty-five.”

“There must have been a time he wasn’t all bad.”

“That dime novel I had about him said he was a Sergeant in the Union Army when he was barely nineteen.”

“Guess that’s another reason why Tennessee hates him. Tennessee fought for the Rebs,” Doc says.

“Killebrew became a hired gun the moment he left the army. Been at it for over fourteen years.”

“From what I hear, lots of people had it in for him,” Doc says. “The Brothers Grimm sure did. Did you bring Gary in or cut him loose?”

“He’s simmering in a cell,” Clem replies.

“Why, Marshal? He did Nebraska and the rest of the West a service.”

“I left the cell door open.”

Myles groans, his unblinking gaze looking up at nothing the two other men can see.

Maureen strokes his hair.

“How does it feel to be a legend?”

“…Some legend,” Myles thinks. “I didn’t kill twelve men by facing off against them in the street like people think. That’s dime novel guff. I killed Willie Flett while he slept. I shot Butch Baker as he tried to get on his horse and killed Longhorn Leggett as he was running away. I still remember the terror in Slim Simpson’s eyes when he looked in the saloon mirror and saw me creeping up behind him.”

“They were dangerous men,” Maureen says. “Some of them were wanted.”

“True. I made ‘legend’ off of the ones that were. I did face E.B. Flood in the streets of Abilene, but he was hungover and weighed down by a big breakfast, so he was slow as molasses in springtime. And Freddie Smalls? He was the size of a child. That dime novelist changed his name to Biggs and gave him an extra foot in height. Still, he was supposed to be dangerous, so I made sure he was staring straight into the sun and couldn’t see me when we faced each other.”

“You did what you thought was right, my darling,” Maureen whispers.

“I DID WHAT I WAS HIRED TO DO!” Myles shouts.

“He’s awful loud for someone in a coma,” Clem notes.

“He’s fighting with himself, trying to justify his sins. Sort of like a deathbed confession.”

“If that’s the case, it’ll be months before he passes.”

“I’ve seen a lot of evil men like Killebrew die,” Doc replies. “Most of them fall to pieces when they look head-on into the light…”

“What light?”

“The light of truth. Nobody can lie to their maker. Not even Myles Killebrew.”

Clem smirks, rubbing his mustache. “God is good, Doc, but he must’ve turned his back on Killebrew long ago.”

“I didn’t say he was talking to God. I said his maker. The devil was his daddy. There’s a special place in hell for Myles Killebrew.”

                                               ***

Myles hacks uncontrollably, spraying blood at Doc and Clem.

“Jesus. If it’s not his time, then maybe we ought to help him along,” Clem says, brushing blood off his worn Marshal’s badge.

“…Maureen…”

“Try to lie still, Myles,” Maureen says. “Look at your star.”

Myles laughs, his eyes focusing on the brightest star in the night sky.

The star streaks across the sky, fading.

“…Take me home, Maureen…”

He smiles as Maureen leans down to kiss him.