A Kansas Duel

I wandered around a little in those days, and saw and did things most people never even dream about when they are drunk. I scouted for Custer for a while. I helped kill all the buffalo. I fought my share of Injuns. I liberated Mexican cattle once or twice. I even worked in a lady’s underwear store for half a day. One thing I can tell you is that it was nothing like the movies they show on Sunday nights at the home.

In all my years roaming the plains and the hills, I seen plenty of gunfights, even got involved in a few. I never killed a white man that I knew of and I never ever got shot. Most times in a fight, it seemed like one of the fighters didn’t know he was in a fight ‘til he was shot to bits. One time though, I saw a duel. A duel! A stand up, face each other and shoot duel. Damndest thing.

I can remember it like it was just yesterday. I can remember it better than if it was yesterday.

By the start of the 1870’s buffalo were getting thinner on the ground but a man could still make a few dollars if he was willing to travel a bit and not too firmly attached to his scalp.

I spent the spring of 1873 killing those big woolly bastards up in the Texas panhandle. The open ground there was perfect for hunting the damn things. All I had to do was set up a couple hundred yards from the buffalos and shoot them all day long. Some days the barrel of my big old Fifty Caliber Sharps got so hot it scorched the sticks I propped it up on. That was the easy part. Skinning those stinking beasts was a whole different matter. It was such a filthy, gut wrenching chore that a man would wind up covered head to toe in blood and gore.

I usually got around that by paying some kids to do that dirty work. They were everywhere in the towns all over the plains. They would come out from the cities in the east, thinking that the frontier was just like in those damned dime novels. They sure found out different. When I was heading out for a season’s shooting I’d find two or three of these greenhorns and throw them a few bucks to come and skin my buffalos while I sat back a ways and kept watch.

I know that makes me sound like those moneymen in the big cities who worked their workers like slaves in their factories and mills. Yes, it was dirty, nasty work, but a summer out on the plains skinning buffalo gave a man a stake he could make a start on, and learn a few lessons about staying alive. Hell it could even be entertaining.

This one time, back in the years just after the big war, I was partnered up with an old timer name we all called Big Zwing. He wasn’t too bright, but he was a dead shot. He did this thing to greenhorns where he’d wait ‘til they were up to their butt in buffalo guts then he’d ride up wearing Injun war feathers and whooping it up like a war party on the sauce. It was the funniest thing. I swear these poor sons of bitches would think that Judgment Day was arriving early.

We had this young pup named Seymour Something or other, I don’t recall now. He was as blind as a bat and not real bright, but as keen as mustard. Ol’ Zwing came riding up whooping and hollering but Seymour was so occupied with the buffalo he never even heard him. The old boy was so close even someone as dumb as Seymour could see through his disguise so I yelled out, “My god! Seymour, here comes the whole Sioux nation! Where’s my rifle?”

Ol’ Seymour looked up sudden, his eyes like dinner plates, “Oh my God! It’s Pawnee Killer himself!”

The whole bunch of us were having a good old laugh expecting the dope the take off like a dog with a can tied to his tail but he just goes, “Don’t worry boys” and pulled a rusty old Paterson Colt from under his shirt and unloaded all five shots at Zwing, sending him and everyone else ducking for cover! Those were some days alright.

But this isn’t a story about the buffalo hunting days, it’s supposed to be about the duel I saw years ago in Medicine Lodge.

Like I said before, I had been shooting most of the spring and into the summer of 1873 and I was well pleased with myself. I had almost a thousand dollars in my saddle bags and all my hair when I left Dodge City. Summer was a bad time to be in towns like Ellsworth and Dodge City. Texas cowboys overran the towns and though they were mostly good boys, a man could hardly walk down the street without winding up in a brawl or a gunfight they were so rowdy by the end of a drive.

Medicine Lodge didn’t look like much of a town, mostly a rough conglomeration of tents and half built shacks in the middle of nowhere. That was okay with me, I was tired of avoiding the scuffles and gunplay in Dodge, and it was more or less on my way to the Indian Territories, where I intended to shoot a few more buffalo over the rest of the summer.

In the dusty strip that doubled as the main street, a rickety shed made of rough palings was draped with red, white and blue crepe.

“Got any mail to send Mister?” asked a grey bearded old fellow sitting on an equally rickety chair by the door.

I climbed off my horse, “Sorry old timer, I don’t know anyone who can read anyhow”.

This tickled him, he chuckled a little and shrugged his shoulders “You ain’t the only one mister” he shuffled toward the open door “Happy Independence Day anyways”.

“July Fourth huh? You got some fireworks lined up?” I enquired.

“Not me partner. You want pyrotechnics, Hardin’s Trading Post is as close to a saloon as you’ll find in these parts. That’s about the only place you’ll find any excitement around here.”

The trading post wasn’t hard to find, there were only a handful of buildings in town with roofs on top. I hitched my horse Rupert to a buckhorn rack hanging on the wall. I patted his neck, “Don’t go nowhere boy, I think these horns are holding the place up.”

It took my eyes a few minutes to get used to the dark inside the place, but my nose sure didn’t. The place reeked of stale tobacco smoke and sweat. The walls were hung with every kind of implement imaginable. Rusty jaw traps for the local Kiowa. They had been mostly peaceful since Custer and the Seventh Cavalry rode through the territories in ’69. Fur trapping was done with in the territories and now those poor savages used the traps to catch muskrats and the odd beaver to make up for the food that the government wasn’t providing.

A rusty plow, sat forlorn against open topped barrels of seed intended to be sold to farmers dumb enough to set up in Sioux country, “Never catch me trailing no damn plow” I thought aloud as I dragged my fingers though the seeds, letting it fall through my fingers onto the packed dirt floor.

A few rough tables sat further back. At one, a pair of rough looking cowboy types sat engaged in a high stakes game of dominoes, fingering their whiskery chins as they plotted their moves with the intensity of Caesar or Hannibal.

A bar stood at the back of the room. Well it was planks laid over barrels. Behind the bar was a smallish man. He had on a blue cowboy shirt with a short black tie. His hair was short and slicked down, his moustache was trimmed nice and neat. In this room he looked positively dapper. He wasn’t wearing a pistol, but I could see one in a holster that hung from a pair of antelope horns on the wall behind him. He was cleaning a glass with an old rag, though he seemed to be paying more attention to the game. As absent as he looked, I could see he’d been around the farmyard once or twice. His eyes were constantly moving, first the open door, then me, and then back to the door.

He noticed me looking his way, “Get you something mister?”

It sounded like a challenge.

“Whisky’ll do the trick sir” I answered, not wanting to start anything before a hunt.

He poured a shot and handed it to me “On the house, Happy Fourth of July.” He smiled without humour.

“Much obliged.” I took a sip, and when I didn’t go blind I sank the rest, “Little quiet around here ain’t it?”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at the doorway. A small man in dusty buckskins was standing in the bright light, taking in the room. He looked like a scout to me, the way he cradled his Winchester like an Indian. Eventually he looked our way.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“Never seen him before in my life” he eventually answered.

The stranger walked toward us warily. He looked me up and down as he placed his rifle on the bar.

“Howdy” I said, smiling. He ignored me, which was rude, but not worth starting a fight over, especially if I thought there might be more free drinks coming my way.

“Are you Hugh Anderson?” He was staring at the neat bartender.

“That depends on who’s doing the asking mister” the dapper little bartender said bluntly, his eyes darting to the Winchester on the bar and back to the face of the other man.

I started sidling away from the pair. I didn’t want to get in the way of any lead that might start flying, and to give myself some elbow room in case I needed to pull my own hogleg.

“Been lookin’ for you, Anderson .There’s a fellow outside by the name of McCloskey. Say’s you killed his brother up in Newton.”

“What about it?” The bartender Anderson was unmoved.

“He’s going to kill you. Says you can have the choice, pistol or knife, he don’t care which.”

Anderson casually wiped his hands on the cloth and dropped it on the rifle “Tell your man I’ll see him with pistols in ten minutes.”

The other fellow didn’t move, “What’s to stop you from skinning out the back door?”

“There ain’t any back door friend, not even a window. I’ll be out to attend to your friend directly” Anderson gestured to me, “This fellow here will ensure I don’t decamp.”

The stranger looked me up and down again “Who the hell are you?”

“Me? I’m just a hunter passing through. I got nothing at stake here.”

He picked up his rifle, “Alright then, ten minutes.” He turned and stalked out the door.

Anderson watched him go, and wiped his hands on the rag, “Ger. Deke.” He spoke quietly to the two gaping cowboys, “The bar is closed. I have a chore to attend to.”

“Be open again in a while maybe” he added as the two cowboys got up and left their game.

When they were gone, he took the gun belt from the antlers behind the bar and dropped it on the table, scattering dominoes onto the dirt floor. “There’s a bottle over in the corner.” He said to me, “fetch it and a couple of glasses would you?” He sat down at the table and turned over one of the wooden tiles in his fingers.

Never one to turn down a free drink, I did as he asked and sat down across the table from him. I poured two doubles and pushed one across the table to him. I’ve always been curious, so I asked, “So Hugh, if you don’t mind me calling you that, did you kill this other fellow’s brother?”

“I killed him alright.” Anderson pulled a Remington revolver out of the holster and thumbed the hammer to half cock, “He killed a pal of mine, Billy Bailey, so I put four slugs in him.”

He rotated the cylinder slowly, letting it click until he saw an empty chamber. “Son of a bitch’s friends shot me to pieces though. Got three slugs in my left leg. I’m lucky I still have it. Hell I’m lucky to still be alive I suppose.” I watched him put his fingers into his pocket. He fished out a forty four cartridge and pushed it into the empty chamber. He sat the pistol on the table top and fished a watch from the same pocket. He flicked it open “Time to go mister uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

I offered my hand, “Patchy Oates, pleased to make your acquaintance mister Anderson.”

“Likewise.” He shook my hand then downed the whisky, “Let’s go and see what happens next.”

He stood and buckled the gun belt around his waist, calm as you like. He picked up the revolver, let the hammer down gently and shoved it in to the holster at his left side so that the butt poked out forward. He smoothed his moustache and walked out the door without another word.

The sun was blazing when I stepped outside. Despite the wide brim of my hat, it took a little bit for me eyes to get used to the bright light. Anderson was relaxing in the shade, leaning on the hitching rail and smoking a cheroot as if he was doing nothing more than taking a casual stroll, “Go and see how he wants to go about this would you Patchy?”

Across the dusty street, sat the man who had just been inside with us. Sitting next to him on a barrel, was a giant of a man. He must have been six feet five and three hundred pounds. I certainly wouldn’t have tangled with him if I could help it. His dirty buckskin coat hung open and I could see a Navy Colt holstered on his hip.

When he saw me start walking across to them, the smaller man rose and came toward me. “My name is George Richards. How do you want to do this?” He asked, hands on hips.

“I am Patchy Oates. Hell I don’t know, I ain’t never done this before” I replied. “I did read once about how they used to stand back to back and pace out ten or twenty paces then turn and shoot at each other. What do you think about that?”

He thought about a moment then nodded, “I guess that’ll work okay. How will they know when to shoot?”

“Uhh, get that old coot over at the post office to fire a shot as a signal. He looks like he could use some excitement.”

“Alright then” he agreed “I’ll get him when I go back over, that ghoulish son of a bitch is running a book on this whole thing.”

When we shook hands, Richards leaned in close “My man over there is insisting that this affair is to the death.”

“Mister Anderson understands that” I said, still holding his hand in a death grip, hoping I wasn’t shaking too much. We parted and I walked back to Anderson who was still chewing on his cigar, unconcerned by matters of life and death.

“Well, what did you two decide on?” he asked nonchalantly.

“You’re to go back to back and step out twenty paces. The old boy from the post office will fire a shot as a signal to turn and fire.” I paused, “He is insisting that thing is to the death, no coming back.”

“That’s fine with me, one way or another it’s done with” He was completely unmoved.

He dropped the cigar on to the ground and ground it into the dust with his boot heel, “Let’s get this done then huh? The boys will be tearing the place down if they don’t get a drink soon.”

He strode out into sunlight.

A crowd was gathering in the street when we were met by our newly appointed referee, who gleefully repeated the arrangements while Anderson and McCloskey stood six feet apart, their eyes fixed on each other. The smaller Anderson stood relaxed with his thumbs hooked loosely in his gun belt, staring up into McCloskey’s face, giving nothing away.

McCloskey on the other hand, well he looked to me like he was going to have an apoplexy and miss the fight. His stubbly face was glowing red and looked about ready to burst. His fists were clenching and opening while his right hand was hovering closer to his Colt with every passing second. His bulging eyes never left Anderson’s face. I peered at Richards. He was holding McCloskey’s buckskin loosely in his right hand and watching things unfold. He looked as nervous as I felt.

The old postman pulled a giant horse pistol from his belt, “Alright, back to back men. When you hear my shot, start the fireworks” He was enjoying himself. When they turned, he started to count and the pair stepped off, a pace at each count.

“…Eighteen.”

“Nineteen.”

“Twenty.”

The growing crowd of spectators hushed. Both men stopped in their tracks, hands on revolver butts, breathing stilled, waiting.

I watched the old coot raise the big gun over his head and hold it there. I could hear my own heart beat in my ears, making my brain pulse in time. The duelists showed no sign of it though.

Just as it seemed to me like the old cuss was never going do it, the old horse pistol went off with a shower of sparks and a billowing cloud of grey smoke.

Both Anderson and McCloskey drew their pistols and fired as soon as they turned to face each other, the reports coming as one shot. For a second they stood staring at each other through the grey haze of gun smoke.

Though he was the bigger man, which usually means the slower man, McCloskie had a Navy Colt, converted to load .38 colt cartridges. It was a nimble little revolver and much faster in the hand than the .44 Remington Anderson had pointed at him. He quickly cocked the slender pistol and fired again.

Anderson gave a yelp and dropped to his knees in the dust. He pulled his left arm up close to his body, but I could see his sleeve was already soaked in bright red blood. It dribbled onto his trousers and pooled thickly in the dust.

McCloskey lowered his Colt a touch to see better through the smoke of his shot, satisfied that he had got his man.

Anderson looked up from his broken bleeding arm, his face already turning ashen grey. From where I stood, I could see beads of sweat on his pallid forehead. I think most of the crowd reckoned that the fight was over, but he had other ideas. He raised his Remington and fired a shot. The heavy slug smashed into McCloskey’s mouth sending a spray of bloody saliva and teeth into the air.

He reeled back a couple of steps and sagged a little like he was about to collapse. But he didn’t drop. To everyone’s astonishment he straightened up and spat out a gout of sticky looking blood and a few more teeth. He gave out a roar that was half man in anger and an animal in mortal pain then charged at Anderson, firing his Colt once.

Twice.

Three times

If Anderson was anywhere near as shocked as the rest of us looking on, he sure didn’t show it. He just held his broken arm close to his body, the blood gushing over his chest and belly, soaking him red. As the howling bloodied giant lumbered toward him, he raised his Remington and fired.

The slug hit McCloskey just above the left knee with a shattering crack, but the big man kept coming.

Anderson fired again.

This slug hit McCloskey in the belly, just about the belt buckle. He gave another guttural roar and slowed down to a staggering walk but still didn’t go down.

Grey faced and sweating, Anderson cocked his revolver once more and fired. This bullet hit McCloskey just under his left breast, with a spurt of rich bubbling blood. He fell to his knees, coughing more blood into his gory whiskers. Straining, he tried to rise again but could not. The big man gave an agonized groan and dropped on his face a half dozen yards from his wounded opponent, and laid there panting each gurgling breath into the blood drenched dirt.

The crowd suddenly came to life. Some of the men, the ones who had bet on Anderson, cheered and applauded, others looked like their dog had just died.

One woman, a middle aged ma’am, who looked as though she was out for a night at the Opera had fainted at the sound of the first shot. Everyone had been so riveted by the battle though, and no one had noticed her sprawled there with her plumed hat lying ignored in the dust like the disgraced offspring of an Ostrich and a drunken Peacock. Only now, a couple of the more genteel viewers were now shamefacedly fanning her face and trying to sneak peeks at the bloody wreckage to see if any new violence was taking place.

Money started changing hands among the spectators now and the old postmaster whose name I later learned was Lou Seifer stepped back into the arena. “Looks like we have a winner people. Our very own Hugh Anderson.”

Richards and I pushed past the gawkers. He went to McCloskey, and I rushed to Anderson. Now that the excitement was done with, a handful of onlookers were crowding in close to him. He waved them away, “Get away from me you damned vultures, wait ‘til I’m dead will you?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

He dropped his pistol and ripped his tie off. He was struggling to bind it around his bleeding arm with one shaking hand. I knelt down to help him, but he would have none of it, “Get away out of it Mr. Oates, this is my fight.” He twisted the tie which was already soaked through.

The crowd, which was bubbling with excitement suddenly gasped and fell silent making the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand on end. I spun around to find McCloskey had forced himself to his knees, his revolver aimed in our direction.

“MWAAFHKER” he bellowed through a mouthful of bloody phlegm and fired his revolver.

The bullet hit Anderson in the belly with a wet slap. He gave a groan and fell over onto his back, where he laid staring at the sky, his body heaving and leaking thick dark blood.

McCloskey was still kneeling there, a few yards away. He aimed his Colt and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“SHWAAT” he growled and threw the revolver into the crowd. He spat out some more blood then reached behind his back pulling out a huge Bowie knife. Then, agonizingly, he began to drag himself toward the immobile Anderson.

Richards had had enough though and stepped in front of McCloskey, barring his way. I stepped in front of Anderson, “Enough” I yelled, “This is over.”

There were disappointed murmurs in the crowd, and the impish little postmaster pushed his way into the gap between us, “This affair is to the death. You all agreed.”

He had that giant horse pistol in his clawlike hand and my own hand fell to the butt of my own revolver, “A deal is a deal” he hissed.

I glanced at Richards, I knew he hated to admit it as much as I did but the old goat was right. I turned to Anderson and was surprised to find him sitting up, drawing a dagger from the top of his boot.

He forced himself to his knees, grimacing and sweating, “Stand aside Mr. Oates, let us finish this thing one way or another”. His eyes were the only part of him that weren’t bleeding to death. I got out of the way.

Together Richards and I stood, and watched, mute with shame. The devilish old codger skipped back, belying his age, “Go to it boys” he shouted.

The two mangled fighters inched their gory way to each other, panting and moaning with every inch. Anderson’s belly shot had done more to him than any of the holes he had put in McCloskey, and the bigger man had more fight left in him when the two finally met.

He gave an animal growl and launched himself at Anderson, knocking the smaller man onto his back.

They landed together with yelps of stricken predators. They wrestled as best they could until McCloskey was able to get his big bowie knife in behind Anderson’s crippled arm. I heard a rib crack as he jammed the blade into Anderson’s side until the brass knuckle guard pushed into the bubbling wound.

Anderson gave a howl of enraged pain. He thrashed and rolled his body, trying to pull away from the steel blade, but McCloskey was not letting go. Bright red blood bubbled from the wound, over the bigger mans arms and onto the dirt.

With his last ounce of strength, Anderson rolled his body onto his wounded side, pinning McCloskey’s arm, driving the huge knife deeper into his lungs. He pulled his own right hand around and with all his force drove the dagger into the bigger man’s neck. McCloskey gave a scream which was drowned by the blood which immediately gushed into his throat and out the wreckage of his mouth.

They struggled like this for an eternity, grappling, worrying each others wounds with their blades, groaning, bleeding and wasting their breath with spitting curses.

The old man stood only a few feet away now, enjoying the spectacle, oblivious to the bloodied mud clinging to his scuffed shoes. From the corner of his eye, he saw me staring. He flashed a toothy grin my way, then chilled my blood with a sly wink before turning back to the squirming bleeding mass on the ground in front of him.

McCloskey suddenly arched his back and began to shiver violently, his head swaying back and forth, spraying blood from his ruined mouth. Spectators who had pushed closer for a better view of the gory climax tried vainly to avoid a good spattering of the sticky mess.

Soon enough though, the big man gave in. “Mwaatherrr” he gurgled then slumped down on top of Anderson.

“It’s over” I yelled at the top of my lungs “He’s dead”.

I pushed McCloskey’s dead weight off Anderson, who was painted entirely in both men’s blood. He gulped shallow gurgling breaths and tried to speak. I dropped to my knees beside him, ignoring the bloody mess sticking to my legs. He spat bubbly red blood and whispered, “Oates, tell them I never backed down and died game.”

He grasped at my hand with his own, but it was slick with blood and he lost his grip as he sank back. He coughed twice and dragged a long ragged breath, then was still.

I stood, dazed and walked unsteadily into the trading post. In the darkness there, I took the bottle Anderson and I had shared earlier and took a long draft. It burned like liquid fire, searing the taste of blood from my throat. Gratefully, I took another drink and sank into one of the rough chairs and closed my eyes. I heard footsteps behind me.

“I don’t want to see nothin’ like that ever again” said Richards as he slumped into the chair opposite me. I pushed the bottle at him and he took several long swallows.

“I am going to bury him and get the hell out of this cesspit” I said to nobody in particular. I was suddenly very tired.

Richards nodded slowly. “Mind if I join you? I guess it is kind of our job to do.”

“Let’s get it done then.”

We rose and grabbed spades from the wall of the trading post. The old man at the counter started to protest, but backed away when I raised the shovel in his direction.

A Freighter loaned us his rig, and helped us load the two dead men. Without a word we drove out to the small patch of dry weeds that served as a cemetery, followed by several skinny hound dogs. I took us four hours to dig holes in the rock hard ground big enough for the bodies.

We splashed water over the tray of the cart, washing most of the sticky dark blood from the wood before returning it to the grizzled freighter. Together, Richards and I pushed our way into the dark of the trading post and helped ourselves to several bottles of the better looking whiskey. The old man behind the counter started to protest about robbery, but I pointed a gloved finger at his ruddy face.

“You just paid to see two men die bloody. You can pay for the damn rotgut you old cud.” It shut him up better than any pistol could have.

There were very few people on the street when we stepped out into the glare. The few of them who had business to attend to in public were quiet and sullen now, refusing to even acknowledge us as we mounted and rode slowly down Main Street.

With the exception of one person, that is.

The grey haired old man stood proudly in the doorway of his post office. As we passed, I gave him my best glare. He returned it with a smug smile, “Happy Fourth of July gentlemen, hope you enjoyed the fireworks.”