You Can't Hang a Dead Man

Griff dug his heels into the sides of his Appaloosa, sucking in sweat and dust with every breath as he drove his steed forward at a hellish gait. As soon as the eruption of gunfire behind him began, Griff knew there was no use looking back to check on Howie.

That damned fool had blown the bank job back in Boulder City.  There was no reason to shoot the teller—the aging dotard could hardly see beyond the bars in front of the counter—but Howie swore he saw him reaching for a shotgun.  What was supposed to be a quiet robbery heated up quickly after that, and now here they were, riding for their lives across some dusty plain with a posse after them and only a handful of gold coins to show for their endeavor.

Now Howie had fallen behind, and Griff prayed that whatever bullet had bitten his accomplice spared him the inevitable hangman’s noose.  Hopefully Howie’s demise would slow Griff’s pursuers long enough that he could lose them in Rattlesnake Canyon.

Griff flinched at the strike of a well-aimed bullet; the crack of the offending distant rifle coming after the bullet struck.  Griff sunk his teeth into his lower lip, anticipating the pain.  He was pulling farther away from the posse, but that wouldn’t mean jack if he was bleeding out.  He hastily checked himself.  No holes, no blood.  Maybe he had only imagined the impact.

Then he heard the cascade of clinking close to his left, and looked down just in time to see the last of his spoils spill out of his saddle bag.  The bullet had found its mark after all, hitting home harder than any shot to the heart could have.

Griff swore but there was no time to stop.  He pushed on towards the canyon, leaving a glittering trail of gold in the dirt behind him.

The torn, filthy shape of humanity that used to be Griff Corman stumbled into the dimly lit saloon.

For two days he’d hidden in the labyrinthine walls of Rattlesnake Canyon, listening to the posse fruitlessly search for him.  On the third day his horse succumbed to thirst, and that night—after choking down a few slabs of raw horse meat—Griff risked leaving the safety of the canyon’s refuge, putting as much distance between himself and Boulder City as he could.

Two more days in the scorching sun, without any water or even dried horse leather to swallow, the last few bullets in his revolver starting to look a little more palatable, and now here he was, in some little town swallowed up by the sands.  A dirty, quaint settlement so worn down that he wouldn’t have been able to read the sign at the city limits even if it wasn’t dark.

He could feel every eye in that saloon studying his ragged, crusted clothes, his beard was now caked in dirt in addition to being wildly unkempt, but he kept the fire in his eyes alive.

Pulling himself up as much as he could, he stiffly strode to the bar.

“Water,” he croaked.

The bartender had barely placed the glass on the counter before its contents disappeared between Griff’s cracked lips.  Shuddering with pleasure at the sensation of cold liquid running down his throat, Griff demanded another, along with some grub.

One custard pie, a stack of cold cuts, and three more glasses of water later, Griff contentedly leaned back on the barstool with his eyes closed.  When he opened them, he surveyed his surroundings a little more thoroughly.  Their curiosity at the stranger’s entrance satisfied, the other men in the saloon had returned their attention to their drinks and conversations.  At one table a gangly spider of a man with a stringy mustache chatted away with a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat, consumed by a cloud of cigar smoke  At another table was a tipsy rotund doctor waxing on about his grisly medical achievements to a group of disinterested miners.  A notice above the bar advertised rooms to let upstairs.  Griff motioned towards the sign.

“You got a room available?”

The bartender flipped the glass he was cleaning with a flourish before placing it rim-down under the counter.

“If you’ve got the coin, I’ve got the room, though there’s still the matter of your meal to settle, and I don’t give credit to strangers, stranger.”

Griff cracked a smile, “Well my name is Hank Wallace, so we’re no longer strangers, and as to payment, I was bushwhacked on the road four days ago.  Left me horseless, friendless, and penniless.  Since I’m in no hurry to leave…whatever town this is, I was hoping I could work off my tab until I’m in a better condition to hit the road.”

The bartender frowned, leaning back against the rows of bottles and giving Griff a long hard look.

“You’re in the illustrious mining town of Craggily Creek.  Where were you headed when you were beset upon?”

Lying came as naturally to Griff as breathing, “Hadn’t settled on a destination.  I was headed East hoping to join up with some drovers or a ranch that would take me in.  Honestly, I left some bad blood behind me and I’m looking to make a fresh start of it.  Never tried mining before."

The bartender poured himself a drink.

“And I’m sorry to say you’ll remain ignorant of mining while you’re here.  The mines aren’t exactly what you’d call flowing right now, and this town tends to only take care of its own.”

He swallowed his drink then gave Griff another look up and down.

“I’ll tell you what, though.  The girl who tends the rooms here got pregnant a few months ago, and I wouldn't mind keeping her off her feet until you're back on yours.  It isn’t what you’d call hard work, but you’d get free meals until you can find more solid–”

A knotted hand, knuckles crusted over with calluses, slammed itself on the bar, while its owner boomed out deeply, “This fella say he can’t pay his bill, Sam?”

The bartender stiffened as the man who had been conversing with the stringy-mustached gentleman towered over the counter.  His eyes glowed in the light of the cigar clenched between his teeth, and his wide-brimmed hat overshadowed most of his face.

The bartender shakily answered him, “I was just…offering this gentleman a job, Clint.  A chance to pay off his–”

“Who are you?”

Ignoring the bartender, the dark mountain of smoke and tanned hides loomed over Griff.  Drained, Griff had no energy or inclination for a confrontation.  Who was this oaf?  News of the robbery couldn’t have made it to this forgotten outpost of humanity already, could it?  Griff’s profession as a bank robber had brought him some little semblance of notoriety, it’s true, but he’d been careful.  Nobody knew what he looked like even if word had spread about the botched job.

Unless the bullet that caught Howie hadn’t silenced him.

Griff casually let his hand drop from the counter, giving himself quicker access to his firearm.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think we’ve been introduced, stranger.  I was just having a friendly conversation with my friend Sam here.”

The mountain grimly sneered, his coarse lips adjusting the cigar.

“You said you lost your horse to highwaymen?  That’s funny, because we’re a long ways from any highway.  How’d you get out here on foot?”

His eyes bored holes through Griff while he crushed what was left of his cigar on the counter.  Griff kept his composure but inwardly trembled.  What were the odds that he’d run into a blasted bounty hunter out here in the middle of nowhere?

“I wasn’t on the highway, thought I’d cut across country.  Must have been followed.”

“Quite a coincidence,” he pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket and crammed it into his mouth, “you stumbling upon the only forgotten little mining town this side of the state.  I think your real motives might be a little more enterprising than you let on.”

If only the man would reach for his piece first, giving Griff an excuse to let his revolver finish the conversation.  Griff managed a cocky smile.

“I think all that smoke is clouding your brain, mister.  Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air?”

The sneer disappeared into a scowl.  Griff noted the embers in those eyes and stiffened for action.

“Why you stinking–”

Griff didn’t wait to find out whether the stranger was reaching for his gun or a match, that slight movement was all the excuse he needed to move into action.  Up came his revolver, the barrel going off as soon as it was level with the stranger’s heart.  Two shots.  The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder.  The snarling mass of humanity tumbled from the bar with the grace of an avalanche.

Before the body hit the floor, Griff had already wheeled around to face the other patrons.  There were six…maybe seven people left in the bar.  All of them were on their feet, still processing the sudden violence.  The man with the stringy mustache reached for his gun.

Griff made a display of his revolver, aiming it straight between the man’s eyes.

“I’ve got no quarrel with any of you here, but this gentleman,” He kicked the stranger’s still-smoking carcass, “made a play for me first.  Sam here can attest to that.  So I suggest we all sit down calmly until the law can settle this.”

The man with the stringy mustache worked his jaw in livid tension, his hand frozen halfway to his gun.  He shifted his eyes to survey the spectators, who were wondering what his next play would be.  After the longest 20 seconds of Griff’s life, the man dropped his hand and charged out of the saloon.

Coolly holstering his piece, Griff turned back to the bartender.

“You saw how that guy was making a play for me, right Sam?  You can vouch for me to the sheriff when he arrives?”

Sam casually stepped out from behind the bar and opened the body’s weather-beaten jacket with his shoe.

“I suppose the sheriff is already here, Mr. Wallace.”

Griff felt his stomach flip when he saw the star on the body’s vest.  He was a dead man.  No longer did he have to worry about Johnny Law stringing him up, this town would do the job for him when word got around who this wandering vagabond gunned down in cold blood.  Maybe it wasn’t too late to run for it.  Griff’s eyes wildly flew round the room in a panic.  Nobody knew he had used his last two bullets on the cigar-chomping sheriff, maybe he’d be able to bluff his way out of this saloon.  If he was lucky, he could swipe a horse from the local stable and make it out to the next town before they–

He wheeled around at the touch of a gentle hand on his shoulder.  The tipsy doctor stepped back to give Griff room.

“Now son, don’t let your imagination run away with you.  This situation might not be as dire as I’m sure you’re thinking it is…then again maybe it is, in another fashion.”

Sam the bartender slid Griff a dark drink, “On the house, kid.  You’re gonna need it.”

Griff didn’t let his defenses down, but he listened to the doctor.

“Now that miserable mass of humanity,” the doctor motioned to the sheriff, “was Clint Flintlock.  Does the name mean anything to you?”

Griff nodded.  He knew the name, and the endless list of dead and ravaged innocents that went along with it.

The doctor continued, “Clint and his gang have been holed up in this town for a few months now.  I guess you could say he’s been holding the town hostage, posturing as sheriff while demanding we give him the rocks from our mine.  Most of us are handier with a pickaxe than a firearm, so we really had no choice.”

The doctor nervously mopped his brow, “We’ve been praying that somebody would come along who could cut this cancer out of our town, and sonny, you’ve done just that.  I’m sure we’re all grateful.”

A scoff rang out from somewhere in the back of the saloon, “Grateful?!  The Clint Boys will burn the town to the dirt!  Doc, you know damn well that was Clint’s brother who stormed out of here, and when he returns he won’t be in a forgiving mood!  If we turn Mr. Wallace here over, maybe they’ll show mercy on the rest of us.”

“Now Morgan, you know as well as I do that those boys don’t know how to even spell the word reason!” the doctor turned back to Griff, “Besides, tonight they’re off in Marigold drinking and carousing and doing God knows what else.  So they can’t be here sooner than a couple hours, and when they do, most of them will likely be riding half out of the saddle anyway.  My advice to you, Mr. Wallace, is to hightail it out of here as fast as you can, this is our problem and we’ll clean it up.  Isn’t that right, Morgan?”

Morgan reluctantly grunted in agreement.

Griff still stood stiffly alert, processing this situation.  He suddenly felt how tired he was.  For years he’d been running from the law, bounty hunters, and other outlaws.  Now beaten, burnt, and penniless, he had to run again.

Sam the bartender leaned in, “Take my horse.  We’ll be alright.  This has been a long time coming.  It’s about damn time somebody lit the fuse, if you ask me.  We’ll take the women and children out to hide in the mines while the menfolk hold down the town.  Clint’s men only count for what…fifteen?  Twenty guns?”

The other men in the bar nodded.

“Doc, throw a grub-sack together for Mr. Wallace here and meet us at the stables.”

He pulled Griff up and led him out the front of the saloon.  Griff walked as if in a daze.  Why didn’t they just turn him in?  Why risk their necks for some raggedy vagabond who came into town and started a war?  Already the word was out and the town was waking up, families hurriedly packing and the men putting up boards to fortify the windows as best they could.  There couldn’t be more than twenty families in the whole town, against what?  Twenty ruthless killers?

No sooner had they reached the stables than Sam trotted out a beautiful brown, spotted mare.  Griff felt himself being hoisted up.  Doc ran up and shoved a bag behind the saddle while saying something about some steaks, carrots, and water.  Across the street, Griff could see some of the men leading the families out of town, sleepy children dragging their dolls, and worried wives embracing their husbands before leaving.

Suddenly he felt Sam’s hands—surprisingly hardened for a bartender—place a small wooden box in his.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Wallace?  Just go straight East and you’ll hit Rock Hollow in about two days.  It’s a big town, nobody will bother you there.”

Griff looked down at the box: extra bullets.  Sam smiled.

“Begging your pardon, but I know enough about guns to see you were a little light on ammo.  This is just in case Clint’s men catch wind of your trail and catch up to you.  Now, get!”

Still Griff hesitated, but Sam slapped the horse’s rump, sending it away from the city limits.

“Don’t worry about us, Mr. Wallace!  We’ll take care of our own!  Godspeed!”

Griff gripped the reins decisively and urged the mare forward.  More assuredly he built up speed to a full  gallop.  He pushed the town behind him.  The poor saps had no idea they just helped a dead man outrun the noose for another day.  Those folks knew as much about gunfighting as he knew about mining, yet they helped a stranger even after he pulled out his loud-mouthed gun and started a bloody skirmish they couldn’t possibly win.  Why?

He pulled up on the reins a bit and glanced back.  He was a couple miles away now, but he could still see the town, the men running around it like ants.

Ahead of him the sun peaked up from behind the rocks, a loop of fire beckoning him on to run another day.  To his right he could already see Clint’s men on the horizon, kicking up dust on their vengeful ride to Craggily Creek.

He looked down to the box of bullets Sam had left him, then turned his horse and flew on course to cut off Clint’s boys before they reached the town.  Maybe they wouldn’t listen to reason, maybe he didn’t have enough bullets, maybe he was being a fool.  Maybe, but right now he had a tab to pay off.

“You get any strangers in here the past week?”

The marshal slapped a crudely drawn mugshot on the bar.  Sam stopped wiping the counter long enough to glance it over.

“We had one fella breeze through here a few days ago.  Took off that same night.”

“You happen to catch where he was headed?”

The bartender leaned back for a moment, thinking, “Can’t say that I did.  He disappeared almost as soon as he arrived."

The marshal drained his coffee and replaced his hat.

“Well, no sense wasting your time.  If you think of anything–”

“You have room for a stiff?  I've got Clint Flintlock on ice.  Been hoping to pawn him off on the first person going to Marigold."

The marshal straightened, "You've got Flintlock here?  Dead?!  How?"

Sam nodded to the mug shot, "Your stranger won a mortal disagreement with Mr. Flintlock.  Stepped out shortly after, and we haven't heard from him or Clint's gang since."

He smiled, "If you happen to catch up with him, Marshal, be sure to tell him his credit is always good here."