Writing for Fun
Dressing To Kill - Peter Rogers
May 2014
Matt Weston placed his black Stetson firmly on his head and tied his gun-belt with its twin pearl-handled Colt 45s around his waist. He was literally dressing to kill.
Around a year ago, while he was away on business in Chicago, a bunch of rustlers had raided his ranch and taken off most of his herd of cattle. They had also killed Matt's brother, Cal, in the process. It had taken him the best part of a year to track down the leader of the rustlers, acting on information he had managed to glean. The gang was well known, though after the raid they had split up. But at last Matt had picked up the leader's trail after plying a saddle tramp who knew him well with enough whisky to keep him happy and talkative without making him too drunk.
He settled his chestnut mare and, leaving what was left of the herd, in the care of his top hand, who had survived the rustlers' raid, set out on what was to be a very long journey.
In six days he reached the West Texas town of El Paso, a notorious halfway-house for those who wanted a quick exit across the Mexican border.
After bedding down his mare at the livery stable and washing the trail dust off him, Matt made his way to the Lucky Dime saloon. There, amidst the gaudily dressed dancing girls and the smell of booze and tobacco, his eyes rested on what he'd come there for – the poker tables.
Pretty soon he was immersed in a game with a city slicker, another guy who looked like he was a prosperous rancher and a swarthy looking gent with restless eyes and, like M att, a gun-belt buckled round his waist. Three or four hands went by with nothing of any note happening, no great wins or losses.
Then came the fatal hand.
The city slicker, despite his sophisticated appearance, was no great card player and folded fairly soon. The rancher too backed out shortly after. Thus it was just Matt and the dark stranger, Clem Baxter, left in.
'Looks like it's jest me and you left, mister,' said Matt, after what seemed like an eternity.
'That's the way it is, friend,' said the other, coldly. 'Are you putting up or shutting up? Cost you $20 to stay in or you can fold here and now. Or,' he added provocatively, 'You can always raise me.'
'Nope,' said Matt, ignoring the stranger's unfriendly manner, 'I reckon I'll see you.'
'I got aces and eights, friend,' leered Baxter.
'Beats my three kings,' sighed Matt.
'Say, that's real bad luck, son,' said the rancher.
'Well, mister, I don't know that you can rightly call it bad luck as such,' said Matt enigmatically.
'How do you mean?' asked the rancher.
'Well, how can you call it bad luck when someone deals from the bottom of the deck?'
Matt's statement was greeted first with a stunned silence at the table, which amazingly spread throughout the whole saloon despite the raucous din of a moment ago. Then it was followed by the scraping of chairs as the rancher and the slicker moved away from the table.
'Are you inferring I dealt myself a pat hand, Jones?' snarled Baxter.
'No, I ain't inferring it, Baxter. I'm telling you. You bin letting us win a hand here and there to make us think we maybe had a chance against you, then you dealt yourself a nearly unbeatable hand so you could take us to the cleaners.'
'I think mebbe you and I had better step outside, friend. Don't want any of these nice folks getting hurt by any stray bullets, do we?'
'Be glad to, though I ain't no friend of yours, that's for sure,' replied Matt.
'Oh, incidentally,' he continued as they made their way through the batwing doors, 'the name's not Jones, it's Weston. I own a spread near Little Fall, the Lazy W. I believe you passed through it about a year back. And your name ain't Baxter is it, it's Kennedy?'
The rustler went pale behind his swarthy complexion. He knew now that the accusation of cheating had just been a ruse to provoke a gunfight. He swallowed uncomfortably; he wasn't accustomed to gunning someone down face to face, his shooting was generally done from behind.
The whole of the saloon followed the pair out onto the long dust street. A few moments later Matt and Kennedy faced each other from opposite ends of the street, their hands hovering over their holsters.
Kennedy noticed his hands were sweating and shaking. Suddenly the saloon keeper, their chosen umpire, shouted, 'Draw!'
Both guns spat flame instantly, but amidst the smoke it was seen that it was Kennedy's body that hit the earth with a thud. In the silence that ensued, Matt holstered his gun and murmured simply, 'That's for Cal.'