LITMIR.BIZ

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they crossed the line, but the way he had met his end changed all that. He was scouting for rustlers, and a couple of two-bit thieves dressed as priests got the drop on him. They gut-shot him and stole his horse and guns, leaving him to die in the woods. It wasn’t the bullet wound that did him in, though. They only shot him with a .22, but the pain kept him from walking. Couldn’t even crawl to a creek for water. He went four days without anything to eat or drink. He was so parched his tongue blew up as big as a bullfrog’s, and he began seeing things that weren’t there. Reckoned it best to end his suffering while he could still think clearly. Didn’t have no knife, so he widened his wound with his fingertips, trying to bleed out faster. Eventually his heart gave out. After he arrived in Damnation, the stretched-out bullet hole in his belly didn’t mend properly, so bits of food and whiskey sometimes leaked out when he laughed. He claimed the spillage was the reason why he was always so damn hungry and thirsty.

      Jeremiah wasn’t officially appointed sheriff of Damnation. He just happened to be wearing a star when he died. Then he shot a mess of people right away, so folks quickly deferred to him. His suspicious nature wasn’t helped any by having been gunned down by phony clergymen. He didn’t like to go at anyone head-on who hadn’t been tested. He preferred to see them show their stuff against someone else first.

      Even someone as scrawny as Jack needed to be tested, and Jeremiah watched him closely as the boys bullied him. It gave them no small joy to hear the kid squeal. Just a few hours after he arrived, a Comanchero who had only been in town a couple of weeks stepped to Jack. He was a half-Mexican bandito who had made his living by stealing goods and livestock from gringos and trading them with Indians. His occupation had cost him an eye at some point, and he wore a black patch over the empty socket. The crosshatch scars on his cheeks and forearms attested to the many knife fights he’d managed to survive. He still had a sneaky way about him, always lurking in the shadows, ready to slit a throat. Now, he stared Jack down with the one good eye.

      “My boots could use a shine, boy,” he announced. Jack looked around the room, hoping someone’d laugh to let him know it was just a joke, but nobody said a word. “Well, don’t just stand there,” the Comanchero yelled. “Get down and give ’em a shine!” Jack slowly bent before the dirty boots. They were covered in blood and shit and dribbles of piss, then caked in so much dust you couldn’t tell what color they were.

      “Give ’em a spit shine!” the Comanchero ordered. Jack’s eyes grew tearful. He puckered his mouth to offer a gob of spit, and sure enough the boot crashed into his face. The whole room erupted in laughter. Jack rolled over on the floor, moaning and wishing he’d never died. A ribbon of blood leaked from his lip over his chin.

      Jeremiah had been keeping a keen eye on the Comanchero ever since he’d arrived. Didn’t trust a man who traded with Indians. The one-eyed bandito had already knifed a couple of fellas over card games. Nobody’d seen him shoot yet though, so there was no way of knowing how fast he was. He carried a greased Schofield revolver, which split in the middle so you could load all six chambers at once instead of one at a time, like the older Colts. It was a soldier’s weapon, good for extended battle, but he seemed to prefer slashing throats by surprise. Jeremiah reckoned this would be a good chance to find out if his pistol work was as worrisome as his knife play.

      “You don’t gotta take no more ribbing today,” Jeremiah told the boy as he tended to his lip. “Long as you outdraw somebody. And since Cyclops here is so keen on you, might as well be him. Winner gets free drinks and grub for the rest of the day.”

      The Comanchero glared at Jeremiah, but it was difficult for him to express himself properly with just the one eye. “In the land of the blind,” he said solemnly, “the one-eyed man is king.” Then he turned and headed outside.

      “Well, shit… Good thing we ain’t all blind!” Jeremiah laughed and shoved Jack toward the door.

      Mostly out of boredom, ten or fifteen men wandered out in front of the saloon. The sky was always an ashen yellow, no brighter than dusk. The clouds never lifted but streaks of orange and violet broke through in spots. It was pretty, only it never changed. I reckoned the living were so keen on sunsets because they didn’t last. Even the prettiest lady in the world would get tiresome if you were stuck staring at her for eternity—especially if there was no chance of giving her a poke.

      Most of the fellas didn’t consider the gunfight worth vacating a stool, particularly if you had a good one near the fire. Most newbies didn’t last their first week, and a skinny teenager like Jack didn’t inspire any wagering. As a matter of duty, I went out to document his getting sent to hell. They stood in the center of the road as we lined the rotted-out boardwalk. Sal handed Jack an old Colt and a single bullet. The weight of the gun nearly caused him to drop it.

      “Is that all I get?” Jack’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Just one bullet!”

      “Jeremiah don’t want you gettin’ no ideas. This way, if you take a shot at him, one of his men’ll get you for sure.”

      “But what if I miss?” It was a fair question. The scared hand of the newbie could easily empty a six-shooter before hitting his target.

      “Then I suppose the half-breed can take his sweet time returning fire,” Sal answered.

      They lined up back to back. Jack’s head didn’t reach the Comanchero’s shoulder blade. On Jeremiah’s mark, they each began marching in opposite directions. At the count of ten, they both turned. Jack’s slight frame made him more nimble. His hips swiveled squarely in place, slightly ahead of the bandito’s. He proved to have naturally quick hands, although they trembled with the weight of the giant Colt. His itty-bitty finger struggled to squeeze the rusty trigger. The bandito caught up with the steady arm of a practiced killer. The missing eye was a big disadvantage. He had to wait until he was fully turned around to take proper aim. Jack managed to get off a lucky shot, but it only winged the bandito’s right arm. As he gripped the wound, tar-black blood spilled between his fingers, and the gun slipped from his hand.

      They both looked at each other for a cold second. With no bullets left, Jack had two choices: stand there and wait to die or attack with everything he had. The little fella let out a blood-curdling shriek, then charged. The bandito debated for a split second whether he should pick up his gun with his left hand or pull the knife from his belt. Neither were necessary. He could have just knocked the kid down and stomped on him, but the moment of indecision cost him. Jack closed the distance between them and was on him like a saddle sore. Still hollering like a loon, he swung a wide haymaker with the rusty Colt clenched in his fist, braining the bandito above his ear. The edge of the cylinder ripped out a silver dollar-sized chunk of scalp. The Comanchero’s eye stilled after the blow. Tears were running down Jack’s cheeks. He was only seventeen and had never murdered anyone before—let alone a dead man.

      Those who hadn’t bothered to come outside and watch the fight would hear the retelling of it for months afterward. The skinny teenager kept smashing the bandit’s skull, fearing that if he let up for even a second, he’d be done for. First, the left ear shredded, then the flesh from neck to forehead scraped off. Hairy clumps of scalp clung to the gun barrel like leaves on a rake. Jack sobbed with one swing, then screamed with the next. Some of the noises didn’t even sound human, more like a coyote’s yelp. When he finally tired, there was no more casing left to hold the brains together. A dark porridge spilled onto the ground like chuck-wagon stew. Jack collapsed on the body and lay there twitching and panting in exhaustion. When they pulled him off, he was as bloody as the bandito. He went back in the saloon and sat in the corner, still shaking as he nursed a beer. Sal gave him a couple of pork chops, and he wolfed them down hungrily. Everyone left him in peace for the rest of the day.

      The next morning, Jack skulked into the saloon at breakfast time with dried blood still on his cheeks and hands. He looked like an Indian in war paint. Since he’d proven himself the day before, he wasn’t expecting any trouble—at least not before he ate.

      “You only earned a pass for one day, kid,” Jeremiah announced. One of his men handed the boy the same rusty blood-stained Colt with a single bullet already in the chamber.

      “Any volunteers to draw against this hayseed?

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