Someone had gotten the old man talking about the old west again. It didn’t take much to get him started. Just buy him a drink to get his tongue oiled up and away he’d go.
Today, someone had asked him about outlaws.
It was in a bar down by the harbor. Nothing fancy. Just a no-nonsense working-man’s place. A lot of the listeners at the table with him were dock workers of merchantmen just off ships waiting for a new berth, with time to kill and a thirst to slake Likely all of them had tales of their own to tell about ports they’d visited, bars they’d drunk in or women they’d bedded, or wished they had. Plus, it was 1958 and there were plenty of other things to talk about right here at home: the launch of Sputnik the previous fall, the racial problems down south and more, but those were real things and well-told tales of the old west, real or as made up as a harlot, always won the ears of drinkers.
The old man seemed to know what he was talking about. He’d let everyone know his name was Swann and claimed to be ninety-three, born on April 9, 1865, the final day of the last year of America’s bloody civil war. That part, at least the ninety-three part, was believable. He had more wrinkles than one of those little fat Chinese dogs and time–worn hands that shook a little before he took that first sip of whiskey. He’d also reached the age where the concept of zippers and buttons confounded him. He always dressed well enough, but never completely. Today, it was the unbuttoned middle of his shirt that gaped open under his black jacket to expose a hairy paunch.
“Most all of ‘em made some excuse for what they did,” he was saying. “Truth is, they was just plain mean as stepped-on rattlesnakes. John Wesley Hardin killed his first man at fourteen and swore it was self-defense, then he went on and killed two dozen more. William Brocius killed his first because he said the fool interrupted his poker game. Elliot Preacher shot two men to death when he was twelve because he said they insulted his sister. Billy Pettigrew killed his own pa when he was fifteen and blamed pigs.”
“Pigs?” One of his listeners said. “What the hell did a pig ever do to him?”
Swann fixed him with one squinted eye. “I said pigs. What it was is, he was from up in Tennessee where they grow a lot a pork chops and bacon. His old man kept a mess of pigs, made Billy work with ‘em, slopping and cleanin’ up the mess they made. Well, he come to hate it. I reckon anyone would. Damn things taste okay but stink like a backed-up shit house. Anyway, sick of it as he was and mad at his pa for makin’ him do all the shit work, one day Billy took his old man’s shotgun and blew him into pieces the pigs loved. That commenced a career of killing folks he was mad at for no good reason other than they got in the way of whatever he wanted at the time.”
“Don’t recollect ever hearing about this Pettigrew,” another listener tossed in. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Well now,” Swann said, “that’s an interesting story.” His glass was empty and he sort of nudged it with one finger and looked at the expectant faces around the table, just as innocent as a schoolboy who had no idea his homework, that he hadn’t bothered to do, needed handing in.
The men got the idea and signaled the barkeep for another whiskey.
Swann, eyes glued on his glass, watched the barkeep fill it, as expectant as a man pacing the hallway of a maternity ward, waiting for his wife to deliver. When the last drop arrived, he took it like the hand of a dear friend, sipped, smacked his lips and smiled.
“That’s the ticket,” he said and began again. “You see, Billy didn’t look much like a bad man, more like a bad boy. He was slender-built, but solid, with a round-open face, blue eyes and raven-black hair, a lock of which always fell over his forehead, careless-like in a way that made women want to fix it. A good-looking bad boy and you know how some women just can’t resist bad boys.
“Oh, they knew he’d killed men. They knew he gambled and had a fondles for holding up stagecoaches. That didn’t make no never mind. There was always speculation as to which married woman was sneakin’ behind her husband’s back this week to bounce on Billy’s bed.
“It was always the married kind that Billy went for. Like he said, a married woman knows what she wants and knows what to do when she gets it. Single gals need too much teachin’ and besides, If they’re half-way pretty, their fathers watch ‘em too close.
“The sad fact is, a married man gets to trusting his wife and sometimes forgets to pay attention, so she puts her marriage vows in a kitchen drawer for a while, sheds her petticoats and drawers and goes lookin’ for a someone to ease her disappointment.
“So it was married women Billy tallied up on his bed posts, adding their bodies like the notches on his pistol.
“You’re going to tell us he fucked himself to death,” some wag threw in. “That’s not a bad way to go.”
The old man looked down at the table as the men chuckled. When he looked up, he hesitated, as if not sure he wanted to continue. Like maybe he’d, gotten carried away and gone a little further than he’d intended. Then he kind of nodded to himself and went on.
“In a way,” he said, “that’s exactly what he did. See Billy had found himself a new woman, a woman married to a young Oklahoma deputy sheriff. One day when they both figured the young deputy was out of town, escorting a captured deserter back to Fort Reno, Billy got the woman into bed. What they didn’t know is the deputy hadn’t left. He came home and caught Billy rutting between his wife’s legs.
“He hesitated no more than the time it took to draw his pistol and shoot both of them dead. He left them there, got on his horse and rode north. They never caught him.”
Swann finished his drink and put the glass down carefully on the table. He reached inside his jacket, drew out an old Colt Peacemaker, and laid it down next to his empty glass.
“If you check the cylinder,” he said,” you’ll find two cartridges gone. I haven’t fired it since that day. I’ve thought ten thousand times I should destroy it. Another man would have. I guess I keep it to remind me that I killed the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
The table had fallen silent. The men uncomfortable and not looking at the old man or each other.
For a full minute no one spoke. It was the old man who broke the silence.
He slipped the pistol back inside his jacket and looked up at the ceiling.
“I think it’s time for another drink,” he said