Bounty Hunter “Little Bobby”
James Marvin Phelps from USA
It was hot that day; I’ll never forget it. Dusty as all heck, too. So darn dusty that I would need my handkerchief around my face at times just to keep that dog on dust from out of my nose. There was no shade where I was stand’n, waiting for my paycheck.
I hate small towns, but small towns house vermin that want to hide from their past lives. Their mess-ups, there, “I’m done, my killen day’s are over.” Yellow belly no good for nothing, can’t finish what they started. It's not getting a conscience, it's getting cold feet if you ask me. Once those demons start to haunt your soul, they want to run; they want to make amends for all those poor people that they’ve killed make’n their liven. Those people they killed don’t come back after a killer decides to go to church on Sunday, or all of a sudden when they finally see their so-called, “sins.”
The way I reckon, every man and woman are born with a certain duty, that calls them to do whatever it is that they end up doing, and life is too short to abruptly change directions. Especially if your direction was to put a dollar amount on somebody’s soul. If you can put a dollar amount including the bullet or bullets, or a knife or however these dark souled bastards wanted to inflict pain, to write an end’n on another poor bastards story, didn’t matter then, shouldn’t matter later, nor shouldn’t matter now.
Some would laugh, some somber and quiet. Whether or not they enjoyed the calling that they willingly and readily excepted, spillen blood for a means to drown their sins in a saloon, and of course, when you sin, you have to go all the way, so you might even get a pair of soiled doves to burry what you have done as deep as your dark soul will allow, in sinful, lustful pleasures.
It sure does seem that I have lots of experience with this sin that I’ve been yacking about now, doesn’t it? But I’d appreciate it, reader, if you don’t go and judge all that quickly. You see me, I’ve found a loophole in life when it beckons you to murder. I’ve never, nor will I ever, kill a person, even if they deserve it, that isn’t a killer. But not just any killer, because those who do what they were meant to be doing, well, I leave those people alone, because, as you know, they were called to do that, and every life that they take, was destined to be taken as the writer, whomever that may be, orchestrates that said ending. I shall not, my friend, interfere with that, cause if I did that, well….there might be a price that would fit right under my pretty little face, drawn up nice like making an enticing argument for a saloon visit for a scoundrel wanting to cover his night on a happy note.
No. Like I said, I go after those who have run from their calling. It's only right. If you can’t do what you were called to do, well, I see that as being defective. There’s somethen wrong with ya if you can’t even follow the simple orders given to you by nature. And well, nobody, nobody cares about a low life that has abandoned his calling. What makes this whole thing even more pretty, is that the bosses of these low life’s love me to death. There isn’t one boss, whether that be the union or one in charge of a posse, that doesn’t smile when I walk in their door. They just love me to death, so much so that I am more than protected. No man, nor women would dare to point a gun at me, as long as they know who I am. I am loved by all, and the money that they give me shows just how much love and affection they have for me.
“Little Bobby,” that’s what they call me now because that’s my code name that I made for myself, “I have a small issue that I know you’d be able to take care of, ya see…..I have a little problem…..” No matter how many times they would deal a job to me, they always say that. It’s almost like it’s a cliche in a story, and there’s a writer using the same scene over and over again. They’d sigh a little, sometimes, they’d walk up all slow like to me, and like we were good friends….and we are, I suppose….they’d put their arm around my shoulder, and we walk a little ways as they continued to explain. Or sometimes, they’d sigh, (they would always sigh, you see…..these killers that we are talking about, they weren’t the little guys out in the streets trying to make a name for themselves. These were legends. They were the “prizefighters,” the “crème of the crop.” They were the names that would strike fear into a man's soul to make one shudder at the mention and make women fall into the arms of these cutthroat gunslingers. So they would be a little sad that they would have to call “Little Bobby.” Got sidetracked, let's continue…..).
So they would sigh in the back of their little brown table; most had a little whisky glass, filled with somethen, drinking their sorrows away, sitten there in their little ol chairs, knowing that they had the killer of legends in front of them, smoken a cigar…….
“You can leave us,” they would say to the men with their shotguns and riffles in their hands that escorted me to their boss; they didn’t really know who I was……they would leave, shutting the door behind them. Then the boss would get up, and sigh……you get the picture.
So this time…well, this time was a little different, except that it wasn’t all at the same time. That’s when life gets confusing. Life is not a straight shooter, and I hate those who try to will it to be so.
I was called by one of the biggest butchers of them all. Everyone who knew him called him Hank, and you would have never expected him to be one of the scariest people you would ever want to meet. His alter ego…well, he was a barber, his stature was small, pale as though his soul left him after he was born. Black hair that made night jealous, a pointy nose that his small rounded spectacles would rest upon. He would always wear the typical barber clothes, you know a white shirt with a collar, a bowtie, usually black, red meant you were probably going to die in the chair…sleeves rolled up, that white shirt would be held up by suspenders, and a white apron. He wasn’t all that big, but his eyes…..they even made chills go down my spine.
And yes, I know what alter ego means: I’m a killer, not uneducated. This man was the devil if he’d come out of hell and wanted to live among us mortals. He was the epitome of evil, and when he was delivered into this world, I swear, the night got a little longer. So, his alter ego is a barber.
I stood in front of his barbershop at the edge of town, midday, wondering what the heck did this dastardly “Barber” want from me? His people feared him, and once they lost that fear, he would take care of them himself, giving them the closest shave that they have ever had, if you catch my drift.
I breathed in deep, took out my silver pocket watch, and read the time. You see, I’ve never worked with this man, and the men that I work with aren’t men; they are monsters. I’m used to monsters, but this man wasn’t neither a man nor monster, he was something worse that I have no word for. From the information that I gathered, Hank's time is mighty important to him, and if I didn’t want one of his famous shaves, well, I might want to remember to respect that.
One minute to go, I stood, looking down at my pocket watch as I observed the red secondhand dance its dance around the white face painted with numbers and lines as it had done a million times before. My hands were steady, always steady; fear was never strong enough to do to my limbs what it does to most; no fear had no power over me. The minute passed, and I put my pocket watch back into my pocket of my dark burgundy waistcoat. Then looked up, startled, jumped back my black pistol out of my holster, pointing at a barber, standing in front of me, with a crooked smile, his black eyes staring straight into my soul through those round, tiny spectacles.
HOW IN GODS NAME DID THIS MAN DO THAT TO ME? WHY IN GODS NAME AM I POINTING MY GUN AT HIM!!!!
I quickly re-holstered my gun, “Damn it, Hank! You scared my soul to heaven!”
We both stood staring at each other; the world seemed to pause….not even a tumbleweed dared to move. I felt as though we were in a gunfight waiting for the clock to strike 12, but Hank didn’t have a gun; his hands were in the pockets of his apron, his smile, unwavering…..
Creepy…….I thought to myself….Well, I might as well ask.
“It's mighty fine meeting you si….”
“I could have killed you,” Hank interrupted, “I thought about it real long,” his smile still on his face as he spoke, his eyes still piercing through my soul, “and I was thinking to myself, is this the killer of legends? This is the man that I’ve heard so much about? I was starting to become impatient and disappointed, and right before I was going to cut your throat, you surprised me….”
What in all heaven and earth have I gotten myself into…….
Hank walked over to me, drawing out his hands from the pockets of the apron; I checked them, nothing there…and out of poor judgment, I let him walk right up to me and give me a hug, and he whispered in my ear…a compliment, that if uttered by anybody else, and presented any other way would have made me smile….but it sent chills down my spine.
“You are by far the quickest gunslinger I have ever witnessed.”
So, me being me, I replied the only way I knew how in such an awkward, scary situation, “Why thank you, Hank, means the world to me.”
Hank let his embrace around my neck go, and he looked into my eyes, and smiled, this time a warm and genuine smile, “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll discuss my dilemma.”
“Lead the way, Hank,” I replied, my voice steady.
That day, I knew that I could look the devil straight into his eyes while denying fears demand to curl into a little ball and cry. Who said that a hardened heart had no place in this world? I would say I take my calling this world has given very seriously indeed. And with that thought, fear retreated from me, and never returned again.
We walked into his little barber shop, wedged in between two other businesses, Hanks’ barber pole in the front, signaling any and all roughnecks, gunslingers, cowboys, and bankers to be pampered with a nice shave and a warm bath in a metal tub.
It took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the dimness of the room as it was high noon, and the sun was shining extra bright that day. When they came to, I was very impressed with Hank. You can tell a lot about a man, (even if that man was the devil himself), by the way he organizes his personal effects, office or his place of work. Hank was very, very organized, and clean. So clean that I was almost embarrassed, as I was covered in dust from my three-day travel to meet the “Barber.”
But as scary as Hank was, and as impressed by him and now even comfortable as I was, the cliché unfolded right in front of me. Just like any other boss, of any other posse.
So all of that…that’s the boring stuff, and I’m going to fast forward to that hot, miserable day, you know, the beginning of this story, how I was remembering? I know I do like to ramble on, and this is supposed to be a short story and all. Don’t you worry, I’m good at my job, so it's all not too long before this story comes to an end.
You see, this day that I’m speaking about, it was April 19, 1909. The place that I was in, Ada, Ada Oklahoma. And that person that I was going to get for ol Mr. Hank, which I am fairly fond of now, and later on we become best friends, was known as “Killin’ Jim.” Oh he has other names, too, like “Killer Miller,” I like that one; it rhymes, I liked it so much that I almost changed my killer name….but I figured that would have caused a lot of confusion, and would have made people believe that “Little Boby’s” life was finally ended. Now, I couldn’t have had that. Another name he was known by was “Deacon Jim.”
Now since I like “Killer Miller” so much, we’ll just refer to him as such.
You see, Hank, he had taught “Killer Miller” all kinds of things, like how to kill, how to kill and to kill. “Killer Miller,” he’s a big deal, and I bet if you go and get one of your little boxes with all those keys with the letters on’em, with that magic image maker, that can show you things, (it truly is remarkable to a simple man like me), and you somehow put his name in there, well, he has a pretty big rap sheet. He’s done exactly how he was taught, by his own daddy, Hank. He was employed by Hank. And now “Killer Miller” is runnen from Hank. You know, getting the cold feet and all that. And well, you guessed it, he’s my type of target.
So I track “Killer Miller” all the way to a small town in the horrible, horrible state of Oklahoma. At least from what I’d experienced, it was over 100 degrees, and I was miserable. And because I do my research, I did whatcha would call a stakeout, you know, seeing what he does throughout the day, I was more than prepared. Like, at 6 in the morning he gets up, and he never fails to kiss his wife good morning. He goes out and he feeds his animals, always, at 6:10, never later, like father like son. Almost sent a tear to my eye. He would wake up his son and daughter at 7:15 sharp, (they weren’t helpen with the chores yet; one was 3, the other 5…I think). Play with them for about 45 minutes while he gets them all dressed up, reading them stories. Well, you get the picture. For a person like me, a person like him is a gift sent from heaven. Because in my line of my callen…routine is a godsend. And on Sundays, “Killer Miller” and his family sit in church from 8:30 to 11:30. Dressed very nicely, “Killer Miller” even took up a leadership position; I guess that’s where he got the other nickname “Deacon Jim.”
Well, now, I am standing outside of this church, in Ada, Oklahoma. A little ol’ thing it was; wood was old and worn, and a small cross stood on top of its pointy gable at the entrance, with a little bell that rang letting people know when the church was open, rang again when they were finished. Everyone in this town of 35 was there. Me, I was all by myself, almost wanting to go inside to see what church was all about. Never been in one.
Like I mentioned before, it was Hot…so hot in fact that I thought that Hank was somewhere in town, bringing in the hoards of hell to watch me kill his son. I thought that it be right, because I was told by Hank…..
“When you kill him, do it with dignity. He has a wife and kids, and is a man of faith now.”
“Okay, I will, Hank,” I said, sitting in a tub and getting a bath, man that water sure did feel good.
So I thought the best that I could do was to let him go to church, and then let him see me, for him to send his family away, knowing that all has caught up to him. His past was now there, facing him as the 2nd most feared killer, (who would never try to take the crown from ol Hank), there to remind him that his sins, at least in this life, are not forgiven. And his earthly father, indeed, wanted him to pay for his betrayal.
The church bell rang.
“Finally!” I said, my heart started beating a little harder. It does that because you need to be ready, you know. Not because of fear, remember, fear ran from me on that day I faced the “Barber.” It's never been back.
The little wooden church doors opened, and people started walking out, dressed in their Sunday best, which quite frankly, wasn’t the best that I’ve seen, but from what I’ve heard, it’s not good to judge. I knew that “Killer Miller” would be the last one, him and his family.
“Do not touch his family “Little Bobby,” or I will hurt you,” Hank had warned.
“Wasn’t even thinking about it Hank, no need to worry,” I replied back, as he was giving me one of the best shaves I had ever had.
After the other town folk were cleared out, “Killer Miller” finally walked out with his family, his eyes locked onto mine. A killer knows a killer. Especially a killer who has tried with all his might to bury their past. For the rest of their days, they look for their angel of death, to drag them to hell so that they may atone for their sins.
I tipped my brown, worn hat toward him, as he stood frozen, knowing that this was the day. His wife looking at me, tears forming in her eyes. I guess he was honest with her about his past life. How much so, not sure, but she knew too, holding her little girl, the little boy a little too big to be held.
“Mr. Miller, your dad has some unfinished business with you,” I said, and I pushed my brown jacket away from my black equalizer, (means revolver….or gun).
His wife’s tears started to run down her face, and she turned from me and looked at “Killer Miller.”
“Killer Miller’s” eyes stayed fixed on me, almost in disbelief, which surprised me, as I thought in my head,
“IF ANYBODY KNEW HOW HANK IS, IT WAS THIS GUY, STANDING IN FRONT OF ME, HIS SON. WHAT THE HECK?”
His wife took a step towards “Killer Miller,” who was still frozen, reached out and touched his arm, which pulled him out of whatever trance that he had found himself in. He turned and looked at her, and then, all at once, his composure came over him. The fear left; he stood up straight and said something to her I couldn’t make out. He reached his hand up to his wife’s face and wiped the tears from her eyes, then gently kissed her lips. Then, he turned and kissed his daughter on the forehead and knelt down, placing his hand on his son's head, ruffling his hair, smile on his face. I read his lips, “everything is going to be alright,” he said.
Now if my heart wouldn’t have been so cold and hard, that may have effected my judgment, and I would have walked away, without killen anybody, betraying Hank, and getting another “Barbershop experience,” that would have been radically different than the last. But all of that warmth and love bounced off my heart like a pebble bouncing off of a barn door. No sir-ry. I do not want to die a hypocrite, nor will I. I take my calling very seriously.
I waited patiently, for the good byes, “Killer Miller” stood up and kissed and hugged his wife again, and then sent them away. You could tell that it was hard on “Killer Millers’” wife; she couldn’t walk two steps without looking back at him; her body violently trembled as she balled her eyes out. Then she stopped and looked at me, and right before she could make her plea, for me not to take her husband’s life…..
“Sharron, no! You will not disgrace me! Go home; this is my past that I must deal with.”
Sharron looked back at “Killer Miller” one last time, then obeyed her husband’s wishes, leaving silently, not saying a thing. I tipped my hat at her when she glared at me again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller that your family had to see your killer,” I almost laughed when I said that, what irony, “but at least you got your Sunday blessings, your prayers, and was able to hug and kiss your family goodbye.”
“You say that as though I’m already dead, friend,” he said back in a totally different voice, a dark voice, a voice that had killed before, “I know my father; he wouldn’t just get anybody to try to kill me. And you’re way too professional to just be a murdering animal; what’s your name.”
“Names “Little Billy,” I replied, but thinking that I should have respect for the son of Hank, I decided to utter my name to him, “You can call me Robert.”
“Killer Miller,” laughed, “Now I know why you changed your name, and can’t say that the other one is any better.”
Nice comeback, I thought, “In any other circumstances, I think we could have been friends.”
“Maybe,” “Killer Miller” stood in front of me, just about ten paces, dressed in a black coat, a white shirt with a bow tie, just like his daddy, and tattered blue jeans. His holster held his gun on his right hip; his beige hat shielded his eyes from the harsh light that the sun poured out on us.
“Your father said you would fight, and that I should give you the honor of a good old fashioned standoff,” I said that as I positioned myself in front of “Killer Miller.”
“You do know that I’ve killed 12 men that have stood in front of me like how you are now,” he said with a chuckle, “all of them the same, confident cocky sons of guns that thought that they were going to put me in a well-deserved grave.”
“Interesting,” I told’em, “I’m glad that I’m going to dance with somebody who’s done this before. Most of ya’ll curl up in a ball crying for mercy, hoping that I don’t do what their bosses hired me to do.” I pulled out my pocket watch again and looked at the time, 11:45. “You let me know when you want to go to your well deserved grave. I promise, your family is safe; your father threatened to kill me if I did anything to’em.”
“Just like my old man…..”
“Killer Miller” attempted to draw his pistol only to have a bullet placed right between his eyes. I made sure that he didn’t feel anything, just like Hank wanted.
“Killer Miller” dropped to his knees, hand instinctively attempting to pull his pistol from the holster, his eyes wide in disbelief. Then he keeled over; his blood poured out onto the dry ground. The town was silent; no one dared to come out to see what had happened.
I’ll never forget that day when I killed “Killer Miller.”
