Don’t bring a shotgun to a pistol match
The ballad of Spit-Nose Johnson
IN 1874, three men strode into a dilapidating saloon, situated in the small hilly town of Bell Rose.
Their spurs distracted the saloon’s guests, who greeted them with silence and gloomy, askance stares as the oblivious strangers sauntered towards the bar. Their leader, a sturdy, middle-aged wayfinder, beckoned at the broody barkeep.
“Whiskey, all round,” he said softly. “And leave the bottle.”
“Got money?” The barkeep retorted. “First drinks are free but—”
The barkeep was interrupted by a pouch of coins shoved in his direction. He jiggled it, nodded, and briskly presented a half bottle with three glasses. The wayfinder doffed his hat and poured for his companions. They ravenously downed the shots. As he poured another round, three men arose from their far end table and proceeded to the counter.
The barkeep saluted the entrants. “Howdy, Sheriff. Deputies. Want a refill or its back to work?”
“Always working, Bob. Law takes no breaks,” replied the aged, bulging sheriff. “Right fellas?” He put a gloved hand across the shoulder of the wayfinder who shrugged it off.
The sheriff withdrew his hand and spat. “Never seen y’all in here parts. What are youse doing in my town?”
“Passing by,” replied the way finder. “Guiding these fine gents into the city.” He gulped the second shot and turned to meet the sheriff’s pout. “I am Benny. This here is Doc, and the quiet fella is Father Samuel.”
The sheriff raised a brow at the clergyman. “A padre in a saloon? Have I seen everything? What is your idol, padre — drinks or harlotry?”
The deputies chortled, but Father Samuel was unresponsive.
The sheriff hissed and spat again. “Listen gents, we don’t take kindly to strangers in our town. So, y’all drink fast and be on your merry way.”
Doc fondled his glass. “Maybe if you leave us to our peace, we’ll be gone sooner.”
One deputy grimaced. “We are lawmen, and you shall be cautious to show some respect.”
The sheriff snarled. “Let them be. They shall depart or face my wrath. We go, boys.”
The lawmen started towards the twin doors, but Doc’s impulsive laughter impeded their movement.
The sheriff spat again and pivoted. “Care to share the joke, doc?”
“A priest in a saloon is a good joke.” Doc swerved in their direction. “What about a murderer pretending to be sheriff?”
“What are you going on about?”
Doc smiled. “Your run with the Torn-Town Boys. When y’all committed acts of murder, arson, and larceny all over the south coast. What was the name you were called? Oh yes, Spit-Nose Johnson.”
The saloon clattered.
The Sheriff grimaced. “What in the shithole? My name is Bill Wallace. Y’all know that.”
The clatter evanesced.
Doc smirked. “Come now, Spit-Nose. Your gang raided banks and church houses. Stealing from banks is one thing but from the church — now that is sacrilege.”
Bob, the barkeep hissed. “And what evidence do you have of said allegations?”
Benny lurched forward. “We are evidence.”
He raised his hands to show goodwill. Then, he gently removed his jacket and shirt, revealing a bruised, darkened torso to the bewildered guests. Mumbling engulfed the room as he replaced his attire.
Benny turned to the priest. “Show them, Father.”
Father Samuel twirled towards the audience and opened his mouth, devoid of a tongue. The clatter grew louder.
Benny gestured for quiescence. “Few years ago, the Torn-Town Boys robbed and set ablaze our parish. I and Doc were fetching wood for construction of the outhouse. We made haste when we had seen the flames, the gang riding afar, and your sheriff leading them. We tried to breach the church doors and save our brethren. But the fire was fierce and murderous. I was half burnt, but the flames did worse. It took my wife and Doc’s daughters.”
Benny gesticulated at the priest. “He was muted as a cautionary tale for those who hunted the Torn-Town Boys.” He turned to the sheriff. “After a period of mourning and healing, we swore an oath of justice to avenge the good souls your fires consumed. As you know, over the years, most of your former gang are either dead or awaiting the hangman’s noose. Some we managed. Others were an act of God.” He rewore his fedora. "This is your day of reckoning.”
The Sheriff laughed. “So youse want to bring me to justice? A doctor, a priest, and whatever you is? Y’all could have left my town unscathed. Instead, youse slandered my good name before my townsmen. That I can not abide. Boys, seize them.”
The deputies advanced with their shot guns slammed across their shoulders, but their targets aligned in front of the counter, hands across their holsters.
Benny winced. “We came for the pretender, and we shall defend ourselves if drawn upon. That is the law, and as law-abiding folks, we shall abide.”
The sheriff spat again. “Bloody slanderers! Make them dead!”
Bob squatted behind the counter as his guests dashed under or pushed their tables for cover and to await the inevitable. Shotguns aimed as pistols were drawn, and gunshots erupted the saloon. The onslaught ended quickly, and curious eyes slowly emerged to witness the outcome.
The deputies were sprawled across the floor, breathless. Father Samuel was nursing a shoulder wound, watching Doc kick the deputies’ shotguns away from their dead hands, cussing “they should have never brought a shotgun to a pistol fight” while Benny reloaded his revolver and strutted towards the bleeding sheriff, who was crawling outside the saloon’s twin doors.
Outdoors, Benny aimed the Colt 44 at the sheriff, who rolled upwards to meet the setting sun and his assailant. He flung his pistol, spat into the dust, and grinned, brandishing bloodstained teeth.
“You seem a man of honour. You don’t dare kill an unarmed man.”
Benny smirked. “I only see a dead one.”
Two shots rang in the air. The Stetson abandoned the sheriff’s sanguinary head, slow winds nudging it downhill.
