The Alamosa Trail

Chapter 17

Clay Allison was sitting in the back of the Silver Nugget Saloon in Alamosa, Colorado, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and playing a game of solitaire. It had been several days since he had pulled the dentist’s teeth, shot up the town wearing only his hat, then passed out naked on the saloon stairs.

Since that time men, women, and even the children pointed him out on the street, laughing as they told and retold the story of him lying “shiny-ass-up on the stairs.”

It was an unfamiliar situation for Clay. He was used to being feared, not ridiculed. In addition, Clay was normally a gregarious man who depended upon social intercourse, friendly games of chance, and a certain degree of hero worship. Now that he was the target of derision, few people wanted anything to do with him. As a result, he started withdrawing more and more into himself, drinking more and more as he did so.

Outside the saloon at that moment, Will Shardeen had just ridden into town. The outlaw dismounted, then tied his horse off at the hitching rack in front of the saloon. Tired, filthy, and dispirited, he showed the results of several days of hard riding.

As Shardeeen stepped up onto the wooden porch in front of the saloon, he pulled a handful of change from his pocket. In the palm of his dirty hand, he counted forty-three cents. Barely the price of two drinks. It was fairly obvious that he was going to have to do something to get some more money, and he was going to have to do it very soon.

The saloon wasn’t terribly busy inside. Two men, both teamsters, were standing at the bar. As they drank their beer, they engaged each other in an argument about the relative merits of mules versus draft horses. A card game was in progress at one table, while at another, a cowboy with no money tried to talk a soiled dove into taking him on credit. In the back of the room, Shardeen saw one man alone playing a game of solitaire. From the jerky awkwardness of his movements as he manipulated the cards, it was easy to see that he was drunk.

Shardeen never entered any saloon without a careful appraisal of everyone present. He knew that there was paper out on him. In addition, he had made many enemies during his lifetime and he was well aware that at any bar, anywhere, one of these enemies might be waiting to strike.

Deciding that the saloon was safe, he slapped a coin down on the bar. “Whiskey,” he said in a low, guttural grunt.

Smiling a greeting at his new customer, the barkeep poured a glass, then brought it down to Shardeen. As he approached, the smile left his face, and he turned up his nose in disgust at encountering Shardeen’s fetid odor. Years of tending bar, however, had prepared him for such unpleasantness, and without uttering a disparaging word, he picked up the coin.

“Who’s the drunk in the back of the room?” Shardeen asked.

The thought had crossed Shardeen’s mind that the drunk might be someone he could lure out into the alley and relieve of any money he might be carrying.

“That there is Clay Allison,” the barkeep replied, as he recorked the bottle.

Shardeen reacted in surprise, and he looked again at the lone card player.

“Clay Allison? Are you sure?”

“I’ve known him for a long time,” the barkeep said. “That’s Clay Allison.”

Shardeen lifted the glass to his lips. “I didn’t know he was a drunk.”

“He don’t stay drunk all the time,” the barkeep replied. “But when he does get drunk, he is something to behold.” The bartender laughed. “Not long ago, the dentist pulled the wrong tooth, so Allison got even with him by pulling a few of the dentist’s teeth in return.”

Shardeen laughed. “He pulled the dentist’s teeth? That’s a good one, all right.”

“Yes, sir, folks round here got themselves a good laugh out of it. Only it ain’t worked out all that good for Allison. Turns out the dentist is suin’ Allison for ten thousand dollars. And most folks is thinkin’ that Doc Chidister is goin’ to get the money he’s goin’ after, seein’ as there’s no doubt that Allison really did pull them teeth.”

“You say the dentist is suin’ Allison for ten thousand dollars? Has Allison got that kind of money?”

“He’s got that and a lot more besides,” the barkeep answered.

“I thought he was nothin’ more than a gunfighter. How’d he come by money like that?”

“Ranchin’, I suppose,” the barkeep replied. “I hear tell he’s got him a herd of horses comin’ up from Mexico way. Five hundred head, they’re sayin’, and he aims to sell that herd to the army for fifty dollars a head.”

“Fifty dollars a head? I ain’t none too good at cipherin’,” Shardeen said. “How much money would that be?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” the barkeep answered.

Shardeen had never seen anything close to that much money. He wasn’t sure he could even imagine how much that was.

He turned his back to the bar and looked again at Allison, studying him over the rim of his glass. So this was the famous gunman? Well, the famous gunfighter didn’t look like so much now.

After a gunfight, when Shardeen was the only one standing, he was sometimes compared to Clay Allison. Some said he was nearly as fast as Allison, some said he was as fast. Others had hinted that he was even faster.

For a long time now, Shardeen had wondered how he would stack up against the legend. He had always wanted to try the famous gunman, and he began thinking about it, contemplating a scenario in which he would come face-to-face with him while Allison was in his present condition. It would be an easy way to gain a reputation as the man who shot Clay Allison.

On the other hand, if he did that, he might be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. If Clay Allison was about to get twenty-five thousand dollars, Shardeen planned on finding some way to get his hands on all that money. He turned back to the bar with a small smile on his face. Maybe things were beginning to look up after all. Ordering another drink, Shardeen began thinking about what he would do with twenty-five thousand dollars.

Even as he was thinking of the grand prize, he began to wonder how he was going to survive the next few days. He was going to have to find some money, somewhere, soon.

At that moment, a young cowboy came into the saloon and stood just inside the door for a few seconds, looking around the room. Finally he saw what he was looking for. Clay Allison.

“Mr. Allison,” the cowboy called, starting toward him.

“Who’s the ranny?” Shardeen asked.

“That’s Billy Proxmire,” the barkeep replied. “He’s one of Allison’s cowboys.”

“What do you want, Billy?” Allison asked, not bothering to look up from his game of solitaire.

“Mr. Allison, I expect you better come back out to the ranch,” Billy said. “There’s likely to be some trouble.”

Allison stared hard at the young cowboy, trying to focus, though the fact that he had been drunk for the last twenty-four hours made any kind of concentration difficult. His eyes appeared to swim in their sockets.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Your brother-in-law is here.”

“Jason Wilson? What’s that no-account son of a bitch want?”

Billy cleared his throat. It was obvious that he was about to tell his boss something that Allison wasn’t going to want to hear.

“Uh, Mr. Wilson says you are embarrassin’ the entire family by all your drinkin’ and car ryin’ on, and he plans to put a stop to it.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And did he tell you just how he plans to do that?”

Billy cleared his throat again. “Uh, yes, sir. He said he was going to beat some sense into you.”

“Well, now, we’ll just see who is going to beat some sense into who,” Clay said, standing so quickly that he tipped his chair over. Angrily, he started toward the front door, but he was so drunk that he reeled as he went, falling into one table, lurching into another. “Get out of my way!” he shouted.

“Mr. Allison, you want to take my horse?” Billy called after him.

“Don’t need it,” Clay answered. “I drove the buckboard in.”

“Yes, sir, I know you did. But I’d feel better if you’d take my horse back to the ranch. Or better yet, why don’t you let me drive you back?”

Clay stopped at the front door and looked back toward Billy. A mocking snarl caused Clay’s lips to curl. “What are you trying to say, boy? That I can’t drive a buckboard?”

“No, sir, I’m not saying that. I mean, I know you can,” Billy replied. “But you have had a few drinks and it might be easier on you if you would let me drive.”

Clay belched. “The day I let a little pissant like you drive me around is the day I’ll hang up my spurs for good.”

Shardeen had followed the entire exchange between Clay and Billy with interest. As the rancher and his anxious employee left the saloon, Shardeen moved to the front door to be able to follow them from there.

Shardeen had parked the buckboard in the wagon yard across the street and about halfway down the block. He was so drunk that he could barely walk, lurching down the street as he made his way toward the wagon yard, staggering from side to side.

For a brief moment, Shardeen considered stepping out into the street and calling him out. He could kill Allison easily, and no one could accuse him of not facing the other man fair and square in the street. But as much as he wanted the reputation such an act would give him, he wanted the money more.

When Clay Allison reached his buckboard, he stopped for a minute and began retching. After a few dry heaves, he threw up by the back wheel of the buckboard. Then, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he untied the team and climbed in.

To Shardeen’s surprise, Clay didn’t sit down. Instead he stood just in front of the seat and steered the team out of the yard. Once they were clear of the yard, he picked up a whip and snapped it over their heads, urging them into a gallop.

“No, Mr. Allison, sit down!” Billy called.

Clay shot a glance toward Billy. “I don’t intend to let that no-account brother-in-law get away from me,” Clay shouted as the team galloped by, the buckboard swaying and bouncing behind the team.

At the intersection of Main and Front, a boardwalk had been laid across the street to enable men and women to cross without soiling their trouser cuffs or skirt hems. The team leaped over the boards, but the front wheels of the buckboard hit it at an angle. Suddenly the wagon lurched violently, and Clay Allison was tossed off.

“Mr. Allison!” Billy shouted in warning, running toward him.

Clay flew through the air, flailing wildly with his hands. He hit the ground head-first.

Shardeen watched as Billy ran toward his boss, but Clay Allison’s motionless form lay in a grotesquely twisted position in the muck and the mire of Front Street. It was obvious to everyone that he had broken his neck. Clay Allison, a man who had faced many a gunman in desperate fights, lay crumpled in the street, dead from a simple accident.

Shardeen just smiled.