Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

The Real West by James A. Ritchie

© 1993 by James A. Ritchie

Best-known as an author of western novels, including the recently published The Payback, James A. Ritchie makes a venture into the crime field here with a story that first came to him as the plot for a modern western novel. In this short version, the tale is a most entertaining crime story...

I’ve been a professional writer for ten years, but I still haven’t learned to enjoy book tours. Perhaps I’d feel differently were my name Stephen King, and if the talk shows my agent booked me on included The Tonight Show, or Good Morning, America. I am not, however, Stephen King, and the shows I am graced to appear on usually air at three in the morning and have an audience of several dozen. I guess that’s what comes from writing westerns instead of horror novels.

Still, I do enjoy the book signings. Not that I like writing my name over and over. It’s the fans who buy the books that I like. I think I’ve made more lasting friends from lines at the bookstores than anywhere else.

On this tour, though, a few of the fans were a bit on the strange side.

One fan who was... different... was a sweet little old lady who asked if I really knew Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid. “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m afraid they were a little before my time.”

“That’s silly,” she answered. “They visit me almost every night. You should come over and meet them sometime.”

Her face and the tone of her voice left no doubt that she was serious. Not knowing exactly how to reply, I signed the novel she handed me and mumbled that I might do that if I ever had a free night. She went away smiling, so I guess my answer was the right one.

Two or three times in the next few hours an oddball on the order of the little old lady came into the store and bought one of my books. The truth is, it didn’t bother me. To the contrary, I found these people somewhat entertaining. And anything capable of entertaining me while on tour is something I welcome.

But not long before closing another fan came in, and at first I took him for just another oddball of the same sort. That impression didn’t last long.

He was a man of medium height, built for speed rather than power, and his young, pimply face was adorned by a long, handlebar moustache. He was also dressed like a cowboy.

No, that isn’t quite right. I was dressed like a cowboy. He was dressed like a Hollywood gunfighter.

The difference is obvious to anyone who knows the real Old West from the Hollywood fantasy. I wore plain brown cowboy boots, scuffed around the toe and a bit down at heel from walking. My pants were faded Levi’s, my shirt flannel, and my hat a low-crowned Stetson.

This guy (from top to bottom) wore a Stetson big enough to take a bath in, a “western” shirt with fancy embroidery and leather cuffs, and brand new Levi’s tucked into a pair of boots that must have cost five hundred dollars, not counting the fancy silver toe guards.

But his attire aside, he bought a copy of my latest novel, The Payback, and handed it across the table. “Just write ‘to Billy,’ ” he said.

“Not Billy the Kid, by any chance?” I asked. I was smiling when I asked, but he took me seriously.

“Bill Bonney,” he said. “I don’t much like being called ‘Kid.’ Guess I can’t blame folks, though.”

“Surely that isn’t your real name?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Why not? Bonney is a common enough name, and so is William. It had to happen.”

I still didn’t know whether or not he was telling the truth about his name, but something about him intrigued me. Something in his eyes, in his manner, made me think that if his name wasn’t William Bonney, he still believed it was. He seemed somehow out of place, and I wanted to know more about him.

But there was something a little frightening about him, as well. A coldness, an aloofness, that surrounded him like a wall.

“I’ve read all your books,” he said. “I can’t say I like many of them.”

Not something a fan usually tells you after you sign the novel he just bought. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything in particular you don’t like?”

“You write good,” he said. “But you don’t put many gunfights in the books. Not the real kind. Not one fast draw against another.”

“That’s mostly a myth,” I said. “Professional gunfighters almost never fought each other. In fact, I can’t think of a single case where it happened.”

“What about Jim Courtright and Luke Short?”

“Some people count that,” I said. “But I’m not sure they should. Jim Courtright was a gunfighter, but Luke Short was a gambler. Short never tried a fast draw in his life before that fight.”

“But he won,” Bonney said. “Luke Short beat him.”

“By dumb luck. Short just snapped off a wild shot that should have missed. Instead the bullet clipped off the tip of Courtright’s thumb as he was cocking his pistol. Before he could switch the pistol to his good hand, Short took careful aim and killed him.

“The simple truth is, the fast-draw gunfight just didn’t happen often, and never between gunfighters. Most gunfights were just, shoot the other man any way possible, including in the back.” Bonney’s face was flushed. “That’s not true. What about the code of the West? How do you explain that?”

“There’s nothing to explain. The ‘code of the West’ didn’t come from the West at all. Ned Buntline put that into one of his dime novels and it stuck. It was an even bigger myth than the gunfight at high noon.”

“You don’t know anything,” he said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even belted on a Colt, let alone fired one. Some Western writer you are.”

“I have fired a Colt,” I said. “And I can usually hit what I aim at. But I’m a writer. I research the Old West, and I write stories about it. That’s all.

“Look, if I offended you, I’m sorry. I do appreciate the fact that you read my novels, even if you disagree with them.”

“You’re still wrong,” he said. “You’re wrong about everything. I know what I’m talking about. You should see me draw a six-gun. I’m as good as any of them were.

“Maybe watching me use a six-gun would convince you?”

“I’m sure you’re very good,” I said. “Certainly better than I am. But I’ll have to pass on the demonstration. I still have five cities to hit in the next five days.”

His face was red from forehead to neck. He started to say something, stopped himself. For a minute he stared at me, then simply turned and headed for the door. But he looked back before leaving. “You’ll see me again,” he said. “You can count on it.”

Something in the tone of his voice shook me. There are nuts and oddballs everywhere, but most are harmless. I wasn’t sure that was true of this guy. I had a hunch he was so far around the bend that he was completely out of sight, if you know what I mean.

For the rest of the evening and most of the night I was on edge, constantly feeling as if someone was watching my every move. I spent the evening in my hotel room, and even went so far as to call my agent just to talk about “William Bonney,” if that was his real name.

My agent’s name is Sam Catton, and he’s a no-nonsense, hard-nosed son-of-a-mule, but he’s also the best friend I have. He was concerned, but thought it was nothing to worry about. “By noon tomorrow you’ll be in Denver,” he said. “Odds are you’ll never see this joker again.”

Sam almost always makes sense, and what he had to say calmed me down considerably. So much so that when I called my wife, Mary Kay, I never even mentioned the incident. And at nine the next morning I was in Denver. The book signing there went off without a hitch, and without William Bonney showing up.

Two days after that I was in Dallas, at yet another bookstore, only this time it didn’t go quite so well. The first person in line was William Bonney. He didn’t have a book. He walked up to the table and looked down at me.

“You and me,” he said. “That’s the only way to settle this. Just you and me, and the best man wins.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“You know,” he said. “A gunfight, a showdown. You and me. Then we’ll see who’s right.”

“You’re crazy. If you aren’t going to buy a book, then you’ll have to leave. I don’t have time for crazy talk like that.”

“It’s the only way to settle it. You have to see that. It’s the only way.”

“I’m going to have the owner call the police,” I said. “You’d better leave.”

I stood up and moved toward the counter. William Bonney stepped in front of me. “I’m leaving,” he said. “But this ain’t the end of it. We’re going to settle this right.”

He turned and walked out of the store. I waited until I was back at my hotel, then called the police and asked if there was anything they could do. It was carefully explained to me that so far William Bonney, if that was his real name, had done nothing illegal. At most he might be charged with harassment, and that only if he persisted in bothering me.

And even if grounds to arrest him could be found, where was he? I couldn’t be sure he’d given me his real name, I didn’t know where he lived, or much of anything else about him.

The police officer I spoke with advised me to go on with my tour and forget about Bonney. He was probably just a nut, and like as not, I’d never hear from him again. With no recourse, I tried to do as advised, putting Bonney out of my mind as much as possible. The last two cities on the tour came and went with no sign of William Bonney.

On Sunday I returned home, a ranch-style house in Arizona, located as far as possible from the nearest neighbor. I frequently feel guilty leaving Mary Kay alone there so much of the time, but she claims to love it. I let her convince me she’s perfectly all right.

Mary Kay is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and why she married a raw-boned, homely, country boy like me is beyond comprehension. But I’m eternally grateful that she did. She’s the love of my life, the very meaning of life. Coming home to her after a long absence is like leaving hell and entering heaven. It makes up for everything.

Time at home doesn’t seem to have a speed. We are surrounded by desert, and no matter the rush of time in the outside world, the desert remains timeless. So do we. The days blend, Mary Kay is there, and whether I’m at home with her five minutes or five months, the happiness and contentment I feel never fade.

This time a month passed, late summer edged toward fall, and all was right with our world. Then the phone rang and I answered it. William Bonney was on the other end of the line.

“Took awhile to find you,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want this settled. You ain’t telling the truth in your books. You make the Old West sound mean, cheap. I can’t allow that.”

“Look, I’m busy, and I don’t have time for silly games. Just leave me alone.”

His voice picked up speed. “You had better take me seriously. I mean to have it out with you.”

I said nothing, hung up the phone. It rang again almost before I could turn around. I answered, knowing it would be Bonney again. It was.

“No more fooling around,” he said. “Do you know where Gunsight is?”

“It’s a ghost town about twenty miles south of here.”

“That’s right. Meet me there day after tomorrow, a little before noon. Bring a Colt.”

“What? You are out of your mind. I’m not about to meet you there or anywhere else.”

“You’ll meet me,” he said. “One way or another. Remember, a little before noon.”

He hung up this time, and for a few minutes I stood there, wondering how to handle the situation. Then I talked it over with Mary Kay. “He sounds crazy,” she said. “We have to call the sheriff.”

“I don’t know what he can do.”

“Maybe the sheriff can scare him away, even if he can’t do anything else. Please, Jim, call him.”

I called him. His name was Trace Kerrigan, and he told me pretty much what I’d expected. “I don’t know how much we can do,” he said. “Until he actually makes a move against you it’s pretty tough to charge him with anything serious, and then it might be too late.

“William Bonney, huh? Sounds like a nut who thinks he’s Billy the Kid. Look, I’ll take a deputy and show up in Gunsight at the time you’re supposed to. If he’s there we’ll run him in. It won’t amount to much, but maybe we can frighten him off.”

The next two days seemed to fly by, but the morning I was supposed to meet Bonney the clock crawled toward noon. It was two o’clock when Sheriff Kerrigan called. “He was there,” Kerrigan said. “Armed to the teeth. We arrested him, but we can’t hold him more than seventy-two hours without a charge.

“Oh, I checked his driver’s license. William Bonney is his real name, though he might have had it legally changed. I’m looking into it.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Not much. All we can do is hope this scares him away. If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else.”

Sheriff Kerrigan did his part, holding Bonney until the last legal minute. He also threw in a tough warning when he finally had to set him free. Then all we could do was wait and see if the three days in jail had the desired effect.

Two weeks passed with no word from Bonney, and my hopes were high. Then Mary Kay drove into town to go shopping. Town is almost thirty miles away, and the road is a lonely one. Mary Kay never made it.

It was about ten in the morning, and I was watching some silly game show on TV when the phone rang. When I answered it, I heard Mary Kay’s voice. “Don’t come out here,” she said. “Call the police, he’s going—”

Then William Bonney’s voice came on the line. “You shouldn’t have called the sheriff,” he said. “You should have faced me like a man.”

“Let my wife go, you bastard. She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“You made me take her. She stays here until you show up. No law this time. I mean it. If you call the sheriff or anyone else, I’ll kill her. They may arrest me, but I’ll kill her first.”

My voice was thick. “I understand. Where do we meet?”

“Same place. Be here before noon. Come alone and bring your gun. I see anyone else and I’ll put a bullet through your wife’s head.”

He hung up. I slumped against the wall, trying to think, hoping there was a way out. There wasn’t. He was just crazy enough to kill Mary Kay if I didn’t follow his instructions to the letter.

I did own a Colt. In fact, I owned almost a dozen.

Mostly I bought them for research purposes, and while I’d fired one enough to be a decent shot, I’d never even tried a fast draw except once, and that was out of curiosity.

It didn’t work. My hand caught the Colt wrong and it flew out of my hand, discharging when it hit the ground. I felt the snap of air as the bullet whistled within inches of my ear. I never again tried a fast draw.

Now I had no choice. I went into my den and took a Model 1873 Colt Peacemaker from the display case, loaded it, slipped it into a holster, and belted it on. It was heavy, but rested well on my hip. Taking the Jeep, I drove south toward Gunsight.

Gunsight isn’t one of the well-known ghost towns. It’s too far off the beaten track, and not very impressive. A hundred years earlier it was a mining town, and a couple of old smelters still stood. So did a dozen wooden, false-front buildings.

I drove slowly down the main street, my eyes searching the buildings. William Bonney showed in the door of a saloon and flagged the Jeep down. “Get out of the Jeep,” he said, “and walk to the middle of the street.”

“Where’s my wife?”

He said something over his shoulder and Mary Kay yelled to me. “I’m all right, Jim. Please, don’t fight him. I saw him practicing. He’ll kill you.”

“Walk to the middle of the street,” he said, “or I’ll kill her right now.”

The sun was hot and the street ankle deep in dust. But I walked to the middle and turned to face Bonney. He walked out of the saloon and into the street, his eyes never leaving mine. My mouth was dry, my heart beating so fast and hard I was afraid it would burst.

We stood in the street, forty feet apart. I was absolutely certain I was about to die. All because of some foolish myth about the code of the West. All because...

I don’t know where the idea came from. Maybe it was from thinking about that damnable code. I didn’t know how good the idea was, but I did know it was my only chance.

“This is the way it was meant to be,” Bonney said. “Just the two of us, facing each other over the barrel of a gun, and the best man wins.

“I’m going to throw a silver dollar as high as I can. When it hits the ground we both draw. Agreed?”

“You’re a liar and a coward,” I said. “If you really wanted a showdown you wouldn’t have brought help.”

His face took on a puzzled expression. “Huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came alone.”

Slowly raising my left hand, I pointed over his shoulder.

“Then who the hell is that?” I asked.

He instinctively turned his head to look. I drew the moment his eyes were off me, not trying to be fast, simply lifting the Colt from the holster and thumbing back the hammer as I extended my arm.

At the sound of the Colt being cocked Bonney jerked his head back around. His eyes opened wide and he drew. But I was already squeezing the trigger. The Colt bucked in my hand and I saw the bullet jerk Bonney around. There was blood on his shirt, but he had his own Colt out and was trying to raise it.

I aimed carefully and fired again. The bullet made an ugly whumping sound as it struck him right below the breastbone. The Colt flew out of his hand and he folded, landing on his face in the dust. He rolled over and I walked to him, the Colt still in my hand.

His shirt was covered with blood, and a thin trickle of red ran from the comer of his mouth. But he was still alive, still able to speak. “You... you cheated!” he said. He coughed and more blood stained his lips. “The code. You broke the code of the West. You...”

No more words came and I looked down at him. “I tried to tell you,” I said. “The code is a myth. The only code any of them followed was, get the other guy before he gets you. That’s what I did.”

Bonney’s eyes turned to glass and I knew he was dead. Holstering the Colt, I walked to the saloon. Mary Kay was sitting in a comer, her hands and feet tied, but unharmed.

“What happened?” she asked. “Did you kill him?”

“He’s dead. He just didn’t understand what the real West was like. In a way, I feel sorry for him.”

I untied Mary Kay and she came into my arms. “I’m just glad it wasn’t you,” she said. “Take me home.”

As we drove out of Gunsight I glanced back at the body still lying in the middle of the street. “I think my next novel will be a mystery,” I said. “Or science fiction. I believe I’ve had enough of the Old West for a while.”