CALLED OUT!

A WESTERN  BY

THOMAS EMMON PISANO 

August 1890, hot, dry, dusty, the flies were everywhere, no rain for more than a hundred days. Man and beast were parched, and the snakes, well they left for better parts long ago, not a sidewinder to be found anywhere. To say that it was miserable would be an understatement. Nature was taking its revenge on Clementine, Arizona, for some unknown transgression, no doubt. God and nature had a cruel way of dealing with Clementine, they always gave her less than she deserved and treated her like an outcast. Clementine was a harsh and beautiful place to live and an even more horrible place to die. You had to understand her rules; they were plain and simple.  You obeyed the code of the desert, everyone knew that, and you obeyed the marshal. Pretty simple to the locals, but sometimes the outsider had trouble with those rules.

I am Marshal Sterns, this is my patch of desert, I enforce the law here. Going on ten years now Clementine and me we have been together, we have sort of a romance, her and I. She is kind of like a wife in a sense, not a flesh and blood wife, but a metaphorical wife, if I should be so bold.

 Yes, I do love this little one horse town stuck out here in the middle of the Bad Lands, this whiskey stop, watering hole and cross roads. This refuge for the downtrodden and the outlaw, this hiding place for the fugitive and the lost, this was a place for the enterprising and the heat soaked prospector as well. Hot desert, cactus, and dust for as far as the eye can see. Very few want a life here in Clementine but those of us who are here are happy with our lot in life. Clementine’s population is now 29 as of last week, our numbers grow slowly. People come and go here mostly they go; few can take this unkind land. 

 On Sundays the saloon is converted to a church and we all sing hymns there to inspire god to smile on Clementine, then abruptly at noon we drink to celebrate the life we have here, it isn’t much but, hey, it is all we have. We do like to celebrate around here. Hell, once a bunch of us celebrated the sunset for three days.

Most of the days of summer are too hot to do much of anything ‘cept sleeping.  But there is the occasional gold shipment to Phoenix and the stage to Tucson, which stops here once a week, basically the town is quiet.

We have a hotel and a livery stable and a big fountain with a spring in the middle of the town square. That water there is always ice cold all year round, I don’t understand why, no body does.

Every once in a blue moon the army will stop here and water their horses at the spring and the soldiers gather around the fountain and soak themselves in its cool magnificence. The whole town relies on that water and not a drop of it goes to waste.

Judy gets her water there every day for her garden and Sam, he needs the water for the Saloon, so everyone is in need of the spring for their livelihood, the hotel, the livery, everyone, obviously. The point is it is my job, as marshal, to protect that one valuable asset, not my only job, but one of my important jobs. To all of us the fountain is Clementine’s lifeblood and hope for the future. 

Everyday at noon I go to the saloon and get myself a whiskey and a cold glass of water, I smoke a cigar and I lean against the bar to relax, enjoying the good life. It is my, well, how would you call it, lunch break, so to speak. I spend an hour or so there, every one knows where I am if they are in need of me. Sam and I have some light and polite conversation, sometimes we discuss art and philosophy; and sometimes we talk about the weather and nothing else, whatever it is, it’s pleasant.

I walk down the dusty main street, my spurs singing in the gravel as I make my way to the saloon. I can hear the tinny player piano off in the distance, I smile at the thought that there is no one playing the noisy thing. Still it gives the saloon a joyous feel and makes me think of bigger cities like Denver and Phoenix.

Today I am late to the saloon, as I amble through the swinging doors I stop for a second to let my eyes adjust to the cool darkness, I am always surprised by the smell of the place when I first come through the doors, it has an odd such mixture of odors, tobacco smoke, whiskey, coffee and vomit, what a hellish mixture.

The painted windows keep out most of the light along with the half-drawn curtains, and a ceiling fan squeaks overhead; a windmill out on the roof drives the damn thing. I settle at the bar and wait for my usual. There are some saddle tramps at the corner table drinking whiskey and playing poker, every once in a while they squabble, and then they order some more to drink. Sometimes this place is so busy that Sam can’t sit and talk when I come in, but today it’s not busy at all. I lean back against the bar and face the front door my back to Sam and all the while, he is talking to me and I to him.

One of the drunken saddle tramps at the corner table pushes his chair back with a rough chatter on the wooden floor, he rises to his feet, “hey you, yea you, I am looking at ya and talking to ya, you smell like horse piss, yea I am talking to you there at the bar, now I got your attention.”  His buddies began to laugh and mutter amongst themselves, there are four of them. He squares off on me; I could see his partner to his right was going to back his play. I knew what was coming, this sort of thing was common about these parts, the Arizona Territory had no laws against dueling or gun fighting as long as it is a fair fight. It looks as though I was being called out.

“Well stranger where do you want it, in here or out there in the street, you name it?”  I turned to face the hombre’ that was what he was, an hombre.’ I waited for him to decide; after all it was his party, so he would have to make all the moves.

“You are the marshal here?  What is the name of this dump of a town, oh yea, Clementine, isn’t that sweet, Clementine. Where did you all find that name, in a song?” Again, they all started to laugh and snicker. I slowly nodded and gestured to my badge. I waited quietly for the action to take place. I also knew that Sam had his shotgun ready behind the bar to back my play. I knew but I really didn’t need it. I could stand up to all these gunslingers. But it was nice to know he was there just in case. This was my job dealing these animals the hand they wanted. This was my job; thirty dollars in gold every month and this star on my chest. This gave me the right and the responsibility of keeping Clementine safe for the citizens who live here. They paid me to take these chances and I did it well.

The clock ticked slowly on the far wall, it was dead silent as the sweat seeped from under my hat. The mean drunk was sweating as well, he had to go through with it now, or his boys would kill him later out on the desert. These men were like a pack of wild dogs, they had to test their leader to find him worthy.

I could tell that he was having second thoughts about his decision to stand and call me. But now he had passed the point of no return.  I could see the fear welling up inside of him as he tried to make a decision.

I watched his eyes, but in my mind I was at the fountain, my bandanna soaked in the icy cold water, washing my steaming face. I drifted off for a heartbeat and allowed the memory of the fountain’s cool waters sooth my aching soul.

The man facing me, his eyes twitching, his lips curled up in a cruel heinous snarl, was trying to muster the courage to pull his pistols.  It wouldn’t be long now; alcohol and stupidity were helping him make the most important decision of his life.

It seemed like hours had passed as we faced one another, my badge gleaming on my clean shirt and my fingers hovering above my Colts. He was getting his head ready for his final move, it had to be right. He didn’t want to die here on this stinking barroom floor, it had to be right. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear it and nothing else.

A man couldn’t think about dying he just couldn’t, fear could kill a man as easy as a bullet in a situation like this. There was no room in a lawman’s heart for fear only courage could prevail here today in this smelly desert barroom. Sometimes it all seemed pointless.

The sweat was now dripping off my fingers and onto my guns. I couldn’t move to wipe them, I had to be still and ready. Even though it was hot outside, there had fallen across the room an icy air, my sweat was freezing and I was soaked with it.

Like a snake, he struck; his hands went for his guns. I only drew one pistol; I fanned it at my targets, as they rose and delivered. I killed the standing man in an instant and chopped the rest to pieces with the remaining five shots. My ears were ringing from my pistol’s report. I watched the twitching and bleeding men as they lay in a heap in the corner of this stinking saloon. I hated this kind of justice, it solved nothing, it just clears the way for more hombres to come and be killed. The word gets around and more of them come to see if they have the guts and the skill to stay alive.    

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