Cowboy's Lament

“Jack Muncy? Stupid damn kid,” The Marshal sniffed and shifted his gun belt . “Got hisself shot two days ago.”

“Damn that stupid pup,” I muttered. “Where can I find him Marshal? I’d like to get him back to the outfit ‘fore he gets in any more trouble.”

He looked at me hard for a moment, and pushed his hat back on his head. “You won’t be taking him anywhere friend.”

“What? What’s he done? Is he under arrest?”

“You misunderstand me son. He’s been shot through. He won’t be going anywhere again. Hell, it’s got me beat how he’s lasted so long now.”

My heart sank. “Poor Jacky, he’s just a kid. Ain't hardly never had a shave yet.”

The marshal hardened his gaze again. He walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He returned with a holstered Colt, the belt wound loosely around it. “You pack a hog leg, means you don’t want to play with kids no more.” He held it out to me.

I reached for it, he kept ahold of it. “Do you comprehend me boy?”

I thought about the Colt in its holster high on my right hip. “Yes sir I do. I only take it out for rattlesnakes and tightening fence wire.”

He released Jacks Colt and belt. “Good. Make damned sure you don’t see any rattlesnakes or fences while you are here in town. Now go find your bunky. He’s at the infirmary on Deguello Street.” He slouched into a leather chair by the desk. “Mind what I said just now Son.”

I nodded as I opened the door and stepped out into the dry heat of the street. Mouse, my little dun pony waited, patiently as always. Gently stroking his long face, I pushed along his dirty brown flanks before cramming the colt into my saddle bag.

Unconsciously, I pulled on my gauntlets and dragged myself up into my seat. As Mouse began pacing gently, my thoughts turned to little Jacky Muncy, and then my comrades awaiting our return. As I rode, I prayed for a lifetime of eating dust riding drag, if it meant I didn’t have to tell them.

The infirmary was better than I hoped. I had seen many dark cramped holes, reeking of gangrene and vomit. Large screened windows allowed the noon sunlight to flood in. The gentle breeze created by the passing traffic wafted over the patients. A pretty Mexican nurse smiled sadly as she showed me to where Jacky lay half reclined next to a window, gazing vacantly at the horses as they passed by in the street.

“Hullo Jacky boy,” I said softly. “How goes it paisano?”

He half turned his head to look at me with unfocussed eyes as I stepped forward. “Hullo friend,” he said, showing no sign of recognition. “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy too.”

“Yes sir, I ride with the Lazy T outfit.”

He nodded slowly. “A pal of mine rode with that outfit once. Will Barry. Know him?”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there dumbly, my hat clutched tightly in front of me.

“No matter, he probably doesn’t ride for them now.” He sighed, which caused him to begin coughing, a wet rumbling sound deep in his chest. When the spasm passed he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Come stranger. Sit a spell.”

I chose a wobbly looking chair and dragged it alongside him. I dropped my hat on to the floor at my feet and sat down.

He looked at me again, still seeing a stranger. At the ranch, his boyish good looks attracted good natured ribbing from us older hands. He took it with good humour and always laughed with us. Now though I could barely recognise him. His face was now flaccid and grey, not at all like the smooth cheeked youth we rode with. His blonde hair hung lank across his clammy forehead.

When he moved , I became aware of a sickly sweet, damp odour from beneath the white linen bandages that swathed his body, the smell of slow death.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I was always a good boy, never gave my parents cause to worry. It will break my mother’s sweet heart to hear how I went up that big trail.”

More silence between us. His head sagged as though he was falling asleep. Then he coughed and raised his head. “It would just break her gentle heart to know I done so wrong.”

“Jacky, You never done bad, you just...”

“No friend, I done wrong. I done wrong and I got my just desserts.” He looked at me again, with dull eyes. “I should have listened to my bunkies, when they told me to settle down...”

***

“...Settle down?" Jacky took a step back from the cowboys seated around the table. “You worn out old cowpokes.”

Five cowboys stared back at him from the table. “Now Jacky, don’t be going off half cocked. Leave it till tomorrow to hit town,” said Will Barry, the top hand. “We’ll have town all to ourselves then.”

Jacky sneered at him. “Alright Will, you stay here and play dominoes like a bunch of old spinsters. I’m gonna go play men’s games.”

The young cowboy turned and stalked out of the bunk house, slamming the door as he went. Only Will watched him go.

The “Tenderloin” district was thriving when Jacky pulled his mount to a rapid halt to avoid the boy at
the livery. “Take your horse sir?” enquired the shaken stable boy.

“Look after this stud boy,” said Jacky, as he dismounted, “Or I’ll whoop your skinny ass”. He dropped some coins into the boy’s outstretched hand and walked away without looking back.

Not really knowing where to head first, he wandered aimlessly down Front Street, his spurs jingling happily as his heels tapped on the planked sidewalk. After a short stroll Jacky heard music. The bright sound of mexican horns and a poorly tuned piano wafted through the night air. He picked up his pace and followed the sound.

A moment later, he rounded a corner and saw the brightly lit windows of “Rosie’s” Cantina shining like a beacon. Jacky’s pulse quickened. Will and the old boys had told him some wild stories about the place.  Now it was his turn.

He stepped from the shadowed walkway into the street.  Blinded by the blazing windows and deafened by the blood pounding in his ears, he didn’t notice the drunken cowboy staggering in his direction.

“Hey, look out kid,” slurred the drunk when they bumped into each other.

Jacky took a pace back. “Who you callin’ kid? You god damned rummy.” His hand dropped to the butt of his holstered Colt.

“I ain’t heeled you durn pup,” slurred the drunken cowboy. “Put that thumb buster away and face me like a man.” He swung a wild haymaker at Jacky.

Exhilarated, Jacky easily evaded the loose punch.  He stepped in close, just as he had been shown, and delivered a lightning fast trio of jabs at the unbalanced cowboy’s body. He skipped back a step as the enraged cowboy regained his balance. “You little son of a bitch,” he bellowed as he charged again.

Again, the intoxicated cowboy’s attack was wild and Jacky had no trouble avoiding it. This time he smashed his fist hard into his attacker’s jaw. The cowboy reacted as though shot between the eyes. He collapsed with a single grunt and lay unmoving on the dusty roadway.

Victorious, Jacky aimed a kick into the fallen man’s ribs. “That’s what you get when you mess with Black Jack Muncy, you stupid cowpoke.” The only answer he received was a groan of misery.

Straightening his clothes and rig, Jacky turned and marched triumphantly to the blinding lights of Rosie’s cantina. “Oh boy, wait til I tell Will and the boys about this,” he spoke happily to himself as he marched up the steps.

“Woohee son, that was some whoopin’,” said a whiskey soaked cowboy who had watched the short fight from his seat next the window. A young whore sat draped languidly on his lap, Jacky liked the silky way she smiled as she looked him up and down.

A wave of warmth and stale cigarette smoke hit Jacky as he breasted through the batwing doors. A large hand slapped his shoulder. “You got some quick hands there pard’,” congratulated another tall cowboy, as he lurched toward the still swinging doors.

Pushing his hat back on his snowy head, Jacky took in the scene before him.  Groups of men, some cowboys, some dressed more sharply sat around tables bathed in the orange light of many candles in their glass lamps. Grey smoke swirled around the assembled men.
It hung over their shoulders like the handful of luridly dressed prostitutes who moved around the room.

They would touch the men softly then lean down to whisper suggestively in their ear. Now and then one of the men would rise and allow the soiled dove to lead him away from the table. His friends would cheer and hoot as the pair went upstairs.

Jacky watched the most recent couple disappeared up the wide staircase. He wanted it, bad. He was feeling brave after the fight with the drunk in the street, but he knew he couldn’t just up and ask one of those calico queens for a ride. Not without a bellyful of courage.

He breasted up to the bar, pushing a gap with his shoulder. “I am dry. Give me a drink bartender.”

The bartender quickly filled a shot glass and slid it down the top of the bar. Jacky caught it and raised it to his lips. He downed it quickly, before the sharp smell could bring tears to his eyes. He gave a growl to drown out the river of molten lava coursing down his throat.

Banging the glass down on the scratched bar, he shouted, “Bring me another.”
He downed the next one just as quickly. He roared again despite the fact that this river of lava burned less fiercely. The third glass disappeared hurriedly and Jacky leaned on the bar for a moment as a comfortable fog descended on him.

“Give me a bottle, bartender, I’m taking this show on the road.” He dropped a handful of coins on the slick bar top before pushing himself out into the crowded bar room.

He had only taken a few plodding steps when one of the women came to him. She lightly took hold of his hand at first then slowly drew her body close to his. “You look lonely, my handsome young cowboy,” her own breath reeked of gin. Jacky looked her up and down, lingering on her cleavage. She noticed and pushed her body even harder against his.

“Mmmm,” he said, not really knowing what to say.

“For a couple of dollars, you can have all the company you like... cowpoke.” She pushed her hips, hard against his.

He couldn’t breathe for a moment He wanted the woman, but the bottle had cost him his last coins. “I’d love that ma’am, for sure. But I only got  one dollar.”

She released his hand. “That’s a shame honey, cos I like you, a lot.” She was eyeing a passing cowboy as she said it.

“Don’t go nowhere darlin’,” Jacky said as she turned to follow the other man. “I’ll be back soon with more cash. Then we can have a party.”

She was gone already. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself as he wandered to a crowded table.

Five serious looking cowboys sat at the table, smoking cigars and sipping whiskey. Jacky leaned over the shoulder of one, ignoring the rank smoke that wafted in his face. Instead of the card game he expected, they were holding small bone tablets, arranging them on the table one at a time.

“Dominoes! Hell if I wanted to play dominoes, I’d have stayed in the bunkhouse with those other old broke down waddies. Wheres the real play at?”

One of the cowboys looked up. “This is a friendly game pardner.” He placed a tile on the green baize tabletop. “You want high stakes boy, you go on next door. See how long you keep your durn shirt.” The other men at the table sniggered at the last comment.

Jacky pushed away from the group and staggered to the arched doorway. It was much quieter inside the card house, and much less crowded. Jacky could see two busy looking card games at tables in opposite corners of the room. He headed toward the nearest of the pair.

“Say boy.”

He turned to face the voice. “Feel like bucking the tiger?”


The man sat at an oval table. Instead of the usual green baize, the table top was covered by a picture of the thirteen spades cards, all laid out from the deuce to the ace. Another man sat to his side, with a large bag on his lap. A box of cards and an abacus lay on the table next to the man’s hat.

Jacky walked up, “I want to play cards, a man needs a trade outside cows.”

The man at the table smiled, and smoothed his oiled hair. “You sound like you want to make some money young man. Faro is the game for you.”

“The stakes are pretty damn thin, Poker is the pay off.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look like you got the buy in for that game tonight. Buck the tiger and take a few dollars back next door.” The man gave a sly wink. “Maybe enough to ride the buckin’ bronc'.You know how to play Faro?”

Jacky blushed and stepped up to the table. “Yeah, I been around ‘fore this.” He took his last dollar and dropped it on the seven.

The dealer slipped a card from the top of the deck. “That's the soda, we don’t play that one.” He discarded it. The next card was the jack of diamonds. Loser card. The next card was the seven of clubs. “Seven. You’re a winner friend.”

The man next to him took two dollars from the case and hand them to Jacky. “Well done sir.”
Jacky smiled as he pocketed the cash. He moved his first coin to the ten. “Let’s go again, mister,” he slurred and took a slug from the bottle.

This time it was the eight of hearts followed by a three of clubs. “No winners. Want to let it ride?”

Jacky swigged and nodded.

The dealer drew a ten of spades, then a six of diamonds. “Ten is the loser. Sorry sir.” He scooped Jacky’s dollar into the other man’s case. “New bets please.”

“Dammit,” Jacky cussed and dropped a coin on to the table, it landed on the ace. The dealer pulled the first card, ace of hearts, then the queen of spades. “Ace card is the loser. Bad luck Son.”

“I ain’t your son” Jacky hissed. He took out his last coin. He slapped it down on the king. “God damned king better pay up.”

The dealer, drew the next card, seven of hearts, then the ace of spades. “No winners, no losers.” He looked up at Jacky. “You want to let it ride friend?”

Jacky grunted, “Go ahead, damn carpetbagger.”

“New game” said the dealer evenly and drew the loser card. Ten of diamonds. Next was eight of clubs. “Ten is the loser, sorry friend.”

When the banker reached across the table Jacky grabbed it with his left hand. “Don’t you do that, you robbin’ son of a bitch.”

“Huh”, the man froze, coins in hand.

Jacky drew his Colt, “Give me back my damn money you thieving bastard.” He thrust the
revolver at the man. 

“Put it down and go home boy,” said the dealer evenly.

When Jacky swung around to face him, the hat was rolling off the edge of the table, and the dealer had a nickel plated revolver pointed at him. 

Jacky raised his Colt, “Damn you...” The sound of the revolver cut him off. Burning flecks of gun powder, stung his face and hands. An invisible fist punched him in the chest, knocking the breath from his body in a ragged gasp. His legs turned to rubber and he sank to the floor.

The music from next door had stopped. The laughing cowboys and the cooing prostitutes stood staring mutely at the scene playing out in front of them. A few rushed to where Jacky lay, trying to rise in a spreading pool of bright frothing blood.

His assailant stepped through the wafting grey smoke, revolver still pointed in his direction. Jacky raised his hand. “Don’t shoot again mister, I’m done. You killed me.”

The dapper cardsharp only lowered the short revolver when admonished by a member of the growing crowd.“Dammit Wes, put that thing away. This boy is done for.”

Jacky tried to speak, but managed only to spit bubbling blood on his already soaked shirt. The room began to spin. He heard a new voice, “Give up that piece Wes, you're coming with me."

“It was all according to Hoyle marshal. There’s a whole room of people who will say they saw the kid throw down on me,” answered the dealer, a man named Wes Hardin.

“That might be true, Wes, but the law is the law.”

“Well you know me marshal, law abiding citizen, all the way.” Jacky saw him hand the revolver through dimming eyes. In a moment the room was black and silent.

***

“…law abiding citizen all the way.”  He laughed at those words, but was overcome by a coughing fit that left his body shivering. Wiping a fleck of crimson from his lips, he peered at me with dim eyes.

When he had composed himself, he continued. “Not long now, I'm fading out friend.”

I picked up my hat to disguise my shaking hands. “You want I should write your folks Jacky?”

“Don’t tell my mother how I went over. It would break her dear heart to know her only boy was shot for a bandit.” His head was low now.

A silence fell over us, punctuated only by his ragged laboured breathing. I supposed that he had fallen asleep and, not sure whether to stay or leave, I stood up.

The jingling of my spurs roused him. “I just had a fancy dream pardner.”

Hat in hand I sat again, “Dreams are good Jacky. Tell me.”

“I dreamed that all those bottom dealin’ card throwers, with their fancy waistcoats slicked up haircuts, they all lined up to carry my coffin from the undertaker.”

I laughed, despite the growing lump in my throat. “Those pretty fellows could use some honest labour. It would improve their manners. What else did you dream Jacky?”

A smile broke across his face, his old smile. “And those little margaritas…” His voice trailed off
.
“What about them gals?” I asked softly

“Don’t know where you boys rounded ‘em all up from, but there was sixteen of them. And they weren’t wearing those skimpy rags they wear in the saloon. They were dressed like ladies, in silk dresses in every colour I ever seen in the rainbow. They were beautiful and graceful.” He was staring into the distance.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Those doves sure did like you Jacky.”

“They were crying like there was no tomorrow and saying how they would love me forever.”

I watched him silently through misting eyes.

“They all took me down to the boot yard. There was a band of cowboys there played the pipes and beat on drums while the choir of calico queens sang beautiful hymns for me.  Those card-sharps lowered me down softly and stood by while Mister Barnes said some words for me.”

He paused for a moment. “Some dream huh?

“Oh yeah Jacky that’s some dream, alright, a real humdinger.” I tried to smile.

His breathing became ragged, “Friend, this talking is making me very dry. Would you fetch me a mug of water?”

I squeezed his shoulder gently. “Sure thing compadre.” I left my hat on the stool and fetched a pitcher of water and a wooden mug from one of the sad smiling nurses.

When I returned, Jacky’s head was hanging low as though he were sleeping again. “I brung you a drink Jacky,” I said as I gently shook him.

His body was slack and he made no response. I tried again with no result. I called for the nurse.

She came quickly with a doctor. He felt for Jacky’s pulse, and listened for his heartbeat. After a moment he stepped away from him shaking his bald head. “I’m sorry sir, Mister Muncy is dead.”

I knew it was inevitable, but his words stunned me like a horse's kick. It took me a moment to recover. I nodded slowly. “Thank you doctor, you have all been very kind.”

We buried Jacky the next morning.

No gamblers carried him. No whores sang lamenting ballads over him. One or two watched us from behind the thick glass of the cantina, but none came to his side as we carried him from town to the ranch in a borrowed buckboard.

Every hand on the place was there. Pete Creed played a slow lament on a tiny flute he had carved, and the cook beat a hastily improvised drum made from the canopy of a cart and a copper wash basin.

Randall Barnes, the foreman, stood at the head of the open grave, he said a few words, biblical verse. He gazed at the assembled cowboys, grey faced, some wiping tears with filthy bandanas. “Jack Muncy did wrong, but we loved that boy as one of our own.” Muffled “Amens” came from the small crowd.

The rustic music played lowly, as we lowered Jacky softly, and covered him. When we were done, Jimmy Mahoney, a skinny red headed boy from Ireland with a fine tenor voice began to sing. 

The crowd slowly began to disperse, jobs still needed tending, but I waited.  Tears stung my eyes as I listened, spade loosely held by my side.

“So we beat the drums slowly, and we played the fife lowly,
And bitterly wept as we bore him along.
For we all love our comrade so brave, young and handsome,
We all loved our comrade, although he had done wrong.”

When the boy's voice finally faded, I turned and walked away.