Read Online The Last Shootist by Miles Swarthout - Free Book Online

morning.
    â€œMy, you’re serious about finding a job today.”
    Gillom wore new Levis and dark brown cowboy boots; his long gray undershirt was rolled down to his waist as he pumped water into the kitchen sink to wash. Probably should shave, he thought, but no time for that now. He toweled off as she poured their coffees.
    â€œMa, I am going to find a good job, but not in El Paso. Have to leave today. For a while.”
    â€œWhat? Why?”
    â€œWell, I got into a … shoot-out … last night. Late. In San Jacinto Plaza. Shot a couple of young Mexicans, Serrano’s kin, who’ve been followin’ me.”
    His mother paled. “My God. You’ve turned into a mankiller … just like Books.” Suddenly out of breath, she sat down hard.
    â€œMa, they trailed me on the street outside here, to church yesterday, then down near the river when I was practicin’.”
    â€œPracticing? With those guns?”
    â€œMy gosh ! I have to be able to defend myself!” He paced as he wormed back into his undershirt. “Those two vaqueros stalked me! Mister Books killed their uncle in the Constantinople. A rustler named Serrano, a real bandido . I delivered Books’s saloon invite to him, across the border. So his young relatives decided they had to kill me ! It’s their blood honor or some crazy Mexican vendetta. It would have gone on and on, so I had to end it last night. Pronto.”
    â€œMy son. A shootist .” She was dazed, not quite comprehending his wild story or his reasoning.
    â€œIt was them or me. Younger one shot first.”
    â€œYou just left them wounded, lying there in the dark?”
    â€œNo. They were next to the alligator pond. I think their bodies have been disposed of. Nothing left to connect to me.” He wrung the towel in his hands, fretting. “But their relatives will come looking for them. And if they talk to Thibido, and he puts two and two together, he’ll come right to our front door. You know the marshal wants those fine revolvers, or me in jail.”
    His mother stared at him, unhappy and dismayed.
    â€œWhy can’t you just give Marshal Thibido those guns? Buy him off this … this endless trouble.”
    â€œNo, I’ve got to vamoose. I have those Mexicans’ horses and pistols. I’ll sell ’em, out of town. Then take the train to Santa Fe. Always wanted to see that old trading post. I’ll find a job, bank or train guard, something honorable, where my gun skills are useful.” Gillom reached for her hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll come back in a year or so, after these shootings are forgotten. Thibido may even be out of a job by then, and leave you and me and my guns alone.”
    His mother started to cry, gulping air in and out as the finality of all this bloodshed washed over her. “How can … our stars … have gotten so crossed? What did we do … so awful … to deserve John Bernard Books … showing up at our front door? Cursing us! ”
    *   *   *
    Gillom had the Mexicans’ horses saddled in an hour. He ground-reined them in his mom’s grassy backyard, away from the nearby street’s prying eyes. These horses were stolen and he was taking a risk, but he didn’t intend to keep them long.
    His mother cooked him a hurried breakfast of oatmeal and bacon, then loaded her only child up with half the foodstuffs in her pantry in a canvas bag. She was filling his bulging warbag with a small frying pan, while he tightened one hemp cinch underneath the big saddle and hopped onto the black horse, the friskier of these caballos .
    â€œGot your wool mittens?”
    â€œI’ve got new leather gloves in my bags, Ma. Weather’s mild, won’t even need ’em.”
    â€œNights get cold in the desert. You’ll catch a chill.” She couldn’t look at him.
    â€œI’ll be fine. Sell