A Serious Undertaking by Harcourt Tendhall

16 September 2020  { Western }


It were jest another hot, dusty day in June. Ain’t had no rain since March. We’re lucky to have a great well, or this here town would have been dead a long time since. Even so, ain’t nobody moved in here over the last couple of years. Hardly surprising; no railroad, no gold rush, no jobs. Nearest ranch is over ten miles away. Only the stagecoach stopping over twice a week. That helps the saloon stay in business, with the overnight stays, and the stables, of course.

We get a few cattle drives going through once a year, heading for Laramie where they hold the auctions, and the railroad delivers them all over this here United States of America. Mind you, them cowboys can be more trouble than they’re worth, getting drunk and kicking up a fuss every night they’re around. Still, James’ General Store does all right by them, and the saloon again. Often said I chose the wrong business to be in. I guess it’s what keeps the barber going as well, with haircuts, baths and shaves. Can’t be more than two dozen locals use his place. Can’t make a living on that alone.

When the cowboys arrive, that’s when the trouble starts. I just keep my head down and clear up the mess after them. Y’see, I’m the Undertaker. If it weren’t for them, I’d be out of business. Them cattle drives attract plenty of the wrong sorts into town, partic’ly the card sharks. Mix poker with whisky and beer, and you’ve got yerself a pretty explosive mixture. Me and Doc, we’re the only ones who benefit in these situations.

The wise ones quietly take their meagre winnings and leave, content-like, or spend them on one of those ladies Jed keeps above the saloon. The stupid ones push it to breaking point and that’s when the fighting starts. If their luck holds out, they come away with a beating or a bullet wound. Then Doc patches ‘em up and sends them on their way. The unlucky ones end up coming my way. Trouble is, sometimes I don’t get paid. If they’ve got friends, they pass a hat round to pay for the funeral, or the drive-master gives me any wages they’re due. Not been any cattle drives for a while. Town’s as good as asleep.

Today’s different, though. There’s a mean bunch arrived. Got here about an hour ago. I watched ‘em ride up. Black suits and white shirts. At first, I thought they was gamblers, but as they got close, I could see they were ugly and mean looking. Hair too long and didn’t smell too sweet either. I hurried away. Don’t wanna be talking to the likes of them. They’re in the Saloon. Ain’t no figuring why they’re here. No cattle drive due and the stagecoach left early this morning.

I walked over to the jail, thinking I’d let the sheriff know, but he’s out of town, tracking down Maria Yates’ young whippersnapper, Beau. He’s always in trouble, that kid. Needs a firm hand, but with Jesse Yates gone on a cattle drive, the kid’s always getting himself into trouble. Maria and Sally Bart, she’s the schoolmistress, ain’t got no hope of keeping him on track. Anyways, I’m gonna keep lying low for the time being, no point getting mixed up with that lot in the saloon. Seems most other folk had the same idea; it’s like a ghost town.

That was when the stranger rode up. He looked different, somehow. Calm, relaxed, but, I don’t know, seemed in control.

‘Where are they, old man?’ he asked.

‘Don’t rightly know who you mean,’ I replied.

He looked around, through narrow eyes, took the cheroot from his lips, then said, ‘Ain’t nobody around and I’m following three bad guys. Towns like this, people sense bad guys, make themselves scarce, so where’d they go, the saloon?’

‘Yes Sir.’

He looked over at my display coffins, stood on end outside my place. ‘How much for them coffins?’

‘Three dollars, five if you want brass handles.’

‘That include the burial?’

‘And the preacher to say a few words.’

‘Here’s ten dollars, reserve three of ‘em. No brass, keep the change.’

‘Yes Siree, thank you Sir.’

I watched him ride over to the stables. He left his horse with Doug, the stable boy, and headed into the Barbers. Half an hour later, he came out all haircut and clean-shaven. He headed straight for the saloon. They must have been watching for him and came out to face him. Headed into the middle of the road and loosened their holsters. So did he and I headed indoors, only daring to peek through the window. I was sure hoping he was going to win.

They stood there, like statues. Nothing stirred. Even the hot breeze was stilled. A crying toddler ran into the road fifty feet behind him. They moved but didn’t draw. He never moved a muscle. Mrs. Jones ran out, scooped up her toddler and scuttled back into her house. The door slammed and silence fell again. All I could hear was my heartbeat.

Then all hell broke loose. They drew first, but he was lightning fast. All three of ‘em dropped as they fired. Six shots in three heartbeats. I looked back at him, still stood like a statue, but with gun in hand, chewing on his cheroot, surveying the scene, making sure. Then he holstered his Colt 45 and walked towards me.

‘Looks like it’s all over, old man. Time to earn your money.’

‘Yes Siree. I’m on my way.’

He turned and went into the saloon. I dragged the bodies over to my place and got my tape measure. Most I’ve earned in a day for the last two years. A few dollars to be made from their belongings as well.

Twenty minutes later he came out, collected his horse from the stables and rode slowly out of town. As he passed Mrs. Jones, he tipped his hat to her and carried on his way, not once looking back. Never did see him again. Didn’t even catch his name.


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