Chapter 13

The Honour of a Gunfighter

Langford Poole was an honourable man. He had told Jarvis Raymond so the night before, when they had discussed ways to make Adam Cartwright draw down on Poole. Raymond had gotten that disdainful look often displayed by people who think they were superior to the world and said, “Oh, sure, that’s what you gunfighters are, all honourable men.” Raymond had seemed to find this amusing, but Poole hadn’t seen the humour in it.

Poole was honourable, and he had his rules. He wouldn’t draw on a man, as he had told Raymond, but for five reasons: self-defense, being insulted, being called out, honour (which meant to call someone out to establish who was the faster draw), and being paid for it. With Adam Cartwright it was a matter of honour. Of restoring honour, actually, and therefore the most important reason Poole could think of. Even more incentive than being paid for it.

Somehow Raymond seemed to have difficulties understanding that someone whose job it was to kill people for money could still have business ethics. Apparently the editor thought Poole had no conscience, no morals. Well, that may have applied for newspaper scribblers, but not for honourable businessmen like him. And so Poole had refused point-blank to call out any of the other Cartwright men to force Adam Cartwright into stepping in as he had done at the time Alpheus Troy had paid Poole to shoot Ben Cartwright. He suspected Cartwright wouldn’t fall for that anyway; the man wasn’t stupid—that much Poole had already discerned. And Poole didn’t see any honourable achievement in dueling the old man or one of his two green sons—regardless of whether it was the hot-headed kid or the slow giant. Big, slow targets, easy victims: nothing that would enhance his fame. No reason to call them out. Of course, if Raymond paid for it…but Poole had known even before the editor had found excuses why he wouldn’t, couldn’t, pay him; that Raymond just didn’t want to soil his hands.

Raymond’s second suggestion, to ambush one of Cartwright’s family and make Adam Cartwright seek revenge, Poole had rejected just as quickly.

“I’m not a dirty cutthroat, Raymond, I’m a gunfighter. I—”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re an honourable man.” Raymond had sounded far too sarcastic for Poole’s liking. “But since Cartwright won’t go and threaten or insult you or much less call you out—what option have you left? Do you or do you not want the fight, Poole?”

Poole had watched the agitated editor through narrowed eyes. “I want the fight, and I’ll get the fight. Sooner or later they all fold. No one wants ta be called a coward.” He had sunk back into his chair, folded his arms and given Raymond what he considered an astute smile. “Especially not when his friends and neighbours start thinking it, too.”

Raymond had leaned forward and looked intrigued. “You have a plan?”

“I have. You said Cartwright’s gonna be in town tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

“Then you just wait an’ see….”

Poole took a sip from his glass of beer. He had been nursing this one single glass in the Silver Dollar for the last two hours. He preferred to stay sober before a duel, and he was confident that it wouldn’t be too long before he finally could put a nice little hole into Adam Cartwright, who had just ridden past the saloon’s front window. With calm satisfaction Poole watched Cartwright dismount and tie his horse to the post in front of the Territorial Enterprise and then enter the building.

Langford Poole wasn’t a very religious man, but he considered it divine providence when Cartwright left the newspaper’s office only minutes later, with the face of a boy from whom someone had stolen his lollipop, and, without hesitation, made a beeline to the saloon. Poole waited until the man had chosen a table and Sam, the barkeep, had brought him his order of lunch and beer. He picked up his own glass and casually made his way to Cartwright’s table.

“Howdy, Cartwright,” he said with a voice he thought amiable. “You don’t mind if I keep you company.” He didn’t even try to make it sound like a question, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Cartwright merely glared at him.

“Suit yourself, Poole.” He shook his head and started to dig into his lunch without sparing Poole another glance.

Poole watched the man, thinking about the way he was going to play this game. He smirked when he finally decided upon his opening phrase.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your meal, Cartwright, since it’ll be the last one you’ll ever have.”

“Poole, I’m eating. Can’t you at least wait until I’ve finished?”

Well, this wasn’t what Poole had expected. But Adam Cartwright didn’t seem to be a very predictable man anyway, so Poole wasn’t really surprised. It didn’t stop him from saying, “Why, I’m only making conversation, Cartwright. You can continue with your meal while we’re setting the date.”

“No one will set a date, Poole. There won’t be a duel.” Cartwright’s voice was low and calm with just a nuance of underlying annoyance. Poole barely hid a grin. Persistence seemed to be the way to get on the man’s nerves.

“Oh, come on, Cartwright, you weren’t so yellow-bellied the last time we met. What happened? Found out there are fellers quicker than you?” Poole’s reply was as loud as Cartwright’s words had been quiet, and Poole’s voice carried easily through the whole saloon. Several guests turned their heads towards them. Now Poole couldn’t hide his grin. At least the masses always did the expected.

Adam Cartwright, however, didn’t. Without acknowledging he had heard Poole, he decisively laid his cutlery next to his plate, wiped his mouth with the napkin and tossed the cloth on the still half-full plate. He sighed, then stood and chucked a dollar on the table and turned to the barkeep. “Sorry, Sam; the food was good, only the company could be improved.”

Now, that was just too good to not use it, Poole thought. “Are you…insulting me?”

Cartwright shrugged. “Are you that eager to think badly of yourself, Poole?” And with that he headed out of the saloon.

This time Poole wouldn’t be left behind. He tossed another dollar on the table, stood and hurried after Cartwright. He made sure to be heard all over the busy street when he called, “What, are you running away from me, Cartwright?”

Cartwright froze. Poole could see his rigid shoulders, his tensed hands; and then Cartwright turned round, slowly and with an oh-so-composed face.

“Poole, why don’t you just let it go,” he said in that low, velvety voice of his. “Find yourself another playfellow, would you.”

A bit too smooth, Poole thought, I’m nearly there. People were already stopping, looking, watching, slowly forming a circle around him and his reluctant adversary. Poole bathed in their attention when he pronounced, just as smoothly as Cartwright had spoken, “But I’m calling you out, Cartwright.”

A collective gasp went through the extending crowd.

“And I said I won’t draw on you.” Cartwright didn’t look right or left when this statement evoked a minor uproar in the crush of people.

Poole smiled his most smug and superior smile. He knew he had his man. The crowd was getting bigger by the second, and he heard the first voices uttering the word every man dreaded. All Cartwright would need was a tiny little push.

“Because you’re not in the mood, again?” Poole emphasised smoothly. “Or because after all you are a sissy?”

A murmur rippled through the throng and swelled to a small roar when Cartwright retorted, “No; because I won’t play this game. I have no reason to shoot you, Poole, and the way I see it, you don’t have one to shoot me either.”

“Ah, but I can give you a reason, Cartwright, if that’s what ya need,” Poole, suddenly at the end of his patience, spat. “I’m calling you a coward, a sissy, a yellow-belly, a chicken….”

“I’m impressed by your extensive vocabulary, Poole; it’s surely above the average gunslinger’s, but I still say no.”

“Come on, we can do it right here, in front of your friends. You don’t want them thinking you’re a…” Poole broke off, at a loss.

“A dastard? A faintheart? A turnback? A poltroon? Or even a niddering?” Cartwright’s eyebrow rose steadily with every synonym. “I don’t care, and I won’t draw on you.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Coward. Draw.”

Cartwright shook his head. “No.”

And then there was even more commotion in the crowd, and the masses parted to let through two people with a little boy in tow. Poole couldn’t believe his luck. Now he had Cartwright on toast.

“You sure don’t want the fair lady think you’re too yellow to fight for your honour, hmm, Cartwright?” Poole spent a short glance to see Jarvis Raymond’s smug face and then looked back at his opponent.

Cartwright had his eyes narrowed and even though his tight lipped face still was turned towards Poole, his eyes were on Miss Heatherstone. The lady pushed the boy behind her skirt and hissed something Poole couldn’t understand but which made the boy stay put. She gazed at Cartwright with a nearly blank face. There was no disdain, and no support either, but pure curiosity.

Cartwright detached his eyes from the lady’s face and fixed them on Poole. The gunfighter could see his jaws working, and this was the first time Cartwright’s calm posture seemed to falter. One more push….

“Now draw, and show the lady you’re a man.”

The crowd fell deadly silent. Everybody seemed to take one step back, and to hold their breath in eager anticipation. In unexpected unison Cartwright’s and Poole’s gaze wandered to Miss Heatherstone, who, with her head tilted, still stood completely immobile and watched the occurrences with that strange dispassionate curiosity.

“No.” Cartwright’s voice was nearly inaudible, but still rang like a shot through the silence.

“Well, think it over. Listen to your friends, speak to the lady; and maybe you have more guts tomorrow,” Poole said through the newly rising mutterings. “I’ll be here waiting for you.” He sneered provocatively at Cartwright, but he knew his words wouldn’t make a difference. He knew he had lost this round too, even before the other man responded.

“I already told you, Poole, I’m not going to play this game. Not today, not tomorrow or any other day.” Cartwright stated it loud enough for everyone to hear and then, after a long glance around, he just turned his back and started to slowly walk away.

The crowd shrank away from him, as if the upstanding people from Virginia City were afraid to be tainted by his touch, until the parting masses formed a lane Adam Cartwright walked through. Calm and upright, unflinching, with steady gait, ignoring the whispered comments, the murmur of imperceptible sentence fragments, the tone of condemnation, the one discernible word that seemed to hover above the burble: coward.

The murmur seemed to become a different quality when at the end of the human tunnel seemingly out of the nowhere, Miss Heatherstone appeared. She stood there, just as upright as the approaching man, gazing intently at him, and Poole suddenly understood why Raymond had proclaimed the lady could be sweet once someone had won her heart. Her stern features had softened into an expression of…admiration, and her green eyes sparkled with delight. She wasn’t sweet, though, but nearly beautiful in her joyful warmness, and Poole remembered how last night he had tried and failed to picture her in one of the low necked dresses the saloon girls wore. This night he would be more successful.

When Cartwright reached the lady, she affectionately touched his arm and said, much louder than necessary, “I just wanted to remind you not to be late for our appointment on Sunday, Adam.”

Poole heard Cartwright replying, much lower, “So you are sure you’re up to the ride?” and the lady answering, “Of course I am. I’m perfectly fine.”

Cartwright didn’t say anything more, but he must have pulled a face, or maybe done some more of his eyebrow gymnastics, because Miss Heatherstone rolled her eyes and said, “Well, maybe not now, but by Sunday I’ll…” and then her face lit up in a brilliant, mischievous smile, and she added, “…be fine as frog’s hair.” Cartwright’s shoulders twitched with an inaudible chuckle; and then the lady linked her arm with his and chimed, “Adam, be a dear and take me back to the bureau, would you?”

Poole watched them making their way to the Territorial Enterprise as if they were the only people on the street, the crowd of gapers apparently completely forgotten. He wondered if smarty Cartwright had the faintest idea how much the lady was smitten with him. But no matter whether or not Cartwright was aware of his effect on Miss Heatherstone, her obvious approval would only help to consolidate the rancher’s decision not to fight for his honour, and so this latest tactic had turned out to be another dead end.

Poole looked around for Raymond. They would have to have another conference to discuss this other option that Raymond had indicated the night before. The last reserve, as Raymond had called it. The way things were with his ornery unwilling opponent, it was time to mobilise this last reserve. But Raymond obviously didn’t want to be associated with him: when Poole tried to catch his eye, Raymond turned abruptly, hiding his disappointed face, and quickly jostled his way through the throng.

Poole followed him at a much slower pace, silently asking himself who was the real coward in this game.

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Have the courage to live. Anyone can die. ~ Robert Cody