The Wrong Men
by Gary Clifton
“Is there any way I could get some fresh water?” the prisoner called through the tiny cell door window.
“Coming,” the voice of the guard wafted down the corridor. “If you want fresh water, sit down and wait your turn.”
This was the strangest jail he’d ever seen, and he’d dragged many an outlaw screaming into hoosegows all over South Texas. The walls were peeling plaster and scarred with the carvings of previous prisoners. He couldn’t hear the sounds, but they were building the gallows close by to hang him. It wasn’t death he feared, but the pain of not seeing Agnes and the boys for nearly a year, and now forever was a hard poison to swallow.
In his many years as a lawman, his reputation as one of the most reliable, upstanding men behind the badge had been fairly earned. In the stifling heat of summer 1881, unassisted, he’d singlehandedly taken down the notorious Miller brothers, defilers of many women, murderers of a dozen men.
When he and his faithful bay mare, Sally, had finally trailed the pair to a little cantina on the banks of the San Antonio River, newspapers across the area had hailed him as a hero savior of honest men. That he’d managed to take one of the two alive became known as one of the bravest feats in the territory.
When the city fathers of notorious town of Ten Mile offered him the marshal’s job with orders to tame the place, he was confident his wandering lawman days were over. He moved Agnes and the boys into the dusty village on the banks of the Rio Grande and set about clearing the town of the glut of drifting, murderous border scum from both sides of the river. In his first two months, he’d jailed a dozen, gunned two, and had “come to Jesus meetings” with several hard cases who found it prudent to move on.
Citizens were ecstatic. “On behalf of the grateful citizens of Ten Mile, the town council hereby awards you this engraved Winchester. God bless you, sir,” Mayor Juan Robles had announced proudly on the town square.
The very next morning, as he sat shuffling wanted posters in the tiny marshal’s office in the jail, a visitor entered. “Marshal, I jes’ heard from a drifter over at Rosita’s, the Stark Gang is riding down from San Antone. They meanin’ to rob the bank early tomorrow an’ kill anybody dumb enough to interfere.”
He requested an emergency town council meeting. “I probably can’t take the Stark bunch alone without gunplay. I need authority and the ten dollars a man required to deputize as many men as I can. Otherwise, I’m thinkin’ Main Street is gonna be littered with bodies in the morning.”
He wasn’t really surprised when Mayor Robles said, “We hired you to clean up Ten Mile ’cuz none of us sure ain’t gunfighters.”
“A few dead bodies is good for bidness,” wailed Councilman Clem Pudkins, the town undertaker.
Councilman Fred Frickas argued, “That’s the duty of the law. You’ll just hafta get the drop on the Stark boys.”
Councilman Cletus Fandown added, “Heyell fa’r, marshal, we payin’ you twenty dollars a month already. Ten bucks a man is more than the town can afford.”
Councilman Gilberto Alvarez, president of the First Bank of Ten Mile City said, “Bank ain’t got no damned money noway.”
Disgusted, but full of courage and determination, the sheriff vowed to honor his oath as an officer of the law and lay down his life if necessary.
At five a.m. the following morning, he kissed Agnes and the boys goodbye, armed himself with an extra Colt .45 six-shooter and his new Winchester, and was waiting in his jail office directly across Main Street from the Bank of Ten Mile.
Six a.m., then seven, nothing. The bank opened at 7:30. At just before eight, two seedy characters wearing broad sombreros appeared at the side of the bank building, hesitated at the door and studied the empty street furtively, then entered the bank.
He hitched up his britches a notch and strode across the wide, dusty street, his Winchester in the crook of his arm. He eased beside the bank building. Sure enough, a third bandit sat on a gray gelding, holding the reins two saddled horses. The bank robbery was going down.
He stepped inside the bank. “Hands up,” he ordered.
The sombrero-topped men went for Colts at their waists. He shot both in the chest at six feet. They went down like felled oaks, spasming in death on the rough wood floor.
Then hell came for breakfast. “You damned fool, you’ve just murdered by brother and cousin!” shrieked bank president Alvarez.
No bank robbers appeared that day, nor for a week. But his trial began in two days and in three, he was sentenced to hang for killing the wrong men. Agnes and the boys had been hysterical in the courtroom, prompting the judge to ban them visiting him in his cell. Soon Agnes had loaded up the boys and run away with a traveling hardware salesman from Valparaiso, Indiana. The city took back his Winchester.
Hoofbeats of several horses drifted in through the tiny window high on the wall. Standing tiptoe on his bunk, he could see a dozen riders, all armed to the teeth. He’d seen it before. A lynch mob was coming for him. He’d by-God fight to the last. He managed to rip a leg from the bunk and stood ready to repel the attackers.
The guard, a female, opened his cell door, a pitcher of water in her hand. He rushed at her swinging his bunkbed leg. She screamed, spilled the pitcher on her white uniform, and squeezed a pendant on her neck chain. An alarm system screeched at ear-splitting volume.
”Security!” the nurse screamed. “Restraint needed for patient two-twenty! Wilson is off his meds again.”
Copyright © 2021 by Gary Clifton
