Ballad of Ricky Pardue

Ballad of Ricky Pardue, Verse Two

Normalcy lasted less than a week on the Pardue farm after Ricky's forced shootout with Jack Marshall up on Boot Hill by the old pear tree. Local folks told the tale, and as amazing as it was, they further embroidered on the story until Ricky's artistry with a pistol was picked up by one of those eastern newspaper writers who turned run-of-the-mill desperadoes like Billy the Kid into folk heroes. They were the rock stars of their time.

Ricky was illiterate and couldn't read, but he knew his name was in the papers and he had accepted the five dollar gold piece the writer feller gave him just to sit and chew the fat for a while. But basically, Ricky would rather just be left alone so he could get his work done on the farm.

He was surprised when a federal Marshal came to see him and wanted to talk. "Son," Marshal Roberson said, "You need to know that trouble is going to come your way. This story," he said pulling out a newspaper from his coat pocket, "this story makes you out to be a gunslinger, and as I hear it, you are only 17 years old and was pushed into a gunfight not of your making. Is that about right?"

"Yessir. I shore ain't no gunslinger. I just got called out because my Pa was sickly and Jack Marshall wanted to fight somebody because of his pigs ruining our plantings and me shooting them to protect our garden."

"Yeah. Thought so. What you don't know is that Jack Marshall had a bit of a reputation as a pistolist himself before moving here. Seems he shot a couple of drunks outside Helena and was bragging about it before the sheriff suggested he leave town. So when you shot him, a known shooter, that just enhances your reputation as a shooter. Because of that, sure-in-hell some wannabes are gonna want to take you on to build themselves a reputation."

"But I don't want to fight nobody. Suppose I just say no."

"That won't stop them. Hell, I heard somebody named Bob Ford shot Jesse James in the back and killed him. They don't need no real gunfight. You are just going to need to look out for yourself and be wary of all strangers."

"Yessir," Ricky said glumly.

"I brought you something that you might can use though.". Roberson went to his horse and retrieved something from his saddle bag. He laid it on the table on Ricky's porch.

"This here's Jack Marshall's Colt 44 and his gun belt. Thanks to you, he doesn't need it anymore, and I think it should rightly be yours. I think it would be faster than drawing from a belt in your pants, and a saved second might be enough to save your life. I recommend you practice with it and keep it handy. There are three full boxes of bullets, less the five live rounds and one empty shell still loaded in the gun."

Ricky picked up the gun and inspected it. It was newer, and in better shape than the one inside the house in a box under his bed." I thank you kindly," he said.

"Well, I guess I'll be going then. You take care," the Marshall said as he settled his sweat stained Stetson on his head and mounted the black mare he had ridden in on. The mare snorted as he was reined around and pulled up short in front of the porch.

"One last thing. There was a guy wearing two pearl handled pistols in town today riding a strawberry roan. He was asking people about you and where you lived. I'm pretty sure he's not just looking to get your autograph. He looks like the type who would want to draw on you, but you never can tell. He could be a bushwacker." The Marshal tipped his hat to Ricky as he rode away.

Ricky sat down, closed his eyes, and thought about what Marshal Roberson had told him. He walked through in his mind the gunfight with Jack Marshall, reflected on the attention he was getting because of the newspaper writer, and knew that his life had changed and that he couldn't run from it.

He got up from his chair, strapped on the gifted gun belt, and practiced the draw a few times. "Hmmm," he thought to himself," It is faster. "

"I'm going into town, Mom. I'll be back in a bit," he called.

Wearing the new boots he had bought with the gold piece the newspaper writer had given to him, Ricky walked to town.

Two hours and two shots later, Ricky returned home astride his new strawberry roan with a gun belt hosting two pearl handled pistols draped in front of the saddle like a garland on a race horse winner.

In the saloon in town Marshal Roberson bought a round of drinks for the house. There was a hundred dollar reward on the dead man, and Ricky had offered him half the money if Roberson would take care of the body and collect the reward money. The Marshal was thinking, "There are lots of others out there with prices on their heads."