Deputized

The YouTube Video is an audio version of the story.

Bart was riding the horse hard, too hard. It was a good, sturdy horse, but at this pace, it would not make it to Mexico, especially with the Rangers closing in. Instinctively, he tapped the saddlebag, reassuring himself that the loot was still there.

Bringing the horse to a stop in front of a saloon, he glanced at the sign marking the crossroads. To the south lay Mexico; to the east, the Texas Rangers and a noose. Bart wanted to keep going, but the horse was played out, and the Rangers would catch him long before he made the border. This dusty saloon was as good a place as any to make a stand.

He dismounted and tied the horse to the hitching post. From his pocket, he grabbed the Marshal’s badge, wiped the blood off it, and pinned it to his chest. It had been a fair fight—well, mostly—but the Rangers wouldn’t care about that, and they certainly wouldn’t let him keep the payroll.

The saloon had two stories, the ground floor devoted to drinking and gambling, while the second floor offered rooms for rent by the night or, if you were looking for a little company, by the hour. Four men sat around a table playing cards, an old man tended bar, and a bored-looking woman in her early thirties lingered in the corner.

#

When Sally heard the door open, she sat up, straightened her hair, saw the badge, and slumped back in her chair. He would either not be interested or expect her to ply her trade for free.

“Listen up,” Bart said. “I’m US Marshal Lawson. I’m operating under the direct orders of President Grant, and you are all hereby deputized.”

The bartender tossed a towel on the bar, gave Bart a stern look, and asked, “What happened to Marshal Wilson?”

“Kilt, by the same group of men who kilt a bunch of Texas Rangers, took their horses and badges and are headed in this direction. That’s why you have all been deputized. We are going to stop them right here. Even out the scale of justice.”

“Hell, you don’t know President Grant.” The bartender spat tobacco juice into a corner pot.

“Do, too,” Bart said, giving the bartender a smug look.

“Well, I fought for the South. I ain’t taking no orders from no Yankee.”

“Well, I fought with General Bartholomew Hitchcock out of Chattanooga. So I ain’t no Yankee.” Bart walked over, picked up the hand from one of the card players, grabbed some of his coins, and raised the pot. The others folded their hands. “These bandits are real mean. It is said that one of them kilt his own mother.”

“Kilt, his own mother?” Johnny, the youngest of the card players, asked. “Why did he do that?”

“She put too much starch in his britches. Made his thighs itchy.” Bart glanced at the other men. “If he would do that to his own mother, think what he will do to you.”

Bart walked over to the bar and pointed at a bottle of whiskey. “I don’t have any badges, but once we do a shot together, that makes you all deputies.”

“It’s five dollars for the bottle of whiskey,” the bartender said.

“Five dollars? Where I come from, that is a three-dollar bottle of whiskey.”

“We ain’t where you come from.”

“Charge it to President Grant.”

“It’s five dollars or no whiskey.”

“You’re making it difficult for me to carry out my duties.” Bart reached for the bottle, but the bartender pulled it back. “You are the orneriest old man I know. Wait here.”

Bart left the bar and headed to the horse he had stolen from the now-dead Marshal.

Sally, sensing something wasn’t right, followed. She watched Bart reach into the saddlebag and pull out a wad of bills.

“Better git an extra five if you want to take a roll,” Sally said.

“Five Dollars! I ain’t giving you no five dollars.” Bart grabbed a few more bills, glanced at Sally, and tied another knot to tighten the cover of the saddlebag.

“I had no idea marshals carried around so much money.” Sally moved closer, trying to get a better look at the money.

“A Marshal needs a lot of money to … ah … ah … pay for bounties on outlaws.” Bart patted the saddlebag. “Don’t git ideas in that pretty little head of yours. It’s against the law to steal from a US Marshal.”

“That is enough money to be the stolen payroll we’ve been hearing about.”

“It ain’t no stolen payroll. It’s likes I told you. It is to pay for bounties.”

“I heard that the bandit Bart Ratson was the one that robbed the train and took the payroll. A real daring robbery. Fought several soldiers that were guarding it.”

“Yes, the train was robbed by the famous outlaw Bart Ratson. A courageous and clever man. I suspect people will be talking about it. Probably calling him a hero.”

“I heard he is real mean.”

“I wouldn’t call him mean, but he does git angry sometimes. But, if people do what he says, he usually lets them live. Unless they look at him wrong or say something under their breath. You know something disrespectful. A man can’t let himself be disrespected. But other than that, a downright pleasant fellow.”

“They say he is ugly. Uglier than a mangy old dog and probably has fleas.”

“Why would you say something like that about a man you’ve never seen? We are having a pleasant conversation about one of America’s greatest outlaws, and you go and say something nasty.”

Sally smiled as she watched Bart’s face grow red. To her, an outlaw was no more dangerous than any other man. Hell, she had more trouble with so-called upstanding citizens than outlaws. “I bet he was the one that kilt his mother.”

“No, no, he didn’t kill his mother. I only told that story to let the boys inside know how serious a situation we have. A group of bandits pretending to be Texas Rangers is heading our way. They have to be ready to fight them.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I heard he is no good with the ladies. Scared of them.”

“There you go again. Smearing a man’s good name.” Bart bit his lip and shook his head. “I was going to git me one of them five-dollar roll in the sack. But now I’m having second thoughts. It’s a shame because I’m a good tipper. Sometimes I give the girl a whole nother dollar, if she don’t have bad breath or nothing.”

Sally pretended to wipe a fake tear from her eye. She knew she was getting under Bart’s skin, but in her experience, men were easier to handle if you gave them a little grief.

“Take a little advice. A man doesn’t like hearing a woman talk negatively about other men. Especially if he’s planning to engage in commerce with her.”

“I don’t want your five dollars. What kind of marshal defends a no-good mother killer like Bart Ratson.”

“I’ve had enough of you. Now, git inside with the rest of them. You’re lucky I have other things on my mind.”

The two of them headed to the door, and right before reentering Sally, turned to Bart and whispered in his ear, “Don’t be mad, US Marshal Lawson.” She wiped off a tiny smudge of blood still on the badge. “I think you are handsome. If you change your mind, I’ll be upstairs in my room.” She then kissed him on the cheek and ran inside.

#

Bart slapped five dollars on the bar, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured a round of shots. After everyone drank theirs, he poured another round and said, “You’re all deputies now. When the Rangers … I mean bandits come through the door, start firing, and don’t stop until they are all dead.”

“A shot of whiskey ain’t much pay for being a deputy,” Johnny said. “Shouldn’t we git something for risking our lives? I think five dollars each would be about right.”

“Is that all anyone in this two-bit saloon thinks about? Everyone wants five dollars.” Bart stared at the men; they all stood with blank faces. “Listen, there is a five-hundred-dollar bounty on each of those bandits. You want some money, kill yourself a bandit.”

A wave of excitement came over the men, and they began checking that their side arms were loaded.

“I’m glad to see you’re properly motivated. If you excuse me, I need to go upstairs and …ah … ah talk strategy.”

#

When Bart entered the room, Sally was lying on the bed in her undergarments.

“What was all the excitement about?” Sally asked.

“The men found out about the five-hundred-dollar bounty on each bandit.”

“Is there a bounty on Bart Ratson?”

“Yes, but he is too clever to be caught.” Bart removed his gun belt and set it on a chair beside the door. “I suppose you want your five dollars first.”

“Don’t worry about that. I always git my money. Git out of them dirty nickers and climb into bed.”

Bart stripped down and stood in front of Sally in old torn undergarments. His mouth dropped, and he looked away. “I have a better pair I wear on special occasions.”

Sally glanced at the gun belt near the door. “Don’t fret about that. You git into bed while I latch the door.”

Bart stripped off his shorts, standing buck naked, his back turned toward Sally.

“Tell me again about this famous bandit, Bart Ratson. Does he have a bounty on him?”

“I told you he does. Five hundred dollars.”

Bart stared out at the crossroads. The shadows had grown long, and the washed-out browns had turned a fiery orange as the sun descended below the distant horizon. His mind drifted back to the first job he ever pulled. He didn’t want to do it. But the war had ended, and there was no work. His old commanding officer convinced him and a few other soldiers to rob a Yankee bank. How different his life would have been if he had returned to the family farm.

Now, he was in a rundown old saloon with a group of strangers who were nice enough, but once they killed the Rangers, he would have to kill all of them. He should be back on the farm slaughtering pigs, but that’s not how things turned out.

Bart put the thoughts out of his mind. “Why, Ratson is the smartest, bravest man ever to walk these parts. People say he could have been anything, even President of these United States.”

“Is the bounty payable dead or alive?”

“Sure, and I tell you one thing: If Bart had it his way, he would want it to be dead. Prison is no place for a man like Bart Ratson.”

Bart heard a pistol cock, and his hand instinctively moved toward his missing sidearm. He let out a long sigh. “When I was standing before you in my torn, dirty skivvies, I knew it would be you that got me.”

“Sorry, Mr. Ratson. Five hundred dollars can give a girl another shot at life.”

“You can keep the payroll if you hide it from the Rangers. They think I buried it up north.” Bart lowered his head. “Be kind in what you say about me.”

“I’ll tell them that Bart Ratson was the bravest, most intelligent, most handsome outlaw ever to roam the plains. And he knew how to treat a lady right.”

As the sun disappeared, six shots echoed across the barren plains.