Shootout on Boot Hill

Shootout on Boot Hill

Range free pigs were the problem. While Ricky Pardue and his father tried to grow a small crop to feed the family, Jack Marshall, on his government gifted land following the War of Northern Aggression, self styled pig farmer and carpetbagger, let his pigs run free and feed on whatever they could find, and what they found was old man Pardue's crops.

Ricky, almost eighteen now, had been kept out of the war by his mom because of his youth, but his father had returned home after Lee surrendered to Grant, a broken man, both in spirit and body. Ricky was expected to be the man of the family in these hard times.

There was little expectation of success as Ricky, barefoot and in tattered overalls, walked the mile to Marshall's cabin to ask him to fence his pigs. His expectation of failure was met. In fact Marshall, standing in his doorway with Ricky on the porch, said, "Naah. I ain't gonna pen my pigs. They gotta right to eat what and where they want. You just need to fence your crops."

Ricky explained that they did try that, but the pigs broke through the meager fencing they could put together, and they were gonna starve if they couldn't raise crops to put away for winter.

"That's not my problem," Marshall declared.

"It will be be if we have to shoot your pigs when they are in our crops,"

"You shoot my pigs, and I'll burn you out," Marshall shouted and slammed his door. Conversation over.

Back home, Mama Pardue asked, "How did it go?"

Ricky shrugged, "Just like we figured. I reckon we are going to be eating bacon before the week is out."

There is nothing better than bacon fried in a cast iron skillet on a wood burning stove. Within two weeks the Pardues had three of Marshall's pigs curing in their barn.

Marshall noticed he was missing some pigs. He seriously considered his threat of burning the Pardues out, but barn burning was dishonorable even to carpetbaggers. Marshall, a veteran of the war, decided a shootout to settle their differences would be preferable.

He put out the word in the settlement that he had grief with the Pardues and that if they had any honor at all one of the Pardues would face off against him up by the old pear tree by boot hill come Saturday noon.

At least five different people made sure the Pardues got the word. Everybody knew old man Pardue couldn't fight Marshall. Hell, he'd have to be taken to the shootout on a litter. But they had no doubt that there would be a shootout. Call outs to defend your family's honor could not be ignored.

Back at the farm, Ricky unwrapped the Colt 44 that he had acquired during the war when he expected to join the fighting. He had fired it only a half dozen times because ammunition was hard to come by. However he had spent much time pretending that he was in gunfights, drawing the pistol and firing. He would pretend to hear a sound behind him, draw while spinning and dropping to his knees, and empty chamber fire. His pretend record was Ricky 2,000, bad guys, zero.

He only had three bullets. Saturday morning he loaded the pistol, making sure that the firing pin would strike a bullet and not an empty chamber when he fired. He practiced drawing against a slow drawing tree in the back of the house. It felt natural, although he had no holster, just his father's leather belt instead of the rope he normally used as a belt.

A crowd gathered up by the pear tree where the faceoff was to occur, selecting viewing points out of the line of fire. They expected someone to die today, but they did not want it to be themselves.

Marshall arrived. In his black boots, low slung pistol, mustache and black hat, he could have passed for Wyatt Earp to anyone who didn't know better.

Ricky arrived alone. His Pa too sick to come, and his Ma, truth be told, not wanting to see her son die.

Ricky looked like a country school boy who had accidentally wandered into the company of adults. He was barefoot, wearing the only pair of overalls he owned, clean faced, he did not yet shave, and had unkempt bowl-cut hair. Onlookers felt ashamed for coming to see a slaughter. But Ricky had come to stand his ground, and he had a pistol in his belt with which to defend his family's honor.

Someone Ricky did not know seemed to be in charge. There were no seconds like there would be in a proper duel, and very simple instructions. He and Marshall were pointed to spots about twenty feet apart, positioned so that neither would have sun in their eyes. On the count of three, they were to draw and fire until their opponent was down.

"One." a hesitation. Then "Two, three," in rapid order.

Ricky sensed, rather than saw movement, and suddenly his Colt 44 was in his hand and he was firing. Three shots from Ricky, almost sounding as one. One shot from Marshall, an errant shot going skyward, as he toppled like a felled tree to the ground.

"Damn. Did you see that?". "I don't believe it.". "Where did he go?"

Where he went was home. He had chickens to feed and crops to tend.