Renaissance of a Gunfighter (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 12) Read online

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  In his prime, Marshal Charlie Martell had been the surest shot and toughest lawman in all of Kansas. But his days of gunfighting and keeping the peace ended when he was badly shot up while single-handedly breaking up a bank robbery. The incident left him badly crippled, and he became a drunken derelict. He reached the point of deciding to do himself in when he heard that his ex-partner had been gunned down by three outlaws. Charlie knows he stands no chance of surviving, but if he’s going to die, he might as well do it in a final showdown with that outlaw trio in this one final gesture of defiance and personal pride.

  RENAISSANCE OF A GUNFIGHTER

  By Patrick E. Andrews

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 12

  Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Long Drive Ahead, painted by Don Stivers.

  You can check out more of Don’s work here.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Dedicated to the Memory of My Grandfather, Jack Terral

  An Oklahoma Starpacker

  Chapter One

  Thin shafts of the morning sun penetrated the cracks in the stable walls as Charlie Martell sat up on his crude bunk. It had been banged together of bits and pieces of lumber, and the mattress was no more than a six-foot bag made of burlap stuffed with straw. His small room occupied a corner in Pickett’s Livery Barn located just off the business district of Wichita, Kansas.

  Charlie dropped his good left leg over the side of the bed as he absent-mindedly massaged the stiff knee of the right one. The pain in it had been around steadily for the previous five years and he no longer felt the unpleasant sensation as a hurt in that particular joint. It ached in a sort of general way now, his brain at long last accepting it as a permanent part of the body’s make-up. A ceaseless throbbing seemed sufficient to Charlie’s subconscious to discourage a sudden movement on the limb.

  The knee itself, stiffened, discolored and swollen into a shapeless unsightly mass of punished flesh, had locked itself tighter than the action of a brand new Winchester .44 carbine. That seemed appropriate since it had been a slug from just such a weapon that had slammed into the knee to cripple it.

  Charlie’s upper body wasn’t much better off. Some .45 pistol slugs had done their job there. The right elbow was solidly locked with a slight bend in it. A town doctor has done that in a thoughtful manner when he set it, figuring it would make it easier for Charlie to handle his horse’s reins that way. His right hand was an inoperative claw that couldn’t grasp as much as a match anymore. The flesh had smoothed out into a tight whiteness that barely responded to the blood that circulated through the nerveless digits that were drawn up like useless talons.

  Charlie stood up and stretched his lanky six-foot frame to rid it of the kinks from sleeping. His face could be described as rugged and handsome if it weren’t for the gauntness that dominated the features. His graying sandy hair was longish and unkempt, showing the disregard he had for his appearance.

  After dressing, he left the room, going outside in his hop-and-twist gait of walking. His whole being was dominated by the need for a drink. The craving he felt for the stinging, warm comfort of whiskey completely overshadowed his hunger.

  “Payday, Charlie?” asked Orv Pickett the livery operator. He grinned in gap-toothed contempt from the hay yard. “Are you gonna get your handout from the townsfolk?”

  Charlie didn’t answer. Instead he just glanced at Pickett and acknowledged his presence with his eyes. There had been a time when the pot-bellied son of a bitch had been proud to have a drink with him and had always addressed him as Marshal Martell. But now Charlie was Orv’s employee of sorts. At least the livery operator let him sleep in the corner room in exchange for odd jobs around the place.

  “You can really get liquored up today, huh?” Pickett asked. “Best day of the month for you, I reckon.”

  “I guess,” Charlie said.

  He turned and limped down the street past Sly Webster’s barbershop toward the bank where a stipend would be waiting for him. Most people were up and around by that time in the late morning hours. One benefit of being a derelict was that he could sleep late without putting too much of a crimp in the day’s activities.

  “Hey, Charlie!” Sly called from the door of his business.

  Charlie stopped and nodded to the barber. “Hello, Sly. How’re you doing this morning?”

  “Fine, I reckon. Want a soak? I ain’t seen you for a couple of days.”

  “I’ll be back later,” Charlie answered. “I got to get to the bank.”

  “Oh, yeah. Payday for you, huh?”

  “Right,” Charlie said. “See you in a little while.” He made his way down the boardwalk and laboriously negotiated two gaps in it between buildings before he reached the bank. He went into the establishment and hung back from the cages until the people ahead of him had finished their business. Then he went up to the head teller.

  “Morning,” Charlie said.

  “Good morning, Mister Martell,” the teller, always polite, greeted him. “I’m all ready for you.” He reached into his drawer and pulled out a small check-sized document. “Mister Wilcox has signed it, so there’ll be no delay.” He handed the piece of paper – ten dollars in town scrip – over to Charlie. “There you go, Mister Martell. And I’ll see you next month.”

  “I thank you kindly,” Charlie said. He stuck his prize in his pocket to begin his laborious trip back to Sly Webster the barber.

  That bit of paper was Charlie Martell’s disability pension of sorts. It had been voted to him out of gratitude by the town council after the horrible wounding he received in the line of duty. That, as well as authorization for one meal a day at Preston’s Café down by the rail depot, was the sum total for five years of service as a lawman to the community.

  Now and then he used to receive a little cash money from his old friend Nolan Edgewater. But Nolan had left Wichita sometime back. He had moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas to take a position as a deputy U.S. marshal at the Federal court there. He eventually married a local woman, and Charlie hadn’t heard much from him since.

  Sly Webster held the door open as Charlie shuffled into the shop. The barber was genuinely pleased to see him. “I was kinda wondering about you, Charlie. Like I said, I ain’t laid eyes on you for a coupla days.”

  Charlie appreciated the thought. “I was just taking it easy.”

  “You’re welcome here anytime; you know that, Charlie.”

  “Sure,” Charlie said, allowing what he considered a smile. It was just a slight upturning of one corner of his mouth.

  “Alma’s been asking after you too,” Sly said, mentioning his wife. “You know what a worrywart she is; always saying as how one meal a day ain’t good enough for a full-growed man.”

  “Good enough for a crippled one.”

  “No it ain’t,” Sly co
untered. “You know our door’s always open to you.”

  “I’ll come by tomorrow,” Charlie said.

  Sly, knowing that payday was Charlie’s big night for beginning a drawn-out drunk, accepted that. “Don’t you forget, you hear? You’re having supper with us soon, right?”

  “Fine, thank you kindly, Sly. I’ll do that.”

  “C’mon in the back. I got some water all heated up.”

  Charlie clumped after his friend to the back of the barbershop. There were wooden stalls in the bath area. Each one held a conventional tub except for the last one in the row. There, in all its copper glory, was a large model that boasted even a seat. Charlie, with his injured knee could never have gotten himself into a regular bathtub. But the big one had more than enough room for him to settle down comfortably with both legs stretched out to his front.

  The ex-lawman undressed and hung his clothes on the pegs embedded in the stall. Then he pulled himself over the side of the tub and settled down into the lukewarm water already waiting for him. He waited as Sly came back with the first bucket of truly steaming water. The barber poured it in gradually, moving the pail back and forth to distribute it evenly. Four trips later and Charlie was soaking in the steamy bath that was now up to his neck. The wet heat soothed his injuries, going deep into the mangled joints until he felt so good he almost thought he could move his nerveless fingers.

  Later that afternoon Charlie was standing at the bar in the Palace Saloon. O’Reilly, the Irish bartender with a perpetually red face, nodded to him, then wordlessly produced several bottles of cheap rye whiskey. Charlie slid the town scrip to him.

  “Are you going to drink any of it here then?” O’Reilly asked.

  “I thought I might relax at a table for awhile.”

  “And it’s welcome y’are, but make sure ye stay outta the way,” O’Reilly said uncharitably as he handed him a glass.

  Charlie scuffled to a table near the wall at the far end of the room. He set the bottles down and pulled the cork from one as he settled himself clumsily into the straight-backed wooden chair. He realized the sight of a crippled man with a twisted arm was unpleasant for the customers and perhaps he should resent O’Reilly’s reference to his keeping off to himself. But loneliness sometimes outweighs pride in a man, making him long for the company of others even if it is not particularly close or intimate.

  There was a time when his appearance in that same drinking establishment would have elicited sudden silence and respectful, if not fearful glances as he stood just inside the batwings with his right hand resting lightly on the handle of his Colt Peacemaker revolver. When he spotted who was looking for, Charlie would draw his pistol and step inside, calling out a name. The man he sought would always keep his hands in plain sight. Perhaps it was only a misdemeanor charge of disturbing the peace, but no one wanted to tempt Marshal Charlie Martell to shoot. Most that did were punk kids or so damned drunk they didn’t know any better. The majority ended up buried in the town’s boot hill at taxpayers’ expense.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  Charlie had sensed her coming by the odor of strong, cheap perfume that preceded her. He glanced up and gave her his quick, almost unperceivable smile. “Hello, Norma.”

  She was a heavyset prostitute with plain, washed-out brown hair that was showing its first gray strands. Her round face was plain and hard, the heavy rouge and lipstick unable to soften the features. She had once quit working in the saloons, and married a farmer several years back. Norma had been unable to adapt herself to a one-man life. After numerous episodes with hired hands she was beaten senseless and kicked out by her enraged husband. She went directly back to her former life with its degradation and harshness. But her wide grin was genuine and friendly. “I reckon it’s payday for you, huh?”

  He nodded. “Want a drink?”

  “Naw, I don’t think so. Kinda early yet and that stuff you’re drinking is real. I don’t wanna get drunk before the crowd builds up. That son of a bitch O’Reilly’d kick my fat ass for me.”

  “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “Pretty good, Charlie. And you?”

  “Same as always.”

  “I missed you that last time you was here.”

  “I didn’t stay long,” Charlie said. “I prefer to do my drinking alone mostly.”

  “I ain’t bothering you, am I?”

  “Hell, no, Norma. You just stay here as long as O’Reilly’ll let you. We ain’t talked for a spell anyhow.”

  “They’se a lot you and me ain’t done for a spell,” Norma said. “How come you don’t drop by for a taste.”

  Charlie was like many men on the frontier where males outnumbered women by a large margin. Their only access to available females were the so-called soiled doves who worked the saloons.

  He laughed a little. “Hell, I only make ten dollars a month.”

  “Aw, Charlie, I wouldn’t charge you nothing. I never did before, did I?”

  “I was a marshal then,” Charlie reminded her. “You had to be extry nice to me.”

  Norma smiled. “You never heard me complain, did you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “If you ever do come by, well, I reckon I wouldn’t mind a bit,” Norma said with that enigmatic flash of shyness that saloon girls are able to display from time to time.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Charlie said. But he knew he never would. While the slugs that crippled him had slammed into his leg and arm, they did other damage beyond the physical aspects of the wounds. When a man’s pride has been punctured permanently, his manhood goes as well.

  A couple of noisy customers suddenly burst in through the batwings. Norma glanced over at them and stood up. “I’d best get to work, Charlie. Don’t forget to come calling, huh?”

  “I won’t forget,” he said raising his glass to her. As she walked away, he suddenly wanted to be off by himself. The thought of being in a roomful of people repelled him. He recorked the bottle, gathered up the others and hobbled out of the saloon for the sanctity of the livery stable.

  ~*~

  By the time Charlie was halfway into the second bottle it was dark. He drank slowly and methodically, letting the alcohol’s warm glow ease his tensions and push away the feelings of resentment and regret that dominated his life when he was sober. Each throat-burning swallow added to the comfort as he sat there on his bed amid the warmth and smells of patient dumb horses waiting stoically for whatever humans felt they must do with them. Charlie envied their acceptance and ability to endure, wishing he had some of those qualities.

  Five years before, in 1876, Charles Houston Martell had been a capable, robust marshal of Wichita. He walked tall and steady through the town, keeping a lid on trouble and violence, earning his seventy-five dollars a month (plus one dollar for each arrest) as well as the respect and gratitude of the citizens. But in the summer of that year there was an attempt to rob the local bank and Marshal Martell had intervened, starting a hellacious gunfight that was still the talk of the state of Kansas in 1881.

  Charlie had been alone taking his ease and drinking coffee in the marshal’s office that morning. The night before had been relatively uneventful with only a couple of drunks arrested on charges of disturbing the peace. It looked like a nice long quiet spell for a while and Marshal Martell was looking forward to it. But the tranquility of the mood was broken when Ned Darwin, who ran a local dry goods store, slipped into the office with a nervous expression on his face.

  “By God, Marshal!” That was all he said as he stood there looking rather ridiculous in his derby hat and white apron. He carried a large, brown envelope in his trembling hands.

  Charlie swung his legs down to the floor and eyed him carefully. “Something the matter, Mister Darwin?”

  “Well, yes, sir, I think there dang well might be.”

  Charlie waited a couple of beats, then said. “Fine. Anytime you’d care to let me know…”

  “I was on my way to the bank,” Darwin began. He
held up the envelope. “To make a deposit, understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then just as I approached the door I kinda glanced in the window and things didn’t look right. No, sir, not right at all.”

  “What did you see, Mister Darwin?”

  “I seen three fellers in there with their guns drawed,” Darwin said. He pulled his envelope of money protectively close to his body in an instinctive gesture. “So I turned and hurried over here.”

  “You’re sure them jaspers had their guns drawed?” Charlie asked, getting to his feet. He walked over and pulled his American Arms 12-gauge shotgun from its place in the wall rack.

  “I’m sure, Marshal,” Darwin said.

  Charlie stuffed his vest pocket with several loose shells. “You wait here ‘til I get back, hear?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  Charlie went outside and walked down the street toward the bank in quick ground-eating strides. He kept his shotgun hidden as best he could while he maintained just enough speed to avoid attracting attention. If there was a bank robbery in progress he sure didn’t want to have a crowd of people hanging around.

  He was twenty feet from the bank door when three men walked out. He had seen such hard cases before. They were dirty and rugged-looking from living the primitive lifestyle of the owlhoot trail, and their demeanor spoke more of the open range than the confines and comforts of a town. It was obvious they were trying to appear calm, but Charlie’s ingrained senses told him all was not normal. He brought the shotgun up.

  “Hold ’er there!” he hollered.

  “Aw, shit!” one of the men exclaimed. Then all three simultaneously reached for their holsters.

  Charlie’s first barrel exploded and the heavy shot slammed into the nearest man’s midsection. The force of the blast threw the outlaw back into one of his partners and both crashed to the boardwalk. Charlie didn’t hesitate as the second barrel blew the remaining outlaw through the bank window. The plate glass broke into large pieces that splattered into tiny bits.