The Winner Takes All

By

Larry E. Huddleston

©2025 Larry E. Huddleston. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission from the author.

CHAPTER ONE

With over two weeks on the trail behind him, ex-lieutenant Matthew Coy, wearing a dust covered long-coat and black felt hat, rode slowly down the middle of the road leading into the small desert town of Last Draw. He took note of the fact that the town’s sign had recently been repainted. He and his horse were exhausted and traveled in a relaxed tired manner. He wore his black felt hat pulled down low over his eyes to block the setting sun from his face.

In the dark shadow under the hat, his sparkling blue eyes danced excitedly from side to side, knowing ambush could come at any second. Outlaws abounded on the high plains in the year 1869, and he was in no way exempt from becoming just another casualty of their endless evil.

In the years after the war, men had been left with not much to expect in this healing land. Many had turned to outlawry as a means of making a living. Murder and robbery meant very little to men who had possibly taken hundreds of lives. He counted himself lucky to have survived four years of war with his mind and hide intact. It was true he had taken lives to preserve his own and those of the men around him. However, he had never taken an innocent life. Yet, despite the many battles he had survived, he had not once been wounded. He counted himself very lucky indeed.

He had stood proudly with General Grant at Appomattox and watched as General Lee officially surrendered. That day had been the proudest in his life to date. Grant’s words to him still echoed loudly in his ears from time to time. “Well, Lieutenant Coy, today will go down in history as the birthday of a new nation. It will be up to us to make a success of it.” Coy could only agree with the insight of the general.

The clomping of his black’s hooves on the dry hard ground echoed off the walls surrounding him. The black’s deep steady breathing, and the creaking of the saddle leather under him brought Coy’s mind back to the present and the potential danger of riding into an unknown town alone. He left his hat brim low and kept his eyes moving constantly. He was no quick-draw artist, but he would fight for his life if necessary and given a chance. He did know what a handgun was for and how to use it, but quick draw gun fighting was a little out of his wheelhouse. Like all youngsters he had practiced quick drawing for hours, days, weeks, and months with his first pistol and had become what he considered proficient with it. He had lost that old pistol in the war, but he had obtained another and being still young had practiced with it to the amusement of General Grant and others around him. He had explained that he intended to move his family west when the war was over, if he survived. They had all smiled and indulged his youth. He felt his practice would keep him alive in most instances. He felt he was still proficient. He prayed he was.

Main street was for the most part empty. A few horses stood hip shot at hitch rails their tails swishing lazily their heads drooping drowsy in the heat of high noon Colorado Territory. Several men stood in the shadows of the covered boardwalks. A few sat on wooden chairs tilted back bracing against the wall of the building they sat before. They all stared, lock eyed, on his progress along the street. He tried to stay relaxed, but still felt a little tense awaiting the unexpected.

He reined the black in at the rail in front of the saloon and swung down. He stretched his lean six-foot frame casually. Taking his time he left one rein draped across the horse’s neck and wrapped the other around the horizontal rail twice, then stepped up onto the boardwalk.

On the boardwalk he turned to face the street and slowly took in his surroundings. They were soberly barren. Gray rough cut lumber walls and dusty glass in some windows and wax paper in others. Satisfied, he turned and crossed to the swinging batwing doors. He pushed slowly into the darkened interior, immediately smelling the common smells of chewing and smoking tobacco, beer, whiskey and the many unwashed bodies of men who spent their lives in places such as this. He breathed in slowly allowing his nose to adjust to the rancid stench.

In the corner to his left he saw an old upright piano covered in a layer of dust from disuse. He thought that might be unusual for a place such as this. Sensing no threat from the eight or ten men seated at tables scattered around the walls he crossed to the bar.

“Beer,” he told the bartender, a mustachioed man with a barrel belly and hands that had seen hard work for many years.

Without a word the man placed a mug under a spigot and pulled back a long wooden handle. When the mug was full he placed it in front of Coy and said, “Nickel.” Coy placed the coin on the bar and picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. He sipped and swallowed slowly. The liquid felt good sliding down his parched throat.

“Hey mister,” a deep voice called from behind him. “This here’s a gun fight’n, poker play’n town. You don’t play, you don’t leave. . .alive.”

Coy, mug in his left hand, turned slowly to face the speaker. “Don’t play much poker,” he said, his right elbow resting on the bar.

“That’ll change or you’ll die,” the speaker replied. “Just lettin’ you know the play hereabouts.”

Coy remained silent for a few seconds. He stood no chance in a fight against the men in the saloon.

“I’m just passing through,” Coy said.

“So were we,” the man replied with a chuckle. “Our plans were changed. Now, we play cards. When you go broke you shoot it out with the winner taking all. If you lose, he wins. If you win you get his money and you pay for his buryin’ then go back to playing poker until you win or lose all you got. Then you repeat again. It’s pretty simple.”

“And if I just ride out?”

“You won’t make it far down the street. Someone will shoot you in the back. It’s tha’ rules.”

“Why don’t you all just leave?”

“We can’t do that. The Reaper won’t have it. He’d kill us all before we got a hunnerd yards down the street.”

Coy had heard of a man calling himself The Reaper. He wasn’t a legend, but he was a known gunman. Rumor had it he had killed six men in fair stand up gunfights. He was quick with a pistol. Coy assumed the man was probably much faster than Coy knew himself to be.

“Well boys, looks like we’ll be playing a little poker tonight. And one of us will most likely die before noon tomorrow,” Coy replied. “After I care for my horse, where can I get a room for the night? No need to sleep in the stables the way I see it. Hell, I might die tomorrow. May as well treat myself, right?”

“I got rooms upstairs,” the bartender replied. “Two bits a night.”

Not one of the other men replied to Coy’s musing statement.

“Might be all I need,” Coy replied with a smile. Then he chuckled and added. “We’ll see.” He laid a silver twenty-five cent piece on the bar, swallowed the rest of his beer, turned to the swinging doors and went out.

Fifteen minutes later he reentered the saloon carrying his saddle and bedroll. The saddle carried a scabbard with a lever-action Sharp’s Big .50. Without glancing at or speaking to anyone he crossed to the stairs and went up without looking back or pausing.

“Room six,” the bartender called up the stairs to him. “Door’s open!”

Coy didn’t bother answering.

CHAPTER TWO

The door to room six was jammed at the bottom when he turned and pushed the knob. He tapped it with the toe of his boot and it popped open. The hinges squeaked as the door swung open. He lowered his saddle to the floor just inside and eased the door closed. It hung up a little so he lifted on the knob and it closed and latched.

The room was typical of rooms he had been in before: bare rough-cut board floor and walls with no adornments. A four-poster bed with a corn shuck mattress had blankets, but no sheets. Clean blankets? Probably not. A nightstand with a washpan, a pitcher of lukewarm water, and a small stained mirror on the wall over it. A semi-rusty and dented tin cup for drinking hung on a nail over the water pitcher.

On the far side of the room, a four-paned window with plain, once white, curtains looked out over the main street. Coy stepped across and parted the curtains slightly. He looked out for a few seconds. Seeing nothing of interest, he turned away while removing his gun belt and hung it over the post at the head of the bed. He positioned the holster and butt of the gun so they would be within easy reach if needed. He sat on the edge of the bed and lay back against the wall.

As his eyes closed, he realized he may be dead this time tomorrow. He wondered what sort of men would choose to live under the thumb of an insane killer. Why had they not banned together and killed the man known as The Reaper? There was no way he could outdraw six or eight men, no matter how good he was. Coy smiled and wondered if the night terrors he suffered from would come this night. He never dreamed of the battles he had fought and the men he had killed, only of battles and men never fought or killed. It was strange, this life he lived.

He awakened sometime later with no recollection of any dreams. The room was semi-dark. He realized the sun was near the western horizon. He had only slept for a couple of hours. It was time for a meal and a game of poker. It was going to be a stressful night since he had less than twenty dollars to his name. He stood, placed his hat on his head, adjusted it just so, then slowly strapped on his gun belt. After tying the thong around his thigh just above his knee, he went out the door and downstairs to the barroom.

As before, men sat around the walls at tables talking and drinking. Several flirted with the saloon girls who worked them for drinks and sex. Very few of the men looked up at him when he descended the stairs and rounded the end of the bar. He nodded to those who did. They looked away and went back to their quiet conversations, flirting and drinking. No one was playing poker. He wondered why but didn’t ask. None of the five women came over to solicit him. It was as if they were spoken for. He was okay with that. He had other, more important matters on his mind at the moment. Like surviving this madness he had been jerked into.

“Where can I get a meal?” he asked the man behind the bar. He was not the man who had been behind the bar when he had first arrived. This man reminded him of a turkey vulture on hard times.

“’Cross the street at Millie’s,” the man replied. His voice was deep and sounded as if it came from the bottom of his feet.

Coy was taken aback by the sound. He nodded his appreciation and went out the door.

Across the street, he entered Millie’s Eatery and took a seat at the nearest table. Several other men sat at a scattering of tables. Each table had a snow-white tablecloth and a vase of field flowers. He paid the men no real attention, but nodded as was customary if he caught one’s eye. Written on a board resting on a three-legged stand was the menu. The daily special was steak, fried potatoes, red-eye gravy, and a slice of apple pie for seventy-five cents. He decided that was reasonable for a possible last meal.

An attractive woman in her mid to late twenties entered the room from the back and set several plates she was carrying on a table where three men sat. They talked softly and one of them laughed at something the other said to the woman. The woman replied in the same soft voice and the man’s chuckling stopped as suddenly as it had started. Coy wondered what had been said and what the woman’s reply had been. She glanced over at him, then started his way.

“What’ll it be for you, Mister?” she asked, her brown eyes glowing as if lit from within. She was tall for a woman. Her skin was suntanned, smooth and soft in appearance. She glowed with vigorous health. On closer inspection, Coy assumed they were close to the same age.

He studied her face and found her quite attractive. She reminded him of another woman he had known long ago whom he had let slip away after returning from the war carrying a burden no one could see but him. Realizing he was bringing her nothing but sadness and misery, he had saddled his horse and rode to the west. That had been two years ago, and he was still riding westward. She had been slim with chestnut hair, where this woman’s hair was as black and shiny as a raven’s wing. He smiled slightly in memory and said, “The daily special will do me just fine.” The woman nodded and turned away without speaking.

Coy studied the tabletop while he waited for her to return with his meal. He was deep in thought when she set the plate before him. “I brought you coffee,” she said. “On the house,” she added.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he replied in a friendly tone.

“You can call me Millie,” she replied, with a slight smile breaking her lips.

“Miss Millie,” he said.

She flashed him a quick smile, then turned away and went back toward the kitchen. He watched her go, her black hair sliding from side to side across her back with her feminine movements. He smiled to himself thinking of his girl back home and the way she had swayed that had, for the most part left him breathless every time he watched her move. He smiled again and set to work on his steak. He couldn’t remember ever tasting anything quite so good.

Half an hour later, deciding the meal had been well worth the price, Coy crossed the street and entered the saloon. He was ready to face his fate, whatever it may prove out to be. He realized he would either live or die at Fate’s whim. He prayed earnestly to a God he hardly understood for just a little guidance and protection from the insanity of the men he was being forced to deal with and possibly kill or be killed by. Knowing he had done all he could, he crossed to the bar, ordered a beer, and turned to wait for what was to come. His wait was not long.

“Well, boys, let’s get this show on the road and see who is to live and die,” a man with a huge black beard called out. “I can’t hardly stand all this waitin’ aroun’!” he added, an evil grin spreading under a handlebar mustache then across his face under the mat of hair that was like a horse’s tail.

“I’m ready,” another of the men agreed. “I need to kill somebody!” He giggled madly and took a seat at the table.

“Or get killed,” another man stated with a chuckle.

“Well, that too, I suppose,” the man agreed. “A man of action can only stand so much livin’.”

Several other men took seats without commenting. Most wore expressions of dread and a little fear.

Coy crossed to the table, pulled a chair out and took a seat with a grin spreading across his face. “Nothing like a good game of chance to settle a good meal.”

“Humph!” the bearded man grunted, unamused. “We’ll see how satisfied you are after you lose your money and got to face one of us on the street come mornin’.”

“Why wait till mornin’,” Coy asked. “My pistol shoots just fine in the dark.”

The men looked at him as if he had fallen from the sky and landed in front of them.

“You sound pretty anxious to die, stranger,” a man stated, pouring a shot of whiskey from a bottle he had brought with him.

“Seems we all gotta die eventually,” Coy replied, then took a sip of his beer. “Of course I could as easily win, too,” he mused, pointing out the obvious, noticing his hand was rock steady as he drank. He wondered how many of the other men had taken notice. He wondered whether his steady hand had unsettled them or not.

Suddenly, a tall, slim man dressed from head to foot in black entered the saloon without hesitation. Every man at the table turned to look. Coy did as well and knew the man instantly. They had fought beside each other in the war. The man’s name was Richard Wilmington Reap. Coy knew immediately he was now known as The Reaper.

Coy remembered Reap had been an insane killer even back then. He had killed indiscriminately, without hesitation: men, women, children, animals. It didn’t matter to him as long as he had been taking life for the North. Many times Coy had thought to put a bullet through his head, but was hesitant to commit cold-blooded murder. It seemed if luck was with him, he would get a fair chance to end the life of an animal that had no right to roam the country breathing in good air. The cold hate Coy had felt back then came back through him like a bolt of ice lightning. At first sight, as the thought went through him, he started to jump to his feet, draw his Colt and end the madness swarming in Reap’s head. Almost as quickly as the desire had rushed through him, something told him to wait a while longer. He relaxed into his chair and waited to see what would happen next.

Reap’s step faltered when his eyes locked on Coy. Almost as quickly a sheepish grin started on his lips. “Well, Lieutenant Coy, fancy meeting you in such a hellhole.”

“I was just passing through,” Coy replied.

“You’re free to ride on out safe and sound. I owe you my life a few times over,” Reap stated seriously.

“Thanks, but I enjoy games of chance all of a sudden.”

Reap’s smile faded slowly. “You know the play here?” he asked.

“I’ve been told,” Coy replied.

“Suit yourself then.” Reap slid back a chair and settled into it. “Somebody deal me a hand,” he said, placing three gold eagles and several silver dollars on the table in front of him.

The other men produced various amounts of money and placed it in neat stacks on the table in front of themselves. Coy did the same. His stack was much smaller than all the rest. But he didn’t care; it was possible he would win some from the other players.

“Ante up, boys,” Reap stated, tossing a dollar onto the center of the table, glancing at Coy’s meager stack.

The other seven men followed suit, as did Coy.

The man with the beard produced a deck of playing cards and began shuffling them. After a few shuffles, he set the deck in front of the man to his right, and the man halved the deck. Beard placed what had been the bottom of the deck on top of what had been the top. After straightening the deck, he began dealing to his left, sliding a card on the table in front of each man until all the men had five cards each. The men studied their cards carefully before discarding into a pile and waiting for replacements.

“Dollar,” Reap stated, fanning his cards slowly when the other men had received their cards. He tossed in a dollar and began studying his cards silently. The other men tossed in a dollar and awaited their next cards.

Even with three replacement cards, Coy studied his hand and knew it was a loser. He folded it, forfeiting his two dollars. None of the men commented.

After a few seconds, two of the other men tossed their cards in as well.

Reap tossed a dollar onto the pile in the middle of the table. “Bet a dollar,” he said, without looking away from his fan of cards.

The other men tossed in dollars. The man to Reap’s left said, “Pass.” The man to his left said, “Dollar,” and tossed in one. The other men around the table tossed a dollar in with the exception of those who had folded their cards.

Beard won the first hand with two pair—aces and threes. He chuckled happily as he raked the pot in.

“Pure luck,” Reap exclaimed carelessly and tossed a dollar to the middle of the table. Everyone else followed suit until there were eight dollars in the pot and more cards were being dealt.

With his next hand, Coy thought he might have a chance. He was dealt a pair of kings, a queen, a seven, and a five. He discarded the seven and the five. He received back a king and a ten. Three other players folded.

“Five dollars,” Reap stated, setting five silver dollars next to the pile in the center of the table. Three other men placed their five dollars in the pot, as did Coy.

Reap laid his cards on the table. He held three jacks, an ace and a deuce. The other three men tossed their hands into the discard pile with sighs of disgust.

Coy laid his cards next to Reap’s. “Three kings,” he stated and reached for the pot. Reap shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

At two in the morning, Reap called the game. None of the men were broke, which suggested no one would die the next day.

Coy paid for another night in his room and went up to bed. He was asleep instantly, as if he had not a care in the world.

The dreams came to him full force, and it seemed he fought all night long, winning, losing, killing, and dying in what seemed a never-ending battle. One clear dream was of a young girl, perhaps twelve years old, dressed all in silver, who watched him from a short distance away. A grown woman dressed in silver as well entered the dream without seeming to notice him. The young girl indicated Coy with a nod of her head. The older woman glanced at him with a neutral expression, then looked away as if in regret or disappointment. Coy awakened refreshed, as if nothing had disturbed his sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

The eight men around the table in the saloon were involved in their third hand of poker when they heard the clopping of horse's hooves outside the saloon. They looked around at each other knowingly. Another victim had fallen into their web of evil.

After a few minutes the bat-wings parted and a tall, heavily bearded man, covered in dust and trail sweat, stepped through the door. He glanced around momentarily from under the brim of his stained, gray flop-hat, then crossed to the bar and ordered a beer. He stood with his back to the poker players and sipped his beer as if making love to it.

The men at the table said nothing to each other, or to the new man. They continued with the hand they were playing until Reap dragged the money over in front of himself and into his pile. He slowly began separating the bills and coins and placing them in their respective stacks. “Mister, we play poker in this town. If you don’t play, you’ll be dead before you can leave. That’s the rules around here.”

“Been a long time since anyone told me what to do,” the man replied in a tone of voice that was dry and rough. He didn’t bother turning around. He sipped his beer again as if he had not a care in the world.

“Ain’t presuming to tell you what to do,” Reap replied coldly. “Just tellin’ what the rules are around here. You don’t wanna play by ‘em, that’s up to you. Just informing you what the punishment is if you don’t play by ‘em.”

The stranger turned from the bar. As he did, he brushed his dusty coattail back from over the low-slung Colt on his thigh. “I go where I want. I do what I want. I follow no man’s rules but my own. You got a problem with that, you can stand up and settle it right here, right now.”

Three of the eight men seated at the table chuckled and stood up with Reap. They were the three that sat mostly facing the bar. Coy sat with his back to the bar. The men to his left and right also sat mostly back to the bar. Two others sat nearly sideways to the bar, which put their pistols on the wrong side to have much effect on the outcome of a gunfight at the bar.

“Yeah,” the man said knowingly. “I had you figured as a bunch of cowards! Afeared to haul yer own freight.” With that, he reached for the pistol in a lightning-fast move that left Reap’s three backers sinking to the floor, dying or dead. Reap’s pistol fired twice, sending the stranger back against the bar and crumpling to the floor.

“Hot damn, he was fast, wadn’t ‘e?” Reap exclaimed excitedly holstering his pistol and going over to the stranger’s body. He rolled the man over onto his back and started going through his pockets. Almost immediately he found the U.S. Marshal’s badge on the man’s chest. “Well, that tin didn’t do him much good, did it?” Reap chuckled mostly to himself, then continued rifling the man’s pockets, emptying them onto the dead man’s chest.

“Ain’t no pulling back from this,” Coy stated sadly. “Killin’ a lawman is a hangin’ offense anywhere,” he added.

“Hell, Coy, I’ve killed six or eight of ‘em. Just like killing any other vermin. They ain’t bulletproof,” Reap said, bringing the man’s meager money to the table and sharing it with the remaining five men.

“You can keep my share,” Coy said. “I didn’t earn any of it.”

“Charlie, get these hides out of here before they start stinking,” Reap ordered the bartender, who immediately set to work doing as told. As he spoke, he got to his feet and started going through the three dead poker players’ pockets in case they had more money stashed on their person somewhere. In total, he came up with fifty more dollars, which he placed in his own pile.

“What about us?” one of the four other men asked.

“What about you?” Reap asked. “You’ll get your chance to win it all, luck be with you.”

“You know that was cold-blooded murder,” Coy asked, staring at Reap.

“Every killing is in a manner of speaking. After the first one, a man’s soul is lost to evil. We are both doomed after what all we done in the war, Lieutenant. Face it, we are all the devil’s handmaidens and cursed to do as he says. We got no control over it. So, get used to it.”

“We got a choice to do good or bad, Reap,” Coy replied.

“We playin’ poker or pholophizin’?” a man named Kerse asked. He sat directly across from Reap once the chairs had been shuffled around to take up the space the three dead men had left.

“Deal ‘em,” Reap said, looking at the man. He smiled and nodded his head up and down a little with his left eyebrow raised.

The man gathered up the cards and began shuffling. After the cut to his right, he began dealing out the cards to his left. No one paid attention to Charlie dragging the bodies from the room. He went about his task quietly despite his grunting and heavy breathing. By the time the last one was in hand, he was grumbling under his breath and breathing hard with exhaustion.

“’peers we gonna have to get you more work, Charlie. You might drop any minute, all that strugglin’ you’re doin’.”

“Go to hell, Reap,” Charlie answered angrily.

“I am, Charlie. Jest give me a little more time,” Reap replied, then laughed good-naturedly picking up his cards. “Seems he’s eager to see me gone,” he added, and then glanced around the table at his four compulsory companions. “Who knows, one of you might see me on my way before long. Our numbers are dwindling rapidly.”

“Anything’s possible,” Coy agreed.

Reap stared at him but said nothing for a few seconds. “You that good with your Colt?” he asked curiously.

“Don’t know yet,” Coy replied. “Maybe,” he added, studying his cards.

Another hour passed slowly with very little conversation. They all drank whiskey and beer and played out their card hands. Finally, the man to Coy’s left stated worriedly, “I’m all in, boys.”

“Well, let’s read ‘em an’ weep,” Reap stated, laying his cards on the table. He held a pair of aces.

Coy laid down a pair of kings and three jacks, a full house.

The man to his left laid down a pair of fours.

The man to Reap’s right laid down a pair of queens.

The man beside the all-in man lay down a pair of nines and a pair of tens.

“Well, well, Coy, looks like you’re the winner of this pot. But will you be the winner tomorrow at noon? That’s the real question. Bob is a good gunhand. He’s been here the longest. Got four wins so far. Only been nicked once. I’d guess you got your work cut out for you.”

Coy gathered his money and left the table. He went up to his room. After unbuckling his gun belt and hanging it on the bedpost, he lay on the bed and was asleep almost immediately.

CHAPTER FOUR

When his eyes opened, it seemed as if they had just been closed for a second. Outside the window, the day was bright and inviting. The heat was already coming up, and the wind was blowing gustily, causing the roof to squeak as it was buffeted relentlessly.

Coy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shoved his feet into his boots. He didn’t remember taking them off, but he must have done it sometime in the night. He stood and reached for his hat, placed it on his head, then swung his gun belt around his waist. He buckled it and tied the string around his leg just above his knee. He left the room.

He crossed the street to Millie’s, went in and ordered a breakfast of hen eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and white gravy with biscuits and coffee to wash it all down. He figured that would do a man for his last meal if it came down to it.

“So, today’s the day for you?” Millie asked him with genuine concern in her voice.

“Seems so,” he answered.

“Such foolishness,” she stated huffily.

“I agree,” Coy said. “But I’m not good enough to outgun them all at once.”

“And a man can’t run, right?” Millie asked.

“No. Not and still be a man with honor,” Coy replied earnestly.

Millie turned away and went toward the kitchen. Coy watched her walk away. Her swaying hips and hair were mesmerizing. His mind carried him away to another time and place before the war.

He was brought back to the present when Millie began placing several plates on the table in front of him and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said just before she turned and walked away.

He took his time eating, enjoying the flavors and textures of his food. Millie was a good cook.

Half an hour later, he stepped from the door and onto the boardwalk. He closed the door gently behind him. He stood, allowing his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Satisfied, he stepped into the street and walked to the middle. He turned to face down the street and waited for the man who would help determine his fate.

His wait was not long.

The man stepped off the boardwalk on the other side of the street, walked to the middle and turned to face Coy.

No words were spoken between them. They both knew why they were there.

As the seconds ticked into the past, Coy stood waiting for the man down the street to make his move. He figured it was the least he could do. Give the man every chance to kill him and end his endless night terrors.

As if in a slow-motion dream, the man down the street sank to the ground, his body twisting and curling inward upon itself. Coy realized his Colt was in his hand, and blue-gray smoke curled gently from the end of the barrel.

The dying man down the street tried in vain to raise his pistol for a shot at Coy. His strength failed him, and he crashed face first into the dust. A Bible verse came to mind for Coy: ‘From the dust you came and to the dust you shall return.” Coy figured there was no arguing with that reasoning. He holstered his Colt and walked off the street.

The poker players stood along the street in front of the saloon watching the shootout. They were solemn and sober. Even Reap looked a little pale. No one spoke to him as he stepped onto the boardwalk and crossed and entered the dim coolness of the saloon.

A beer was waiting for him at the bar. He sipped it calmly, surprised that his hand was as steady as a fence post.

Reap came up beside him, and Charlie placed a beer in front of him. “Not bad,” he stated knowingly.

Truthfully, he was still stunned at the swiftness of Coy’s gun hand. Truth was, he had not seen Coy draw before he heard the shot. He had only seen that the man called Baker had not even cleared leather before he staggered back a step and began to fall as his body quickly died from the trauma of being punctured by the .44 slug. Almost instantly, Reap wondered if he could beat Coy. In fact, he had had his doubts about beating Baker when the time came. He had seen Baker’s draw and knew he was as fast as anyone he had ever seen. Including himself. But in retrospect, he had drawn and killed men before their guns had cleared leather, too. So, he could beat Coy when the time came.

“Now’s your chance to ride out, Lieutenant. No one will try and stop you. You’ve proven yourself,” Coy said calmly.

“A man makes a commitment; he’s got to see it through, Reap. I joined this little war of yours. I will see it through.”

“Winner takes all, huh? Reap asked.

“Yeah, the winner takes all,” Coy agreed, looking Reap directly in his cold gray eyes, then sipped his beer calmly.

“I been noticing you takin’ a shine to Miss Millie. Be wise to leave her be. She’s spoken for.”

“By who,” Coy asked curiously.

“Me,” Reap replied.

“I had no idea,” Coy said.

“Well, now you do,” Reap stated.

“In time, one of us will die. She’ll decide for sure then,” Coy replied, staring into Reap’s eyes once again.

“True,” Reap agreed, then taking his beer in hand, He turned away. He crossed the room to a table along the wall and settled in to think his own thoughts until it was time to play poker, now against three men instead of the original seven. It was for sure coming down to it.

Coy finished his beer and went up the stairs to his room. He settled in and was asleep before he realized it.

CHAPTER FIVE

The echo of gunshots from the street below brought Coy out of his deep sleep. He sat up automatically, reaching for the pistol grip near his head. He sprung up and off the bed. Rounding the foot of the bed he stepped to the window. Parting the curtains slightly with the barrel of the pistol, he looked down.

Reap stood in the middle of the street, shoving a cartridge into the cylinder of his pistol. Down the street, a man lay stretched out in the dust. From where he stood, Coy could not see blood or a wound, but it was obvious the man was dead or soon to be. Turning from the window, he wondered what had brought the shootout about. He replaced his Colt in the holster and then lay back on the bed. He realized he was tiring of this town and game. It was about time to move on.

When his eyes opened again, he realized he was hungry. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid his boots on. When his gun belt and hat were on, he went downstairs to the saloon. Without speaking, he went out, crossed the street and entered Millie’s Eatery. He took a seat at an empty table and waited for Millie to come take his order. As a precaution, he faced the door, deciding he couldn’t be too careful in this town where killers abounded.

Across the room sat a weasel of a man in a black broadcloth suit. He glanced at Coy, then away. Coy paid him no mind. He had never seen the man before. He figured he may have just ridden in.

Millie came from the back and placed a plate of food in front of the weasel. The man wasted no time. He ate until the plate was empty, using the last of a biscuit to clean the plate before plopping it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed the chewed food with a last gulp of coffee. He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping on the floor, stood and started for the door. He stopped near Coy’s table, looked Coy up and down, and then said in a deep-toned voice, “You interested in being a lawman, Mister Coy? Town needs one.”

“Haven’t given it any thought,” Coy replied earnestly, staring the weasel in the eyes.

“I heard you was a lieutenant with the North; fought with Grant.”

“You heard right.”

“It proves you’re a good man in my book. You think about it some and let me know. I’ll be around for a day or so. I took a room over at the hotel this morning just after the shooting.”

The man nodded his head slightly and continued to the door before Coy could comment. He pulled the door open and stepped out, then closed it behind himself easily.

Coy wondered about the man. He seemed to know Coy, but had never mentioned his own name. Maybe Millie knew him.

“Who was that man?” Coy asked Millie when she came into the room carrying a cup of coffee that she set on the table in front of him.

“Joe Scription,” she replied easily. “He owns a ranch twenty miles outside of town called the Redemption Ranch. He also serves as the town mayor when the town needs one. He’s a wealthy man from the East. New York City, if I remember right. He and his wife and two sons have been here for five or so years. He’s a good man from all I hear.”

“He asked if I was interested in being a lawman.”

“That’s a good way to get killed around here.”

“So is playing poker,” he replied with a smile.

“Yes,” she agreed, “it is.”

Secretly she loved when he smiled at her but tried hard not to let it show.

They fell into silent thought before Millie asked, “Breakfast?”

“Sounds perfect to me,” he agreed, and watched her turn and walk away into the back. He loved the way she moved. He wondered what her story was. How she came to be living and owning a business in Last Draw, New Mexico. Maybe she would tell him sometime.

After breakfast, he crossed the street to the saloon. It was dark and quiet as usual. He got a mug of beer and took a seat at a table along the back wall near the abandoned piano.

“Anyone ever play this piano?” he asked Windell, the bartender that reminded him of a vulture.

“Not unless you do,” Windell replied, slowly wiping a shot glass with a towel.

“Used to, a long time back,” Coy replied thoughtfully, mentally reviewing all the lessons he had learned from his mother, who had played piano in church. He smiled at the distant memories and the woman he missed more than anyone else he had ever known. She had fallen ill and had died shortly thereafter. The attending doctor said it had been diphtheria. He had been fourteen at the time. Now here he was twenty-four and the pain of her memory was just as sharp.

“Have a go at it,” Windell said. “We need some joyful noise around here for a change.

Coy moved over to the piano and lifted the lid covering the ivories. He set his beer on top, then pulled the bench out and took a seat. He studied the keys as a flood of memories took his breath away. He heard his mother’s sweet voice and gentle encouragement in his ears and felt his heart swell to nearly bursting. Involuntarily, his fingers began to dance across the keys producing a beautiful sound. He noticed a few of the strings were out of tune and promised himself to fix them before he was killed or left town, whichever came first.

He was lost in his own world when he slowly became aware that the saloon had filled with silent men. He supposed it had been ages since they had heard music, if ever. He realized Reap stood with his back to the bar listening intently. He slowly sipped from the mug of beer he held in his left hand.

“A man of refinement and talent, “Reap stated seriously, “I would have never guessed,” he added, toasting Coy with the beer mug.

“Thanks to my mother,” Coy replied, “God rest her soul.”

“No saint like a mother,” Reap stated seriously, then drained his mug. “Time to play poker, boys. May the luckiest man win,” he added, setting his mug on the bar. He crossed to his usual table and took a seat.

Four hands into the game, the man seated across from Coy went bust to Coy’s three eights. Coy knew immediately what was going to happen, seeing the man’s angry eyes flash insanely. He prepared himself for the man’s play.

The man moved like a snake striking at a rat. He shoved back from the table and started to stand as he began his draw, sending his chair over sideways and backwards.

Coy was slightly faster, shooting up through the tabletop and hitting the man under the chin. The impact to the man’s chin caused his gun hand to release his half-drawn pistol as it fired into the table through the front of his holster.

“God damn it!” Reap exclaimed as he slid back suddenly, careful to keep his hand away from his pistol. “He knew the rules! We fight in the street! Not in the saloon!”

“He was not a rules follower, I suppose,” Coy replied, looking around at the three other players as if challenging them to make their move. None of them seemed interested.

“Shall we play?” Coy asked, returning to his chair.

“Windell, drag this skunk out of here!” Reap said to the barman.

Coy tossed a half eagle to Windell as he neared. “Pay for his burying with this,” he said.

Windell caught the coin deftly, “I will,” he replied. “He shore don’t deserve it, though,” he added.

“None of us do,” Coy replied. He glanced around at the three remaining players. “None of us do,” he repeated, his cold blue eyes coming to rest on Reap.

“Agreed,” Reap said, then started gathering up the cards.

An hour later, another of the men went broke. He was nearly in tears when he asked, “Can I just ride out?”

“You’re welcome to try, Mister,” Reap replied.

“I say let him go,” Coy cut in. “Easy to see he ain’t no gunhand. It’d be murder, pure and simple.”

“I ain’t a mister. I’m a farmer. Hell, if I had’a known what was going on in this town, I would have stayed well clear of it. Done lost all my farm money to this evil,” he added nearly in tears, his eyes dropping to stare reflectively at the tabletop.

“You had in mind to buy a farm?” Coy asked, studying the young man.

“I did,” the man replied. “Came into town to buy supplies and thought to have myself a beer. Got caught up in this. I ain’t even armed. Nothing but an old Greener shotgun.”

Coy studied the man to get a sense of his honesty. He sensed no deception in him. “Again, I say we return his money and let him ride.”

“That ain’t the rules,” Reap stated coldly. “He sat at the table and took cards. He stands on the street tomorrow facing you. He will either live or die. That’s the rules, Coy!”

“I say we change the rules, then,” Coy stared hard at Reap, “unless you want to take his place. You’re a gunhand,” he added challengingly.

“Why would I fight his fight?” Reap shot back.

“You roped him in, and you made the rules. Seems only right you fight his fight.”

“I don’t owe him anything,” Reap stated coldly.

“By your own words, you owe me,” Coy said. “I’m calling in your debt, Reap. Be on the street in the morning. Have a good breakfast first.”

Coy placed his hands palms down on the tabletop and shoved his chair back. He stood slowly. “Any harm comes to the farmer, I’ll kill you real slow. Hear me?”

“I ain’t scared,” Reap replied.

“You should be. I’ve seen you draw. You’ve seen me. Who do you believe is faster?”

“I am,” Reap stated seriously.

A cold smile broke Coy’s lips. “Humph, we’ll know for sure tomorrow, Reap.”

Coy turned away slowly. He watched the bartender’s eyes for an indication that Reap was going to try to shoot him in the back. He got no such indication. He went up the stairs to his room and was asleep in just a few minutes.

CHAPTER SIX

At sunrise, Coy was at the stables making sure his horse was being properly cared for. He would hate to know the animal was being mistreated. He would certainly have to kill the man who was responsible. The black was like family. They had been closest friends since Grant had assigned him the horse during the war and made a gift of him at the time of his discharge. He had taken an oath to protect the animal with his life if need be. He would not break an oath. To him, an oath was sacred.

He rounded the corner and saw Miss Millie exiting the general store. She carried a woven basket covered by a bright red towel on one arm. She saw him at about the same time, and they altered their directions of travel so their paths would cross near her establishment.

“Mornin’, Miss Millie,” Coy said, tipping his hat to her.

“Mister Coy,” she replied with a smile that reached her eyes, causing them to twinkle with mischief. Or so Coy imagined.

“Fine morning,” he said. “Mind if I walk with you?”

“From what I’ve heard this morning, it could turn bad before noon,” she replied, then turned and started walking down the boardwalk, not giving or denying him permission to accompany her. Without hesitation, she took his left arm as they walked.

“We are all appointed to die, Miss Millie,” Coy replied. “It will be at God’s own chosen time and place, not man’s,” he added.

“Have you spoken to Mister Scrimption about the town marshal job?” she asked curiously, changing the subject.

“Not yet,” he answered. “I haven’t thought about it much.”

“I see,” she mused. “You don’t like our little town, I take it.”

“On the contrary, the town is fine. I can’t say much about certain elements, however.”

“As the law, you could order them out of town.”

“As the law, they would just as likely shoot me in the back and carry on with their evil.”

“You, Mister Coy, are playing poker with them.”

“True,” he agreed. “But not for much longer, I figure.”

Up ahead, standing in front of the door to Millie’s Eatery stood Scrimption. In his hand was his hat. “Good morning, Miss Millie, Mister Coy,” he said as they neared.

They both greeted him cordially. “The door is open,” Millie said.

“I would not presume to enter until you are open for business, Miss Millie,” Scrimption replied.

“In that case, I am open for business,” she said with a low chuckle as she led the way into her establishment.

“Might we share a table, Mister Coy?” Scrimption asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Coy replied, sliding a chair back and taking a seat at the table Scription had chosen. It was the same chair he had been seated at the day before.

Millie entered the room minus her basket. She carried two cups of steaming coffee. She placed them near the men’s hands, took their orders for breakfast and returned to her kitchen.

“I have a place outside of town to the east,” Scrimption stated. “Pretty nice house, all the prairie a man would need to start a herd. I could let it go with the job of marshal, plus a hundred dollars a month compensation. If you’re interested,” he said, laying a metal badge on the table between them.

“I may not survive the day,” Coy replied.

“Maybe,” Scrimption agreed. “Be good to go out on the side of right would be my opinion.”

“I agree,” Coy replied after a few seconds consideration. He then picked the badge up and pinned it to his shirt on his left chest and slightly under the edge of his vest.

“Good! I knew you to be a man of honor,” Scrimption said as he dug a leather pouch from his pocket. He opened it and counted out five double eagles. “First month’s pay,” he explained with a smile.

“You might not get your money’s worth,” Coy said. “I face Reap before noon.”

“You are on the side of right. You stand to protect us you’re worth the money even if you lose. But, I seldom make bad investments, Marshal.”

Millie smiled at Coy noticing the badge peeking out from behind his vest as she placed their plates in front of them. “I feel safer already,” she stated, laying her hand on Coy’s shoulder.

Coy felt his chest swell a little bigger with pride at her approval.

“I will do my best,” he said.

“You better,” Millie stated seriously.

“The alternative is no good,” Scrimption said, then went after his breakfast as if starving.

Coy joined him and they ate in silence until the meal was finished. Scrimption finished before him, but waited respectfully in silence until he had finished. Millie brought the coffee pot and refilled their cups. They sipped the scalding liquid as other men began entering and taking seats at various tables around the room. Coy saw several of them glance at him, then look away just as quickly. One of them stared momentarily at the silver glinting from under the edge of his vest. He smiled, nodded with approval, then turned to conversation with his friends. Each in turn glanced at Coy. He knew they knew he was now the Marshal of Last Draw, New Mexico Territory and were discussing his chances of survival.

“Lieutenant Coy,” Reap yelled from the street. “Come on out and let’s get this done, so the farmer can go about his pig farmin’.”

Coy stood without hesitation and started for the door. No one spoke as he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He glanced down the street at Reap. Perhaps twenty feet separated them.

“Pig farmer, huh?” Coy asked curiously.

“All the same in my book,” Reap replied with a grin on his face.

“You could ride out, you know,” Coy said simply. “No need to die today.”

“Nobody just rides out of Last Draw, Lieutenant. That’s the rule! You scared,” Reap asked, a chuckle breaking his voice.

“Be a fool to not be. A man’s fixing to send a bullet my way.”

“Never took you for a coward, Lieutenant.”

“Not a coward, Reap,” Coy replied, then stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. He walked to the middle and turned to face Reap. Thirty feet separated them. The sun was coming up in Coy’s eyes. “Your move, Reap,” he said.

Reap seemed to study his options for a few seconds. With a chuckle, he began his reach for his Colt. It was nearly clear of leather when an invisible hand shoved him back and off balance. He seemed to stop himself and rebalance. He slid the pistol back into its holster, looked down the street at Coy. His expression was one of sadness. “Never expected you to be that fast.” He fell forward, face-first into the dust of the street.

Coy held his own pistol up and ready. He approached Reap slowly. Reap was not dead until he was decidedly dead.

Coy saw Reap’s pistol still in its holster. He rolled the body over with the toe of his boot. The bullet had hit Reap near the lower center of his chest and slightly to the left. He was quite dead.

“Anyone is free to leave town, or stay, who wants to. Reap is dead. He has met the real Reaper,” Coy shouted, looking up and down the street. Without another word, he turned and went into the saloon. It was time for a drink.

THE END