Slow Hands
Know when to fold 'em
Deadwood, Dakota Territory, late 1800’s
Evelyn Fairlane slid the morning edition of Black Hills Pioneer across the table, interrupting Boone Cantrell as he ate a hearty breakfast of eggs with a side of biscuits and gravy in the dining room of Deadwood’s Grand Central Hotel. “Have you seen this? It’s the most remarkable thing!”
The gunslinger set down his utensils with conspicuous reluctance and picked up the newspaper.
“Bloodbath in Heaven’s Hollow,” he read the dramatic headline aloud. “Notorious former outlaw singlehandedly defeats gang of infamous cutthroats.”
“This Everett Brooks must be some man!” Evelyn marveled. Her cheeks were flushed and her hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. “Have you by chance ever met him?”
“Our paths have crossed,” Cantrell grunted. He fixed the woman with a pointed stare. “Do all English women get hot under the collar for vicious cowpunchers, or is it just you?”
“What’s it to you if I like a certain kind of fellow? As I recall, you’ve yet to offer any complaints about my companionship!” She declared archly. Cantrell rolled his eyes.
“Fine, I give up.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’d like Everett. Hell, he’s killed friends of mine and I still like him. I’d heard he was dead. Good for him getting revenge on them that killed his woman, though.”
“The two of you were at odds then?”
Cantrell nodded. “Once or twice; back when I was a federal marshal. His outfit led myself and my posse on a merry chase outside Virginia City.”
“You’ve got such colorful history. Oh, it’s been so much fun getting to know you! Tell me more!”
“I don’t know Everett all that well, truth be told. He’s not one to cross, I know that much.”
“But surely he’s no match for you!” Evelyn insisted adamantly. “I saw the way you handled Al Swearengen. Why, he’s even more afraid of you than he is of Sheriff Bullock!”
“I expect there’s good reason for that,” Cantrell drawled. His gaze hardened as his expression turned gravely serious. “But Everett Brooks is a gunslinger without equal. And a merciless killer to boot. Not even on my best day would I want to draw down against the likes of him.”
Evelyn Fairlane was mystified. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were afraid of the man.”
Boone Cantrell chuckled ruefully. “No, not exactly afraid. I just know my limits, such as they are. It’s why I’m still alive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish eating this fine breakfast.”
“We ain’t boring you, are we friend?” The harsh voice cut through Cantrell’s brooding. The morning’s conversation with Evelyn had him reminiscing about his run-ins with Everett Brooks: He’d lapsed into a daydream in the midst of a tense poker game with six Deadwood locals.
“Sorry, gents. Wasn’t all there for a minute. Whose play is it?”
“Action’s to you,” growled the same grizzled cowhand who’d barked at him before. The man’s face was covered with patchy stubble, and his eyes were cold and unforgiving.
“What’s the matter, Cantrell?” teased another: a grubby miner with a greasy, lascivious disposition. “Too busy thinking about the romp you had with that fancy English tart of yours last night?”
Boone Cantrell retrieved his pipe from the brown vest he wore overtop a blue button down shirt. He removed a tobacco pouch out of the pocket of his fringed buffalo leather pants and packed the bowl with fragrant leaves. His fellow cardplayers watched his slow, deliberate movements with apprehension. He was generally an affable sort of fellow, but Cantrell had made it abundantly clear in his short stint in Deadwood that he wouldn’t tolerate any slights against his female counterpart.
He finished lighting the apparatus and pulled a long drag from the stem before finally addressing the derogatory remark. “Now, Shep, you know Miss Fairlane and myself are just good friends.”
“Jesus, Boone, it was a damn joke!” Shep retorted defensively.
“Can we get back to playing some poker?!” interjected the hoary cowpoke. He fixed Cantrell with an antagonistic gaze. “Action’s. To. You.”
“Easy there, pard. It’s just a game.”
“A game that you somehow keep winning!”
“You got something you want to say?”
“I think what Buck’s trying to articulate is that we’re no match for your expertise,” a young cattleman sitting next to him cut in, trying to defuse the tension. Cantrell recalled that his name was Nathan Phillips. Despite his youthful demeanor, the man was already an adept pistolero.
Two days earlier an irate prospector happened upon the lad in the throes of passion with a whore the interloper had become enamored with. Wearing nothing but his long johns, Nathan was dragged out to the muddy thoroughfare by friends of the aggrieved fellow, threats and effronteries being hurled at him all the while. The cowhand’s Colt Frontier was thrown into the grimy avenue, just out of reach: The miner cleared leather with his own revolver as soon as Nathan’s pistol hit the ground. Cantrell and Evelyn happened to be taking a stroll through the town as all of this was occurring, and the veteran gunslinger was amazed at what he saw.
Nathan lurched forward with astonishing speed and retrieved his gun from the muck just as the prospector’s first shot boomed. In one fluid motion, he rolled to his knees, pistol in hand, and shot his assailant dead between the eyes. Before the body hit the ground, two more shots resounded in rapid succession, and the man’s fellow bushwhackers pitched backwards, each one clutching frantically at a gaping hole in their chest. The onlookers cheered at Nathan’s astoundingly improbable victory, and Evelyn had insisted on making his acquaintance.
“Well…is that how it is, Buck?” Boone Cantrell asked the querulous herdsman seated across the table.
“I ain’t so sure it is just expertise!” Buck spat. “Might could be something else.”
“That so?” Cantrell’s penetrating gaze swept around at each of his fellow gamblers. “Anyone else feel that way?”
“Damn right they do!”
“Speak for yourself, Buck,” Nathan disagreed, shaking his head dubiously. “Mr. Cantrell here’s simply a helluva good card player.”
“Coward!” Buck cursed. “Shep and the others are with me, ain’t that right?!”
The leering Shep, still embarrassed from Cantrell’s earlier intimidation over his lecherous jesting, was all too eager to agree. “Ain’t nobody that good.”
Buck smirked as the remaining three players indignantly nodded their heads in assent. “There you have it.”
“So, what do you propose?” Cantrell sighed, knowing with absolute certainty what was about to happen.
“Just this,” Buck growled. His hand dropped as he went for his pistol. Nathan’s Colt materialized in front of him, and flame blossomed from the barrel. The bullet blasted into Buck’s upper body with terrific force, somersaulting him over the back of his chair. Gunfire erupted all around the table as everyone brandished their firearms.
Cantrell coolly gunned down two of the rival players, one right after the other, while Nathan plugged the man opposite him in the stomach. Shep was nowhere in sight.
“Is that all of them?” Cantrell asked as the commotion faded. Nathan was about to answer when Shep reappeared from under the table and blew away the right side of his attractive, boyish face. Cantrell reacted purely on instinct: His Colt Army revolver blazed several times over. Shep was thrown backwards into the mahogany bar top with three gory craters in his chest, blood bubbling from his mouth. Cantrell holstered his pistol and stood over the inert body of Nathan Phillips.
“Such a damn waste,” he muttered gloomily.
“Mr. Cantrell,” he heard Evelyn’s breathless whisper behind him. Her usually musical and buoyant tone was strained and vexed. Boone Cantrell turned to see the beguiling young woman bent over in distress, her delicate hands clasped against a widening bloodstain at her midsection. He was at her side in a flash, easing her to the floor as the other saloon patrons, satisfied the explosive conflagration was over, regained their nerve and gathered around to eavesdrop.
“Dammit, Evelyn! What the devil are you doing here?!” Cantrell demanded, futilely attempting to hide his alarm.
“I came…to wish…you luck…in…your gambling…of course…silly man,” she uttered with great difficulty. “Am I…dying?”
“No, honey: You’re gonna be just fine, you hear? Just fine.” Cantrell endeavored to reassure her. “You want to meet Everett Brooks, yeah? Can’t do that if you’re dead.”
They were the last words Evelyn Fairlane heard before pain overtook her and she lapsed into darkness.
“She’ll be alright,” Doc Mullins observed in his gravelly voice. “She’s such a skinny thing, the bullet went clean through!”
Conscious once again, Evelyn was stretched out on the Deadwood physician’s examination table. Boone Cantrell loomed over her, concern etched all over his handsome features. The lower half of her chemise had been cut away, and a bandage was swathed somewhat clumsily around her bare midsection.
“Are you quite sure, doctor? It hurts like the dickens!” Evelyn grumbled dolefully.
“Well, ain’t nobody ever enjoyed getting shot that I know of. But you’ll come through it just fine. Just avoid any…ah…overly strenuous activities.” Doc Mullins gave the two of them a significant look.
“Whoa, Doc: I’m more of her chaperone than anything else,” Cantrell protested, his face flush with embarrassment. “We’re not…doing that.”
“Why the hell not?! She’s young, and extremely pretty to boot!”
“Yes, now that the doctor mentions it, why aren’t we?” Evelyn teased, giggling in spite of the pain that proceeded to wash over her.
Boone Cantrell rolled his eyes and racked his brain for what he could possibly say to reclaim control of the conversation.
Click below to read about the previous exploits of Boone Cantrell and Evelyn Fairlane:
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Great story, Josh!
Seems both Evelyn and the good doctor got themselves Boone's number. Good stuff, as usual.