Tupelo, Honey
People will say they're in love
Daniel Billock was not a successful gunfighter because he was particularly quick on the draw. In fact, for a habitual - albeit lawful - gunslinger, he was a bit on the slow side. No; what made him such a formidable adversary was the way his steely-eyed gaze and unflinching demeanor would unnerve those who were reckless enough to face him down.
The farmhand presently standing fifty feet away from Billock, who not five minutes earlier had so confidently called him out in a blind rage, was feeling that uncanny vacillation for himself at this precise moment. The aggrieved man had been so certain he was going to punish this stranger he’d found cavorting with his fiancé, but now, standing mere yards away from the unflappable shootist, he was regretting his impulsiveness. Much to his chagrin, he found his resolve crumbling under the intense gaze of Billock’s storm gray eyes, as well as how the man’s hand casually rested near the walnut grip of a blue framed Remington revolver holstered on his thigh.
“Now, listen mister, you can’t just go frolicking around with another fella’s woman.” the ranch hand tried - and mostly failed - to keep his tone even and his voice from quivering. “It just ain’t right.”
“Lady never said she was spoken for,” Daniel Billock shrugged nonchalantly. Strictly speaking, he was telling the truth: Charlotte Parker had not overmuch objected to his amorous affections. Nevertheless, Billock knew perfectly well she was otherwise engaged. As much as he endeavored to always stay on the right side of the law, Daniel Billock’s one major vice was women; though he usually did his best to shy away from the married ones to avoid the exact conundrum he was currently embroiled in. Charlotte Parker, however, proved too beguiling to resist.
“Be that as it may, you’re still in the wrong. If you apologize and leave town within the hour, we’ll call the whole thing even.”
“Listen, pard, you’re the one what called me out. If you don’t want to follow through, just say so. Either way, I’m fixin’ to quit this place anyhow.”
“I ain’t no coward if that’s what you’re getting at!” the field hand bawled, renewed anger replacing his sense of self-preservation.
“If I thought you was a coward, I’d have called you a coward. Now, help me out here, compadre: Did I say you was a coward?”
“Well, no, but I’m pretty damn sure that’s what you meant!”
Billock sighed. “Fine, you want to prove to yourself you’re a man and you got the sand to draw down on me, then just do it so we can get this the hell over with.”
His words had the desired effect. The exasperated man fumbled clumsily for the Colt .45 on his hip. Billock, meanwhile, casually brandished his Remington, thumbed back on the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. The colorful assortment of townsfolk observing the confrontation flinched in unison as the thunderous discharge reverberated across the small, ramshackle town. The farmhand yelped and clutched the spot where the bullet grazed his upper arm, dropping his pistol in the dusty street.
“Satisfied?” Billock drawled.
“Aw, go to Hell! And take that damn doxy with you!” the farmhand spat, shamefaced and defeated. “I don’t want nothin’ more to do with either of you.”
“Wise choice, friend.” Keeping a wary eye on his vanquished foe, Billock purposefully strode to where Charlotte Parker awkwardly waited to see how the confrontation would play out; her usually charming, round face contorted somewhere halfway between concern and elation. “Well? How about it? There’s a wagon train headin’ west on the Cimarron Trail that I’ve been offered a mighty fine payday to join as a gunhand.”
Charlotte reached up and stroked his brown-stubbled cheek affectionately. “Oh, Daniel. I’ve truly enjoyed your company. But my place is here, with Emmett. Besides, life on the trail really isn’t all that appealing to me.”
“Seems Emmett don’t want you no more,” he grunted matter-of-factly. Charlotte’s radiant green eyes hardened momentarily, but she decided to ignore her erstwhile lover’s blunt observation.
“You’re just not a one-woman man, Daniel. You’ll get tired of me sooner or later. Despite everything, Emmett does love me unconditionally.”
“Suit yourself.” Out of the corner of his eye, Billock could see Emmett the ranch hand cautiously approaching the pair. A trickle of blood sluiced down his right arm from the mild gunshot wound, and his revolver sat once more in its holster.
“She’s all yours.” the gunslinger drawled as he turned towards the stable to retrieve his gelding. Tears sprang unbidden to Charlotte Parker’s eyes as she suddenly realized just how fervently she was going to miss Daniel Billock.
“What if I change my mind?! How can I find you?!” she called out after him. Black boots swirled dust around the hem of his tanned frock coat as he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
“Goin’ somewhere I hear tell needs a sheriff.”
“Well, where’s that?”
“Tupelo, honey.”
The town of Tupelo Grove - so named for the substantial orchard of black tupelo trees situated nearby - stood on the banks of the Cimarron River in the Oklahoma Territory panhandle. Tupelo Grove started life as a rest stop for wagon and cattle trains waiting to ford the river. A shrewd and enterprising businessman had invested in building saloons, an elegant hotel, several general stores and grocers, and even a hog ranch or two. Before long, he had a thriving town on his hands.
That businessman was Cobb Sheridan. And he did not like Daniel Billock one bit. As soon as the imposing gunslinger rode into town at the head of that damn wagon train, Sheridan knew the man was going to cause trouble for him. His fears came true almost immediately.
Cobb Sheridan was an ambitious man: some would say greedy and ruthless. He more or less ruled over Tupelo Grove, and he wanted to keep it that way. Doing so meant the occasional act of vandalism or murder when he felt his interests were threatened. Sheridan thought he was clever enough that these odious actions couldn’t be traced back to him, but the townspeople were suspicious nonetheless. In order to assuage their concerns Sheridan promised to bring in a sheriff to prevent further misdeeds.
Of course, he had no intention of doing any such thing. What he hadn’t counted on was news traveling the frontier that Tupelo Grove needed a lawman. And from the moment he arrived, Daniel Billock made sure everyone in town knew he was the man for the job.
“You asked for me?” the gruff voice shook Cobb Sheridan out of his brooding. He stood at the window of his richly appointed office in Tupelo Grove’s Grand Hotel; observing townsfolk going about their business.
“Silas, thank you for coming,” Sheridan turned to address the brutish ringleader of his henchmen. He reached across his mahogany desk for a crystal decanter. “Care for some bourbon?”
“Won’t never say no to that.”
“Good man,” he declared as he expertly filled a pair of tumbler glasses with the amber hued liquid. He deftly slid one across the desk for Silas to imbibe. “I’ll get right to the point: We’ve got to do something about Daniel Billock.”
Silas grunted. “I knew you wasn’t gonna put up with his nonsense for long.”
“This is my town and I’ll be damned if I allow him to interfere in my affairs.”
“So, whatcha want to do about it?”
“Where’s he staying? I don’t usually see him around town at night.”
“He stays with the wagon folk. Word is he’s sweet on one of them travelin’ hussies.”
Sheridan cursed. “I hate to involve the wagoners in this. Lord knows I’ve made a damn fortune off of ‘em these last few days. But if that’s where he’s at, that’s where you’ll have to go.”
“There’s damn near sixty people camped there!” Silas objected. “And there ain’t but a dozen of us.”
“True, but that’s mostly women, children, and timid farmers. I daresay there’s not too many experienced gunhands in the lot, aside from Billock that is.”
“As you say. I’ll gather the boys and we’ll go tonight.”
Daniel Billock reclined with the widowed Rebecca Ellis in the back of her covered wagon. Her unfortunate husband had perished from a rattlesnake bite not long before Billock joined the caravan two weeks ago. The gallant shootist and the grieving woman were immediately drawn to one another: His steadfast and reassuring presence brought comfort to her anguished spirit.
Billock had frolicked with many a beautiful woman in his time, but his intense feelings for Rebecca were an entirely unfamiliar experience. He was quite sure he was in love with her. Rebecca certainly seemed awfully fond of him as well.
The Sun was just beginning to disappear behind distant sand dunes, and leisurely snow flurries swirled in the dusky, early spring air. The wagons were circled around a large bonfire, which helped to alleviate some of the brisk chill that was settling in for the night. Rebecca lay in Billock’s strong arms as she watched firelight dance off the canvas interior of the wagon bed.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” She broke their companionable silence.
“Oh yeah? What might that be?”
“Why do you carry that ugly pistol on your saddle instead of your hip like you do with the Remington?”
“You mean this ugly pistol?” Billock reached into his saddlebag and removed an ungainly, antiquated revolver. “This here’s a Colt Dragoon, sweetheart. It’s too heavy to be a belt gun, so I keep it on my saddle in case I get in a fight and my Remington can’t finish the job.”
“Why’s the cylinder look so funny?”
“Well now, that’s a story all to itself.”
“I surely would like to hear it.”
Billock chuckled. “This particular pistol belonged to my uncle. He wielded it when he served under General John Buford at the Battle of Gettysburg, among lots of other scrums he was involved in. Now, the thing about my uncle is that he was a gunsmith before the War, and he went back to being a gunsmith after the War. And when Colt started converting their old cap-and-ball revolvers to breechloaders ‘bout twenty or so years ago, my uncle took it upon himself to do the same for his beloved Dragoon. I daresay this pistol is the only one of its kind in the whole world. Seeing as how it was the first gun I learned to shoot, he saw fit to leave it to me when he died.”
Her curiosity satisfied, Rebecca nestled into Billock’s comforting grasp with a contented sigh; her flaxen colored hair spilled loosely over his chest. He was just about to return the Colt Dragoon to its rightful place in his saddlebag when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold.
“Rebecca!” he hissed as he thrust the storied pistol into her unsuspecting hands. “Take this and stay in the wagon!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Riders coming. Fast,” Billock said grimly.
“Riders? At this time of night?”
Gunfire shattered the peaceful nighttime stillness before he could answer. Screams erupted from all over the camp. Billock fixed his gun belt around his waist, then brandished his Winchester rifle. He leapt out of the back of the wagon and fixed Rebecca with a solemn look.
“Stay here,” he instructed. A bullet smashed into a wooden plank next to his head. Billock spun, leveled the rifle, and blew a hole through the guts of a rider bearing down on him. The next several minutes were a blur of horsemen galloping around the camp, shooting every which way and setting fire to everything in site. Billock held his ground and defended Rebecca’s wagon with ferocious determination. Bullets continued to fly in his direction - splintering wood and shredding canvas - yet he was unyielding, and defiantly returned fire at bushwhackers hurtling in all directions.
When the Winchester ran dry, he pulled his Remington. Above the clamor of discharged guns and hysterical shrieking, Billock thought he heard Rebecca calling out to him, but he was too enthralled with the chaotic gun battle. Burning agony exploded in his hip as one of the brigands found his mark.
“I got him!” Billock heard one of the attackers shout triumphantly.
“Good, let’s get the hell out of here!” another responded with satisfaction. And, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the horsemen fled; galloping off into the night. The camp was utterly decimated. Framed by the fires ravaging their wagons, survivors roamed to and fro, crying out for their loved ones. Billock hobbled the short distance to Rebecca’s wagon to be greeted by an appalling sight.
She sat with her back against a wagon wheel, a pair of bloodstains blooming on her chest and the Colt Dragoon clutched tightly in her dead fingers. Her vacant eyes stared out over the Oklahoma plains as the last remnants of sunlight disappeared on the horizon.
In the days that followed, Cobb Sheridan’s body was found dumped in the street in front of Tupelo Grove’s Grand Hotel. He had been gutted, and his throat savagely cut. None of the townsfolk mourned his passing, nor showed any particular interest in apprehending his murderer.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I wish we could’ve had more time together,” Daniel Billock muttered as he stood at Rebecca Ellis’ grave. The town cemetery was situated on the edge of the orchard that served as Tupelo Grove’s namesake.
“Daniel?” He heard a familiar, throaty voice call out hesitantly. He turned, surprised to see Charlotte Parker walking in his direction. The wind ruffled the brown curls of her hair, and her wide green eyes were full of uncertainty.
“Charlotte?! What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Emmett?”
“Emmett’s dead.”
“What happened?”
“A band of cattle rustlers came through not long after you left. Emmett - brave fool that he was - tried to stop them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Billock said, surprised to find that he meant it. “But what are you doing here?”
“You told me where I could find you if I ever changed my mind, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Billock drawled absentmindedly. The three weeks that had gone by since he last saw Charlotte felt like a lifetime ago. He couldn’t be sure if he really did remember that or not.
“Who is she?” Charlotte asked, pointing at the rough hewn cross that marked Rebecca’s final resting place.
“Just someone I was briefly acquainted with.”
When no more explanation was forthcoming, Charlotte turned her attention to the sizable stand of black tupelo trees not far behind Daniel Billock, entranced by their striking red leaves and rich brown trunks.
“Those are beautiful,” she said wonderingly. “What kind of trees are they?”
“Tupelo, honey.”
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This is your best yet! Fantastic piece.
I never read western fiction before this. This was quite excellent