Short Stories — WILLIAM GREER

Guardian Angel

Joe Walker watched the rabbit cook over his campfire. As the meat crisped and turned brown, a deep rumble in his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since midday, hard tack and a slice of jerky. He had been on the trail for almost two months and he was anxious to get back to his own place outside of Corpus Christi, Texas. Nearby, his bay, Brandy, grazed contentedly.

“I guess grass taste pretty much the same everywhere, ay son?”

Brandy pricked his ears forward and gave Joe the benefit of a nicker, then resumed his grazing. Joe was $5,000 dollars richer than when he started his trip thanks to the bounties he had collected on several fugitives from the law. Most men would have been nervous carrying that much cash alone on the frontier but considering what he had done to get it, Joe felt more than capable of keeping it. While his rabbit finished cooking, Joe opened a can of beans and set it on the fire as well. He was sure kings ate better but few had a keener appetite or a more welcome companion.

It was June of 1884. For “Slow Joe” Walker, the bounty hunter, it was man hunting season. He had stumbled into the bounty business by accident and subsequently discovered that he had the talent and temperament to be enormously successful at it. He had pursued the trade for almost a decade now because it was both lucrative and restorative. The money he earned helped to anchor his goal of permanent independence, and the act of bringing to justice those who preyed upon the weak and helpless sated his desire to protect these victims from the abuses that he and his people had suffered at the hands of such men during and after enslavement. He had also felt compelled, early on, to reclaim as a law enforcer the honor that he had lost during his time as an outlaw, albeit a falsely accused one.

Down deep, Walker knew that if he continued to dance with death, it would not be death that finally made a misstep. But, like a gambler on a hot streak, he continued to roll the dice for the emotional rush of risking everything upon the improbable pairing of skill and luck. The antidote to his recklessness was the peace and domesticity of the Spanish Rose, his ranch in Texas, where his adopted family waited anxiously for his return. Which life path he would ultimately choose would be determined by time and providence, but for now it was hunting season.

The next morning, Joe got an early start. He was three weeks from home barring accident or obstacle enroute. It would be good to see his family again. He would need to stop at the next town for supplies, though. Walker rode into Ozark, Arkansas around noon. There was little activity on the dusty main street. He immediately noticed the burned out hulk of a building in the center of town. He stopped in front of a general store with the name “Fleming's” above the entrance.

As he entered, the man behind the counter looked up suspiciously, “Can I do somethin' for ya, boy?” As a black man raised in the antebellum south, Walker was used to such greetings.

“I'd like to pick up some supplies,” he said.

“We don't give credit to no strangers,” the merchant said.

“I didn’t ask for credit. What I need is supplies. Can you help me with that?” His voice carried a note of frustration based upon the fact that an unnecessary obstacle had been placed between him and his goal. The merchant heard it, and his bias amplified it.

“Nigger, I don't like your sass. So, you can getcher black ass outta my store and don't come back.” Walker weighed an in-kind response but decided to just walk away, which he did.

Back on the street, he noticed a black man sweeping up in front of the saloon. Walker approached the man with the broom. “Excuse me, suh. I just tried to buy some supplies at the general store and they turned me down. Is there any place else in town where I might get some bacon and beans and a few other rations for the trail?”

The man looked at Walker with wonder. He had never seen a colored man dressed and armed as this one was or one who radiated such an air of quiet assurance. The stranger was tall, broad-shouldered with dark skin. His smooth features, erect posture, and lithe build made it difficult to determine his age. His eyes reminded the townsman of those of a falcon he had once caught in a snare. They seemed not so much to look at you as through you. The swamper knew instinctively that it was better to side with this man than against him.

“Fleming's is the only sto' in town, but if you've a mind to come home with me, we can probly rustle you up somethin' to tide you ova on the trail.”

For not the first time, Walker was grateful for the near universal generosity of his people. “Much obliged and I'll pay for whatever you can spare.”

The swamper's name was Obadiah Washington. He and his wife, Ola Mae, lived in a little shack on the edge of town. Obadiah was a short, bald, bowlegged man with a full grey beard, and deep-set brown eyes. He spoke with a lisp due to a missing front tooth. Ola Mae easily weighed 250 pounds, clearly doted on her husband, and almost crackled with the joy of living. After she heard Walker's plight, she welcomed him like a lost family member.

“Don't worry, Mistuh Walker we gon’ take care of you. The good book says, ‘Show hospitality to the stranger, for in doing so ye may be entertainin' an angel unawares.’”

Walker said with genuine warmth, “I'm no angel, but I cain't thank you folks enough for your kindness.”

She laughed at this. “Hush, it ain't often that we git company these days and since I just finished fixin' Obadiah's dinner, I'd be pleased if you'd sit down and break bread with us.”

The midday meal would have fed three men. Walker enjoyed a repast of greens and neck bones, fried chicken, corn bread, and sweet tea. This was topped off by a wedge of peach cobbler. He complimented every item which required no dissembling. Mrs. Washington was a superb cook. After the meal, Joe and Obadiah sat on the front porch smoking cigars that Joe had retrieved from his saddlebag.

Walker said, “I see you folks had a fire not too long ago.”

“Yep. Dat used to be the jail. The Marshall was holdin' a bad outlaw name o' Nate Pardee. Three days ago, his gang come inta town and busted him out. Killed the Marshall and his deputy and burned down the jail for good measure. Most of the mens in town is out huntin' ‘em right now.”

Walker asked, “Which way did they go?”

“They lit out west. They had a good head start what with all the confusion caused by the fire and the killin's.”

Walker mused, “Most likely they'll turn south to Mexico and lay low below the border until this cools down. Killing a Marshall is a hangin' offense and the law won't let it go until they're killed or captured.”

“You seem to know a lot 'bout what's ‘gon’ happen on both sides of dis.”

“That's ‘cause I been on both sides,” Joe said.

They sat in silence for a while. Finally, Obadiah spoke hesitantly. “Mr. Walker, Ola Mae and me don't want no trouble and I hope you don't have no trouble on the rest of yo’ journey.”

He stood up and walked back inside. Joe understood the man's reaction. Trouble followed him like a heel hound and those used to trouble could sense it. It was time for him to settle up with these good folks and hit the trail. He stood to follow Washington into the house. That's when he saw six riders approaching from the opposite end of town. They rode abreast, their heads turning from side to side. These were not ranchers or farmers. These were predators and the predator in him recognized them. It had to be Pardee's bunch. Having outfoxed the posse, they had returned to the unguarded town to get a stake for their sojourn in Mexico. The bank was diagonally across the street from the burned-out jailhouse.

The riders stopped in front of that building and wheeled as one. Five stepped down and went inside while one remained to hold the horses. While Walker noticed these things, he was on the move. He walked to Brandy, took his reins and headed toward the livery at the edge of town. He turned his usual purposeful stride into a loose-jointed, head bobbing shuffle while never glancing in the direction of the bank.

Once inside the stable, he took his rifle from the scabbard on Brandy’s flank and quickly exited the back entrance. He could now move unobserved to a vantage point across from the bank. He took the alley and stopped at the edge of the boardwalk between Fleming's General Store and the town barbershop. He checked his rounds and waited.

Suddenly, shots rang out from inside the bank. The man tending the horses drew his revolver and scanned the street. Walker shouted and the man turned in his direction gun raised. Walker shot him in the chest. His colt discharged and shattered the window of Fleming's General Store. He tumbled from his horse and the other horses scattered.

Walker ran across the street and took up a position adjacent to the bank. He looked over and saw Mr. Fleming standing in the doorway of his store seemingly transfixed.

A moment later the remaining outlaws burst through the doors of the bank. They saw their man down and their horses scattered. They separated. Three went after the fleeing horses. The other two looked for the shooter. Walker stepped out of the alley and shot one man as he drew his gun. The outlaw’s companion snapped off a shot that whined past Walker's head. Walker lunged to the side and fired, hitting the man in the shoulder. Walker rolled in the dust, simultaneously cocking his rifle. The gunman continued firing, now with his left hand, hoping for a lucky shot. Instead, it was Walker who got lucky. He snapped off a shot while on his back which struck the outlaw in the stomach, and he dropped to his knees. Walker's final revolution landed him on his stomach in the prone shooting position. He shot the injured gunman in the head. The three fleeing outlaws turned to see Walker coming down the street reloading his rifle.

Rather than facing three men in the open, Walker darted into the nearest alley. As soon as he was shielded by the buildings on either side, Walker rolled under one and began crawling toward its front. He slid out from under the raised sidewalk and ran inside the saloon. In the darkened interior, he drew his colt. He stepped to the bar and looked behind it. There was a man in an apron crouching there.

“Get up heah Mistuh,” Walker said. The man stood up with his hands raised.

“Anybody else in heah?”

“Just the girls upstairs.”

“You got a gun?”

“There's a hog leg behind the bar.”

“Them three hombres out there just robbed your bank. If they come through that door, they won't be lookin' for a drink. If I was you, I'd grab that hog leg and get ready to defend myself.”

“What about you?” The bartender asked.

“I'm goin' up top to see if I can spy'em out.”

With that, Walker took the stairs to the second floor. He entered a room and saw a woman in a bright dress huddled between the bed and the wall. When she saw Walker, her eyes grew wide. He put his fingers to his lips. “I'm the law...on official business. Stay put and be quiet,” he said.

He moved through the room and stepped through the window. On the balcony, he crouched at the railing and waited for the outlaws to reassemble in the street. Soon, they came from three sides and gathered in a clump on the sidewalk, speaking and gesturing while looking over their shoulders. Walker surmised that they were discussing their options. They apparently decided to cut their losses. They moved cautiously in the direction of the livery. Walker waited until they reached the middle of the street.

He stood up and shouted,“ Drop them guns or die!” All three swung in his direction, guns raised. Walker shot one man through the body. He crumpled to the dust. Before he hit the ground, Walker's second shot dropped another of his companions.

The third man threw down his gun and screamed, “Don't shoot!”

“Down on your knees! Hands behind your head! Watch'im, Charlie!” Walker didn't want the bank robber to know that he was acting alone.

When the bounty hunter reached the outlaw, he searched him for more weapons.

People began to cautiously exit their homes and businesses. One of the onlookers was Oscar Fleming from the general store. Walker turned to him. “Mistuh' Fleming, could I trouble you for some rope?”

“Yessir.”

The merchant turned and scurried into his store. He returned with a length of rope. Walker bound the bank robber's hands behind his back. The saloonkeeper stepped out of the crowd and confronted the outlaw. Walker noticed that he was now carrying his shotgun.

“Well, I'll be damned. It's Nate Pardee. Looks like you're gonna stretch rope after all, ya murderin' bastard.”

“Ya'll got someplace to hold Mistuh Pardee 'til the posse gets back?” Walker said.

“We can put 'im in my storeroom,” Fleming said.

“Once you get ‘im there, I'd bind his ankles too if I was you,” Walker said.

Walker saw Obadiah Washington standing at the edge of the crowd. He walked over to the man and extended his hand. “Friend, I'm sorry, I took off without saying ‘good-bye’ and thanking you proper for your kindness.”

The crowd looked at the black man with new eyes. Obadiah said, “Well, it looks like you got kinda busy Mistuh Walker.”

The saloonkeeper said, “Did he say your name was Walker?”

“That's right.”

“Joe Walker?”

“Right again.”

He turned to the crowd. “Folks, this here is Slow Joe Walker, one of the most famous bounty hunters in the country. And he's here in Ozark on the very day we need him the most. How's that for providence?”

The people began to press forward like chickens at feeding time. Joe held up his hands. “Sorry, folks. I got some friends to say good-bye to.” With that, he turned and walked away with Obadiah.

“Mr. Walker! Mr. Walker!” Walker turned to face a chagrined Oscar Fleming. “About those supplies you said you needed, why don't you stop back by the store and I will be happy to personally fill your order, at no charge of course?” He smiled showing uneven teeth.

Walker turned to the little grocer and said in a voice laced with disdain, “No thanks Mistuh Fleming. ‘Fraid the price is still too high.”

Thirty minutes later, Joe stepped out on the Washingtons' porch. He had a sack filled with jerky, coffee, salt, and canned goods. Ola Mae gave him a bone crushing hug. After hearing the story of his exploits, she was even more certain that she and Obadiah had entertained an angel. “Joe, you take care now and if you eva get back this way, promise me that you'll stop and see us.”

“I will Ma'am. Thanks for everything,” Joe said. He turned to Obadiah and held out his hand. The townsman grabbed it eagerly. When he withdrew his hand, it contained a folded 100-dollar bill. Obadiah started to protest.

“Mistuh Walker, I cain't take this. It's way too much.”

“No suh. It ain’t nearly enough,” Joe said.

Joe went to Brandy and mounted the bay. As he rode out of town, people on the street waved and wished him Godspeed. Oscar Fleming was sweeping up glass from his broken store window. When he saw the black man approaching, he quickly turned and retreated into his establishment.