Those Who Live By The Sword

Those Who Live By the Sword

By

Matt McGuire

“See, I done got me three of a kind and two of a kind and that’s what’s called a full house” said Dogface the Halfman as he stared, steel faced and venomous at Preacher Cash, cocking his big Smith pistol to half under the table and fingering the tip of his well-oiled holster with the tenderness of a Latin Madonna.

“Dogface, you illustrious son of the great whore, who pray tell taught you how to add and subtract? Two plus two may equal five in Bugfuck, but back east we call that highway robbery, unless we’re dealing with a carpetbagger or a cocksucker, and then we call it business as usual. However, you are clearly mistaken seeing that you’re only holding four cards now that that shitbird spring-loaded armband cheater's piece of flim flam fuckery that you bought off some at-the-fort bottled fart salesman went the way of the Comanche and came up craps."

Preacher Cash shuffled another deck with the fingers of his right hand in between puffs of blue gray cigar smoke that rolled out the side of his mouth and on up to the gaslight above the scene, circling the table and drifting off into the void like so much scrub brush.

The other two players seated at the table, a couple of too sober blue coat privates from Kansas shot glances between themselves and back again to the pair of hands holding the still remaining cards on the table, and imagined the potential violence underneath--two bravos preparing to deal death in a game of all-in: El Paso style. The soldier on the left hand side of Dogface chimed in with a proposition for the two antagonists. “Why don’t you boys go out in the street and settle this dispute before someone gets it that ain’t earned it?”

Dogface the Halfman sneered out the side of his mouth, squinting his almond eyes into ever narrower slits, his bald forehead wet with sweat, seething short, consumptive breaths and sucking on the unlit cigar hanging from his lip, half bitten in two and dry with the no-spit tension. Preacher Cash, cool as ever, surveyed his opponent and flicked the brim of his stiff, black wide brimmed parson’s hat once and winked at Dogface in a way that a man more intelligent might take as flirtatious, but the subtlety was lost on him. Dogface took one look at the cool blue stare emanating from Preacher Cash’s eyes and his yellow streak got the better of him. Dogface knew that Preacher Cash had him bested in skill, speed, and guts, but he wasn’t about to lose face there in that one horse shitdive amid a menagerie of the finest riff raff the desert and the town had to offer.

“I got me an idear, Caysh. We’ll play us a little game of six chamber roo-lette, winner take all, includin’ that old painted mare ya got out there and that week o’ whorin’ you done paid fer with Widow Tucker. How’s that strike ya, ya rat faced son of bitch?” sneered Dogface between puffs on his unlit, and now almost shredded cigar.

“I’m your pickle, Dogface. However, I must confer with my associate Ms. Tucker if she is bedding down with the beasts of the field at this juncture. In these latter days it wouldn’t surprise me in the least, but one must needs know the repercussions of such savagery, and have a good stock of mercury on hand for the aftermath. Pray tell, whose instrument will play the sword of justice: your flaccid little Smith already at half mast, or my more comely Colt, white as the driven snow and full of silver tongued solicitude?"

“Damn no never mind noway ya slick son of a bitch. I got medicine from that Pueblo witch out in Raven Neck, and she done told me I won’t die till the rain comes up from the ground and the clock strikes thir-teen times. We’ll use your’n” said Dogface, smiling now with his black assurance that the deck was stacked in his favor.

“An excellent choice, my good sir. One bullet or two?” said Preacher Cash, in deference to his opponent.

“Uh. One’s nuff for hide or hellfire."

“I see we have a minimalist amongst us. I’m quite sure your thrift will be rewarded in due season, young Dogfool. Before we start the proceedings however, I’d like to give thanks to the Most High for all and sundry blessings bestowed upon us this fine day, if you please, as befits a man of my station and calling.”

Without waiting for a response from Dogface, Preacher Cash stood and assumed a solemn pose, removed his hat and began to pray.

“Ohhh Lord, thou bestowest on us the blessings and the curses of the frontier, Thou whose hand is constantly dipped into the till of unremitting grace. Let our tongues and our spirits bear witness to Thy bounteous and unflagging ability to bring low the proud, and exalt the humble. May the Tower of Your righteousness strike fear and loathing into the hearts of all the heathen, and may the loins of all the whores of Gomorrah be barren, whilst the seed of Onan, spilled out upon the earth in abundance and into that cup that runneth over in its entirety, be forever renewed by Your hand. May He who rode upon the ass into Jerusalem save ours from fornication, and idolatry, and the myriad spectacles of mongoloids and Chaldeans, and may sodomy reign in Heaven as it does upon the earth, and the mammon of the Publicans be renewed by your ever present, buggering angels. Amen, and Amen.”

With the benediction complete, Preacher Cash deftly emptied his six chamber Colt into his palm and replaced one, single silver tipped slug into a random chamber, kissing the action as he did so and giving it a spin, the Oriental eyes of Dogface following the spinning chambers around, and around, desperately seeking the result, Preacher Cash whistling a dirge, or hymn, or some slow, Hybernian ballad under his breath and then slamming the wheel home, winking at Dogface again and, without hesitation, placing the barrel against the side of his head, just below his hat brim and squeezing out a hairsplitting, CLICK.

“Ah...the Lord has seen fit for this pilgrim to remain on the narrow path, above the daisies. Your turn, Don Dog Fellatio.”

Dogface gave a loud snort and, glancing back at the big grandfather clock behind a coterie of whoreflesh and stacked feed sacks, he took the pistol from Preacher Cash and, soon as he had placed it to his temple, let out a loud, tobacco mouthed howl and pulled the trigger.

CLICK.

“HA. Done told ya I got's me more medicine than your'n. Have at it again, Caysh.”

Preacher Cash, without faltering, or even hesitating, snatched his Colt from the grimy hand of Dogface and CLICKED it against the side of his head again, just below the brim and near enough to Dogface that the Half Man could see the black irises receded into pin heads in Preacher Cash's eyes.

Dogface only grumbled, though the sweat poured in rivers down his head and his hairy back now, as he once again reluctantly handled silver and slowly, mechanically brought trigger to guard and heard, not his own doom thundered out in hollowpoint, but another resounding, CLICK.

“Well, it seems we have a fortunate son among us, gentlemen. Why, one might even go so far as to say Mr. Half Moon has a guardian angel perched on the shoulder of that filthy duster he's wearing. Now, I'm not one to abrogate the mercies of providence, so before we continue with our spectacle, let us taste the finality of this fine demi-john and clear the palate for the final course.”

As Preacher Cash raised the earthen vessel containing the dregs of a gallon of whiskey to his lips, Dogface, who was not only shaking, but under the influence of mortal terror, lashed out in demoniac utterance and demanded that Preacher Cash put that goddamned bottle down and blow his own damn head off so's all and sundry could get back to their rightful games and divergences.

Preacher Cash bowed his head and did what any man would have thought was a curtsy and placed the barrel against his head for the final, inexorable result, which was the final, resounding CLICK, at which he spun like a dervish, whipping his black parson's hat into the air in a flurry of praise and exultation, bowing low, without his eyes ever leaving Dogface's, and then handing back the promise of the Half-Man's doom as a groom might approach to pin a corsage upon his dumbfounded, and grief-stricken mother-in-law's breast.

Dogface now became shifty in his boots and beadier of eye as he took the Colt from Preacher Cash and stared at the pearl and silver pistol with all the calumny of a recidivist stock diddler.

All eyes in the room and half as many sidearms at the ready awaited the death of Dogface. In a final gesture of magnanimity, Preacher Cash offered to speed the Half-Man's carcass past purgatory with a gift of his own, hard gambled winnings, in the Half-Man's name, towards the rehabilitation of all and sundry ladies of leisure residing, “here or in the surrounding hamlets.”

Dogface looked long at the Colt, and seeing no means of escape available to him other than through the swinging doors in a pine box, he placed the death dealer to his temple in final resignation and pulled the trigger.

--------------------------

A lone pilgrim rode west bent in the moonlight, his parson's hat cocked to the side and two black wings unfurled behind him, an ancient scroll tucked under his saddle with the innumerable names of those who lived by the sword penned upon it in red ink.

A coyote howled in the distance, and the angel said, “Giddy up” as he tugged along a phantasmal chain of dead souls shackled in a line back beyond the horizon, a witch and a half man bringing up the rear.