The Coward of Cochise County

This is another short story from a writing class a long time ago. This doesn't have sex in it either. My thanks to JohnnyGalt for editing.

The Coward of Cochise County

When I was young, ordering a sarsaparilla is the saloon could result in a life or death confrontation. Fortunately, my father was a wise man who knew when to fight and when to walk away. That was something I had yet to learn and it caused me to doubt him for the first and last time in my life.

Frank, as he was known to most of the townsfolk, although his name was Franklin, after Ben Franklin, the patriot and inventor. He had the same sandy colored hair he'd bequeathed to me, and penetrating blue eyes, unlike the brown ones I got from Ma. He was six feet or so, but seemed shorter because his shoulders were so wide. His hands were calloused from the steady diet of toil common to a small farm, but still flexible enough to pull two bits from behind my ear occasionally.

He was 43, marrying Ma rather late in life. Ma was nine years younger and Pa always told me he married better than he deserved. I know Ma was from a prominent Virginia family, and they apparently disowned her when she married Pa. That never seemed to bother her, and she was a happy woman. Neither she nor Pa ever talked his life before he met her, although I could tell he never started out as a farmer. I guessed he'd done some trail driving at one point. He knew his way around horses and cattle like he was born to it, though we had few of either on our small spread.

He gave our shopping list to the proprietor of the general store and told him we'd be back to pick up our purchases later. The proprietor was happy to oblige because Pa had just sold a couple of horses, so that meant a little cash money on the account.

"Tommy," he said, "how'd you like to go to the saloon and have a sarsaparilla?"

I knew money was tight. It was always tight for us, so I expected he was teasing me. Instead of the usual smile, he was earnest.

"Sure, Pa. If you think we can spare the money."

"Well, that's a good question, and I'm glad you thought to ask it, because it shows you're getting serious about growing up and the responsibilities of being a man. But I've thought a lot about this, and you've worked hard lately, and sometimes, you have to recognize hard work by cuttin' loose a little. I know your Ma wouldn't begrudge the money for her two men to celebrate when it's called for."

I had yet to turn thirteen, so Pa calling me a man made the buttons on my shirt nearly pop with pride as I stuck out my chest. Walking to the saloon, I had to take nearly two steps for every one of his, because he was a big man used to moving fast to get things done. He didn't slow down much, not even for me, but I was so proud he thought me a man, I didn't mind halfway running to keep up.

He let me push through the bat-wing doors of the saloon, him stepping in right after. I went straight to the bar and ordered.

"I'd like a sarsaparilla," I said.

"Don't forget your manners, just because you're in a saloon. It's no reason to be rude," Pa said.

"Please," I added.

"What will you have, Frank?" the barkeep asked.

"Why I believe I'll have the same, thank you," Pa replied. "Tom and I are cuttin' loose today. All that hard work a man has to do, just naturally leads to a big thirst."

Pa put his arm around me while the bartender poured our drinks and set them in front of us. I took a small sip and felt the cool, refreshing stuff slide down my throat, past all the dust that built up on our ride to town. I felt mighty important drinking shoulder to shoulder, well, more like shoulder to elbow with him. He turned and faced the remainder of the room, resting his elbows on the bar with a kind of careless abandon I only wished I could emulate. Hoping to make it last, I took another small sip of my drink. We rarely treated ourselves to this kind of extravagance.

"Sarsaparilla! Is that what you sodbusters drink now?"

Pa turned his head and watched the cowboy swagger up to him. He was full of himself; you could see that right off. He had on a black vest with big, Mexican silver conchos on each side, about heart high, striped whipcord breeches, and a red and white checkered shirt. A black Stetson with a band of smaller conchos crowned his head, and around his waist was a black gunbelt, worn low and tied down. His dark hair was slicked back with pomade, and he smelled of bay rum, like he'd just come from the barbershop.

He swayed a little when he walked, hardly noticeable, and he smelled of liquor, so maybe a couple drinks behind his belt.

"That's what we're drinking today," Pa said. "It tastes mighty good after walking behind a plow for a few days. You're welcome to join us for one if you like."

"Hell no, I wouldn't like!" He replied heatedly. "I only drink whiskey. I don't drink no sissy drinks."

"In that case, I'd be happy to buy you a whiskey," Pa said. He turned to the bartender. "A whiskey for the gentleman please, Jack, and pour one for me too. I'll drink with him to be sociable."

Jack poured the drinks and set them on the bar. "Here you are, Frank."

Pa picked up his drink and held it in the air.

"A toast to cowhands everywhere. May God protect them from stampedes, rattlers and such."

He drained the glass and set it down. The cowhand eyed the other glass. Everyone could see that.

"I don't drink with sodbusters," is what he said.

We all knew what this was about now. He wanted a fight; wanted it even more than the whiskey sitting on the bar, drawing his eyes to it like a magnet.

"Curly," Jack said, "for God's sake. The man's got his boy with him. Don't do this now."

Curly got a little red in the face. I think he was genuinely embarrassed by the situation he now found himself in, but whether it was the liquor or a natural lack of his own good sense, he refused to back down now.

"You heard me, sodbuster. I don't drink with you or any of your kind. You should have been driven off when you first showed up in this country. Since nobody did it then, I'm doing it now."

I watched Pa. His jaw clenched the way it always did when something stood in his way. I witnessed it when this big, old stump resisted his best efforts at yanking it out of the ground. Instead of leaving it, he got his axe and he chomped on that thing all afternoon and half of the night. Ma kept trying to get him to come in and work on it the next morning, but Pa wouldn't leave off until it was out of the ground. Ma ended up holding the lantern so he could see it after dark.

Me, I figured he was going to pop that cowhand right in the nose. I think most of the folks in the saloon felt the same way. It got real quiet. Then, I could see his hands uncurl.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Pa said. "Guess I'll have to finish this myself."

Pa turned and picked up the glass and raised it to drink. Curly slapped his hand, splashing the drink all over Pa's face. There was a nervous laugh from one of the tables, and I think Curly realized he might be in for a peck of trouble. Pa was a half head taller, seemed twice as wide, rock hardened by 16-hour days of hard toil behind a plow or axe. Curly lowered his hand towards his gun.

"He's got no gun, Curly," Jack warned. "Don't shoot him in cold blood. It'd be murder. Harry, run get the sheriff quick, before this gets out of hand."

Harry, standing by the doors, didn't move.

"Get the sheriff now, Harry!" Jack said.

"I don't want to miss this," Harry replied.

"There's nothing to miss," Pa said, wiping the whiskey from his face with his sleeves. "I've got no quarrel with this man."

I couldn't believe it. He had every reason to pound Curly to a bloody pulp, and not a man in that saloon would have said two peeps. Apparently, Curly had a hard time believing it also. His hand stayed close to his gun.

There was a collective exhalation from everyone in the room, and some of the men looked at Pa with something like pity in their eyes. Or maybe, it was disgust. Any man who wouldn't stand up for himself with that kind of provocation, was a coward. And that's exactly the way I felt.

I never had a reason to doubt Pa before, but I was starting to wonder why he never wore that gun in the worn, brown leather holster he kept under the bed. He cleaned it some nights when I went to bed. I could look down from my cot in the loft and see him take it out and oil it, but I never saw him wear it or use it. I didn't even know if it would fire.

The longer nothing happened, the braver Curly got.

"It looks like we got ourselves a yellow belly as well as a sodbuster here." He looked at me, standing helplessly at the bar. "How's it feel to have a coward for a father?"

"Pa?" I said, praying he would stand up to this peacock.

"The man's entitled to his opinion, son. It's just his opinion, and doesn't mean nothing."

He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on Curly.

"Maybe it's my guns, sodbuster," Curly said. "Maybe I should take them off so you won't be so afeared."

"It's not the guns, Curly. I simply have no quarrel with you, and refuse to get into a fight with a man I have no quarrel with. You're rude, and you're drunk. I guess I can excuse the one for the other."

Even Jack turned away in disgust. He could not see standing up for a man who refused to stand up for himself. He went down the bar and began wiping glasses. I ran from the saloon, wanting to cry, but left the tears unshed. If I cried, there wouldn't be a man in my family.

He said something more to Curly which I missed, running from the bar. Pa came after me, calling my name, but I kept running until I reached the buckboard. When Pa got there, he went inside to pay for the supplies, already loaded on the wagon. After finishing his business, he climbed on and headed for home.

The day started out so well. Pa treated me like a man for the first time, and I was so happy. Now, the whole town knew he was a coward and I was unsure if I wanted to be his son.

He kept glancing at me and I refused to look at him or say anything.

"Do you want to talk about it, son?"

I stayed silent.

"You have to talk to me sometime.," he said. "Why don't you talk about it now?"

"Why didn't you fight him, Pa? Everyone in town thinks you're yellow now. You were bigger than him. You could have whupped him."

"Probably could, drunk as he was. The man could barely stand, though he hid it well. He stood better than most with that much liquor in him. I could smell it from five feet away."

"Then why back down from him, Pa?"

"There's no honor in whipping a drunk, son. The liquor was doin' all his talking'. Any man in that saloon could beat him in that condition. If he were sober, he never would have pushed me. Why beat a man for drinking? How does that make me a better man?"

"All the men in that saloon think you're a coward, Pa. Don't you care about what folks think?"

He paused before answering.

"Son, this is kind of hard to explain. People are going to form impressions of you all your life, some good, some bad, some true, some false. If you spend all your time trying to live for people's impressions, you'll never live for yourself."

He clicked his tongue and gave the reins a shake. The horse picked up his gait for a few paces, then dropped down to his usual plodding walk.

"Some of those people in the saloon may think I'm a coward. I believe the ones who know me best, know that ain't so. But even if they all did, what's important is what I think of myself. A man can't live his life for other people, only his family. He's got to do the best he can by them. Love and care for his wife. Show his kids right from wrong; those are the important things in life, not beating up stupid drunks in saloons." He looked down at, bouncing on the seat beside him. "Does any of this make sense to you?"

"I dunno."

My eyes stayed on the road in front of us. I wanted to believe in him. But all I could think of was Jack, turning away and walking down the bar in disgust.

Pa said nothing more. He'd said his piece and left me alone with my thoughts, giving me time to think things through for myself.

Ma noticed that I kept to myself the next week, speaking to Pa only when spoken to, and only with the briefest of responses. She talked to Pa, glancing at me, but he shook his head.

I heard him tell her, "Let him work it out for himself. He's a man now. He has to make up his own mind."

She left me alone, respecting Pa's wishes, but I could see her shake her head every time she saw me avoiding him.

One day, I went outside when she was hanging clothes on the line. I sat on the chopping block, watching her. She was fast, five or six pins in her mouth, her brown hair shot through with streaks of gray. The front of her dress was damp from wet clothes blowing against the front. She finished hanging one of Pa's shirts on the line.

"Would you like to help me?" Ma asked.

Normally, the thought of doing women's work would have upset me, but since I wasn't talking to Pa much, talking to anyone would be good, and hanging clothes was an excuse.

"Sure."

I picked up an armful of things from the basket, and she hung them up, neat and precise, just the way she kept the house.

"I'm baking an apple pie for dessert tonight," she said. "I thought we needed a change tonight. What do you think?"

"Sounds good."

I still didn't open up, even though she knew I wanted to.

"Do you want to talk about it? The thing between you and your Pa?"

I did, but I was unsure if she could help me, being a woman and all. Backing down to another man that way. How could she understand? Women didn't fight much as far as I'd ever seen.

"Did he tell you about it?" Did he tell you he was a coward and refused to fight a man who'd given him plenty of provocation. I didn't say that last part, even though I thought it.

"We talked about it after you were in bed that night, yes," she replied.

"A lot of the men around town think Pa is a coward now."

"I suppose some men might think so," she agreed.

"Does that bother you?"

"It does a little. Not that your Pa is a coward, as I know he isn't, but that some people who should know better, might think so," she said. "Your father is a good, hard working, man who's always treated me like a lady." She smiled, lost in thought a moment. "He's one of the best...No, he is the best man I ever knew. To think that some men might think less of your father because he refused to beat up a drunk, does bother me, but I hold them that think it, more responsible than I hold your Pa. It's a mighty shallow way of thinking, to my mind. What's that to hold against the goodness and honesty they see in him every day? He's helped more of them out than he's ever gotten in return, 'cause he's a strong man who doesn't need much in the way of help, the way others do."

"I know he's a good man, Ma, but do you think he's a coward."

"His past is filled with violence, and he promised me he'd mend his ways if I married him. He's kept his promise to me, and quit seeking out trouble. He's a lot gentler than he was, and means harm to no man. But he can be steel if he needs to be. Your Pa has always done what needs to be done, when it needed doing. If it's there to do, he'll do it, no matter how hard the doing gets. He'll find a way where other men fail. Does that sound like a coward to you?"

"I don't know, Ma. I just don't know. The bartender looked at Pa like he was some kind of skunk, and couldn't wait to put as much of the bar between them if he could. Why doesn't he care what other people think of him?"

"I won't say he doesn't care, son. But he cares more about what you think, than all the rest of the world put together. Maybe you should worry about that more than what the townsfolk think."

She tousled my hair, just like she used to do when I was younger. She hadn't done it for some time because she knew I thought I was too grown up to like it, but somehow it seemed right this time.

"Wash up. It's time for supper."

Ma picked up the empty wash basket and walked to the house.

******

Things kind of went back to normal after that. The easiness between Pa and I wasn't there yet, but at least I stopped trying to avoid him, and I could look him in the eye again.

About four months later, the bank was robbed while Ma and I were withdrawing money for seed for planting season. It was scary to go through and I realized I wasn't as grown as I thought I was, but it convinced me that Pa was not, and never had been a coward.

We were the only ones in the bank when three men came in. I recognized one as Curly, the man Pa refused to fight. A tall skinny one with a scraggly beard and drooping mustache led the way through the door, pushing past us at the window, pulling his gun, cocking it, and aiming at the teller.

"We're here for the money; all of it," he said. "You know what to do, so do it quick. Curly you watch the door."

I grabbed hold of Ma's arm like I intended strangling it. Curly pulled the shades and stood by the door, looking out. The third man, called Hack by the others, pushed us into a corner where he could keep a closer eye on us. He had dirty blonde hair hanging below his collar, and his gun out, and halfway pointed at us. The two fellers were rough and dirty looking, as if they'd just come off the trail. Curly was still dressed pretty sharp, but his clothes looked the worse for wear, stained and dustier than when he braced Pa in the saloon.

I learned later that he was fired after he got drunk and picked the fight with Pa. His segundo had no patience for a man who picked fights in saloons. It seemed no one else would hire him either, and times were tough the last few months, so he fell in with the other two.

The teller was putting money in the sack the tall fellow handed him.

"Hurry. It ain't healthy to keep me waiting."

"I'm moving as fast as I can, Mister. Don't shoot me."

He was too. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone move faster. He finished dumping the money from the drawer into the sack and handed it back.

"The money from the safe, too."

"I don't have the combination to the safe," the clerk replied. "Only Mr. Thomas has the number, and he went to lunch."

"Damn it, Curly!" the robber exclaimed, "You said there was going to be big money here."

"There is, Rafferty. It's in the safe. I didn't know Mr. Thomas was the only one with the number. Can't you blow the safe?"

"That takes time. Time we don't have right now."

He had less time than he realized. I pieced together a lot of what happened next from the accounts of a lot of other folks when all was said and done.

Mr. Thomas saw the shades drawn and Curly lurking in the doorway when he was returning from lunch. He made the immediate assumption that something was wrong, and went straight to Sheriff Wayman and told him the bank was being robbed. The Sheriff assessed the situation and sent Mr. Thomas to the General Store, and his deputy to the saloon to get more men. By the time the thieves realized there was no more money to be had, several heavily armed men were waiting outside the bank.

Hack was the first one out the door. He got a couple feet out the door when several shots rang out, hitting Hack in his left arm. He spun back into the bank, cursing up a storm, and shooting four or five shots to get everyone outside diving for cover. Curly broke the bank window and took a couple shots of his own at some men across the street.

The Sheriff was furious.

"I told you to hold your fire until they were all out of the bank! You men inside, you might as well give yourselves up. The bank is surrounded and you're not getting out unless it's in a pine box or you surrender. Which is it going to be?"

There was silence for a few seconds as Rafferty considered the situation. He looked at us and I could see his tobacco-stained teeth when he broke into an evil grin. Ma had her arm around me, and Rafferty yanked her arm off me and dragged her close to the window. I started to follow, but Hack motioned me back in the corner, warning me to stay put. The men outside could see Ma's outline in the window.