The Rattlesnake by Bob Klement

It was a mirage at first, like countless others before it, and Porter began wondering if Ned had given him a bum steer. “Follow the Pecos River to a butte called Satan’s Tepee,” Ned told him. “Over the next ridge is the town of Hadahonia. Three days’ ride. That’s where you’ll find him.”

“Three days… in the desert?” Porter asked.

“Where else would a rattlesnake live?”

The Rattlesnake. His name was everywhere. Every town Porter rode to, every place a fast gun called home, it was always the same story: “Not here,” they told him, “went to find the Rattlesnake.” No one ever came back.

Santa Fe was no different. He’d come to challenge Dangerous Dan, but Dan was long gone, just like all the others. That’s when he met Ned. 

Porter’s thoughts of shooting Ned faded as Satan’s Tepee shimmered into reality. “Looks like you get to live, ol’ Santa Fe,” he muttered. “That’s more than I can say for the Rattlesnake.”

Hadahoia was quiet, not the usual place a fast gun would call home. Porter didn’t mind; he wasn’t planning on staying long. No one comes back, huh? Porter thought as he rode into town. That changes today.

The saloon was the obvious place to look. Gunfighters know two things: drinking and shooting, usually in that order. Pushing through the swinging doors, he cased the room, empty save for the barkeep and a weathered cowboy dozing in the corner.

“Whaddaya have?” asked the barkeep.

Porter walked to the rail, eyes still searching. “Water.”

“Don’t get much call for that in here,” the barkeep chuckled. He reached below the counter and filled a glass from an unseen pitcher. “It ain’t cold, but it’s wet.”

“That’s the important part.” Porter drained it in two gulps, setting the empty glass on the counter.

“Something else?” asked the barkeep.

Porter nodded. “I hear there’s a guy down here supposed to be the fastest—”

“Hey, Earl!” the barkeep shouted. Earl!”

The cowboy opened his eyes, annoyed. “What is it, Frank?”

“This fella’s looking for the Rattlesnake.” Frank returned Porter’s suspicious gaze with a simple explanation: “You ain’t the first one to come here asking about him.”

Earl stretched and shuffled to the bar. Yawning, he inspected the gunfighter. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Name’s Porter.”

“Porter. Porter. Nope, don’t think I heard of you. Frank, you ever hear the name Porter?”

“Can’t say I have,” said Frank. 

“Well, there you have it. Can’t all be famous.” Earl lifted the shot glass Frank set before him and threw back a whisky. “Where’s Sam at?” he asked, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

“Should be down at the church,” Frank answered.

“Right then.” Earl headed for the swinging doors, turning to Porter before pushing through. “You coming?”

Porter looked to Frank, who nodded approval. Checking his guns, he followed Earl outside.

“Who’s Sam?” Porter asked.

“Good question. Sam is… well, best I can put it, Sam’s the man you see when you got something needs taking care of. Came here about a year ago, don’t rightly know from where. Some say he was living in the desert with the natives, learning their ways. They call him ‘Chidn Tl’iish’. Knows a little something about everything: building stuff, fixing stuff. He even knew how to get the church a brand new bell. Hell, he probably helped build half this town, but most important for you – Sam knows where the Rattlesnake is. He’ll fix you up.”

The church was the last building in town. Behind it was a small shack, with various tools visible through the open door. A white rail fence stretched out next to it, marking the boundary of a cemetery. Older graves had weathered headstones, while simple wooden crosses indicated newer burials. In the center of the cemetery, a man was digging another grave when Earl and Porter arrived.

“Sam,” Earl said, stopping at the fence.

The man turned. “What?”

“Need to talk to ya.”

“Little busy at the moment.”

“It’s important.”

“Give me a second.” Sam threw his shovel from the hole, climbed out and walked over to the fence. “What is it, Earl?”

“This here’s Porter,” Earl said, cocking his head in the gunfighter’s direction. “He’s looking for the Rattlesnake.”

Sam eyed Porter. “And why would you do a fool thing like that?”

“I hear he’s the best,” Porter said, “I’m here to show him he ain’t.”

“Fastest gun, huh? Not really something to brag about: being the fastest to kill somebody.”

“Not brag if you can do it. Once I kill me this Rattlesnake, I’ll be famous.”

“That comes with a price, y’know. Always watching your back, endless parade of guns at your door.” 

“Let ‘em come.”

Sam shook his head. “Well, if that’s how you feel… gimme a second.” He walked into the tool shed and came back out wearing a large black hat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Porter didn’t understand. “Take me to the Rattlesnake. That fella there told me you know where the Rattlesnake is.” Porter turned to Earl. “You said he’d show me the Rattlesnake.”

“He has,” Earl replied. 

It took a while for Porter to make the connection. “What, him?” he said, turning back to Sam. “Dirty hole-digger’s the Rattlesnake?”

Sam smiled apologetically.

Porter stared at both of them. “This a joke, that’s what this is. You don’t know no Rattlesnake.” When he realized they were serious, his anger boiled over. “Damn! All that talk, just trying to make me lose my nerve. I ain’t scared of you! Try me if you think I’ve lost my nerve. He tensed, ready for the fight. 

“You draw on me now, you’ll win,” Sam said.

“Got that right. I’m the fastest gun there is.”

“You’re the only gun.” Sam motioned to his waist. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt. 

Porter relaxed. “What the hell kind of gunfighter doesn’t wear his gun?”

Sam ignored him. “Earl, go into the shed and get me the rig with the silver pistol, and grab some empties while you’re in there.”

Earl hurried to the shed, emerging a few moments later with the pistol and the bottles. He handed the rig to Sam.

“Thank you, Earl. Set those bottles on the top rail while I talk to Mr Fastest Gun here.”

Porter stared at Sam’s gun. He’d never seen it before, but he knew all about it. Every gunfighter did. Polished silver with a chamber that held two extra rounds, a bone handle with a large letter D etched into it. Not a mark or blemish on it.

“Dangerous Dan,” Porter said.

“Yup,” Sam said. “Wouldn’t let anybody touch it; said the only way was to pry it from his dead hand. Wasn’t lying, we had a hell of a time getting it out. Anyway, here’s the thing: the only way you get to call yourself the fastest gun is to beat me in a fair fight—that’s the only way—and right now… well… it’s not a fair fight.”

“What are you on about?” Porter said. 

“See, you just got here after a long ride. Maybe you’re a little tired, maybe a little rusty, maybe a bit of both. Plus, you got all that anger and meanness in you against me. Makes you twitchy, ornery. Whereas me, I hate killing a man who doesn’t really know what he’s got himself into. Makes me sad, makes me not want to do what I’ve got to do, and that small hesitation is the difference between living and dying.”

“That’s your problem.”

“All ready, Sam,” said Earl, back from the fence. Six empty bottles lined the top rail.

“That’s fine, Earl, just fine. Why don’t you head on up,” Sam said. Earl departed for the church bell tower.

“Where’s he going?” Porter asked.

“Where was I?” Sam said. “Oh, right. So, like I said, I hate killing a man who doesn’t know the whole story, but I got a fix for it. You and me are gonna shoot them bottles.”

“Shoot the bottles?”

“Yeah. Now I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out. First, we draw against the bottles. That way, you get a little loose, shake the dirt off and see what you’re up against. More importantly, I’ll know you know what you’re up against. Then–when we’re all squared away–we’ll make our play.”

“I didn’t ride three days through that god-forsaken desert to shoot at some damn bottles.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“I ain’t doing it.”

“Fine, but no bottles–no gunfight.”    

Porter drew his pistol, pointing it right between Sam’s eyes. “Maybe I’ll just shoot you here and now.”

“That you could, but are you prepared to spend the rest of your life not knowing if you were the fastest? Ambushing a man out of fear he was better than you? Hell, I’d rather die in a gunfight than spend the rest of my days with that kicking around in my head. Besides, once the Marshals in these parts learn what you did, well… let’s just say they don’t take kindly to killing someone in cold blood. Nope, there’s only one way round it all.”

Porter was left with no other choice. “Okay,” he relented. 

“Fine, now let’s you and me line up over here facing the fence. We’ll go about as far as we’d be facing each other. This about how far we’d be?”

“Seems about right.”

“Okay, we got the bottles in front, church behind us. Let’s see if Earl’s got to the top yet.” Sam turned and looked to the top of the bell tower. “Earl, you up there?”

Earl’s head poked out from the bell tower. He waved. Porter waved back.

“You got the hammer?” Sam asked.

Earl showed the hammer in his hand. 

“Alright. Give that bell a tap.” 

Earl struck the church bell with the hammer. A deep, pure tone rang out over the town. 

Sam smiled. “Pretty sound, isn’t it? Got that bell a few months ago, all the way from St. Louis. So now you and me get ready, and when we’re set, Earl’s gonna tap that church bell again. When you hear that sound, you shoot the last bottle on the right. I’ll go for the one on the left, and we’ll see where we are.”

Porter hesitated. “I don’t know about this.”

“You’ll be fine. Let’s get ready.” 

Porter squared himself to the fence, bracing for action. He was a spring ready to uncoil. “Ready,” he said, looking back at the bell tower.

Sam sighed. “Ready for what? You planning on shooting Earl?”

“You said draw when I hear the bell.”

“Hear the bell. Hear. How’re you gonna hit that bottle without looking at it? Gunfighters don’t live long not looking what they’re shooting at. Now concentrate on that bottle.”

Porter set himself again. “Right.”

“Okay, Earl,” Sam said, steadying himself. “Anytime you’re ready.”

Porter felt an eternity pass in a few seconds, then the deep tone of the bell filled the air. His hand flew to his side. He was just lifting his gun when Sam’s bottle exploded. Porter froze in shock.

Sam recognized the look on Porter’s face. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Long ride, first time out. Everybody does better the second time.” He ejected the spent cartridge and loaded another bullet into his gun. “Ready?”

Shaken, Porter prepared for round two. “Okay,” he said. 

“Going again, Earl,” Sam called. 

This time, Porter’s gun cleared the holster when Sam’s bottle shattered. It was impossible; no one could be that fast, but the broken glass on the ground said otherwise. That’s when it hit Porter: all the stories–it wasn’t brag he was hearing, it was fear of the Rattlesnake, the same fear now tightening his chest. Unsure what to do, Sam’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Your gun’s too heavy.”

Porter heard the words, but they made no sense.

Sam shook his head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, seeing as how you come down here just to kill me, but your gun’s too heavy”. He walked over to Porter, opened the cylinder of his own gun and showed it to him. Only one round was loaded. He removed the spent shell and tossed it to the ground. His eyes fixed on Porter’s gun, telling him to do the same.

Porter raised his gun and opened it, showing Sam the fully loaded cylinder.

“There’s your problem,” Sam said. 

“Bullets are my problem?”

“How’d you live so long? When you’re playing a game measured in heartbeats, you get rid of anything that slows you down. Doesn’t take a genius to know that five bullets weigh more than one, and if you’re as good as you think you are, one’s all you need.”

“You guys done?” Earl’s voice rang down from the bell tower.

“Almost,” Sam yelled back. He returned his attention to Porter. “Empty out your gun, get those rounds out. Feel the difference? Amazing how much lighter it gets. Now load a bullet—not one from the ground, they got dirt on ‘em! Now find your best chamber. Every gun’s got one chamber that fits better, fires quicker. That’s the one you want.”

Porter examined his gun, and to his surprise, there was a chamber that seemed to load easier. He slid the bullet in and snapped the chamber closed. So that was it. The Rattlesnake wasn’t some unbeatable legend; he just knew more tricks. Confidence returning, Porter took his place next to Sam. “Let’s do this,” he said.

Sam loaded another round and returned to his spot. “One more time, Earl,” he called.

The deep tone of the church bell hadn’t made it past the cemetery when Porter’s bottle exploded. “I did it!” he crowed. “I beat the Rattlesnake.” 

“You did,” Sam said, aiming his gun at Porter, “but only because I didn’t draw.”

***

“Is he dead?” Earl asked.

Sam studied the gunfighter on the ground, then unleashed an angry tirade at the top of the bell tower. “Dammit, Frank, you damn near killed me with that second shot. Felt it part my hair!”

Frank stood up in the bell tower, rifle in hand. “Don’t yell at me. What did I tell you about standing right in front of the bottles?”

“I wasn’t in front!”

“Were to! I shoulda let him beat you, maybe then you’d learn where to stand.”

“You couldn’t move a little to the left?”

“You think it’s so easy, why don’t you come up here and I’ll play the Rattlesnake. Damn bell’s giving me a headache.”

“You know I can’t shoot worth a lick. Fine. I’ll move over more. Earl, what’s the bounty on this guy?”

Earl dug into his back pocket and took out a folded paper. “$250,” he shouted.

“Almost enough to cover the saloon tab,” Frank joked. 

Sam removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Frank, go back into town and send a Western Union up to Ned in Santa Fe. I’ll ready Porter here while Earl finishes digging the hole.”   

“Why do I gotta finish the hole?” Earl protested.

“Because I just realized the reason Frank almost shot me is that you set the bottles up on the wrong damn section of fence again!”

“You said fifth section after the gate. Look at where them bottles is stacked: one-two-three… fine, I’m coming down.”

“What do you want me to tell Ned?” Frank asked

“That stagecoach driver yesterday,” Sam said, “said there’s a guy in Arizona causing all kinds of trouble. Tell Ned he’s got a story to tell in Tucson.”