Train bound for Pawnee Flats, Kansas

July 31, 1890

The Doctor’s words kept drumming through his brain. It was keeping time with the clackety-clack of the wheels on the train taking him home.

“I’m sorry, Deke, there’s no better way to put it,” the Doctor had said.

It was a hard fact to accept. Deke Wiley had never lost at anything. For the 39 years he’d roamed the planet he’d reached legendary status as a pistoleer.

He’d outdrew his first man at the age of 15 in a Kansas Cowtown after a long drive. He’d grown in more ways than one on that drive. Try as he could, he couldn’t remember the name of his first kill.

Nor could he remember the names of the 34 that had followed in the 24 years he’d roamed from place to place selling his gun to the highest bidder. But all 35 visited him nightly in his dreams. He longed for just one night of peaceful rest.

About five years ago, Wiley had decided to retire. He’d saved a little money so he plunked it down on a small spread and was raising horses to sell to the army.

He’d landed in Pawnee Flats, Kansas where the law was John S. “Shotgun” Harker. He and Harker had both been deputies for Bat Masterson in their early 20s and they had a mutual respect for each other. Harker didn’t exactly welcome him with open arms. He’d made it clear he wouldn’t put up with any gunfighting in his town.

Wiley had given his word he wouldn’t start any while he was in town. However, Wiley balked at giving his gun up while in town. They came to a compromise.

Then six months ago he noticed his appetite was gone and he started coughing up blood. He’d always been a big man, standing one inch over six foot and weighing about 215, with not much fat on his frame.

Hence the train ride to Chicago.

The train pulled in to the station right on schedule. Wiley looked out the window and saw Harker waiting on the platform. He gathered his valise and disembarked the train.

“Howdy, John S.,” Wiley greeted his friend.

“Howdy, Deke, welcome home,” Harker replied.

“How’d you know I’d be on this train?”

“I didn’t, but all my deputies were busy and the law needs to meet the train in case any hardcases show up,” Harker replied.

“I reckon it must be a slow day in town when you’re here to greet the train,” Wiley said.

“I reckon, Deke there’s a young squirt in town wearing two guns looking for you.”

“Really, looking for me?”

“Yup and he’s looking to make his reputation by sending you to Boot Hill.”

“I don’t have time for that nonsense, I just want to get a beer to cut the dust then head on home.”

“Deke, this kid is serious and I don’t want any trouble in town.”

“John S., I’m just a law-abiding citizen that wants a beer and to be left alone.”

“Awright, Deke, go have your beer.”

“Care to join?”

“Naw I’m going over to the office and check wanted posters.”

Wiley walked through the station and headed across the dusty street to the Conestoga Palace. It hadn’t rained for two weeks and Wiley kicked up puffs of dust as he walked.

He stopped at the bat wings before he entered. Looking over the top and surveying the room for any potential problems. This small gesture had kept him alive for almost four decades.

Seeing no threats, he entered the saloon. The smell of unwashed bodies, snakehead whiskey, and tobacco assaulted his nose.

At the back table, four cowboys were trading their earnings in a friendly card game. Charlotte Bell, the owner, was dealing to make sure the game stayed friendly. She gave a small wave to Wiley.

Wiley smiled and doffed his hat in her direction. He stepped to the bar and ordered a schooner of beer from Tom, the bartender.

He almost got a drink of his beer, when he felt a tugging at his elbow. He turned to see what was more important than his drink. What he saw made him bust out in a loud guffaw.

There in front of him was a nice-looking kid of about five feet four inches dressed head to toe in black with a frilly white shirt like gamblers wear. What wasn’t funny were the two Colt .45s hanging around his waist.

Choking back another laugh, Wiley asked, “What can I do for you son?”

“I ain’t your son, old man,” the kid said.

“Are you sure, I’ve been all over the west in my day, though lately I stick close to home,” Wiley said.

The kid’s cheeks flushed with anger at that remark.

“Are you talkin’ bad about my ma?”

“Nope, just making an observation. If I can’t call you son, what do you want me to call you?"

“I’m the Puma Creek Kid, and here to call you out.”

“Why?”

“You killed 35 men and if I kill you, I’ll be top dog.”

“And that means something to you?”

“It sure does, I want a reputation.”

“Well, kid I’m going to drink this here beer and I’ll be glad to buy you one.”

“Old man, you got cotton in yore ears? I don’t want yore beer I want to kill you,” the kid seethed.

“I’ll tell you what, you go out in the street and wait while I finish this beer and I’ll be out directly.”

“Don’t make me wait too long, old man, or I’ll come in here and drag your carcass out,” the kid said.

At that, he turned on his heel and crashed through the batwings. Deke turned back to the bar picked up his beer and sipped.

“You want me to fetch Harker,” Tom asked.

“Nope.”

 “But what about your deal with Harker?”

“It’ll be fine, Tom.”

Wiley savored the beer as if it was the last one on earth. A lot of things ran threw his mind as he drank, but it kept coming back to one. It made him think and feel uneasy.

“Tom, do you have some paper and a pencil?”

Tom rummaged behind the bar until he found what Wiley had asked for.

“Here you go, Deke.”

“Much obliged, Tom.”

Wiley grabbed his beer and the writing tools and moved to an unoccupied table and started laboring over the paper. He finally finished what he was writing. He made a point of folding it, finished his beer, then strode to the bar.

“Tom, could you give this to John S. if things don’t go my way?”

“Deke, you don’t have to do this.”

“No, it will turn out fine.”

Wiley turned and took a breath then walked out into the sunlight.

“I thought you was knittin’ a lap blanket in there, old man,” the kid jeered.

Wiley stepped off into the street. And started to go into his regular gunfight ritual. It was the same every time. It seemed the world went into slow motion. He could feel the warm sun on his face, heard the horses at the hitching rail stamp their feet, and saw the kid was ready in the street.

He stepped into the dust and walked ten paces turned and faced the kid. He saw the kid was nervous.

“Not too late to call this off, c’mon inside and I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I don’t want your beer, I want your reputation,” the kid said.

“You should be careful what you wish for.”

Wiley swept his jacket away from his holstered Colt Peacemaker. The kid did the same. Wiley flicked the thong holding his hammer down off. Then settled in like he had 35 times prior.

“I want you to know, I’m going to kill you without firing a shot,” Wiley said.

This drew a snort of disdain from the kid. Wiley saw the kid’s eyes narrow when he made his play and went for his gun.

The kid’s fast, he thought.

The kid’s first shot went wide. Wiley hadn’t started to draw when it felt like a sledge hammer hit him in the chest.

Wiley went down flat on his back. He was laying spread-eagled when the kid walked up on him.

“Kill me without firing a shot! Hell, you didn’t even draw old man,” he crowed.

But Wiley didn’t hear him, his eyes were open and he wasn’t seeing anything. Harker ran across the street wielding a sawed-off double-barreled 10 gauge.

“You’re under arrest son, hand over the hoglegs,” Harker said.

“But it was a fair fight,” the kid protested.

“Not hardly.”

Harker bent over and took Wiley’s pistol out of the holster. He opened the loading gate and spun the cylinder to show the kid Wiley’s Colt was empty.

“You just shot an unarmed man, you’ll hang for this,” Harker said.

Oh Lord have mercy, he is killing me without firing a shot, the kid thought.

Epilogue

Harker stood at the stonecutters shop and handed him the note Tom had given him after Wiley’s death.

“Are you sure this is what he wanted?” the stonecutter asked.

“Yup, don’t it look purty,” Harker answered. “Deke found out in Chicago cancer was eating up his body and he only had three months to live. He chose to go out with his boots on.”

They both took a step back to look at the hunk of granite with Deke Wiley’s epitaph carved on it.

Deke Wiley

1851-1890

“Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it”