FIVE MILES TO PERDITION
A “Young Pete” Story
By Henry Herbert Knibbs
The tired horses drank at a waterhole rimmed with dusty scum. Young Pete gazed at the weathered signboard. “Five Miles to Perdition,” he said. The sign pointed toward a group of cottonwoods far down the desert. “Means hell, or somethin’ like that,” Pete added.
“There’s a place called Purgatory, out near the White Sinks,” said Dave Hamill. “Funny how many different names there are for hell.”
“There’s a lot of different kinds of hell,” declared Pete.
They rode on.
“I like mine thick and rare,” said Young Pete presently. “And plenty hot bread and coffee.”
“Same here—if you mean steak.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ about wimmen,” said Pete.
* * * * *
Perdition admired to call itself a tough town. The mines back in the hills had closed down, but petty graft and the cowboys from Luna and Magdalena kept the hurdy-gurdy honking and the ball spinning in the wheel. Earnest but indiscreet visitors were received with open arms, wrung dry and tossed out onto the city dump. Awakening next morning sore and sober they were haled before the justice of the peace and fined for disorderly conduct. Perdition’s city marshal, Mr. Collins, was able to get away with this because he required visiting gentlemen to hang up their guns upon entering town.
Unaware of this handicap, Young Pete and Dave Hamill rode into town, stabled their horses and made tracks for the nearest restaurant. They were sitting on high stools waiting for the two steaks, thick and rare, when City Marshal Collins stepped in through a side door and approached them from behind.
“You boys will have to hang up your guns while you’re here,” the marshal said.
“Like hell we will!” said Dave Hamill, swinging round and facing the marshal.
Pete kicked Dave on the leg. “Leave it to me,” he whispered. Then to the marshal: “Here’s my gun. But I want a receipt for her. I’m leavin’ town in the mornin’ early.”
“That’s all right,” said Collins.
“What’s all right?”
“You won’t need any receipt.”
Young Pete’s grin faded. “You got my gun. All I got is your word I’ll get it back. I want it in writin’.”
“I’ll take your gun, too,” said the marshal, ignoring Young Pete.
Pete jerked Dave’s gun from its holster. “Give us two receipts and you can have it,” said Pete, rolling the gun. “But you needn’t pester Dave. All he does is the thinkin’ for this outfit. I do the shootin’.”
“You’re a tough kid, ain’t you?”
Young Pete grinned into the muzzle of the gun the marshal had just taken away from him. “Just bite me and see! But don’t count on that gun. She’s empty. That’s why I give her to you.”
A dark wizened little man at a table across the room laid down his fork and laughed. The waiter, coming suddenly from the kitchen glided behind the big coffee urn.
City Marshal Collins stared at Young Pete’s lean, dark face. “Hand over that gun!”
“Can’t,” said Pete. “Don’t belong to me. What you pesterin’ me for? You got my gun. And Dave, here, ain’t got no gun. It ain’t awful hard to figure.”
The man who had laid down his fork rose and walked over to Pete. “I’d like to shake hands with you,” he said. “You’re the first sober man that ever called Collins’ bluff. I run a little game over at the Silver Dollar. They call me ‘the Spider’, down this way.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Pete. “Dave, you shake hands for both of us. I’m busy.”
“You’ll be busier if you don’t hand over that gun!” threatened Collins.
“So will your friends if you don’t quit pesterin’ me.” Young Pete continued to roll the gun.
City Marshal Collins glared at the Spider. “These friends of yours?” he rasped. “That why you horned in?”
“No. I don’t know either of them.” The Spider turned his back on the city marshal. “Any time you want a job,” he said to Pete, “just let me know.”
“Thanks. Any time you want a new city marshal, just say the word.”
The Spider signaled to the waiter behind the coffee urn. “Fetch those orders over to my table. I think Mister Collins will excuse us.”
“You’ll horn in once too often,” said the marshal.
“Any time you think you can beat me to it, I’ll accommodate you,” said the Spider, “Come on, boys. Those steaks are getting cold.”
The waiter fetched their steaks. “Nothin’ has smelled so sweet as that marshal since Pansy died,” said Pete. “Pansy,” he explained, “was a mule. She fell into a well. Pass the ketchup, Dave.”
“But the marshal’s name is Collins,” said the Spider.
“He’s the homeliest damn catamount I ever seen!” said Dave.
Pete’s eyebrows twisted in a puzzled frown. “Homely? Mebby that was it. I thought he was makin’ faces at me.”
* * * * *
The Spider ate little but drank much coffee. Dave and Young Pete kept busy until their checks came. Then they took time to stare at each other. “What’s yours?” asked Pete.
“Two dollars and four bits. I’m goin’ to need crutches to get out of here.”
“Table service costs a dollar more than counter service, here,” said the Spider. “I invited you boys to eat with me. I’ll take care of the checks.”
“We ain’t exactly broke,” declared Dave.
“Better keep your change,” said the Spider. “If Collins takes a notion to run you in and you haven’t any cash, he’ll hold you for vagrancy and levy on your outfit.”
“He took me for a kid. I don’t aim to let no cheap city marshal get ahead of me.”
The Spider gathered up the checks. When they were out in the street he gestured toward the saloon across the way. “You’ll find me there, most of the time. About Collins—let him get as far ahead of you as he likes. But don’t let him get behind you.” And the Spider crossed the street and entered the Silver Dollar.
“Sounds kind of like advice, at that,” said Pete.
“Looks like that there Perdition sign was a warnin’,” said Dave as they walked down the street. With the same thought in mind they headed for the livery barn. “There ain’t no reward out for me,” said Dave as they came opposite the building. “Suppose you wait and I’ll get our horses.”
Pete stepped back into the shadow of a doorway. In a few minutes Dave returned. “We’re sure afoot,” he complained. “The city marshal has left orders to hold our horses till you hand over your gun.”
“Did you offer to pay the feed bill?”
“I sure did!”
They turned and walked back up the street. Across the street a short, thick man in a big Stetson was keeping abreast of them.
“He was in the livery office,” whispered Dave.
“Mebby a deputy, set to watch that we don’t make our getaway,” Pete ventured. “Let’s step in here and see if he follows us.”
* * * * *
Entering the Silver Dollar they sauntered to the bar. Dave bought a drink. Young Pete, who never drank, bought a handful of nickels and moved over to the nickel-in-the-slot machine. He pushed in a nickel and pulled the lever down. The cards revolved. Pete gazed into the strip of mirror at the top of the machine. The short man in the big hat had entered the saloon and was sitting at a wall table talking with a companion. The revolving cards flickered and stopped, one card short of a straight.
“You can’t beat them things,” said Dave as he came up.
“But I can watch ’em go round.” Pete peered into the mirror as he again played the machine. The man in the big hat and his companion had their heads together. The whirring cards stopped—three aces and a pair of fours. “You win!” said Dave Hamill as several nickels rattled down into the receiver. Pete scooped up the nickels. The man in the big hat had gestured with his thumb toward the ceiling.
A roustabout removed the dustcloths from the card tables. Pete saw the Spider seated near the faro layout, reading a newspaper. Pete thrust another nickel into the machine.
A brisk, sallow-faced man entered. “Card-man,” reflected Pete. The sallow-faced man nodded to the two at the side table as he passed. Again the man in the big hat gestured toward the ceiling with his thumb.
The sallow-faced man, known as “Slicker,” put on a green eye-shade, hung up his coat and took his place at the head of the faro table.
Three cowpunchers sauntered up to the bar and called for drinks. The faro dealer spoke to the Spider, who nodded without looking up. Two more cowboys drifted in and joined the group at the bar. Dave Hamill played three or four nickels in the machine and lost.
Pete wondered why the two men across the room had pointed toward the ceiling. Could the gesture have anything to do with the skylight directly above the faro table?
“Keep rollin’ ’em,” he said to Dave. “Me, I’m goin’ to take a look around this joint.”
Curling a smoke, Pete sauntered from table to table, pausing to watch the play, then moving on. He came to the end of the room, opened a door. The room contained a bed, a washstand, some clothing, a table and chair and a small safe. “The Spider’s office,” said Pete to himself as he backed out.
The adjoining door led, eventually, to an alley back of the building. Pete stepped out into the darkness. A pinch of light coming from a shaded window at the back of the dance hall next door caught his eye. The dance hall piano was going. Pete sauntered down the alley. The sound of piano playing stopped. He was almost under the window from which the pinch of light came.