Chapter 15: Three-Gun Kellaway

‘Yessirs, ‘ croaked the ancient raconteur. Surrounded by listeners, he was the only person seated in the saloon’s back room, made available so that he could give the authentic account of an incident involving a long-dead pistolero. ‘Yessirs, ‘ he repeated, his toothless mouth expelling an orange pip at almost eye-defying speed. The projectile hit a spittoon, described a half-circle inside the rim and whizzed off to strike the nose of a man who, in trying to avoid the impact, thumped his head against a doorpost and consequently lost interest in the proceedings.

‘Yessirs, ‘ the old-timer said yet again to his audience, now reduced to eight, one being a large woman whose general Wagnerian aspect was accentuated by a helmet-style hat atop a huge coil of fair hair. ‘And ma’am, ‘ added the oldster, noting the unexpected presence of a lady. ‘I mind well the time when Three-Gun Kellaway come to town. Showdown was right there.’ He pointed an arthritic finger at the doorway to the barroom. ‘He come here... ‘

‘What was that?’ The interjection came from a fresh-faced youth, bearing a notepad and pencil.

‘What was what?’ snapped the taleteller.

‘You said Three-Gun Kellaway.’

‘Well, so what?’

‘Sir, ‘ said the young fellow, ‘I’ve known of two-gun this and two-gun that, but I never yet heard of three-gun anybody.’

‘Son, ‘ snarled the oldster, mustering as hostile a gleam as his rheumy eyes could manage, ‘first place, I’m tellin’ this story. Second place, you’re still wet behind the ears an’ third place, you won’t never hear much of anythin’ if you keep interruptin’ folks.’

‘Sorry’, said the chastened youngster. ‘It’s just that I’ve only recently arrived from the East and this is my first assignment. I have to get my facts right or my editor will be mad at me. I was wondering how a man was able to handle three guns.’

‘Well, if you listen you’ll find out, ‘ retorted the wizened narrator, his temper fraying rapidly. ‘As I was goin’ to say when you busted up my thinkin’, this Three-Gun Kellaway was a plumb desperate character. Killed over a dozen men in his time. Anyway, he come here lookin’ for Bad Billy Brewster, an’ he was loaded for bear.’

‘Loaded for what?’ the reporter broke in again.

‘Bear, ‘ gritted the anecdotist, grimly curbing his ire.

‘What does that mean, exactly?’ the diffident newshound asked.

‘Darn it, ‘ yelled the venerable one. ‘Means Kellaway was an ornery critter an’ more’n a mite proddy. How the hell are you goin’ to report this if you don’t speak English?’ The oldster’s voice, squawky at the best of times, rose to a falsetto warble.