Chapter One

The Meeting

Vernon Shields, writer, journalist.

Manuscript entry:

March 1884,

Bisbee AZ.

Two Shots fired – One man standing

The Glory of the Western Frontier – they come by horse, wagon train, stage coach, boat, and now, even the steam engine locomotive. From all over the world they seek to find their land, stake their claim, and build their own future. It is a time of great fortune and great cost.

Bisbee Arizona 1884, I generally gravitate to Bisbee, Tombstone, and Tucson, for the most part because it is a Pinal territory the stories are grand. Stories come third hand, second hand and even a couple I witnessed. As a writer of Wild West Short Stories I have seen and taken account of many events, of the hard working good and the taking by the evil, be it a high risk train robber, a stage coach heist, day light bank robbery, or an action packed middle of the street gun fight. There is this one gun slinger I met first hand:

This morning was a quiet morning, it is March, at the higher altitude the mornings are crisp and the days are topping out in the 80’s. Much milder than the rest of this dessert area; where temperatures top 100 degrees at high noon. Bisbee is a copper mining town tucked in Mule Pass. Very green and beautiful. Being surrounded by dessert, Bisbee is almost an oasis. Snow and cold in the winter and a place to cool during heat season. I enjoy getting up early to walk the streets. When in Bisbee I always stay at the Grand Hotel, I just believe the beds are the most comfortable in Arizona. Walking through the main room planning on heading out and there she sits, Sandy, she has been for years the main attraction of the Grand Hotel and Bisbee. A heavenly singer, such beauty and talent truly belongs in New York, brunette hair, long, flowing, always perfect. Her smile melts steel, eyes are a beautiful deep brown, the finest dresses sown by her own hand. Married a couple times I’m told, and buried both of them, not by her hand though, that is just part of living in this area. Men get dead, mining accidents, fights, gambling, drink and get shot. Her etiquette at true perfection, a shinning light, a breath of fresh air of high society in a copper mining, dirty, drunken town. I guess there are a couple reasons why I stay at this fine establishment every time. After taking time to admire Sandy, It’s time to proceed with the day, out into the walkway going on to a little place I enjoy at the end of the row; believe it or not early mornings are as dangerous as peak gambling evenings. The reason being the hard core cowboys and miners are ending a long night of drinking, fornication, and rebel rousing. It is good to stay alert. The town at its peak was very busy, copper mines keeping this a great location for jobs but it seems to be slowing down. The streets just don’t appear to be as they once were. Tipping my hat to the always happy Candice, who is scurrying around the front of her husband’s dentist office getting ready to open for the day. Cleaning the new glass just installed yesterday, so kindly broken by young orphan Billy and his friends. Not on purpose; a simple misjudgment in the location of the most recent stick ball game. Being a mining town the orphanage can get busy. A nice lady is Mrs. Candice; both her and her husband came from England, setting up shop about a year ago. I must say this is a good place for a dentist to make a living. Bad teeth and money abound out here; I just don’t know how he tolerates the constant and in my opinion deadly bad breathe that is so freely offered in such a career. Next to them the oldest barber in the world, “Old Stan”, he is open every day, and always can be found reading one of my stories. A good man in my view, he is in his 60’s but could easily pass for 105. He has some stories, which many of you who have been considerate enough to purchase my writings, have immersed yourself in. However with Stan many of his tales today are the same ones he told yesterday. Its funny, now that I think about it, I never see anyone but Crazy Bill (William Getting) getting a hair cut and a shave there - nice pun. I then arrive at my destination for this morning. Every town has a General Store – but this proprietor has breakfast at 7:00 am on the dot everyday and it is the best coffee, fried eggs, bacon, and toast in the world. I can’t help but drop in occasionally right at 6:55. Jim and Joan Simpson bought this place from “Crazy Bill” 6 months ago and have had good success with it. Greeting me warmly as always, acting surprised; they know, how else can you explain the extra plate? A hardy hand shake from Jim followed with a bone jarring smack to the arm and a wonderful mother loving hug from Joan. Jim was in the mine for years but always wanted to be his own boss, a big man with broad shoulders, shaved head and a big western mustache. The coffee ready to pour, hint of nutmeg and fresh dairy, one to Jim, one to me, served with one of the biggest smiles possible. The sizzle of bacon and eggs just washes all worries away. Fried eggs always taste better when you here the chickens in back getting more eggs ready. The meal placed out before us, Joan sits, closes her hands and rolls out grace, a strong woman of faith. The consumption begins.

Jim asks if I saw Johnny on the way over, I nod no, not wanting to let the flowing yolks on my plate to cool. Johnny is there only child, 18 I believe, troubled boy though. Jim worked in the copper mine when Johnny was growing up so as one may preconceive, Johnny had a bit too much freedom on his hands. Both excellent parents, however this is a tough place and a young individual with nothing to do will find the wrong things to do. Johnny fancied himself as a gunslinger. He could spin it, toss it, and slide it back into the holster like a circus act, but when it came to hitting his target, not so good! His clan would always give out a “good shootn’ Johnny”, reason being, Johnny was short tempered. He wasn’t as large as his father but still a strong healthy boy, and well able to throw the fists around. I am sure Jim asked about his whereabouts due to the fact Johnny just returned three days ago from an extended stay under the hospitality of the Arizona Territorial Corrections Facility up in Tucson. As a matter of fact it was his bad shooting that won him the free stay. He drew down at a card game that the sheriff was sitting in on. Did I mention Johnny is a dim light? Anyway it was a Friday night, always a goodtime for poker and to collect tall tales of the previous weeks’ adventures. Drinking into the night, off duty Sheriff Jones entered with a friend visiting from out of town, they both sat down at the table Johnny was at. Nobody really knows what transpired in the 3 minutes it took Johnny to flip out; details are fuzzy when people are that snookered. Well he drew down on the guest, squeezed off a round, as usual missed, broke the mirror over the bar nearly clipping Claude the bartender. Punched Sheriff Jones in the mouth, breaking his tooth, while the sheriff disarmed him, in the scuffle threw his beer mug at the visitor this time hitting him and splitting his head open. It started out as disorderly conduct and the sheriff was willing to let it go but Johnny wanted to be the star and proceeded to kick the sheriff in the family jewels. Down the sheriff went; to jail Johnny went. That wasn’t enough for Johnny, oh no, he was eating up all the attention, so of course when the judge came to town for the trial he had to spit this enormous wad of chew on the shirt and face of the judge - earning him a free, escorted stage coach ride to Tucson.

Just as Joan slides a couple more beautiful fried eggs onto my plate we could here from the street, a little boys’ voice:

“Mr. Simpson! Mr. Simpson!” As we stand our local youngster Billy, who knows everything, comes blasting through the door.

Winded he yells out again “Mr. Simpson!”

Jim catches him, tries calming him down and asks “Whats the commotion is about?”

In his excitement all he could yell out is “Johnny… aaaat ttttthhhe saaaaaalllloooon.”

Out the door we go. The Saloon Johnny frequents is three doors down next to the mining company office. Jim gets through the door before me, and I here “son – no – don’t!”

I get through the door and not more than two feet away Jim and I witness Johnny enraged and grabbing his six shooter. Jim’s call out was enough to get Johnny’s attention and the gun slipped back into his holster. Standing at the bar, the obvious target of Johnny’s attention stood this drifter. I say obvious because when an opportunity of a gun fight presents itself, those not involved tend to maneuver in such a way to provide a clear path for those who are involved. Now I have written many accounts of shooters in the frontier, I have seen many also, and this individual was a shooter. Calm, one hand on the bar, the right hand placing a beer he just swigged off of back on the counter. It was obvious Johnny just drew on him with his back partially facing Johnny. Black hat with lots of miles, diamond back rattle snake headband. Partial beard, long hair, rugged, traveled. Grey shirt, red bandana around his neck to protect from dust when riding the plains. Black vest with what I could swear from my distance of 8 feet looked to be two aged bullet holes. Dark grey pants, black boots and spurs strapped with leather and snakeskin. The saloon is on the south side of the street so it is fairly well lit at this time in the morning. The stranger didn’t flinch. He calmly set the beer down, surveyed the complete room from left to right and back to left where Johnny, Jim and I stood. The spectators a good 3 feet from us at this time. The stillness was eerie, what was next? Johnny paused, as he slid his gun back into the holster and looked at his dad, he had this lost look on his face. As if he was back when he was a child and looking to his dad for comfort. That moment gave way to the Johnny of today, as the look of insanity came back to Johnny’s face I glanced right to see what the stranger was doing. I was taken back, there he was, left hand on the bar and right hand providing lift to the glass in route to his mouth. But this time his back was more at an angle towards the wall with the left shoulder angling in our direction.

I pull back to my left, Jim makes a step towards Johnny with a single word plea – “Noooooo!” As he yells Joan comes through the door to see Johnny draw his weapon, a quick draw, an impressively quick draw, hammer cocked, released, a blast of gun powder, and with a flash of light the mug shatters in the hand of the traveler. Yet again Johnny missed, not by much but still a miss. Joan screams; Jim leaps at Johnny while he cocks the hammer a second time. The click of the hammer and his mothers scream was the last sound Johnny ever heard. As the click of the hammer completes, a blast of gun powder is heard but this time it is not Johnny’s gun. Jim reaches his son just as the bullet tears through Johnny’s forehead. As Jim catches him, the body goes limp and a final exhale comes from the bloody face of Johnny. I turn right to look at the now introduced gun slinger, his gun held by the left hand at his waist pointing down. Blood pouring down his face from a gouge made by the shattering glass. He walks over to Jim still holding his son.

The stranger says, “I heard you yell son.”

Jim jumps in sadness “yes he is my son!”

The stranger holsters his weapon, looks at Jim then Joan who is now on the floor in tears and says, “I am sorry for your loss”. Wiped his face and headed for the door, steps out, and heads towards the hotel. This shooter was different, he didn’t yelp and holler. He didn’t look for accolades; he waited to the very last moment to react, took care of the situation and truly had remorse. I went to the hotel and saw another side of Sandy, the field surgeon. The shooter took a swig of gin and Sandy started stitching his face. He didn’t flinch not once. Her last stitch completed she leans forward, so slowly, slight grin on her face, she kisses his cheek then bites the thread. He still doesn’t flinch, he even smiled. She grabs his hand pulling him up and they walk out the back and up the stairs. I’ve written numerous stories; I’ve seen many individuals but not anyone like this.

The next morning I sat down to have a word Sandy, “hey honey”, see smiles so nice, “can I talk with you for a minute”.

“Of course sweetie; Working on any new stories?” Funny you ask; that is what I wanted to talk to you about.

“Do you think you could get me in with the traveler you sewed up yesterday?”

“David?”

“I guess. I never heard his name until right now.”

“I don’t know sweetie, but I could find out. He’s sleepin’ it off right now, she winks at me.”

Up in Sandy’s room David aka Longhair awakes:

Sitting up, my head is killing me. Another morning hurting, cut, and another set of stitches. This is really getting old. I look around to see where I am at. Oh yes I remember now, Sandy’s room. She is a wonderful pain killer. I gotta take a vacation; find a place where I won’t get shot at, just kick back, sleep, and sleep. The door handle turns, I grab my gun, click, aim, and in enters beautiful Sandy. I put the gun back in the holster and say good morning.

“Good morning sweetie, I usually get a hug or tap on the ass but not a gun.”

“You know how it is Sandy.”

“Ya, I thought you might be interested in a little therapy.”

“Really you did, and what might that be?” She drops her dress, and smiles.

“Well Sandy if you really think it will help, I will do my best.”

“Oh I’m not worried about that sweetie.” It was wonderful, she is wonderful, what an experience. At the completion of the therapy session she gets out of bed and opens the patio curtain and door to let some fresh air in. Totally naked she stands in front of the door, sun glistening off her slightly sweat covered body, oh my!

“Sweetie, I know you’re looking for a rest. I may have an idea that can get you some real time to rest and reflect.”

“Reflect? What do you mean, what does that pretty little head have cooking?”

“There is a writer in town, a good writer, he has done many stories, is respected and wants to write your story.”

“What are you off your rocker? I know sex has gotten your head all fuzzy, you should put your naked body down in this chair. I wouldn’t want you to lose balance and fall off the balcony.” “David”

“Stop Sandy”

“No - listen to my idea. I have a cabin outside of town up the hill. It is secluded and you could truly get some rest. And best of all we could continue our therapy sessions.”

“Let me think about it doll, Ok?”

“Fair enough, I’m gonna get dressed, I’ll see you later.” As the door shuts I consider her suggestion. A secluded cabin sounds nice, but I do not know about this writer. A written story about me? Reliving everything, I don’t know about that.

Sandy reenters the main room. “Well Vernon, I tossed the idea to him, for right now you need to wait. He said he would consider it but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He has been through a lot.” “I understand, thank you Sandy. I’m gonna head back over to the saloon to see if there are any new stories going around.”

Jim and Joan were in there wagon heading to the cemetery as I stepped out. I changed my intended destination and asked if I could join them. Joan was crying and Jim was trying to control the reins and comfort her. “Jim let me drive, you help Joan.”

“Thank you Vernon.”

There were a few at the burial, mostly Johnny’s gang, the priest, and a couple locals. It was small; Johnny didn’t have friends outside of the crew that hung with him. The ceremony was quiet, Joan kept it together, and Jim hugged her the whole time. When it ended we slowly headed back to the wagon, Jim and Joan well ahead of me and the gang behind me. I could here the boys.

“We need to make this right for Johnny. The fucker that took him out is still here, walking the streets like nothing ever happened! How can we let that go?”

“Just because the Sheriff won’t do anything doesn’t mean we have to let it go.”

“Come on he is a real shooter, Johnny was the best of us and he lost. Come on!”

“Johnny is gone we no longer have to pretend he knows how to shoot. He never hit his target not once. I might not be as fast but I can hit what I shoot at. Besides, I’m not talking about a head to head quick draw. There are many ways to do this, It will hurt him, maybe kill him.”

Not once did I look back, but I heard every word. I stopped at the Sheriff’s office to inform him of what was in the works. It was his opinion that there will be more deaths this week by the gun of the visitor. I took to the streets to find a place to sit and observe. Tensions were building. Johnny’s gang numbered about 12; I don’t think any of them were over twenty. None were really a qualified gunman or criminals. They would cause trouble but nothing serious. As I sit I tend to drift off in my mind, writing consumes me and the next story is always brewing. Today was no different; I stare out to the street, considering the wording for what I currently know and what is to come. Startled by an individual taking a seat next to me. It’s the gunman that assisted Johnny in his demise.

“Sir” – I get out with a shaky voice.

In a low control demeanor David responds “Didn’t mean to startle you, sorry.”

“No it is ok; I was in my world thinking about the next story.”

“Yea – I understand you want to write my story.”

“I would be honored sir. But you see I normally write short stories, tales if you will, some fact, some tall tales; however I really want to go to the next level. Be part of a true story of someone with character, a real individual, and not a glory hunter. From what I hear about you Sir is that you tend to be an enforcer. No real job or title, getting shot at because of past involvements, but beyond that I really do not know who you are.”

“That was a mouthful. How do you know I fit that description? Do you really know what I can do or have done? This may not be what you are looking for and I do not know if I can trust you to tell the story as I tell it.”

“That is true, I don’t know you; you don’t know me. Sandy is our go between. If we sit down and do this, you are free to stop and end the whole thing at any time Sir.”

“I’ve looked at some of your writing, you are skilled. I read one of your stories about a drifter accused of riding with the James Gang. The story was in Kansas in 81. You wrote about a young man that came back after the robbery of the fair tickets, $8000.00 was stolen by the James Gang. Do you recall this one? Where you there first hand or what was your source?”

“Well I was looking for anything related to the James Gang, I’m sure you understand anything written about the James Gang sells.”

“No I understand, but I’m curious about that story, about that individual.”

“Well I was outside the jail getting detail about the robbery. Two elderly people came to the jail as alleged witnesses for this young kid that was scheduled to hang for the robbery. It was a big story, very hard to get two people with the same story though. As many of my investigations go I kinda tread through all the stories and form one. But this was a weird one. The gallows were being tested and a crowd was forming. The two witnesses supported the kid’s story and they released him. He was beatn pretty bad, face messed up, could not recognize him, the judge was there too. That kid was set free and the Sheriff was voted out of office that month. Apparently he was a hand working for the two elderly people and was falsely accused. That’s all I knew and that’s how I wrote it. It wasn’t a big part of the story but I felt it was good to include, keeping true to the events.” The shooter stood at that moment.

“I will tell Sandy when we will start. You can do your story.”

Shocked – “I said Thank You, Oh I gotta tell ya before I forget– at the burial the boys Johnny hung out with indicated they are coming after you.”

He tipped his hat, grinned and thanked me. He walked down the road and disappeared between two buildings. I have no idea what I said to make him decide to do the book, but I was excited. I went back to my room to make sure all my supplies were taken care of. I would not know when the time would be but it was coming. A couple days later Sandy called me to go for a ride. We headed west out of town, approaching a fork in the trail she stops.

“Vern you need to put this hood on. We are going into hiding. The topic of your book wants to be left alone, he is making every effort to relax, and not need to kill someone. So what we will do is I will take you to him and in a couple days bring you back. Two days on two days off. You will have time to do your thing and David will be able to rest. I will be the only one who knows where he is.”

“I understand Sandy, let’s continue.” It was interesting riding without eye sight. Hearing the horse trot along, the shifting of the trail, the breathing pattern of the horse, it was a very different way of observing. About an hour later she let me take the hood off.

“Sorry Vern but I had to make sure you have no idea where you are.”

“ No shit Sandy”, all I saw at this point were trees, no trail; off in the distance I could see the Huachuca Mountains, but that provided no indication of our location other than the direction of west, we came through a group of trees to a small cabin. David was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair.

“Greetings Vern, you ready to get to work?”

“Yes sir, well get comfortable, the open bed is yours.”

“Sandy, you have a fine spot here thank you.”

“For you honey, I will do anything. In a couple days we will get Vern out and I will get you set up with some more therapy.”

“Yes indeed Sandy.”

She left and David started a fire. He poured whiskey handed me one and sat down.

The following collection of Wild West Adventure is that as told throught the life of David Murphy aka “Longhair”: