In doing so, each also chooses the way-if not the exact circumstance-of his death. But then the stink of death hit so hard that Fenimore ripped his eyes away. The dirty body underneath was flabby and hairy, and for a few seconds the sight of it made Fenimore wonder whether any woman loved it, whether the small time Mexican gunslinger had had a small Mexican wife who’d given birth to thin, barefoot Mexican children. It was bad to be dead.įenimore pulled off Pedro’s boots, followed by his wide leather gun belt, cotton pants, worn shirt and navy-white poncho. As for Pedro, he wouldn’t ever shoot a gun again. What mattered was that Ulrich had underestimated him. Good qualities for a foot soldier, but bad ones for staying alive. Pedro, as far as Fenimore remembered, had been a brave bad shot.

Bright blood trickled from the hole in its head.įenimore recognised the dirty face underneath: Pedro-a hired gun who rode with Ulrich’s gang, but not one of the dangerous ones. The bandito’s corpse lay on its back, its eyes half open and still fully plastered over by the sheen of surprise. He still hadn’t decided what he’d do with the bandito’s horse.

There’d be water in the bandito’s pack, he thought, untying the burro and patting its warm chest. He lowered himself down the side of the outcropping from which he’d shot, and circled to where he’d hidden his tired, thirsty burro. Save for the timepiece on his wrist he was naked, and the relentless sun had burned his skin brown. He grinned and looked forward to wearing clothes again. It hit the ground no less dead than the bandito.įenimore rose from his crouch, watched-no dust rose on the horizon-and listened. It hit straight into the bandito’s forehead like an Ash Wednesday cross.įenimore slung his rifle over his shoulder, took one last drag of his cigar and tossed it aside. He just chomped down on his cigar, moved the muzzle slightly to the left, squinted-and made sure the second bullet didn’t miss. He merely cocked his head, and the sun’s rays slid from the muzzle to a thick bead of sweat gathering on Fenimore’s brow. The first bullet drilled a hole clean through the bandito’s sombrero, through which the rays of the hot noonday sun fell like whips on the glistening muzzle of Fenimore’s rifle, peeking out from between two dusty rocks a good hundred paces away.

A Paunch Full of Pesos by Norman Crane