Introduction to a Gunfighter
by Bud Hanks

February 1889
Vernal, Utah

Harry Longabaugh sat stiff-backed at a small wooden table near the windowless wall of the saloon. His red-rimmed eyes, strained from staring, moved from person to person in the smoke-filled room, then started all over again. A full liquor glass and one empty glass rested on the table in front of him. He'd arrived in town yesterday and asked around for Cleophas J. Dowd. Folks wouldn't say much after he mentioned the man's name.

A cellmate in Sundance, Wyoming had said to Harry, "A cowboy, who can't steal horses, or ride and shoot any better than you, is doomed to die young. If it were me, I'd contact Cleophas J. Dowd, Vernal, Utah. He can save you or bury you."

Harry heeded the advice, but now had second thoughts about asking to find Dowd. No one was saying anything about the man except: He didn't take kindly to strangers, and you better have a damn good reason to be asking about him. An old, whiskered gentleman at the boarding house breakfast said that Dowd would find him — patience was a virtue.

The grandfather clock, standing sentry near the piano player, struck 4 P.M. Quiet eased around the saloon and made its way to the front of the twenty-foot-long bar — spurs announced his presence. The front door opened and a big man, dressed in a black 'ditto' suit and black overcoat, appeared — his black Stetson sprinkled with snow. He jangled to the bar, downed the drink waiting for him, followed the barkeep's eyes, and turned to glance at Harry. Then paused to look round the bar.

A bottle of Burke's Irish whiskey appeared, and he snatched the neck with a large left hand, turned and started toward the table. Harry raised the full glass, toasted the stranger, and swallowed down his drink. He pushed the empty glass in front of the vacant chair. Two pairs of eyes never stopped staring at each other.

No smile, the man's right hand and arm never left the front edge of his coat — no guns displayed. Harry put both hands on the table and said in a loud voice, "I beg your pardon. Mr. Dowd is it? Won't you be so kind as to join me for a drink? I was in jail in Sundance, Wyoming and obviously forgot my manners. I mean you no harm. I was told you might — "

Before Harry could stand and extend his arm and empty hand, a short-barreled Colt .45 magically appeared in the stranger's hand. An explosion brought fire from Hell. Harry jumped up and covered his ears. His head screamed inside. When he realized he wasn't shot, he turned and saw a Mexican slump to the floor from the table next to him.

The gun was gone as fast it had appeared, and the stranger moved to the empty chair. "Cleophas Dowd," he said, shaking Harry's sweaty hand. Then he nodded in the Mexican's direction. "A member of Pablo Herrera's gang. I believe in an eye for an eye," he said in Hebrew.

"I don't understand that last statement," Harry said.

"It was Hebrew. I speak seven languages. Do you speak any?"

"I know some French and German from my early studies. A little Latin."

Dowd spoke a few phrases in French, German, and Latin and watched Harry's face squish into a question mark. "Do you even speak the King's English?"

"I speak Pennsylvania English, sir."

"Quaker?"

"As needed believer. And you?"

"Ordained priest — questionable."

Dowd took the second liquor glass, filled it, downed a shot and stared at Harry. "What do you want from me?"

"I was told you could teach me how to shoot and ride, and hopefully that will keep me alive."

"Who do you know on the trail?"

Harry knew right away he needed to make the correct answer. "Butch and Mike Cassidy, Charley Jones, Elzy Lay, Kid Curry, Jim Warren — "

"You know Jim Warren? What did he do before ranching?"

"I worked a short time for him, and some of the boys said he was a priest, like you."

Dowd brokered a slim smile. "Let's drink. First you're going to break horses for me, and if you live through that, I'll teach you how to shoot."

"What do you want done with the Mexican?" the bartender asked.

"Have the undertaker come get it. Call me when the hole's ready, and I'll get my Bible out and say a few words like I did for Pablo."

A laugh roared like rushing water in a deep canyon as he poured another drink.

"How'd you know that Mexican was here to kill you? I didn't even see him sitting there when I came in and sat down."

"I'd been tipped off before I got here — friends in this town. Besides, the Mexican smelled of fear. You can smell it when you walk into a room. If you live long enough, I'll teach you to smell fear and how to handle it yourself."

"Won't the law want to talk to you about the shooting?"

"I've been the law. I am the law. And I'll always be the law. Who do you think I am?"

Seeing the undertaker come in, Dowd said, "Hurry up, Frank, that Mexican is smelling up the place."

Harry ruminated with each drink that he was either in the midst of a mysterious sinner or a savior. He closed his eyes — one short moment while downing a shot — and prayed he never sinned anywhere near the man.

When the bottle emptied, Dowd said, "I'll get a room, and we'll start back in the morning. It's about thirty miles to the ranch. Take me to where you're staying. We'll have supper later. Then tomorrow before we leave, I'll say a few words over the Mexican."

That evening at dinner Harry and Dowd talked about Harry's ideas for his future.

"I'm concerned that my time in Sundance will keep me from any worthwhile employment," Harry said.

"Only if you let it, Harry. I've baptized, killed, buried, and prayed for men. I've been the law here and for the railroad, and Pinkerton wants me now. I speak seven languages and four Indian tongues. I give no quarter and I take none."

"How'd you draw a gun that fast?" Harry asked. "Some day I'd like to draw fast."

"Practice. And if you're fast on the draw, you better be straight on the shot. If you practice what I show you, you'll be able to take care of yourself.

"Not everyone would be comfortable with my methods. Years ago I had a man make me a special slide-and-groove metal piece that's sewn onto a wide belt at my waist. A small stud is welded on my gun, which slides into my belt slide. This gives me instant action but hides the gun under my coat."

"Is it true you bettered Jesse James?"

Canyon laughter erupted again. "Where'd you hear that?"

"I talked to some trail hands on the way here. They knew of your reputation."

"Harry, the truth is Jesse James didn't know physics. Oh, he was a quick draw, and a good shot — even if he did take forever aiming. He knocked down eighteen out of twenty shell casings with eighteen rounds. I knocked down all twenty casings with twelve rounds. How'd I do it?"

"It's impossible."

"You ever hear of Newton's Law?"

"What has apples got to do with it?"

"Not apples, Harry — motion and inertia. Jesse shot the casings. I shot between the casings; energy and motion knocked them all down. You've got to use your brains to be a great shot. It's not the draw; it's the accuracy of the shot that wins the day.

"We better turn in, it's going to be a long day tomorrow. You should thank your God you were caught in Sundance instead of Vernal. They'd have hung you here."