MELTDOWN

by

Hattie Lynn

After the gunfire died out, Jess realized Slim was standing beside him. His partner must have run UP during the shooting. Jess risked a quick glance at him, enough to see the big cowboy glaring at him with jaws set so hard his mouth had pruned up.

Struck dumb, Jess stared straight ahead while Slim stalked off to help round up the two still living gunmen, who minutes before, Jess walking with them, had been trying to kill a man Sheriff Mort Cory was sworn to protect.

After standing around for another minute or so, Jess eased on up the street where Knute Duncan was crouched down on one knee beside the crumpled up body of his deceitful and domineering brother. When he saw Jess coming Knute got to his feet and solemnly mouthed, "Sorry, Jess."

"You ain't got nothing to be sorry about, Knute," Jess said real low. "Lemme help you get him to the undertaker."

Knute stiffened and shook his head. "No!" he mouthed, waving both hands in front of him for emphasis. "No!" Then he mouthed some other words Jess couldn't make out.

Jess frowned. "Knute seems to be taking this pretty well. And what in the dickens was he trying to say?"

Knute sank down on one knee and with a grimy finger scratched out two words in the dirt beside his dead brother. "HOME. TEXAS." Standing up, he faced a dumbfounded Jess and mouthed another two words, "Thank you." Then, with a determined squaring of his shoulders and a freeing shrug, he struck out to get things straight with the sheriff before heading south.

Sure by now that the shooting was over, Floy and Loy, the Stamey twins, ran out from behind the saloon, circled warily around Jess, and picked up Johnny Duncan's body to haul it to the undertaker. They would be back in a jiffy to collect McDermitt, the other dead gunman. Such service was often rewarded with a bit or two if arrangements had been made aforehand.

Dodging around the twins and their burden, Alfred Newton, the owner of the wagon Knute had confiscated to thwart his murderous brother's plans, passed Jess on the run. He was in a hurry to retrieve his property and check it out for gunfire damage. "Dang it! I'll see to it the town pays for repairs," he vowed to himself, leading his horses back to where they had been parked before the shooting broke out.

Jess stood alone in the street. His shoulders sagged and he slumped a bit to one side as adrenal fatigue and two sleepless nights started catching up with him. Mort, Halleck and Slim had disappeared with their prisoners into the sheriff's office. There was nothing left for Jess to do. Mort hadn't come to arrest him and experience told him that wasn't likely since he'd switched over at the last minute to fight on the side of the law. But he was in trouble with Slim, big trouble. Dejected, confused and ashamed, Jess headed for the livery stable. There was only one thing to do…ride out.

He got as far as the saloon. "Fire and damnation, I need a drink, maybe two," he reasoned.

Half an hour later, he sat at a rear table, his back to the wall. He'd lost his hat somewhere along the way and an empty whiskey bottle was clutched in his black gloved hands.

Sam Hammit, the barkeep, recognized the signs. The saloon had emptied out as customers spotted Jess and decided to attend to business elsewhere. Sam grabbed Tom Fortenbury before he could make his escape and sent him to the sheriff's office with a message for Mort: "You better come see about Jess."

Tom lost no time. He scooted across the street, stuck his head inside the office door, said what he'd been sent to say, and hurried toward home.

Mort sighed. Knute Duncan had already been dismissed. Halleck had gone over to the hotel to let his daughter know he was ok, leaving Mort with stack of paperwork to get through. Wearily, the sheriff pushed away from his desk, got up and headed for the door. "Well," he thought, "It is my job and I guess it's up to me to do it."

Slim hadn't gone anywhere. He was still there in the office, pacing the floor and dividing his time between glaring at the prisoners and staring out the windows, hoping Mort suspected, to see Jess coming his way. He'd stopped pacing when Tom delivered Sam's message.

Mort paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You coming, Slim?"

Slim scowled at the floor. He was still as mad at Jess as a man could be without going for his gun and Sam's message had only made him madder.

Matt shook his head and banged the door shut behind himself. "The devil take it all," he thought, "I can't blame Slim for being peeved with Jess. That boy can be a peck of trouble."

Mort was half-way to the saloon when he heard Slim's long, spur-jingling strides behind him. He waited up. Together they eased around the half door of the Arcade Saloon and spotted Jess slumped down in his chair. He had a stranglehold on a new bottle of whiskey that Sam had reluctantly brought to him only because Jess had raised a ruckus and because the sheriff was on his way.

Stiff-legged, Slim started toward Jess, intending to rip his head off his shoulders, but Mort, moving quickly for such a middle-aged man, got there just ahead of him.

Roused from his stupor by the clop of approaching boots, Jess managed to look up and slammed full force into the brick wall of his partner's glare. "Holy cow, I've never seen Slim this mad before," he realized, feeling like the breath had been knocked out of him. Nevertheless, he made a valiant effort to bestir himself, trying to get to his feet. "It's all right, Slim," he mumbled thickly. "I'm riding out….riding out right now," he repeated, noticing with some surprise that his legs weren't working quite right.

Mort shoved him back down into the chair. "Hold it right there, young man."

"Aw, leave me alone, Mort. I gotta get out of here." He struggled against Mort's iron grip on his shoulder. "What in tarnation," he thought, "my arms ain't working so good either. Or else Mort's got a lot stronger than he used to be."

"Jess!" Mort's voice seemed to come from a long way away. "You're drunk! You ain't going nowhere 'til you sober up."

"Dad burn it, Mort, I am sober. Lemme go. Slim's mad at me. I ain't good for nobody."

"Well, that might be so, drunk as a skunk as you are." Mort's hand tightened to painful proportions on Jess' shoulder. "Now shut up and give me your gun."

Jess went still, struck to his core by Mort's demand. Nobody would ever trust him anymore. No more being a deputy, wearing a star, being thought well of by the town folk, just back to being a no good drifter, lonely as the Big Open on a rainy night.

Mort shook him hard to get his attention. "Your gun, Jess."

Jess pulled out his gun with all the slowness of molasses running downhill and set it down on the table in front of him. "I'm sorry, Mort." He choked on the words. "I'm… so...sorry..." Then to Mort and Slim's horror, he folded up both arms, dropped his dark head onto them and started to cry. "I ain't nothin' but trouble," he sobbed hoarsely. "Aint never been nothin' but trouble. Never will be nothin' but trouble." His shoulders heaved and one hand clutched and reclutched his hair. "I gotta ride out. I'm gonna ride out."

Mort looked at Slim in time to see his stern expression melt on the spot into shocked alarm.

"Good night alive," Slim thought, "there's something really wrong with Jess." He pushed Mort out of the way, flopped down in a chair beside Jess and wrapped a long protective arm around his partner's shoulders. "Jess…," he crooned, leaning in close. "It's ok, boy. Come on, Jess. Simmer down."

'No, Slim," Jess moaned, shaking his head without looking up. "No, it ain't ok. I nearly got you killed out there. You could have been shot. Fire and damnation, Slim. Daisy and Mike are gonna kill me. I ain't no good."

"Now, Jess," Slim cajoled, "you know that ain't so. Come on now, Pard, ease off."

"You got a right to be mad at me, Slim. I ain't been thinking right. I ain't no good," Jess mourned. "I gotta ride out."

'No, Jess, I'm not mad at you anymore. I don't want you to go anywhere. Neither do Daisy or Mike. We're going to work through this."

Jess raised a misery filled face to look at Slim. "I don't wanna go, Slim. I don't wanna ride out," he wept piteously. Then he flopped his head back onto his arms, burrowing into the only shelter he thought he had.

Slim's alarm was by now turning into something more like big brother patience. He'd never seen Jess in this kind of state before but he'd had plenty of experience with Andy and Mike. He pulled Jess closer to his side, hugged him in a strong embrace and waited for the storm to die down.

Under the shelter of Slim' s arms, Jess' gulping breathing eased off as he faded into the haze of acute alcohol poisoning. He appeared to be passing out right there at the table.

Slim gently brushed Jess' damp hair away from his forehead to see how he was doing. "We better get him into a bed," he said at last, looking up at Mort.

Mort stared back at him, full of wonder at the big rancher's forgiving nature. "Gol dang it, Jess could be crying over Slim's dead body," he thought with some cynicism, "and here's Slim fussing over him like a broody hen with one chick. Ah, well, it's not my call. But I'm gonna have a talk with this young hooligan when he sobers up. Slim deserves better than this. Dad burn it! So do I." Out loud he said, "OK, Slim. You take one side and I'll take the other."

They both grabbed Jess' belt and hauled him to his feet. "You know, Slim," Mort groused, "Jess can be a lot of trouble."

"Yeah…I…know…it...," Jess gagged out before throwing up all over the table and the better part of Mort's boots.

Sam ran over with a stack of towels, hoping to limit the damage but Jess was done. He sagged as limp as a dead prairie dog between Mort and Slim as they dragged him off to the boarding house and stretched him out on the bed in his room.

Mort looked down at his boots and shook his head as he set off back to the sheriff's office. "He's all yours, now Slim. Best of luck."

Slim winced a little as the door slammed shut behind Mort but then he set to work untying Jess' bandana and using it to clean him up some. He inched off Jess' black gloves, tugged off his boots, and threw a quilt over his now peaceful, innocent looking partner. Then he pulled a chair up by the bed and sat down with a deep sigh and a small rueful laugh. "Partner," he said aloud, "you are a lot of trouble. But," he propped up his long legs on the mattress, settling down to wait for Jess for come to, "you're worth it."

All of a sudden, from under thick lashes and crinkled brows, Jess' blue eyes, clear and vulnerable, peered up at him. "You really mean that, Slim?" he asked quietly.

Slim was startled but no longer really surprised by anything Jess might do. His feet thudded to the floor and he leaned over his recumbent friend. "Yeah, Partner," he said and he smiled, his face lighting up with all the powerful affection of his big open heart. "I really mean that."

Jess studied Slim for a minute, memorizing that smile. Then he took a deep, soul relieved breath and his eyes dropped shut again. "I'm glad Slim ain't mad no more," he thought, dimly aware he was going to have one humdinger of a headache when he woke up and puzzling, just a bit, about how he was going to make it up with Miss Daisy and Mike. "Miss Daisy might lecture me some but then she'll go to fussin' over me and tellin' me to eat something. And Mike, well Mike's just Mike. We'll talk it over. Yeah…, it'll be ok. Me and Slim will work things out when we get back to the ranch." His breathing deepened as he drifted off. "It'll sure be good to be back home again…"

Credit and a lot of thanks go to kayak Lady's Spouse, author of the delightful "PRIZES" and other very entertaining stories, for the name of Laramie's saloon, for the charming technique of using non-cuss cuss words and for the idea of identifying Laramie residents by their full names.