MENKEY BUTTE MINE

I asked him if this was Menkey Butte Mine.

He said, “No.”

No sense doodle-bugging around so I pulled my .44 and shot him. Not my best shot. A little off-center in the forehead. I found that slightly unsettling. We weren’t more than fifteen feet apart. Normally, I’m better than that. But I was pleased that he hadn’t even moved by the time I’d fired. Affirming my continued quickness. Most importantly, he was Quite Dead, even if not epically dead. It wasn’t like anyone saw me shoot him anyway. Well, anyone who was going to live.

Why shoot him? Simple. This was most likely not Menkey Butte Mine – and I’ve decided I will not use the other name. The dead man’s name had been Jebidiah Smith – a shooting offense as it was. He pronounced it “Jeb-i-di-er.” That did amuse me. Almost made up for my less-than-excellent shot. In any case, I would have had to make that pronunciation a reality at some point. Jeb-i-di-er. If not, later the itch would come and get downright unbearable. So why delay when he served no purpose to me by continuing to breathe?