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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Three Fingered Jack
by Johnny Gunn
It ended with the singular blast from the muzzle of a Colt, the clatter made when the body, flung backwards with the force of a rock slide, clattered through chairs and tables, making a decided thump on arriving face first on the bar room floor, bleeding its last onto the rough boards. The silence that followed, while feeling like eternity in length, ended quickly, in fact, with the jostling of men and women making for the swinging doors, open windows, or staircase, and with no thought for their fellow man. Three-fingered Jack found himself alone, except for the dead one, of course, and stood quietly at the long oaken bar wondering if anything had been proved.
A miner by trade, his name coming from a miscue while crimping some fuse into a blasting cap, blowing two of his fingers into the tiniest of pieces, atom size, actually, Jack stands taller than most in his profession. About six feet and two inches, with broad, heavy shoulders coming from heaving an eight pound double jack hammer every working day for more than ten years, Jack is impressive on first sight. He hasn’t seen a barber for years, nor a bathing tub, and would be lost in a social setting filled with linen, fine China, and silver. Most, on first meeting, remember him for the size of his hands, and the length of his remaining fingers. Some feel he could pick up a bowling ball without the benefit of the finger holes. He also has a reputation of being quiet and gentle. Men are fearful, ladies are grateful.
It was his habit to come to Pritchart Hole every other Saturday, meet with the banker for trading gold for cash, buy the supplies he would need for the next fortnight, have a small taste of whiskey, and maybe even join in the singing of a song or the telling of a tall tale, both of which he was very good at. Three-fingered Jack had a voice that stopped stampedes, would carry to the far reaches of Hades, a rich, deep voice, clear as Mrs. Pettigrew’s crystal service, and sweet as Cuba’s finest cane. Sweet Betsy From Pike never sounded better.
He arrived in town before the Noon bell and visited with banker Swenson. “Ah, Jack, it’s good to see you again. Your account is growing nicely. Have you plans to buy more land around Pritchart Hole?” There were few that knew the extent of the vein Jack has been working the last five years, but Swenson knew, he has led Jack into some fine land deals, and Three-fingered Jack has extensive holdings in and near Pritchart Hole. He could consolidate his holdings, build a large ranch, and live a much easier life if he wished. An easier life is not in his character.
Character. That’s a word that is dear to Jack. “A man’s character is determined by many things, honesty and strength, morality and manners, his word is never questioned. These and a sense of purpose and responsibility are what the word integrity means. Underground, you put your life in the hands of your partner and he puts his in yours, and that level of trust is sometimes unknown by those working on the surface, quibbling over tiny little nothings rather than building a trust.”
He looked at the banker, smiled that big faced kindly smile of his, and said, “No, I will continue what I do best.” He took his tally sheets, gave them a complete and careful scan, said thank you, left the bank, walked to the general store and spent a considerable amount of money on supplies for the next two weeks. He had two men working his mine, and their needs always came first. He worked underground with them, he trusted, they trusted.
“Those mules will be pulling a load going home this evening, Jack. You ‘bout bought me out,” the store keeper laughed.
“It’s a long eight miles up that trail, Joshua, but they’re used to doing a lot heavier work that that.” He put the wagon, supplies, and mules in the shade under the large oak tree that dominates the center of the little village, and stepped into the Pritchard Hole Saloon and Dance Hall for his regular taste of whiskey and a bit of fun.
“Hey, Jack. It must be Saturday,” Caleb, the saloon keeper said as Three-fingered Jack came through the swinging doors.
“Saturday it is, Caleb, Saturday it is.” As Jack sidled up to the long bar, a ruckus was brewing at one of the card tables and Caleb pointed it out to the large mining man.
“That boy is here to cause trouble, Jack. He can’t keep his hands off my working girls, he’s been caught trying to sneak cards into the deck, and that pistol of his is hanging mighty loose, like he’s ready to pull that iron at any minute. One more little thing and I’m throwin’ him out.”
“You run a clean saloon, Caleb, so if you need help, just holler.” Jack and Caleb go way back to the early days in Austin, and then later up in Unionville. Caleb did well with his diggings and moved to Pritchart Hole when these mines opened up, and bought the saloon. “I’ll back your play.”
“I know you will, Jack, I know you will.” The scream caught everyone’s attention, and heads turned in time to see the young man slap one of the dance hall girls across her face. He knocked her to the floor and was menacing her as she lay there.
“You little tart. When I want a kiss, you kiss me,” and he raised his fist to strike the girl again.
“Hold it right there, Pard. You touch that lady again and I’ll rip your head off.” Three-fingered Jack had already taken three big steps toward the ugly scene when the man spun and pulled his gun. Jack reached out and grabbed the gun, giving a mighty twist as he did, breaking two of the man’s fingers, and ripping the weapon away from him. Jack held the Colt’s by its barrel and swung a huge fist into the man’s face, driving him clear across the floor and into the bar. Caleb broke a bottle over the young man’s head, which effectively ended the fray.
“You all right, Ma’am?” Jack helped the dance hall girl to her feet, she crying and shaking from the ordeal. “You go on up to your room, Misty, and get yourself all fixed up.” His smile was genuine, his graciousness typical of Three-fingered Jack, and the girl wanted to give him hugs and kisses, but went upstairs instead.
“Anybody know this fool?” Jack asked pulling the man to his feet. “You’re not only not welcome in this establishment, my friend, you’re not welcome in this town. You get out now,” and Jack pushed the man toward the swinging doors. “Look at that, Caleb, he’s just a boy.
“You keep acting like you’re doing right now and you’ll have a mighty short and ugly life, son. I ever see you touch a lady that don’t want to be touched and I’ll have you for breakfast.” Jack had moved the boy’s Colt’s from his left hand into his right, and was holding it by the handle when the boy, lightning fast, pulled a single shot Derringer from his boot. Three-fingered Jack fired just once.
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Three-fingered Jack took his mules and loaded wagon back to the mine, closed down the operation and rode one of the mules back to town. “What are you doing back in town, Jack? The trial won’t be for two days.” Sheriff John McNabb, a former miner turned lawman was short and powerful in build. He rarely wore his side arm knowing most men would rather talk with him than get in a physical confrontation.
“Didn’t know if you meant to keep me overnight, John. Didn’t want you to think I was hightailing it out of here.”
“That’s nonsense, Jack. Damn me, you simply did what every other man in town wanted to do. Shame that boy had to die, though. So young and so stupid. Come on, let’s see if we can rustle up a steak over at Gertie’s.”
There was no room on the board covered walkway when those two walked down the street, huge shoulders and narrow hips filled the area to capacity. A long supper, good steaks with mashed potatoes and gravy, topped off with large sections of one of Gertie’s apple pies. “Amos will be town tomorrow, and he might even step up the proceedings if he knows you’re already in town. I’ll talk to him about that. Looks like Caleb has a room for you upstairs over the bar. See you in the morning, Jack.”
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Three Fingered Jack was sworn in, a jury of his peers was sworn in, Circuit Rider Amos Jenkins presided over the court, set up in Caleb’s saloon, and the proceedings were short and final. Yes, Jack said, he had to shoot the boy because that little Derringer was aimed right at his head. Yes, he had taken the boy’s gun away from him when he threatened to shoot him just moments before. Yes, it was a horrible thing to have to kill the boy, but it was purely self defense. Yes, the boy had struck a young lady, and that’s something Three-fingered Jack said he would never tolerate.
The jury tended to nod in agreement with every statement Jack made, and the sheriff said he felt that Three-fingered Jack did what any righteous man would do, as far as smacking the boy went, and he had every right to defend himself when the boy tried to shoot him. Again, all heads in the jury box were nodding their approval.
“Well, Jack, what have you got to say?” Judge Jenkins asked.
Three-fingered Jack stood up, towering over the assembled court, his spanking clean working pants showing a bit of wear, but not overly so, his shirt freshly pressed by the young lady that had been slapped, and his hair brushed to a sheen not seen by man or beast in two decades. “Your honor, I’m sorry that boy had to die, but at the same time, it is every man’s responsibility to respect the rights and life of fellow citizens. Pritchart Hole isn’t a big town, just a village, but if strangers can come to town and slap our women around and threaten men and women with their guns and knives, then it’s not even a town or village, just a place with no honor. Actually, I’m proud of what I did in this very room just days ago. Pritchart Hole is a better place for it, and I’m a better man for standing up for what’s right in this village.”
The whoops and hollers from the jury box and spectators proved to be the end of the trial, the judge’s little area was cleared, the jury box became poker tables once again, and Caleb said, yes, the bar is open. For the next several decades, August fifth was known as Three Fingered Jack Day in Pritchart Hole.
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