GUNFIGHT AT THE SO-SO CORRAL
or
YART FOR YART'S SAKE

by Barry Ergang

When they reached the top of the ridge, a startled noise erupted from Horner's throat and he reined up suddenly. Elston halted his own horse, turned in his saddle to look back at his older companion.

“That's the durnedest burp I ever heard,” he said, grinning. “Sounded like Yart .”

“Warn't no burp.” Horner's voice shook. “It's the name o' that town down there.” He pointed at the sprawl of buildings in the valley below.

“You look spooked, ol' man. What's the matter?”

“Spooked is right. Yart's a ghost town.”

Elston tilted back the brim of his hat. “Sure looks like there's folks movin' around down there.”

“Shore does. That's the trouble. They ain't s'posed to be there. Neither's the town.” Horner's hand rested on the butt of the gun holstered at his hip.

“What d'ya mean, the town ain't supposed to be there?”

“Look around. Y'see grass 'n' trees, don‘tcha?”

“Yeah. So?”

“We're in Texas,” Horner said. “Yart's in Arizona scrub country. Leastways, it was when it was alive.”

“When it was alive ? Yer sayin' the town itself is a ghost? Buildings an' all?”

“'Zackly. It don't belong here.”

Elston unslung a canteen from his saddle and offered it to Horner. “You been in the sun too long, ol' man. Have a drink.”

“Ah keep fergettin' yore an easterner,” Horner said, waving off the canteen.

“If you call Missouri the east.”

“Don't rightly make no never mind. Ya wouldn't know the story.”

“So whyn't you tell me?”

“Ah'll tell ya while we ride outta here.”

“The horses need waterin',” Elston said. “ 'Sides, you said we was comin' up on a town.”

“Yeah, but not this one. We gotta coupla miles t'go yet.”

“Sure y'don't wanna ride down an' have a look at yer ghost town?”

“Take my word for it. Yart ain't a healthy place to be. It's worrisome that it showed up here 'n' now. Y'got any dirty little secrets ya ain't told me about?”

Elston squinted at him. “No.”

Horner visibly relaxed. “Good. Ah ain't either. Means the town ain't gunnin' for one of us.”

“Ol' man, yer soundin' more an' more like you been eatin' loco weed.”

“Let's ride 'n' Ah'll tell ya the story.”

They spurred their horses to a gentle lope, Horner leading them below the ridge to keep them invisible to the town in the valley below. When Yart was a reasonable distance behind them, they slowed the horses to a walk. Horner took some tobacco from his pocket, cut off a plug, and popped it into his mouth.

“Ever heard o' Fenton Prue?” he asked, chewing.

“No.”

“Well, Ah guess they's no reason you shoulda. Prue was a tinhorn who fancied hisself a gunslinger, 'n' he was out to git him a reputation at any cost. Meanin' he'd druther pull a trigger than use his brains.

“Few years back, Prue 'n' a coupla other saddle bums rode inta Yart. It was a peaceable town filled with peaceable folks who minded their own business, ran their farms, ranches 'n' stores, 'n' went to church reg‘lar on Sundays. They had 'em a sheriff 'n' a jail, but Ah doubt the sheriff ever locked up anyone 'ceptin' a drunk— and then only overnight so's he could sleep it off. Till Prue rode in, Yart didn't know trouble.

“Prue didn't waste no time makin' some. Him 'n' his boys went inta the saloon, an' Prue'd barely taken his first drink when someone accidental-like brushed up against him. The man apologized, but Prue warn't havin' none of it. He shot the man dead. Like Ah said, he was jest lookin' for an excuse to start somethin'.

“Well, it warn't long 'fore the sheriff 'n' his deputy showed up, but neither of 'em had no experience takin' on gunslingers. Prue kilt 'em both 'fore they unholstered their guns, then started howlin' like a crazed coyote 'n' shootin' everyone in sight. He stopped jest long enough to reload, 'n' when he run outta amminition he grabbed up dead men's guns 'n' used 'em. Him and those saddle bums went all through the town, blazin' at anything that moved. They say Prue did all the ackshool killin'—”

“Who's ‘they'?” Elston interrupted, smiling skeptically.

“Ah got the story direct from one o' them saddle bums.” Horner's own smile, as he leaned sideways and spat tobacco juice into the dust, was complacent. “Anyways, Prue did all the killin', 'n' by nightfall he was drinkin' 'n' braggin' 'bout how he'd kilt him a entire town, which made hisself the meanest sidewinder in the whole west. He was makin' his pals nervous 'cause he was talkin' crazier 'n' crazier the more he drunk. The three of 'em drunk a lot, 'n' finally fell asleep in the saloon, surrounded by dead bodies.

“When the two saddle bums woke up, Prue was gone. The one I heard the story from was nervous 'cause he'd seen how crazy Prue was. He was afeared him and the other bum was next to die, so he decided it was time to light outta there. When he rode to the edge of town, he found Prue hangin' from a tree branch. The town had got its revenge.”

“You mean someone in town was still alive,” Elston said, “an' lynched him.”

“Ah already told ya everyone in town was dead 'ceptin' the two bums Prue rode in with. It was the town of Yart that done the lynchin'. Like the spirits o' Prue's victims rose up 'n' said, ‘We won't be forgotten. We'll have justice for ourselfs 'n' others like us.' Ever since, the ghost of the town appears wherever they's wrongdoers makin' trouble, 'n' delivers its own kind o' justice.”

“That ain't the way of things, ol' man.” Elston shook his head, a deprecatory smile shaping his mouth. “It's a fairy tale.”

Horner spat again, fixed Elston with a cold stare. “Fairy tales c'n come true. Look what happened to Prue. He was hung at Yart.”