The main things I remember about Jake Tillie were his high-topped boots, silver-rowled spurs, and black sombrero. Those boots came clean up to his knees and had long mule-ear pulls so's he could get 'em on. Most folks said he didn't need any pulls, because he never took those fancy-stitched high leathers off. And I reckon my pa was of the same mind, because he buried Jake with 'em still on out on boot hill.

Jake was real proud of those boots. He claimed to have taken them off a Mexican bandito by the name of Juan Martinez down in Juarez just across the Rio Grande from El Paso, Texas. That was after him and Juan got into a shootout over a marked poker deck. I never did hear Jake say which one of 'em had done the cheatin', but that don't matter none 'cause Juan lost his boots and sombrero.

Jake Tillie fancied himself to be a dancin' man. What with Juan's silver-studded "Chihuahua" spurs that jingled like harness bells on a laplander's reindeer, you could hear his fancy flamingo steps every night.

I'd just turned sixteen the day before Jake rode into Casper, Wyoming astride a bandy-legged cayuse that nobody with any sense would even drop a lariat on. Jake stuck out like a Mexican flag run up over the Alamo with his gold-trimmed sombrero, black leather vest, and striped britches tucked inside those high-topped boots.

Pa had moved Ma and me from Lander down to Casper durin' the summer of ninety right after Wyoming got taken into the Union. He bought out Henry Slessinger's furniture store and funeral parlor, because Ma wanted to move to a civilized town. She had showed Pa an article in the Casper Weekly Mail that listed the Casper census at 544 livin' souls. And most ever'body didn't even know that Lander existed. But her winnin' argument was our gettin' coffins and furniture shipped in on the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley Railroad, which was bound to turn us a higher profit.

Ma discovered that the move wasn't all that she wanted. It seems that there was about as much uncivilized stuff goin' on as in Lander, but she said nary a word about movin' back. That is, until I started runnin' around with Jake Tillie. Then she got her nose out o' joint when Pa told her to quit fussin', because I was just goin' through growin' pains.

Like I said, Jake came to Casper ridin' that good-for-nothin' horse, which died the day after he tied him to the hitchin' rail in front of Robert White's Saloon. Reckon it just up and died from neglect, at least that's what the town marshal accused Jake of. But there weren't no law against abusin' a horse, so Jake just kept on playin' poker and drinkin' booze.

Anyways, that's when I met Jake face-to-face. You see, there weren't nobody in Casper that done away with dead horses. I'll never forget how livid my pa got when Marshal Tigman walked in and ast him what he'd charge t'drag a dead horse out of town. "Dispose of what?" Pa yelled with his face no more'n six inches from Tigman's eyes that had saucered out like those of a spooked mule.

"Now Mister Geiger," Tigman said, sort of backin' away while holdin' up his hands. "I ain't aimin' to insult you by what I ast. It's just that I know you got those two Percheron horses that you pull that glass-sided funeral coach with."

"And you figure they can drag a dead horse?" Pa said as he peered over his pinch-nosed spectacles.

"That's about it," Tigman said and tongued his chaw waitin' for Pa to reply.

"Who's goin' t'pay me?"

"That new hombre by the name of Jake Tillie up at Robert White's Saloon."

"He agree to that?"

"No, but he will," Tigman said, pattin' the big Colt Peacemaker cradled in his holster.

Pa scratched his bald noggin while ponderin' how much to charge for draggin' off a dead horse. Then he turned to me and said, "Run up to the saloon and tell Mister Tillie that he owes me ten dollars for disposin' of his horse."

I hadn't ever been inside a saloon before, but I had peeked into one through the window back in Lander. That's when Will Dawson kilt Doc Mosley by mistake. I won't ever forget the odors that slithered up my nose when I walked into White's place. A blend of spilt whiskey, stale cigar smoke, and unwashed armpits nearly shoved me right back out the door.

I recognized Jake Tillie from the big sombrero danglin' down his back on the end of a leather thong tied around his neck. He was chompin' on an unlit cigar jammed into the corner of his mouth and his eyes was studyin' his hand of cards. The three cowpokes he was playin' with was starin' at the big stacks of red, white, and blue chips in front of Tillie. I reckon he was winnin' more than they figured he ought to.

After they finished their hand and Jake was rakin' in more winnin's, I took off my hat and cleared the jitters out of my throat. Jake glanced at me while he was buildin' another stack of chips. "What are you starin' at, kid?" he ast.

"Uh, are you Jake Tillie?" I said, fingerin' the brim o' my hat.

"Yeah," he said, soundin' real gruff. "Who wants t'know?"

"My pa sent me."

"Your pa, who's your pa?"

"He's a mortician," I said, tryin' to sound well-bred.

"A what?"

"Mortician, you know, an undertaker."

That's when I heard the jingle of those spurs of his for the first time. He slid back his chair and stood up. "You're interruptin' my game, kid," he said, toyin' with a stack of dollar chips. "What does your pa want of me?"

"Your horse is dead."

"I know that," he said and then began to chuckle. "Don't tell me your pa wants to bury my horse?"

"No, sir, the marshal wants him to drag it out of town."

"Well, that's fine with me, tell 'im t'go ahead."

"Yes, sir...but."

"But what?"

"His fee...is."

"Fee?"

"Ten dollars."

Jake stared at me with the hardest look I'd ever seen. "If the marshal wants my horse drug off, go get your ten dollars from him."

One of the cowpokes began to laugh, and then pretty soon the whole crowd stopped playin' poker and drinkin', and filled the saloon with guffaws. Well, Jake didn't take to all that commotion. He filled his hand with a Derringer, which he pulled out of his high-topped boot, and aimed it square between my eyes. "Now, kid," he snarled, "you just sashay your hinnie out o' here and go give your pa and the marshal my answer."

"Yes, sir," I said and waited to hear his answer.

"Y'can tell 'em that the buzzards will eat my horse right out there in the street before I'll pay anyone ten dollars."

I knew that my welcome had thinned out, like lard on a hot skillet. I just nodded and stepped backwards toward the door. Just then, a hand slapped me on the shoulder. "Hold up there, son," a man said, squeezin' my shoulder with a grip strong enough to make a gorilla cringe.

The grip belonged to Mister White, the bartender and owner of the saloon. He quickly pointed out to Jake the errors of his ways while Jake stared up the double muzzles of Mister White's scattergun. Jake booted his Derringer and handed me a ten-dollar gold eagle. "Okay, kid," he said, "tell your pa to go ahead."

Ma began to speak to Pa again after she found out that his reputation as a mortician had not been sullied by his disposin' of Jake's dead horse. But Pa let Tigman know right off that he'd drug off his last dead horse. So, from that day on, Pa just buried human bein's, those succumbin' to natural causes and a goodly bunch that didn't.

Havin' been exposed to the goin's on inside White's Saloon sort of changed my life. Y'see I had just turned sixteen and I'd run smack dab into a time when I was tryin' to decide the difference between good times and mindin' Pa and Ma. Since my days up to that time had been totally devoid of any sinful pursuits, the temptations of gamblin', drinkin', and enjoyin' the wiles of pretty gals began to dog me. I finally decided that Jake Tillie seemed to have the right slant on things. He was winnin' lots of money which bought him plenty of Havana cheroots and all the whiskey he could drink. But I reckon the most enticin' part were the gals.

The first thing I did was to bust open my bank that I'd been stuffin' my money into for a lot of years. I went down to Tidwell's Store and bought me a complete new outfit. Of all my new duds, I was most proud of my new boots. They wasn't as tall as Jake's, but they'd been polished until they was slick as lizard sweat. And I thought my spurs were even fancier than Jake's. They wasn't all silvery like his, but they were solid brass with silver rowels, and they jingled just like his.

After I put on all my new stuff, Mister Tidwell stuffed all my old duds into a gunnysack and counted out my change, which came to four dollars and twenty-five cents. I ast him to keep my old duds until I came back, my intentions bein' to try my hand at some poker over at the saloon.

Well, Jake Tillie won my four dollars and twenty-five cents on the first hand of five-card stud. When I told him and the other two players that I didn't have no more money, they busted into more hee-haws than I wanted t'hear. Amid all that tauntin', I stood up and slung my chair aside. That was a foolish gesture on my part, because Jake took offense before I could set my spurs t'jinglin'. Jeez, but he was quick. I swore he was deformed with at least ten fists and all of them comin' at my belly and chin at the same time.

That's when I got my first taste of Tennessee sour mash whiskey. When I woke up, my lips and tongue were set on fire. "Wake up, kid!" he yelled, pourin' more booze into my mouth.

When my eyes quit bein' all blurred up, I spewed and sputtered tryin' t'get my breath. "What is that stuff?" I yelled, tryin' to get up.

"Jack Daniels," he said and held up the jug for me t'see. "Ain't none better."

Well, the taste of that sour mash kept lingerin' on my tongue until I just had t'have another swig. Jake was real free with his jug that day. In fact, he sat down on the floor beside me and we kilt it while he told me how he'd won them boots and his gold-trimmed sombrero.

I took to old Jake like good times takes t'whiskey. And I reckon he took a shine t'me, too. We became gamblin' partners from that day on. He taught me how to turn any game of poker to my favor by more ways than a crow had for pilferin' a corncrib. At first, we played together on his money at the same table so's he could show me all the tricks. He said I learned real fast and had the smarts to be a top player. It wasn't long till I was runnin' my own table and pocketin' more money every day than Pa got for buryin' one of Casper's rich folks.

And then there was the dancin' with the perfumed gals from upstairs over the saloon. The first time I hugged one of them soiled doves was the day Jake dropped a dollar chip into Smokey Bill's hat. Smokey Bill, he was the guitar player, flashed a couple o' his gold teeth at Jake and said, "Hot?"

"Make it hotter than a jalapeno pepper," Jake said. "It's time the kid learned to jingle them spurs o' his."

Soon as Smokey Bill cut loose on his guitar, Jake opened the stairway door and yelled. "Maggie, it's dancin' time, and bring Rosa for the kid."

Maggie and Rosa were the two best lookin' gals that entertained the boys upstairs. Maggie was Jake's pick of the lot for dancin' and his upstairs frolickin', too. Every night after Jake had pocketed his winnin's, they'd dance until Smokey Bill couldn't play no more. Then him and Maggie went upstairs for the rest of the night.

"I don't know how t'dance," I said, pocketin' my winnin's.

"Just watch me," he said, shovin' all the tables aside. "Ain't nothin' to it."

Before I could object, Maggie and Rosa came boundin' down the stairs. Jake tossed his sombrero onto the bar-room floor, grabbed Maggie's hand, and they began to dance around and around his sombrero. While he stamped his boots, she spun away until her skirt flew up exposin' most all of her unmentionables. That's when I began to get calico fever.

I took t'dancin' the flamingo just like I'd taken to poker. At first, Rosa got her toes busted a few times before I learned to do the proper steps. But it wasn't long before my spurs were jinglin' just like Jake's, and Rosa was makin' her skirt fly higher'n Maggie's. The followin' weeks I spent with Jake at the saloon playin' poker, drinkin' sour mash, and dancin' with Rosa turned me into an abomination to my ma. At least that's what she said I'd become.

I was hard headed as a prospector's burro. All of Ma's pleadin' and weepin' didn't sway me from my sinful ways. Pa tried t'rein me in, but I stuck out my chest, chawed on my cud, and near spat in his eye when I told him where he could go. "Get out," he yelled. "And don't come back."

It all sadly came to an end one Saturday night not long after that. While Jake and I was havin' our dance with Maggie and Rosa, we didn't pay no attention to the shadowy figure that snuck in the back door. We'd been dancin' so long that we was all blowin' real hard and the sweat was stingin' my eyes somethin' fierce. The first thing that I knew anythin' was wrong was when I heard Maggie scream like a turpentined tiger. That's when that big hogleg Pa kept in his dresser drawer went off right next to my ear. Jake didn't have time to do nothin' before his spurs stopped jinglin' for good.

The jury only considered Ma's fate for about ten minutes. I watched Marshal Tigman knuckle his mustache a couple of times while he was whisperin' to Pa before the jury pronounced their verdict. Pa had seemed to be upbeat durin' the trial after Tigman testified he'd received a wanted flyer on Jake Tillie. He'd got it the day after Pa buried Jake out on 'Boot Hill'. Ma didn't know it, but she was due the one-hundred dollar reward promised by the family of Juan Martinez for the capture, dead or alive, of Jake Tillie.

When the jury returned, Pa gripped my arm so tight that I wanted to yell. The judge nodded at the jury, and then they sat down. "Who's the foreman?" he asked, peerin' over his spectacles.

"I am, your honor," Smokey Bill said, standin' up to face the judge.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, your honor."

The judge looked square at Ma. "Mrs. Geiger, please stand up and face the jury."

We all stood up with her, me and Pa, and lawyer Slater who had argued that Ma was temporarily insane that night. I'll never forget how she looked standin' there all teary eyed, holdin' onto Pa's arm. Her mood was as black as her hair that didn't contain a single strand of gray in spite of all the misery I'd dealt her. She was a handsome woman, so said the Casper Weekly Mail reporter the day she was charged with the murder of Jake Tillie.

"And what is your verdict?" the judge said.

Smokey Bill looked right at me, instead of at Ma when he answered. "We find the defendant, Mrs. Sarah Geiger, guilty of voluntary manslaughter in the demise of Jake Tillie," he said, and then pointed his finger right at me. "That's because that brat o' hers drove her t'do it."

Ma near collapsed. Pa eased her down into a chair, and the judge stared right at me. He took off his spectacles and wagged his head before he spoke. "Mrs. Geiger," he said, soundin' real sorry for what he had to do. "A jury of your peers has found you guilty of voluntary manslaughter. It is the duty of this court to sentence you to five years in the state penitentiary. However, the court sees fit to be merciful. Your sentence is reduced to six-months probation and a fine of two-hundred dollars."

Ma busted out in tears and Pa gave out a loud whoopee, which the judge ignored as he turned his eyes toward me. "Young man," he said, reachin' for his big oak gavel. "Your ma's fine is your responsibility. I'll be seein' you in my chambers."

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright © 2000 Fredrick W. Boling. All rights reserved.