The Calling
Author
James P. Hanley
Author Bio
Jim Hanley has had several careers: Naval officer, Human Resources director, adjunct professor, short story writer in varied genres and novelist. Jim has had over 7S stories published in a variety of styles and periodical including literary, mystery, western and humor. The Calling is Jim’s first novel and is published by 5 Prince Publishing. A member of the Western Writers Association is working on a sequel and compiling short stories for a book.
Description
The Calling is a unique western in that the main character—an educated, religious and tough Kansas sheriff—struggles with a series of deaths involving a bystander, deputies and outlaws and makes a significant life choice. Inspired to the priesthood and supported by a local bishop tired of naïve novitiates, the former sheriff makes the unlikely career change, enters a seminary but upon graduation, is surprised to be assigned a church in Brooklyn New York rather than in the West. While he is wearing a collar, he never loses his lawman instincts and helps members of his congregation in ways that upset church leadership. After several situations in which he uses his fists and even a gun to deal with criminals and bullies, he is sent back to his old job as sheriff to rethink his calling. The town he once served has changed, however, and outlaws have camped outside of the town limits and visit often intimidating the residents.
Needing help, the again-sheriff enlists two men: one an experienced lawman with a drinking problem and the other a banjo player with quick hand but no background in law enforcement. Facing consider odds and challenges, the sheriff also re-enlists a former deputy who has lost the use of his gun arm, and the four unlikely lawmen take on the challenges leading to bloodshed and removal of the menacing cowpokes and corrupt town leaders. At times, a federal marshal joins the town lawmen to fight gangs of men not willing to surrender.
Cleaning up the town is not an easy task and some of the lawmen suffer loss as a result of the gunfights. Even when the main menace is removed, the sheriff discovers the man behind all the lawlessness is a respected rancher and kin to one of his deputies.
The sheriff’s life gets further complicated as he develops feeling for a young widow who opens a business in town, making the decision of whether to remain as sheriff or eventually return to the priesthood even more difficult.
The sheriff prevails and in the end decides on his true calling.
Book excerpt
Looking up at the sky, he saw that the scouting clouds had dimmed the sun and in the distance the dark clouds were rushing across the sky as if being chased. He knew that rain would soon fall. As he entered the saloon, he saw the whores were against the wall as far from the bar as they could get without going up the stairs to the rooms they jokingly called ‘their place of business.’ The few men who stayed were at tables and only one man was at the bar. The sheriff looked at the man’s gun sticking menacingly out of the holster. Atwell recognized the Colt 44-40, called the Peacemaker, a popular weapon used by the Army. The bone grip was worn smooth and the holster leather was bent near the trigger, likely, the sheriff thought, from frequent draws. The man growled at the bartender who groggily leaned against the mahogany counter. When service wasn’t quick enough, the man reached over the bar for a three-quarters full whiskey bottle, knocking over glasses in the process.
“Put the bottle back,” Atwell said, “and leave.”
The cowboy let out a sarcastic laugh, “Who says so?”
“I’m the law and if you are not out of here, I’ll arrest you for disorderly conduct.”
“You by yourself, Sheriff? Ain’t no one man going to tell me what to do. I think you need to leave before you get hurt.”
“Out!” Atwell said loudly.
The man turned and shouted to the others in the saloon, “You hear him. He’s calling me out and here I was minding my own business, having a drink when this lawman calls me out. Well, I ain’t never run from a fight. Guess you folks will be needing a new sheriff real soon. You go out first, Sheriff.”
“So you can shoot me in the back, no thanks. You go first.”
“I don’t need to plug you in the back; I’ll do it in the middle of your chest. You’re calling me a coward, and I don’t take that well.”
As he weaved past, the man glared at Atwell. His face was twisted in anger. The stubble and stains from tobacco darkened his jaw. Leaving the saloon he stumbled slightly stepping down from the wooden walkway. As the cowboy walked to the center of street the town’s men and women moved away, vacating the dusty street around him while Sheriff Atwell stepped slowly out of the saloon.
“You can leave—”
Before the sheriff could finish the sentence the cowboy reached for his gun. Atwell grabbed for his weapon and had the barrel nearly pointed at his opponent, but just before he pulled the trigger, a bullet struck his shooting arm and in that second his arm jerked and the bullet left his gun pointed away from his target. The gunman seemed momentarily stunned that his shot had almost missed; the barrel of his weapon wavered slightly. Swinging quickly back around Atwell fired again and he saw the man fall backward, blood spurting out of the hole in his chest. When the shooting stopped, Atwell looked at his own wound and saw that the bullet had torn through his shirt and grazed his upper arm taking a bite of flesh; blood was flowing down his arm. He walked toward the dead cowboy and stared at the gunman’s blank expression, his life blasted out of him.
Suddenly, Atwell heard a commotion to his right and saw men and women running toward a prone figure outside the general store. A woman screeched and muffled voices said, “My God, she’s been shot.” Walking toward where they were congregating, the sheriff was stopped by the strong pull of his deputy. “You need to go to the doc about that wound. I’ll see what’s going on over there.”
“I heard someone call out ‘she’s been shot’”.
“Let me check while you go get fixed up. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
When the general store proprietor stood up, after leaning over the figure in front of his establishment, he looked toward Sheriff Atwell, “She’s dead.”
Confused and weakened from the loss of blood, the sheriff pushed past his deputy and saw a lifeless, young lady on the ground with a bullet wound in her stomach. Atwell faltered, his knees buckling. He felt Albright’s grip and slight tug upward.
“Look at your arm, Sheriff, the blood is pouring over your fingers like a stuck pump.” He called out to a farmer he knew, “Arnie, take the sheriff to Doc Eylward.”
Atwell reluctantly accepted the help and they walked slowly toward the doctor’s office down the street. Doc Eylward, having heard the shots, knew he’d soon have visitors and was waiting outside the door. “Bring him in here,” he instructed.
“Nobody’s bringing me anywhere. I’m on my own steam,” Atwell said huffily.
As he sat down on a long table covered with a white cloth, Atwell said, “You should be out there helping that woman.”
“Sit back, Sheriff, this is going to take some stitching. She’s beyond help, from what I hear, and you need tending before you slowly bleed to death.”
Atwell winced while the doctor sewed up his arm. He could still hear voices from the street: a shout to help pick up the dead cowboy, the softer appeal to take the woman to the undertaker, then it was silent before the usual street noises began again. Deputy Albright came into the office and grimaced when he saw Doc Eylward stitching the sheriff’s arm like he was repairing a torn shirt.
“You ok, Sheriff?”
“I’m fine. Who was she? What happened? Did I shoot her?”
“From what I gathered, her name is Eleanor Manus. Her sister is Peggy Mattingly, the former elementary school teacher who arrived a few years ago and married Joe Mattingly. Mrs. Mattingly was at her husband’s clothing store while her sister went shopping in the general store. Seems Miss Manus was buying a few things before leaving on the late stage back to Texas. She must have had something on her mind and didn’t pay attention to the ruckus in the street when she came out the store. The clerk came charging out to warn her to come back inside but he heard the shots and saw Miss Manus fall. Bill Remsen was standing diagonally across the street and saw everything. He said that a bullet nicked your arm as you were squeezing the trigger and your gun hand moved slightly to the right so that you missed the gunman but your shot struck that woman. It was an accident, Sheriff, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Atwell bellowed, part in response, and part from the deep penetration of the physician’s needle. “I killed an innocent woman.”
“Your gun shot that woman and the cowboy was as much, or maybe more, to blame for hitting your arm as you fired.”
“Semantics,” Atwell exclaimed.
“I don’t know what that means, but it ain’t your fault. It was just bad luck for that woman.”
“Stop calling her that woman, she has a name. Miss Manus,” he barked.
“I’m going to talk to her sister and tell her how sorry you are about what happened,” Brownie Albright said.
“Thanks; I’ll see her myself after a while.”
“And you need to take a day or two days off to heal,” Doc Eylward said, as he wound a bandage around the sheriff’s arm. Don’t do anything to open those stitches, Luke.” He was one of the few in town who called the sheriff by his first name.
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