Dusty. A tale of the old West.(Kevin Hughes) His name was not always Dusty. Back East, they called him: William Henry Buckley, which is quite the handle.
He wasn’t very tall. With boots on, he could boast to be five foot six inches tall. He had rust red hair, like old barbed wire, or a worn down barn. Freckles, lay like spots of dust, all across his face, neck, and shoulders, but just a sprinkle, a light dusting- if you will. He was much stronger than he looked. Which many a bigger man found out, just a bit to late. He wasn’t wiry, or willow thin, but he wasn’t solid oak, or heavily muscled either. He was a medium build, but on the lighter side. He had wide shoulders for his size, and a narrow waist that all Western Men seem to have no matter where they were born. He was quiet, a good listener too. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to talk, it is just that most of his life there wasn’t anybody to talk too. Back East Dusty was a minor clerk, in a minor counting house, out West, Dusty was a legend. Here is how it started.


Dusty had practiced with his six shooter until his thumb and trigger finger had become calloused strong independent appendages. Unlike a lot of Western men, he practiced with both hands- he did not wear two guns for show. He could draw, aim, and shoot, just as well with either hand, a skill that would come in handy as his legend grew. Dusty also practiced with a rifle, and a buffalo gun. Years later, a scout who worked briefly with Dusty during the Indian Wars saw Dusty bring down an Elk from almost a mile away.
"Shot right through the brain pan. “ The man said: “At a mile. Could that boy shoot? I’d say so.” Dusty had no idea how good he had gotten, he had no one to compare himself to. He just worked at being a little faster, shooting a little straighter, and hitting things that were moving, or farther away, as practice. Little did he know, he had passed the greatest shooters of the time in: speed, accuracy, and volley. Often, when unloading all six rounds into a target, Dusty’s guns did not make a series of gunshots, just one long bang. Most times if he only got off two or three shots, witnesses only heard one “bang!” Still he had not killed anyone, nor had he been in a gunfight, or even a fist fight. Not yet. That would change…tomorrow.

Dusty got up on the range, folded his kit up, then fixed himself some coffee and beans. While they were cooking, he went out to the bushes to answer the call of nature. When he came back to camp, there they were. Three hombres. All of them ridden hard, and put away wet. Tough boys. Hard boys. Boys that had ridden both sides of the law. Fair to them did not matter. You lived another day, or you didn’t. It was all the same to them. So it wasn’t any concern of theirs, if this tenderfoot lived or died. He had supplies that they needed, so if he couldn’t protect those supplies, why, they reckoned, they weren’t meant to be his at all. They had already helped themselves to the welcome coffee, made just the way Western men liked it: hot, strong, and plenty. Dusty stepped out of the bramble, and fixed his belt. It was only then he noticed the three men.

“Mornin, boys.”

“Howdy back at ya.”

“What is it you boys want? I see you helped yourself to the coffee.That’s okay, I can make more.”

The three men glanced at each other. They had done this to stragglers and many a tenderfoot from Back East. They saw that he was wearing two guns, which was a dead give away that he probably couldn’t use them. Nobody out West wore two guns, because they knew they would be challenged to see if those guns were for show. They also noted the pack horse filled with supplies. It is why they stopped. One man, two horses, one of them a pack horse, was a sure sign this boy was from Back East. Headed West with silly dreams of becoming a man, or a rancher, or starting a new life. Instead, that life was going to end right here, out on the range. In the open. In front of the last fire that boy would ever make. The men smiled at his naive bravado.

“We want a bit more than your coffee and beans, young fellow. “ The tallest of the three pointed towards the horses and supplies. “We figure we shall just take the horses and supplies, and you can walk and think about what you did wrong. The next town ain’t but thirty or so miles from here. Walking, you ought to be there by Sundown. “ The three men laughed.

Just then a dust devil swooped by, stirring up the fire, sending little flames like fiery butterflies twenty feet into the air. It also covered William Henry Buckley with dust.

“Well, look at you boy! All covered with dust. Why it is a sign from the Bible: “…dust an unto dust you shall return.” All the men laughed. “Dusty. We shall write that on your cross.”

“You going to bury me then?”

“Well…Dusty. We being Civilized men, but in a hurry. Don’t figure on burying you. The coyotes, and bears need to eat. But, we are Christians, so we will make you a marker. Every man should have at least a marker when he dies. Don’t you think?”

“I didn’t know that bit of Western Lore. But it is good to know. I don’t have to bury you three, I just have to make a marker. Saves me time. Now that you told me where the town is.”

The three men had no idea what this little dust mite meant. It should have been a clue that Dusty - as they named him, was not the lead bit afraid. He had left being afraid back East. The three men did not know that he had fought both a bear, and a mountain lion, and won. Nor did they know he had survived the coldest winter on record, by finding and living with a hibernating bear. No. Fear and Dusty had parted ways a long time ago. Even when his canoe took him and his supplies over a twenty foot waterfall, and 17 miles of rapids, he didn’t panic, even though he damn near drowned. The beating he took on the rocks, would have killed most men. But he kept on. He had a dream, and that dream was in the West, and he wasn’t stopping, nor would anybody stop him until he chased that dream and treed it.

The men had done this before. Braced a brave man with a gun. But there were three of them, and just one brave man. They followed their routine, it had never failed them before. One stayed put, the other two moved six feet away to either side. They knew that the other fella would now have to turn and choose a target, and by that time he would be dead. Riddled from the bullets of three guns. So they eased into their positions, in a sliding movement, a practiced movement, a well worn, oiled movement. Leaving Dusty facing one man, with two of them just on the edge of his periphial vision. He smiled. “Good thing I took geometry in school.”

That comment was so out of place in the Western mind, so unexpected, so novel, that the two outriders looked over at the man in the middle as if to say: “What the heck does that mean?” The moment their eyes left Dusty, Dusty fired. “Baaaammmm!” One long bang. Six bullets, all of them finding their marks. The man in the middles hat flew off, followed shortly by most of the little brain he had. One eye fell on his cheek, hanging from a bloody cord. The man on the left felt like some horse or mule had kicked him in the chest, but it was just two bullets slamming into his heart, crushing his sternum, some ribs and shattering his heart. The man on the right fared no better. Because of the angle, the two bullets headed his way, ripped through his lung, liver, and heart, on the way to his spine, which severed all feeling from his lower body, if he had had any. Dead men don’t feel.

There were no moans. No cries. Just a deathly stillness. Dusty’s aim was such that there was no lingering death. The term “dropped dead” was an accurate one. A moment later outside the ring of the fire, Dusty heard a “giddyup” and the pounding of hoofs. A man on a horse , the fourth man, who was supposed to be the back up, the reserve, the fail safe, decided on the spot, to run. He saw that shootout. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. So he jumped on his horse, with his gun out, figuring he would just fire some shots at the fellow still standing, so he would flinch or duck, then the man on the horse would be clear of that death machine. Riding hard for town. It would have worked too. If only Dusty had flinched , or ducked. He did not. He turned towards the racing horse, and in the dark, at a moving target, shot two more times, one shot from each gun.

One hit the pommel of the saddle, taking off the mans thumb and forefinger. The other bullet though, went in above his hip, and came out in the front right by his belly button. He was gut shot. It would take him more than two days to die. Long enough for him to get to Dry Gulch, and tell them about a man named Dusty. A short fella with red hair and deadly aim. The fastest gun in the West. They asked the dying man what the name of this shooter was.

“Dusty. At least that is what they called him just afore the shooting started. “

Later the same day the gut shot thief came into town, the Sheriff and a posse road out to the campsite. The animals hadn’t quite chewed up all the bodies. The men lay where they had fallen. Guns still in their holsters. Bye each was a little wooden cross pounded into the ground. No name. No date. Just the words: Dead Thieves. The Sheriff and the Western Men in the posse, knew the three bodies by name. Bad men. Hard men. Fast with a gun men. They never got their guns out, and they had him in a crossfire. Out loud he said: “Dusty. There’s a man you don’t want to steal from.” Heads nodded.

The legend…was born.

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