The Guilty - Jason Pinter [52]
around this town. Collectors and vagabonds are absolutely
shameless. It's a real pity, how little respect some folks have.
If you take a look at John Chisum's military sword in the
museum," she said, leaning closer, "it ain't the real thing. Real
sword was stolen ten ought years ago. They just tell people
it's the real thing to keep up appearances, save money on insurance."
I took out the brochure, looked at the dozens of guns,
swords and artifacts in the pictures. "Is that so," I said, not so
much a question.
"Places like that keep this town going," she added. "Heck,
there wouldn't be any need for this hotel without them.
Anyway, enjoy your trip, don't worry 'bout what I said.
There's enough real history in that place to send you home
happier'n a pig in slop."
I thanked Marjorie, grabbed my recorder and notebook and
headed out. The museum was on East Sumner Avenue, less
than half a mile from the motel. It was just past eight-thirty.
All the houses and shops looked like they'd been pulled from
old Western movies. Low-hanging awnings, typeface with
old-style lettering, bright yellows and reds slapped on warped
wooden signs. It was like the town was bending over
backward to retain its precious nostalgia.
The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen was a one-story
building that occupied most of one block. Sitting outside
were two pitch-black cannons aimed at each other across the
entryway, as though daring visitors to step past. Beside them
stood a carriage-style wheel, painted bright yellow. The signage showed an image of a man leaning on a rifle. A rifle
which, upon closer inspection, looked pretty darn like a Winchester 1873.
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There were no lights on and the windows were barricaded.
Not boarded, but barricaded as though the museum was defending itself from an impending attack. And if Marjorie was
telling the truth, maybe it needed that line of defense.
I wiggled the front door, which was locked, but nothing
that would have prevented anyone with amateur lock-picking
skills and ten free minutes from circumventing. I stuck my
hands in my pockets and waited.
At ten to nine, a thirty-something man with shoulderlength sandy blond hair, tattered jeans and cowboy boots,
walked past the cannons. He nodded at me, took a ring of keys
from his pocket and unlocked the front door.
He turned to me and said, "You here for the museum?"
"Yessir," I said.
"You a college boy?"
I smiled. "No, sir, a few years out. Just came to visit." He
nodded, as though that was a suitable answer.
"Just give me ten minutes to open up." He went inside
and I waited.
Twelve minutes later he propped the front door open and
waved me inside.
The museum was astonishing. It only consisted of four or
five large rooms, but each room was packed to the gills with
antique guns, bullets, cannons, actual carriages, bows and
arrows, belts, rifles and every and any other weapon that
looked like it might have been used by, or against, John
Wayne. The walls were covered with glassed-in documents
that were remarkably well-preserved, along with photos of the
writers and/or recipients of the correspondence. The air had
a musty smell, the floor speckled with sawdust.
The manager took a seat behind a counter, put his feet up
and opened a newspaper.
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Jason Pinter
"You need anything," he said to me, "just holler."
Behind the counter hung several replica guns that were
available for purchase. Several boxes of dead ammunition
lined the shelves. A small sign read 10 Shells For $5.
I paid the ten-dollar entrance fee. A few other visitors
ambled in after me, also happy to pay and gaze at the history
of violence.
I took a slow lap around, surveying the dozens of guns,
even running my fingers along the cannons that guarded the
entryway into each new room. One room was decorated to
resemble an Old West blacksmith's shop, complete with anvil
and tools, bent metals and horseshoes. Along the walls were
rifle parts in various stages of development, like a before-andafter of gun