Excerpt from Gunfighters of the Western Frontier
© 1999 ProofmarkLuke Short
The subject of this narrative might have 'died with his boots on', for he had many chances&emdash; but he didn't. The fact that he lived to die in bed, with his boots removed, as all good folks like to do when the end has come, may have been due to good luck, but I hardly think so. That he was the quickest at the critical moment is, perhaps, the best answer.
When the time came for Luke Short to pass out of this life&emdash; to render up the ghost as it were&emdash; he was able to lie down in bed in his own home, surrounded by wife and friends, and peacefully await the coming of the end.
There was nothing in his wan drawn features, as he lay on the last bed of sickness at Forth Worth, Texas, to indicate that luck had ever been his friend. He was aware that his time had come, and was reconciled to his fate. Every lineament in the cold, stern face, upon which death had already left its impress, showed defiance. He could almost be heard to say: "Death! You skulking coward! I know you are near; I also realize I cannot defeat you; but if you will only make yourself visible for one brief moment, I will try!"
Known as a white Indian
Luke was a little fellow, so to speak, about five feet, six inches in height, and weighing in the neighborhood of one hundred and forty pounds. It was a small package, but one of great dynamic force. In this connection it will not be out of order for me to state that, though of small build, it required a 71/8 hat to fit his well-shaped, round head. At the time he left his father's ranch in Western Texas, where he had been occupied as a cowboy in the middle seventies for the Red Cloud Agency in North Dakota, he was nothing more than a white Indian. That is, he was an Indian in every respect except color. As as nearly all of our American Indians living west of the Missouri River in those days were both wild and hostile and on the war path most of the time, a fair idea of Luke Short may be gleaned from this statement. Luke had received none of the advantages of a school in his younger days; he could hardly write his name legibly. It was, indeed, doubtful if he had ever seen a schoolhouse until he reached man's estate. But he could ride a bronc and throw a lariat; he could shoot both fast and straight, and was not afraid.
...
The spring of 1881 found Luke Short in Tombstone, Arizona, dealing faro in a house managed by Wyatt Earp. One morning I went into the Oriental gambling house, where Luke was working, just in time to keep him from killing a gambler named Charlie Storms. There was scarcely any difference between this case and the one with the bad man in Leadville a couple of years previous. Charlie Storms was one of the best-known gamblers in the entire West and had, on several occasions, successfully defended himself in pistol fights with Western 'gunfighters'.
Charlie Storms and I were very close friends&emdash; as much as Short and I were&emdash; and for that reason I did not care to see him get into what I knew would be a very serious difficulty. Storms did not know Short and, like the the bad man in Leadville, had sized him up as an insignificant-looking fellow, whom he could slap in the face without expecting a return. Both me were about to pull their pistols when I jumped between them and grabbed Storms, at the same time requesting Luke not to shoot, a request I knew he would respect if it was possible without endangering his own life too much. I had no trouble in getting Storms out of the house, as he knew me to be his friend. When Storms and I reached the street, I advised him to go to his room and take a sleep, for I then learned for the first time that he had been up all night, and had been quarreling with other persons.
He asked me to accompany him to his room, which I did, and after seeing him safely to his apartment, where I supposed he would go to bed, I returned to where Short was. I was just explaining to Luke that Storms was a very decent sort of man when, lo and behold! There he stood before us, without saying a word, at the same time pulling his pistol, a Colt's cut-off .45 calibre single action; but like the Leadvillian, he was too slow, although he succeeded in getting his pistol out. Luke stuck the muzzle of his pistol against Storm's heart and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore the heart asunder and, as he was falling, Luke shot him again. Storms was dead when he hit the ground. Luke was given a preliminary hearing before a magistrate and exonerated.
