The Reckoner: Half Past Sunset, Part 1

The holster was unique, it had to be for a firearm as unique as his.  It tied off just above his knee and was open faced except for the small toe at the bottom that cupped the barrel of the piece.   There was a hook that attached to the saddle ring on the receiver, but that wasn't what made the holster unique.

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He played with the hammer of the rifle, cocking and uncocking it with the rhythmic clack of the train as it went down the tracks.  It was dusty outside the window, the entire landscape was arid and death clung to everything that tried to eek an existence out there.  The wind was blowing, sand and dirt flew across the desert landscape.  A dust devil spun across the horizon, growing and shrinking with each turn.  Just as quickly as it formed it had disappeared and he continued to cock and uncock the rifle.

The brim of his hat lifted only slightly, beneath the large, dark shadow two eyes pierced out, hawkish.  The rhythmic clack had become a solid grinding as the train jolted and slowed down.  Voices around him became louder, jumbled, not knowing what had happened or why they had stopped.  Unholstering the rifle and quickly cocking the lever, he hid it underneath his coat, across his lap.  He lowered his gaze back down, trying to relax into the seat for what small piece he could.

The noise in the car climbed to a feverish pitch, men and women arguing, children crying, old-timers yelling for a conductor.  Then all was quiet.  The wind had stopped blowing outside the window and the sand had settled.  On the horizon a storm front had gathered, blue sky gave way to blackened clouds.  It sat there, waiting to stampede across the sky and tear the land apart, bringing much needed life to a land that would strain to nurse every last drop and would leave it wanting, hope emaciated.

And it broke!  The door to the train car splintered as the body fell through it and to the floor.  Behind him, stepping through what remained of the door was a man who wielded a six shooter in both hands.  They were cold, blued steel with sandalwood grips, they were big irons that had put more than one man in the ground.  Women screamed and men cowered, and a bang! echoed through the train car.  He shot the man on the floor, "Be quiet!" he yelled, "nobody try to be the hero and you won't end up like that poor fella right there," he pointed the pistol at the corpse on the floor.

The bandit pulled a burlap sack that hung from his back pocket and opened it up, awkward as he tried to juggle the bag and a pistol in one hand.  With the other pistol he motioned at the sack, "put your valuables in here!"  He walked down the aisle of the car, holding out the bag and stopped at every passenger.  They filled the sack with bills, watches, a few rings, anything that could be scrounged.  He wore a smile as he walked down the aisle, his yellow teeth peeking from behind his unkept beard, the duster he wore was a few sizes to big and created a train behind him which he luckily never tripped on.

It didn't matter though.  Aiken didn't even lift his brow as the bandit got to his seat.  "Put whatever you got in the sack and there ain't gonna be no trouble," the bandit said as he cocked the pistol in his free hand.
"Are you sure you want what I got?"Aiken looked up at the man standing over him, staring, unblinking at the barrel trained on his face.  The bandit's smile faded just slightly as he caught Aiken's grinning eyes, he felt it before he heard the bang.  It felt hot, a tearing, searing hot that wouldn't let him scream, all he could do was drop what was in his hands and clutch at his belly.  He wasn't sure if the heat was from the bullet or from his life that was spilling through his hands.  He didn't have long to ponder the thought before the stock of a cut-down rifle caught him under the chin and he closed his eyes.

Aiken caught the spent casing as he cocked the lever of the rifle.  Unceremoniously he dropped it on the bandit as he stepped out into the aisle, the rifle butted against his hip, and he took the first step towards the engine of the train.  The deluge on the horizon hinted that it wouldn't let up for some time.

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It was the leatherwork that set the holster apart.  Oak leaves and acorns had been tooled into the leather, and years of sweat, blood, and sand had worn a warm brown sheen into the old gunbelt.  He wore it as naturally and comfortably as he swung his arms when he walked.  Hidden in plain sight, between leaves and acorns were two scriptures: Luke 22:36 and Revelations 6:8, two of the sacred words that he understood.

* Half Past Sunset, Part 2