The Reckoner: Dead or Alive, Part 2

Aiken was jolted awake from a kick at his boots.  He grabbed for his rifle as soon as consciousness began to overcome sleep.  The click of a hammer being cocked stopped the motion.  He quickly counted four men around him.  There was no need to shield his eyes from the sun, it had begun to set and the shadows cast by the men surrounding him were long.  What was happening to him, he thought. 
“Stand up!” The man who had kicked him barked.
Aiken rose his hands above his head, filling his mind with the visage of each man with their guns drawn.  The farthest one from him was the man he was tailing, it was the scraggly beard, patchy and unkempt, that was seared into Aiken’s mind.  The other three though, they looked familiar as well.
“Not so fast.”  The same man continued to bark as Aiken reached down to the ground to help himself to his feet.  “Keep your hand away from that iron on your hip as you stand.”
“Be careful, he’s mighty handy with that.”  His prey warned from the back.
“We’ve seen it before Tom, or have you forgotten?”
Aiken made the connection, it was at the Maze.  His mind played through that gunfight, each man on their horse ready to attack and yet fear played in their eyes.  That fear was no longer there.  It was replaced with malice, and envious victory.  Finally he was at his feet.  Each man held their pistols out, all aimed at him.  Through the entire play though, the mare continued to lay there.  She was awake but didn’t have enough energy to stand.  She lay there, pathetic and dying, appealing for rest.
“So what’s the play?”  Aiken asked, never taking his eyes off of the mare.
“What’s the play?”  His rival laughed.  The others began to do so as well.  “You’re going to die.”
Aiken finally lifted his eyes from the mare.  It was fire, re-ignited.  As each man looked into Aiken’s eyes their grip on their pistols faultered ever so slightly.  They didn’t take a step back but it took a moment for them to regain their nerves.  One man, his hands out, burned with the fire of hell behind his eyes.  He had forgotten what it had tasted like, but like an old love it returned and embraced him.
“Give me him,” Aiken pointed at his quarry, “and be on your way.  There is no doubt that you will see my face again, but today is his day.”
“I don’t think you understand.”  The leader daringly walked right up and put his pistol in Aiken’s face, “Today is your day, you may have gotten the best of us at the Maze but today is your day.”
Aiken stared at the man, never taking his gaze from the man’s eyes.  He never paid any mind to the pistol only inches in front of his face.  He just stared, sizing up the man.
As a striking rattler, he hit the leader’s arm with his own at the same time kicking him as hard as he could in the gut.  The pistol went into the air as the bandit fell backwards.  Aiken watched it spin in the air for a moment, in that half second he had pulled the rifle from its holster.  Before the pistol landed in the desert dust he had dove behind the mare.
“I’m sorry.”  He said as he looked the mare in the eyes.  Her body tensed with each report of the pistols, even if she had enough strength it would have done no good.  She slid into death’s embrace.
“Damn!”  He muttered under his breath. 
There wasn’t much around him that would do for cover.  Short sage brush and the occasional cactus were the only mocking cover.  With each shot that he heard slowed time down, more and more.  He felt each hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, the goosebumps rise upon his sun-chapped arms, he relished the embrace of death’s presence as it heightened each sense.  With each droplet of sweat that burst upon his brow he worked out a plan, there wasn’t much to hope for, but nonetheless, he would take as many to hell with him as he could.
A shot barely missed the horse and blew a spray of dust into the air at its side.  As time got closer to standing still, Aiken watched and took account of each pebble and grain of sand as it tumbled in the air.  They bounced off of each other, colliding and ricocheting into one another before finding their way back to the ground.  Each shot fired sounded miles away from Aiken, but each cloud of dust that erupted from the ground or deep thud into the horse reminded him that they were right behind him and it wouldn’t take long for the men shooting at him to work their courage up enough to descend upon him.  All he could do was wait.
The gunfight at the train ran through his mind.  It had all started there.  What would have happened if he hadn’t have jumped from the train?  And here he was, fighting down the same bandits.  Some sick trick of fate’s?  Perhaps he wasn’t on some twisted road to redemption but rather some narrow path to hell.
Shots continued to fire, from the instant that the shot reached his ears it seemed like minutes before they hit the ground around him or came speeding over his head and into oblivion.  He knew that he would have to peek over the horse to get an idea of where his attackers were at.  He slowly turned around, never losing touch with the horse as he did so.  He felt each individual hair on the horse’s hide as he rubbed his cheek upon it, slowly moving his head up so that he could peer over the horse’s back.  They were slowly advancing on him.
He was at the Maze, facing down the same bandits.  Water trickled at his feet as he faced down the gang around him, they on their horses and he on foot.  Time fled to the boy who had pulled the gun on Virgil while Aiken sat on the roof of the Oriental.  Each successive gunfight while riding guard on the coach ran across his mind.
The shots had quit for a split moment.  In that moment there was Virgil’s face, a smile upon it while he laid in the shade, dying.  That damned smiled.
It was the moment that Aiken was waiting for.  He cocked the lever of the rifle as he leaned back against the heels of his boots, ready to spring to his feet when the time came.  He took a deep breath and sprung to his feet.
The rifle recoiled in his hands and against his leg where he held it.  The presumed leader of the gang was just getting to his own feet when the bullet slammed into his chest.  Aiken had the rifle cocked again before the man fell to the ground.
The sweat began to drip down his forehead, he fought against the burning that had reached his eyes as he turned the rifle to another one of his attackers.  The rifle pounded against Aiken’s leg again as another bandit clutched at his chest and fell to the ground.  Aiken hadn’t noticed the sweat that had burgeoned upon his palms until the rifle shifted ever so slightly in his grip.
There were two left.  He swung around the face down his third target.  He felt the burn in his stomach at the very moment he pulled the trigger.  He was immediately drawn through a tunnel as time instantly returned to its monotonous rotation.  Each gun shot became deafening as time sped up; the spray of dirt that flew with each errant bullet was a chaotic mess of pebbles and sand grains, the sweat was a flood issuing down his face, soaking his hair and his shirt.
He saw his bullet miss, hitting the bandit in the hip.  Before he closed his eyes and fell to the ground behind the horse Aiken saw the bandit fall to the ground.
The horse arrested his fall and afforded him a place to lean against.  He let go of his rifle as he clutched at his burning gut.  Blood trickled down his front, down his pants and against the mare.  The ichor ran free from his gut as he watched, waiting.
“Tom!  Help!” The bandit Aiken had hit yelled in agony for his friend.
The sweat grew heavier and heavier as it ran down Aiken’s face in torrents.  He wanted to call out, wanted to let loose with grit and tell Tom that he had better help his friend before Aiken urged the strength to make one last stand.  But he just watched, working up some modicum of strength.
Tom walked up to his friend, the bandit laying on the dusty desert floor.  Aiken watched as the play unfolded, forcing himself to watch it to the finish.  Tom stood over his friend for a moment, he eyes moving over the body in the dust, seemingly measuring up the situation.  Without saying a word he raised the pistol in his hand, cocked the hammer…
“Tom, don’t!”
The smoke tendrils that rose from the barrel snaked their way heavenward, a sad mockery of the spirit that was wending its way to hell.
With one hand still on his stomach, Aiken struggled with the other to reach for his rifle.  He found it, his eyes never moving from the bandit that now had his back towards him.
He fought to stand up, one hand on the rifle, the other pushing himself up using the horse as leverage.  In the meantime the bandit, Tom, had found and mounted his horse.  Aiken spun the lever through his hand, the rifle cocking as he did so.  Tom turned the horse and began spur it along.  Aiken butted the rifle against his hip, his left hand, the one that he had held his stomach with, never got a good hold on the forearm of the rifle.
The rifle slipped in the blood and fell from his grip as the recoil hit his hip.
He missed.

The Reckoner: Dead or Alive, Part 1

The morning sun was hanging low in the sky when Aiken saddled the horse and began to ride north.  Each night saw his dream end the same, there was no reprieve.  How he wished that he could muster the strength to wake before the gun went off in his hands.  But it always did and there was always Johnathon Berg laying dead in the grass.  He'd wake with sweat beaded upon his brow, yet he was ready to hunt.
It was taking its toll on him however.  There was never a reprieve from the burning sun, even in the shade it was scorching.  Water had been scarce since he had left the stagecoach.  It was the Indian Figs that had kept him alive.  Occasionally there was the lone jack-rabbit that had crossed his path, but they were few and far between.  It was the small red fruit on the cactus that filled his belly each day and somehow kept his mouth somewhat moist, wet enough to continue through the week and a half that he had been out.  He kept hunting.
Every day marched on.  The one blessing of the desert, there was no rain to hide the hoofprints that Aiken was following.  Everyday he got closer and closer to his quarry, but never saw him in the distance.  It was those prints that kept him hunting.  Justice was never going to let him stop until it had been served.  Justice for Virgil, it was that thought that pushed him forward when his legs were ready to give.  That’s what he told himself.  Virgil.  But it was justice for justice’s sake that had forced each step before, and perhaps that is what kept him moving through the hardtack desert.  Or was it something behind him that forced each step?
Nagging at the back of his mind was the man who had come around the bend at the stagecoach.  Every morning, once he was able to shake the dream of Johnathon Berg it was that man whose very visage filled his mind.  There was no reason in his mind for it though, he had never seen the man before in his life.  It filled his veins with ice, always running cold in the hot sun, always running.  He never turned to look back but he knew for some reason the man was somewhere behind him.  And he continued to hunt.
Aiken was travelling in territory that he had only heard of.  He had been working northward since he left the coach.  He knew he was entering Navajo territory and was slightly nervous of that fact.  The Navajo had been on the reservation for decades, and were still under the thumb of the government.  But on the reservation it was best to ride with the cavalry if a person wanted to even suggest the idea that they were protected from the natives.  Natives and renegades were the only ones brave or stupid enough to travel through Indian territory without permission or a military escort.
Aiken was neither and he knew that everyday was one more day closer to potential danger.  Even outside the reservations the danger was real.  But he had travelled through hell before and he would do so again.  Perhaps he was there. 
The day dragged, he was alone with his thoughts the entire time.  Occasionally he would talk out loud, hoping that his horse would respond.  He was amazed that she kept going on, there were days he was certain she would crumple with him in the saddle.  Most though, he walked alongside, giving her some small reprieve from her appointed life.  Fortunately for her, she could drink the water that he wouldn’t, the small mudholes that hid from the pounding sun in what little shade they could find.  Most were filled with flies and those that weren’t were too brackish.  Even those the mare resisted to drink from. 
They followed hoof prints for days.  At times they would cross the prints of the wild stallions that called the desert home.  It was the shoes on the horse that they tailed that kept them on the right track.  Two days before, their prey had met up with three more horses, all shod.  Aiken knew that it wouldn’t be long before he met the bandits.  Each step was one more closer to that fateful gunfight.
He could sense the gunfight coming.  Each step closer was one step closer to death.  Most of his waking hours he spent on that thought.  Each step closer was one step closer to death.  He had trailed a man through the Yellowstone years before.  He could remember the fire holes, water boiling, sulfuric clouds billowing.  At times the sulfur was so thick he would have to choke and cough his way through.  It was unmistakable, each step closer to those fire holes it became clearer that he was coming closer to one.
Death was the same.  The same poisonous flavor burned the back of the throat.  It filled his nostrils, each breath was more difficult than the next.  Against his skin it felt warm and then cold, warm and cold.  It was intoxicating and he lived for it.  It was what he knew.  No matter how much he wished to forget the smell, be rid of it for good, it called him back. 
And the thought that was most disturbing for him, this trip into death’s land was his.  Each time he had passed through the black before, it was justice that pushed him forward.  Justice and mercy, an atonement for one crime through the indifferent justice of another’s.  His first step through death’s land was an unwanted step, hated and tumultuous.  It robbed him, it was pain and agony.  And he knew that the only way back was through the valley of the shadow of death.  The idea scared him at first, and yet he was always there, always ready.  He grew to feel it, to anticipate it, and over the course of time he had learned to pass through that valley without the least hesitation.  One sin, he thought, atoned through the unfeeling retribution of another’s, that was his lot.  Perhaps, just maybe, there was a green pasture.
This trip into death’s realms was different however, and he couldn’t shake the thought.  This was his trip.  It wasn’t some divine justice that motivated each step, he wasn’t some unwitting executioner.  It wasn’t some long forgotten forgiveness that forced each step, it was his own purpose.  Virgil.  His friend, his only friend, pushed him forward.  His thoughts continually turned to Virgil, laying dead against the tree.  Remorse, always tinged with regret.  He steeled himself against those thoughts, but they continued to fight through his armor, chipping away little by little.  And he was laid bare, this was his trip through death’s territory.
The mare had stopped walking and it was the jerk of the reins in his hand as he continued that brought him out of his thoughts.  Instinctually Aiken reached for the gun holstered at his hip.  He looked around, searching for the slightest change that would give away his prey’s advantage.  There was nothing.  He continued to inspect everything, looking for the smallest thing, a broken twig amid the sagebrush, a change in the direction of the hoofprints he was tracking.  It was difficult, each day becoming more difficult, cutting through his thoughts to focus on such details. 
He pulled at the reins twice, both times the mare resisted.  The sun was high and he could feel the heat burn and eat away at himself.  How he wished that he could stumble across an unopened cache.  His quarry, and the friends he had met up with, had buried some about every ten miles.  Aiken would find an opened hole in the desert floor, the discarded gourds, hollow with a few drops of water remaining, littered upon the ground.  A hole dug in the desert floor, lined with small branches, overlapping each other like the outside of a cabin, to keep the hole from caving in on itself.  Each cache guaranteed life in the lifeless desert, and Aiken was tempting fate with each empty cache he passed.  The gang must have planned this job for weeks, Aiken told himself after they had passed by the third or fourth cache.  As he tried to encourage his horse to move, her resistance becoming stronger with every pull of the reins, he wished he could stumble upon just one forgotten stash.
It was futile and Aiken finally sat down, he didn’t worry about gathering prickly pears and it was only an afterthought to move into what little shade he could find underneath a tall sage brush plant.  He laid there, the shade barely covering his face as the sun beat upon the rest of his body, for some time before he felt the horse lay down at his side.  He could feel her breathing, hard and ragged, her skin was hot, burning, and dry.
“We’ll find some water when we wake.”  Aiken said as he patted the horse on the side, the gentle tinge of despair creeping in his voice.  He closed his eyes, not noticing the coldness that sank about him.  The slight change in the breeze, everything in the desert getting calmer, waiting for the storm to hit.  He let himself sink into sleep.

The Reckoner: Unforgiven, Part 3

Aiken knew that he had to stop to sleep.  He told himself it was because he would never find his quarry if he stopped for any length of time.  But he knew the true reason was he was scared that his own hunter would catch up to him.  But he had to stop and get some sleep before he fell out of the saddle.
He found a tall rock that he could shelter next to.  Getting off of the horse, he quickly built a fire to rest next to.  He hurriedly removed the saddle from the horses back and then hobbled it, he just had enough energy to do those three things before sleep washed over him.
**********
Clouds whipped through the sky, a storm was moving in and he would be lucky if he saw anything big enough to take home to his family.  Not that he needed to shoot a deer to put food on the table, no, he just wanted to shoot his brother's new rifle.
It was a Winchester '73, the barrel and receiver were case-hardened instead of the simple blued steel that was all too common and the walnut stock felt silky smooth in his grip.  His brother saved any spare dollar that he could convince his new bride to part with, it took him nearly a year but he finally had the gun sent through the post. His brother hadn't told his new wife, but he also ordered her a new gingham dress and she soon forgot about the expense of the rifle.  It didn't matter, though, that day it was Aiken's rifle and he was burning to shoot something.
Stalking through the scrub oak, he pretended that he was a scout in General Grant's army during the Civil War.  Every branch that cracked or leaf that rustled was a rebel guerrilla that needed to be stopped before they could report to General Lee.  He continued to climb further through the hills of the Idaho Territory and the sun finally broke through the clouds.
Aiken found himself in a calm that was surrounded by storm clouds, he knew that if there was a chance to see a deer before they found a place to bed down to weather out the storm was right then.  He had to stop though, the sun felt good upon his face.  As the light fell upon his face every muscle tightened as the blood rushed to his cheeks to soak in the warmth.  The gentle burn that began to spread across his brow and down into his cheeks held his attention and for a brief moment he forgot about Johnny Reb or the new rifle in his hand, it was just him and creation.
The wind picked up again.  The stormclouds raced through the sky.  Leaves rustled at first and then began to beat upon each other, a race to be the first off of each branch.  The smell of rain filled his nostrils, it wasn’t going to be long before the storm was right above him.  If he was going to see a deer hopefully it would be soon.
There was a crash in the trees above him.  Branches whipping and twigs on the ground cracking.  Aiken looked up and saw the light tan color he was hoping to see.  It was big, perhaps an elk.  He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, it felt smooth and practiced.  The stock fit into his shoulder as if the two had been molded together.  He sighted down the barrel, a natural extension of his arm as his hands held onto the forearm and straight grip of the rifle.  He focused down the sights, everything except the sights and the elk in front of him were out of focus.  The cold steel of the trigger resisted the squeeze of his finger.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bolt of lightning that was all too close for comfort, the thunder that roared through the trees knocked him back and he pulled the trigger.  “Bang!”
He steadied himself, narrowly escaping the fall.  If he had fallen though he wouldn’t have seen the riderless horse run through the trees, the saddle on its back a sure sign that he had a rider at one point.  The horse was beautiful, Aiken noticed the red dun coloration as he ran off.  As it ran off, he noticed that in the distance the red coloration was strikingly similar to that of an elk.  Aiken’s heart fell to the bottom of his gut as he watched the horse run.
Each step was heavy, deliberate, as he walked towards the place that the horse had been when the shot was fired.  He pushed through the tree limbs, fighting every urge in his body to turn around and leave.
There he was, shot in the chest.  Aiken knew him, it was Johnathon Berg who owned the farm next to his parents.  Aiken’s heart fell further.  Johnathon Berg!  He had a wife and three children, one a few years younger than Aiken, another about six or seven, and the youngest was just learning to walk.  Johnathon Berg!  He had helped Aiken’s father build a new well when the old one collapsed.  Johnathon Berg!
No one was going to believe that it was an accident, he told himself.  I killed him, he kept repeating over and over in his head.  They’ll hang me for this, he fought back the tears of his own impending death.  He decided then and there that the only option was to run.  How deliberately fooled a young mind is.  He was afraid, truly afraid.  The only afraid a person that faces death knows.  And he made the decision to run.
He levered the action of the rifle.  The spent casing tumbled through the air.  Every single turn it made Aiken watched.  The wind felt cold upon his face as the storm picked up.  That same wind blew the acrid smell of the casing into his face.  He inhaled, immediately hooked to that pungent aroma that followed death.  As the wind blew the shadows of the trees changed shapes, elongating and shrinking.  Everything slowed down as he watched the brass casing tumble through the air.
And then it found its landing.  It fell upon the chest of Johnathon Berg, standing straight up, a cruel magic trick that robbed Aiken of any shred of innocence.  He turned his back to the grim sight and ran.  Afraid, he ran.  Ashamed, he ran.  Guilty, he ran.
**********
Aiken woke, the fire had died and the embers barely gave off any glow.  It didn’t matter though, the sun was just peaking over the horizon.  Aiken removed the hobble from the horses legs and put the saddle on its back.  He then got started again.  He followed the path of his prey, but there was something that made him nervous of what may have been behind.

The Reckoner: Highwaymen, Part 4

His hands hanging limp at his side, Aiken could only watch as the highwayman grabbed the strongbox from the jumble of wreckage, and shoot the lock off with his pistol.  Falling to his own knees, he dug through the box and filled his pockets with the cash, gold, and silver that was stored in the box.  The entire time, Aiken knelt their motionless.  He felt the cool wind against his sweat veiled brow.  He watched as the shadows lengthened.  He could taste it on the air.  Death.
The last surviving highwayman would leave a trail.  Aiken knew that smell and could track it better than any hound.  It was his unfortunate misery.  But at that very moment, he didn’t know what he could do.  Virgil laid against the tree, the blood revealing itself from the hole in his stomach glistened in the sun.  Aiken could only watch.  The bandit had grabbed what he could and retrieved his horse, he never even looked in Aiken’s direction.  He was off and Aiken would be on his trail.
He left his rifle in the sand of the wash when he finally stood.  The distance between him and Virgil was not very far, but with each step it felt like the path to Calvary.  With each step, every life that he had taken came flooding back to him, a torrent rushing back to his soul.  With every shot that he remembered he forgot every smile that he had made.  He forgot the smooth, cold feel of the nickel that he had begun to win at the faro table and it was replaced with the cold, smooth feel of the brass casings that he had spent so much time of his life with.  The warmth of friends was replaced with the coolness of death. 
And yet, Virgil, laying there dying, still had a smile on his face, “I believe it exists.”  He fought through a rush of blood filled coughs, “And you’ll find it at the end of your road.”
Aiken knelt at the side of Virgil, nearly as cold as the first time they had met.  Getting colder as the lifeblood faded from Virgil’s face, Aiken could only look at his friend, wishing, hoping that there was something that he could do, knowing that within a minute or so there would be nothing left to do. 
Virgil coughed again, “You’ll find it.”  It was his last cough.
Aiken watched as his only friend died at his side.  He never thought what could have happened differently, he knew exactly what could have happened differently.  And yet, if that was the case he never would have hoped that things had happened differently.  He knelt there for a minute or so more, the entire time wishing that he could let everything go.  A wish to forget everything, let it pass before him with an eye turned away.  And yet it would never come.  He knew what he had to do, it called to him.  He walked back to his rifle, a purpose behind every step.  Each step tempered his soul.
He had forgotten how it felt to be cold, how comfortable it was to feel nothing except the cold embrace of doomed judgement.  He shivered slightly as it embraced his soul.  He felt the air upon his skin again, each change of direction he felt.  He saw every movement with the crisp vision of a soothsayer.  He thought he felt whole again, and yet his soul finally remembered what it had forgotten so many years before.  It was that small memory in his soul that wished for warmth.
He found a horse outside of the cedar lined wash.  He tightened the saddle a little before placing his foot in the stirrup and kicking himself over.   It was no longer blind justice that forced him to ride out.  He stopped the horse at the cedar that was Virgil’s headstone.  For one instance, Aiken saw the face of justice.  And he hoped that his friend was right.
The prints of the horse the highwayman had taken followed the road, the way that Aiken would follow.  It was straight across the wash and then continued on to the horizon, bearing straight the entire time.  The wash was his only option and even knowing that nothing could be done differently, there was still a prick of regret.  Perhaps it was that prick that forced him to turn back around and look one last time on the only man he had called a friend, maybe it was chance, or it may have been his soul feeling its own judgement.
Turning back he saw fear.  He had only felt that type of fear once before.  It washed over his soul, over his entire body, fear forced itself upon him.  Every hair on his body stood to attention.  The muscles across his chest contracted, forcing each breath shallower and shallower as each came faster and faster.  It filled his veins with ice, physically chilling every part of his body.  Instinct cried out to him again.
A lone horseman came around the bend at the exact moment he turned to look back.

The Reckoner: Highwaymen, Part 3

The difference that morning, he didn’t want to throw the quilt off of him.  Almost indifferent to how bad the dream was, Aiken enjoyed the relaxation that came from laying in the bed.  And with the realization of that thought he was wide awake.  For him, it was uncomfortable being that comfortable.  He hurried out of the bed, put his clothes on, tightened the holster around his hip and tied it around his thigh, grabbed his coat and hat, and left the saloon.
In the early morning light, there weren’t many people that crossed his path.  The few that did though, they didn’t have that look in their eyes that he was expecting, that he had seen for so many years.  Most had a careless indifference, some though, took the time to tip their hat to him as they passed by, none had that fearful admiration that caused them to take an extra step or two around him.  Aiken naturally slowed down the pace he was taking down the road.  The discomfort from the bed slowly faded away with each step down the dusty road. 
As the morning sun slowly climbed its way higher the streets slowly filled with more and more people.  Aiken, for the first time in his life, just let the flow of people take him.  He watched every person that he could.  Some still had that look, reminding him that he would always be an outcast and a wanderer.  But they were far and few between.  The vast majority didn’t give him another look, except for maybe one or two that he caught taking another look at the iron on his hip.  And there were the few that nodded to him, those he remembered from the Oriental.
He followed the flow and found himself in front of the bank branch, looking up at his partner who’s smile made him smile.
Every morning for the next couple of weeks or so was the same.  The only difference, the discomfort from the bed slowly faded to a small knot that couldn’t be worked out. 
Aiken found himself smiling more when he was around Virgil, Martin, and Mary.  The three had welcomed Aiken into their family circle with open arms.  The three that never looked at Aiken differently for who he was, and had stretched forth their arms because of who he was, it was as close to a family that Aiken had for too many years to remember.  Most of the time he spent the evenings with them at Martin and Mary’s, but there were the occasional nights when they would go together to The Oriental. 
Those were the nights that Aiken was most afraid to return to his room.  When he was with his friends he lost some bets at the faro table but he also won a few.  The loses didn’t seem to hurt as much as they did before and the wins felt so much better.  And then they would have to leave and he would return to his room.  It was those nights that the dream would play itself out to completion.  Those mornings he shook his head and thought to himself how he needed to get moving.  But those mornings he still found himself following the flow that carried him to the bank and the stagecoach.
The rides along the coach line were uneventful.  People came and went from town to town and all made it to their destination without any trouble.  Aiken would sit and watch the dusty road disappear time and time again, he had learned every turn and dip that the road made and too often he found himself staring out at the sagebrush that they passed lost in his own thoughts.  Virgil would ask questions and Aiken answered more than he wanted.  Sometimes Aiken found himself participating more and more, even asking his own questions to keep the conversation going.
“What do you think about redemption?”  Aiken nervously asked on one of those occasions.
Virgil watched the road for a minute before answering, the smile on his face slightly shrinking as he thought about his answer, “I….”
Aiken didn’t hear the rest of the answer.   Suddenly he felt it.  It had snuck up on him and caught him unaware.  Every fear he had came flooding on him at that moment as he tried to separate everything that the unspoken world tried to scream at him at that particular moment.  The world slowed down for an instant.  He felt the cold air wrap its fingers around him, he smelt the dry dust of the road as the stagecoach drove over it, and from the corner of his eye he saw a rider following the stage from the over the crest of a hill in the distance.
“Damn.”  He snarled through gritted teeth.  How could he have allowed it to happen?
His hand fell to his holster and like an old lover, everything came rushing back to him.  Every sign that had told him to hold back, every tell along the road that hinted that there was going to be trouble.  And all Aiken could do was shake his head and hope as he pulled the rifle from off his hip.
“Run them!”  He yelled, he saw fear take over his partner.  He didn’t know if his face hinted at the danger that laid ahead, but in the few gunfights that they had been in, Virgil never had that look in his eyes, and he never would again.
Hooves beat upon the dusty road, kicking up dust and creating a cloud around the coach.  He had used it before to get the upper hand against would be bandits.  But this time, they had the upper hand and he knew it, he only hoped that they would make a mistake.  There was a curve in the road ahead that led into a dried out wash along the bank of which grew cedars.  If he could only get the coach there he’d have the upper hand.  Everything that screamed death came rushing upon him, how had he missed their signs before.
Cold air stole his breath as he watched through the dust at the shadows that kept pace with the coach.  Mixed with the dust, it choked him, he had to cough and cover his mouth with an arm to watch everything unfold before him.  Even through the dust he could see that the shadows had grown longer in the few seconds that his senses returned, as if they wanted to hide their own corruption from view.  He felt the darkness of death flood through his veins, leaving him cold and yet every nerve felt ablaze, ready to fire when the time would come.
He counted eight shadows in total.  He could also see the road begin to follow the wash and line of cedars, the bend in the road wasn’t too far ahead.  “Keep on!”  He yelled to Virgil through his shirt sleeve.  Virgil whipped at the reins and the horses continued their rush down the road.
Aiken watched as the shadows outside the dust slowed down as the horses took the bend too fast.  He fired a shot and one shadow fell from his horse.  He levered the action of the rifle and chambered a new round.  The sound of returned fire echoed through the desert, it wasn’t one shot returned, it more and more.
The lead horse was hit in the leg by one shot and immediately stumbled.  Every horse hitched to her stumbled and caught themselves in the rigging that tied them altogether.  The stagecoach didn’t want to stop in the turn though.  It first lurched to two wheels and then lost the unstable foundation that they even offered.  The coach crashed to its side, throwing Aiken and Virgil from the driver’s box and boot.  It slid through the dirt and sand, smashing itself into one of the cedars along the wash.
Aiken got to his feet, thankful that nothing was broken and he’d just have another bruise or two when all was said and done.  Virgil was doing the same, Aiken could see, but only slower.  He ran to shattered pile of wood that somewhat still resembled the coach.  He pounded at the wood and yelled, “Get down and stay down!”  From the front boot he grabbed the double barrel shotgun that he was now glad that Virgil had kept on the coach.  Grabbing Virgil, who had just made it to his feet, by the arm, he forced him to run to the other side of the wash and hide as best as he could amid the cedars.
“Take this, the first good chance you get, you fill him with shot.”  He said as he forced the shotgun into his partner’s hands.
“I’ve never even thought of shooting a man before.”  Virgil tried to make sense of what was happening.
Aiken grabbed Virgil by his shirt and yelled, “Stop thinking about it and when you get the chance, do it.”
Aiken turned around just in time to see the dust settle and the first highwayman make the turn.  He held his gun tight against his hip, the cool metal trigger wanting to fall under his fingers.  He waited, knowing that the bandits didn’t know what had happened in the accident and he wanted to get the best chance that he could.  There was the second rider and the chance he had waited for.
The trigger fell, along with the second rider that had come into view.  In the blink of an eye, Aiken cocked the lever of his rifle and fired again.  The first rider also fell from his horse, his hand releasing the pistol that he had just drawn from his own holster.  Aiken knew that they were given away with those two shots, but it was probably the best opportunity he was going to have that day.  He ran to the other side of the cedars and ran back up the wash a bit, hopefully doubling back on the remaining brigands.
Cautiously scuttling through the cedars, he looked down the wash.  There was the heaped stagecoach, another bandit being as cautious as he was as he made his way around the broken coach.  The renegade fell back in a crash of blood as the sound of the fired shotgun echoed up the wash.  Aiken knew he had to hurry, Virgil only had one shot left in the scattergun. 
Not seeing anyone, he scurried to the other side of the wash and peered through the cedars.  There were three bandits that he could see, where was the fourth?  He knew that he had counted eight in total.  The worst feeling that he had ever had was losing track of someone.
He felt the cedar explode next to his body, small pieces of wood pelting his body, at the same time he heard the shot.  There was the fourth!  Aiken retreated behind the cedars.  Never turning around he made his way back across the wash.  The fourth highwayman slowly made his way up to the cedars but waited.  He peered through, Aiken thought, making eye contact with him.  Another two were quickly at his side.  It could have only been a moment, but it felt like a small eternity as the three waited on the other side of the wash and cedars, never giving Aiken a good shot.
He had taken worse shots however.  It was awkward but he knew what he would have to do to get the shot off.  He lifted the gun from his hip and held it in front of his face, far enough that with any kick it wouldn’t hit his face.  He lined up the rear sight with the front, and found where he knew that a body stood on the other side of the cedar branches.  Pulling the trigger, he saw through the thicket a shadow fall to the ground.
Three, he thought.
The original set of boots ran from his sight.  He hid behind the cedars, trying to think like his prey.  Peering back, around the cedar, he saw the highwayman that was still pursuing him peering through the branches of the cedars, trying to make his way into the wash but afraid to be that exposed.
From the direction of the coach he heard the shotgun again.  “NO!” he yelled as he scrambled out of the cedars and into the wash.  He was right, he saw one bandit fall to the ground but there was another with his pistol raised.  Aiken fired his rifle at the one still trying to figure out how to hide in the cedars.  Not even caring to watch the shot hit he turned just in time to see the shot fired from the pistol.
Aiken fell to his knees in the sand of the wash.  His rifle falling from his grasp, he felt as each finger lost control and could no longer hold onto the iron.  Time slowed down as he watched the renegade fire another shot, and then another, and then another.  All three fired into the coach.  The fire in his belly had been quenched and he felt hollow yet again.

The Reckoner: Highwaymen, Part 2

The rest of the ride into Santa Fe was uneventful and fairly quiet.  Virgil tried to make a joke or strike a conversation and Aiken shakily participated as much as he could.  They pulled up in front of the bank, Virgil helped the passengers out of the coach and pointed them in the direction of potential lodgings and Aiken emptied the strongbox and handed it down to one of the nameless bank tellers.  Virgil knew his name, but Aiken didn’t care as he handed the cash, gold, and silver down. 
“Let’s get this to Martin’s and then I’ll buy you a whiskey at The Oriental.”  Virgil had rid himself of the crutch by then but still walked with a slight limp, a limp he walked with for the rest of his life.
It was an offer that had been made every time they unloaded in Santa Fe.  For the first time, Aiken gave in to the proposition.  They unhitched the horses and stabled them in the barn, “Let’s see if Martin and Mary want to go.”  Virgil detoured into the house.
He came out with his brother in law and little sister.  “Aiken, how are you?”  Martin asked.
All Aiken could do was nod.  He felt so conflicted at that very moment, he wanted to say that he was doing fine and yet he didn’t know what fine felt like, he was afraid of what fine felt like.  He was afraid of feeling anything because he knew that he wouldn’t feel anything when it was important.  Aiken nodded again.
“Let’s go.”  Virgil grabbed his sister around the waist and hurried her along in front of him.
They walked to The Oriental, three plus one.  Aiken walking along, belonging and not wanting to belong.  The lights in the saloon were burning brightly and the windows were just beginning to show the slightest sign of fog building along their edges as the day began to cool into night.  It was warm and inviting against the cold night that was quickly descending upon Santa Fe.  The four of them walked into the saloon and found a table that was empty.  Along the bar, people milled and joked together, it was difficult for Virgil to make his way through to get a shot of whiskey for himself and partner.  Every faro table was flanked by people waiting to see the next card flipped, not carrying what fortunes they lost or won.
Aiken sat outside all of that, he watched and he listened.  He strained to separate the dissonance into its several parts and make sense of what was being said underneath it all.  It usually came natural for him and yet he had to work at it, he found himself somehow getting lost in that chaos.
“Here.”  Virgil put the shot glass down on the table and then sat down himself.
“Where’s mine?”  Martin asked.
“Did your husband do something to his legs that make it difficult for him to do things for himself?”  Virgil asked his sister.
Mary laughed and told Martin to get his own if he wanted one.  The light shown through her soft, brown hair as she tilted her head back and laughed.  Its long, straight strands fell upon her shoulders as she turned her head and smiled.  Her blue eyes glittered as they met Aiken’s and for the first time it was he who had to quickly change his gaze.  He shook his head and threw back the shot sitting in front of him.  The burning in his throat helped clear his mind.  He stood up from the table and worked his way through the crowded floor to the nearest faro table.
He put his mark down on the five card.  He waited for the dealer to flip the cards and expected to lose.  The dealer called for bets and then put his hand on the dealers box, waiting for the last bets to be placed before he exposed the first card.  He pulled away the last card and the box revealed the five of hearts.  Aiken knew that he was going to lose and wondered why he had placed the bet.  Somethings never change he told himself.  He pulled a nickel from his pocket and flipped it on the table as he took his mark off.
He turned around to go back, to go back to his room and forget the day.  Virgil, Martin, and Mary were behind him, stopping him from leaving the table.
“Play another one!”  Mary smiled at Aiken as she pushed passed him and placed a mark on the high card.
Virgil and Martin also placed their marks on the table.  Mary looked at Aiken and waited for him to put his mark on the table.  “Maybe he’s out of money, Martin, give him another nickel.”  She joked and pulled him towards the table.
He shook his head, wanting to get away from the table and yet finding himself getting lost in the dissonance.  He put a mark on the five card again.
“Nothing like trying something new, huh?”  Virgil joked.
Mary hit her brother in the side of his gut as she pushed herself into her husband, laughing.
They watched as the dealer exposed the banker’s card, a six, and the player’s card, a jack.  Mary jumped and laughed when the jack was revealed, “I always play the high card.”  And she held her hand out waiting for her nickel from the dealer.
Martin, Virgil, and Aiken waited for the next turn of cards.  On the next turn, the banker’s card was a queen and the player’s card was a two.  “Damn,” Virgil and Mary exasperated together.  The word itself carried so little weight that it was somewhat comical to hear the words fall from their lips.  They then smiled at each other, laughed and paid the bank.  Mary left her mark on the high card but put a penny on top of it, Virgil moved his from the two to the high card.  The dealer then exposed the next two cards, first a ten and then a five.
Virgil and Martin both let out a groan and Mary squealed.  She jumped up and hugged Aiken quickly before turning around and collecting both of their money from the banker.  She then laughed and tried to make a spectacle of the fact that Virgil and Martin both lost and she and Aiken won.
Aiken held the nickel in his hand.  It was the first card that had won.  He stepped back from the faro table and returned to the table where the empty glasses were left.  He fell into the dissonance and let it soak him in.  He waited for the three to return to the table, Mary and Martin holding each other and Virgil walking behind.  All of them had the same smile as they walked and sat around the table.  Aiken found himself smiling as they sat around him.  For the first time in his life he forgot.

He sat for a long time, soaking in everything before he was awakened to reality.
“Well, we better be getting home.”  Martin stood up with his wife’s hand in his.
“I better do the same,” Virgil stood up as well, “We’ll see you in the morning Aiken.”
Aiken stood to see the three off.  He then walked up the stairs and to his room, leaving the dying din of the barroom behind him.  His room was cold, he had left the window open that particular day.  He turned up the wick in the lamp in the room to give him more light and he closed the window.  He threw his hat and duster on the table next to the wash basin and pitcher of fresh water.  Taking the pitcher, he poured some water in the washbasin and then ran his hands through the water.  It was cold, refreshing to his touch.  Cupping the water, he splashed it on his face, even though he knew it was cold, it was shocking as it hit his face.  He watched as the dirt and grime rinsed off of his face and into the water below him. 
He stood up and looked around him.  The bed was made, as it was every evening when he got back.  This time was different though, the bed looked inviting, it looked warm in the cold, crisp air of his room.  He sat down on it.  It was firm and the quilt on top was cool to his touch.  It had been years since the last time he had sat down on a bed for anything more than a chair.  It was familiar and yet so distant.  He laid down on the quilt and let his body relax into the bed.  Every muscle in his body relaxed as he took a deep breath in.  He didn’t know how long he laid there, but the din from the saloon had completely died by the time he undressed and found himself beneath the quilt and the bed.
Regardless, the bed didn’t help him sleep.  The only assurance that he got any sleep was the same dream, replaying in his mind every night.  The lack of sleep had been his cross to bear for years and had become something that he never thought about again.  There was plenty of time for sleep, he never knew when it would come, but he knew that it would.

The Reckoner: Highwaymen, Part 1

The rainstorm had died down quickly through the night.  Aiken put on his shirt and pants, strapped the holster to his hip, and grabbed his duster and hat from the table.  It was still the early morning when he walked out of the saloon.  There was just enough chill in the air that his breath could be seen as it rose from his lips.  Even though the rain had quit early in the night, the mud still stuck to his boots as he walked down the middle of the street.  Very few people were on the streets with him and each gave him an extra step as they passed him by.
The stories of the ride from Albuquerque must have spread.  He could see it in their eyes as they quickly glanced away as he looked at them.  Their looks were mingled fear and admiration, he was a killer in their eyes, nothing more and nothing less.  They wanted to smell death following after him and like any thought that’s allowed to fester, they forced it into reality.  Every man fears the deathbringer and every man desires to be him, they want to play at God-choosing who dies and who lives.  Aiken shook his head as he passed each one.  He never chose who would die or who would live, he just happened to be in the unlucky place when that judgement was made against them.  But no one could understand that and he allowed as much space between him and them as they desired.
Even though he was up early, Virgil was already at the Martin Livisten’s with the stagecoach.  He smiled as he rested against the crutch that had been formed from a fairly straight branch.  Virgil didn’t have that look in his eyes, just that same smile as he saw Aiken walk up.
“Early mornin, ain’t it?  We aren’t scheduled to leave for another hour.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”  Aiken shrugged, but somehow relieved that he could tell someone, “And what was I going to do, lose another nickel at the faro table.”
“Well,” a voice from behind the stage rose, “if you’re going to be here then you’re going to help.  Since Virgil got out of it.”  A skinny man, a little younger than Virgil, came around the coach.  His smile was almost identical to Virgil’s.
“Aiken, I’d like to introduce you to Martin Livisten, the only louse good enough to marry my little sister!”  Virgil clapped Morgan on the shoulder.
Aiken looked at the two men standing next to each other and nodded his hat to the younger one. 
“We need to get this wheel on and then she’ll be finished.”  Martin motioned for Aiken to follow him around the coach.
Together, the two of them got the wheel back on.  In all honesty it was a one man job and four hands made it more difficult than it needed to be.  But Martin insisted that he needed the help and Virgil laughed as he watched the two juggle the wheel.  It wasn’t overly difficult, but Aiken figured to complete the job one way and Martin was fit to do it the way he had done for years.  And if it had been anyone else, Aiken would have walked away and never turned back but for the first time he found his faults endearing to himself.
“Alright,”  Virgil started as soon as the wheel was locked on the axle, “we need to get to the bank with this before Mr. Young comes looking for us.  Aiken, why don’t you climb up to the seat and help me up, Virgil, will you hitch the horses.”
Aiken extended his hand down and took the crutch from Virgil.  He then extended it down and put it under the driver’s arm as he hopped up the small ladder to the seat.  In the meantime Martin had the horses hitched to the coach and they were ready to be off.
“You know, if you come back in any worse shape than you did last night, Mary isn’t going to allow you to drive no more.”  Martin used his hand to shield the sun as he looked up at Virgil.
“You remind my little sister who the big brother is between us, will ya?”  Virgil whipped the reins and the horses pulled away.  His smile matched that of his brother in law as they waved to one another.
Sitting high on the coach and allowing the sun to stretch over him, his muscles began to warm.  Mr. Young was standing outside of the bank along with their two passengers.
“I didn’t expect them to be there.”  Virgil stated.
“Ah, look at the stage,” Mr. Young’s sleazy smile had returned, “That Martin knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought this was a brand new stagecoach.”  He turned to the businessmen at his side, “Here, let me get the door for you.  I hope that your ride is smoother than yesterdays.”  His smile disappeared as he shot a look at Aiken, “Won’t it boys?”
“Yes sir!”  Virgil stepped in as Aiken’s muscles began to tighten in his shoulders and neck.
And it was.  The vast majority of rides that Aiken sat on would end with happy passengers leaving the coach for other adventurers, never knowing the dangers that lurked along the highway between towns.  But there were some that ended with passengers ready to be off as soon as the coach arrived in town.  They never lost a passenger to a missed shot and never once lost the strongbox.  Aiken never missed a shot when lead flew.
Stories lingered in the towns he had left behind, in some Aiken was either a devil or a god and in most he was both.  He knew why he left and never stayed.  It was those looks, it was the misunderstanding, it was his past that pushed him to keep running.  And he wanted to.  He wanted to push past everything and everybody, get back to just him.  But there was something keeping him on that stagecoach.
“I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while, what’s the story with your gun?”  Virgil asked him one day, “I’ve never seen anything like that before and I probably never will again.”
Aiken pulled the iron from its holster and turned it over and back again in his hands.  Every single life that had been ended by it was worn in his heart, it wasn’t a burdensome weight, just a weight that he would never shake, a weight he never wanted to shake.  Except for that first.  He shook his head and pulled himself out of that dream.
“I’ve had this for a long time, brand new from the factory when I was a kid.  It’s the only thing I know.”  Aiken was surprised by his own candidness, “I was in a gunfight, so many gunfights ago, and the barrel filled up with mud.  I don’t know how I lived through that fight because pulling the trigger was the last thing I remember.  I cut off the part of the barrel that burst and carried the rifle with me for a long time just like that.  I lost the stock hiding behind a tree, it was shot and splintered as it was torn from my hands.  I tried talking myself into putting it up and purchasing something else, something like one of those peacemakers. 
“But it never felt right.”  He stopped himself, not sure if he should continue.  He looked from the gun in his hands to the man sitting at his side.  Virgil just smiled as he watched the horses pound down the highway, not a hint of judgement behind his eyes.  “When you take a life, that life becomes part of you, it buries itself in you and you never forget.  You should never forget.  And this is what I did that with.  This is what I dealt that judgement out with.  If I put this up and choose some new, faster gun I become nothing more than a gun for hire, nothing more than some highwayman on the road who kills for gain and even more perverse, for pleasure.
“I’ll never get rid of this, I’ll carry each and every reckoning with me for life and into the eternities.  I will have that ledger when I stand before the Last Judge.  I can’t cast it aside anymore than I can those deaths.  With the exception of one I will hold my account balanced.  And until that one becomes reckoned I’ll carry this on my hip.”
He hesitated in returning the gun to its holster.  In that hesitation he ran his fingers over the workings carved into the leather.  He had done it often enough that it had become a habit.  Subconsciously he ran his fingers over the same spot stained a dark, deep brown from the oils from his fingertips.  The spot had been worn smooth against his touch but the words could still be read, “And his name that sat on him was Death.”
He reholstered the rifle and went back to watching the road.  He waited for something and it never arrived.  He wanted to know that it was time to move on and he couldn’t find it anywhere.  He road in that seat, and for the first time in his life was comfortable and the first time in a very long time, he was nervous.