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.

The Reckoner: Unforgiven, Part 2

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 and the thunder that roared through the trees knocked him back and he pulled the trigger.  “Bang!”
**********
He awoke in a cold sweat.  The purplish-green and white light lit up the window and the drapes on the window fluttered as the storm picked up outside.  Each flash of light was followed by a bang and crash as the thunder tried to keep pace.  He stood up from the floor and closed the window.  It was going to be a long day if the rain didn’t abate.  He drew in a deep breath through his nose.  He remembered that smell, refreshing and clean then old and dusty, the first memory was peace and tranquility, the next was blood and death.

The Reckoner: Riding Shotgun, Part 3

It must have been a small eternity that Aiken stood over the young man’s body in the middle of the road.  He had killed many men in his life and each deserved it, and this was no different.  But this was the youngest that he had ever brought judgement too.  What would have his life been had he not turned to a life of thievery?  Would he have had children and a wife?  What about an honest living, perhaps a lawyer or a farmer?  He felt something akin to the young man.  As he had done so many times before he turned around and never gave the man a thought again.
At the coach, the businessmen had gathering the bandits and laid them in the road.  They dusted their hands off on their equally dusty pant legs as they watched Aiken approach.  Virgil sat against the wheel, pale and sweating.  His pant leg was pulled up and his ankle had swollen three times its normal size. 
“What are we going to do?”  One of the businessmen asked, looking between Aiken and Virgil, visibly shaken.
“Pull those bodies off of the road, go get that body down the road and put with the others, put Virgil in the Coach, and we’ll be off to Santa Fe.”  Aiken ordered the plan without any hesitation.
“What about the bodies?” 
“What about them?  They’re dead and it isn’t going to hurt them to lay out in the sun until we can get to the next coach station and they can take care of the bodies, if they choose too.”
“Shouldn’t we bury them?”  The other businessman decided to join the conversation.
“I’m going to give you two options and you can choose one of them.”  Aiken realized one of many things that he disliked when it came to dealing with others.  “You can stay here and dig graves and say a prayer or you can get in the coach and we go to Santa Fe.  Either way, Virgil and I are leaving, so are you coming with us or not.”
“We can’t just leave them for the vultures.” 
“They would have done the same to you.  So either get in the goddamn coach or get the hell off of the road!”  The conversation was over.  Aiken bent over and helped Virgil off of the ground and into the coach. 
The businessmen followed suit, but questioned, “What if this happens again?”
“It won’t!”  And Aiken slammed the door of the coach.
He climbed up to the driver’s box and grabbed the reins, “ha!”  he called out to the horses as he whipped at the reins.  He rode the horses and coach hard to the next changing station.  From there to the next and so on to Santa Fe.  It was dark by the time they stopped the stage in front of the bank. 
“Where have you been?  And where’s Virgil?”  It was Mr. Young, and he did not see the bullet holes that riddled the coach.
Aiken pulled the strongbox from the front boot underneath his seat.  He threw it down to the ground at the Banker’s feet and then grabbed the reins again.  “Ha!” and he whipped at the horses again.
He drove the coach straight to The Oriental.  He hurried off of the coach and opened the door.  The color had returned to Virgil’s face and the smile was following close behind.  There was part of Aiken that was relieved and that part made him uncomfortable.
“Do you think that you can put some weight on it?”  He asked the driver.
“I can try.”  Virgil snorted a laugh as he tried to get to his feet, to no avail, “I guess not.”
“I’ll help you out,” he turned to the businessmen still in the coach, “You get me a table in their that I can set him at.”
Both businessmen got out of the coach as fast as they could and Aiken climbed into it.  He knelt down and offered his arm to the man.  They hobbled to the door of the coach and out, Virgil leaning on Aiken’s shoulder as the driver hopped along as Aiken walked into the saloon.  Aiken quickly glanced across the barroom floor, the businessmen had found an empty table in the corner of the saloon.  The two hobbled over to the table and Aiken helped Virgil into a chair.
“Prop your leg up on the table.”  He said as he took off his hat.
The doors of the saloon slammed open, “What in the hell is going on with my stagecoach!”  The banker threw the doors to the saloon open.
Aiken never turned around, completely focused on his injured partner seated in front of him.  Mr. Young’s face was red and getting hotter as he made his way around tables and chairs to get to his driver and gunman.  “Tell me what happened out there, god damnit!”  He put his hand on Aikens shoulder, trying to force him to turn around.
He did turn around, not on any accord of the banker’s effort.  “If you ever put you hand on me again you’ll live to regret it.”  The fire had returned to Aiken’s eyes and the banker’s face began to whiten more than redden.
“Tell me what happened out there?  Why are you so late?  Did any of them get away?”  He still wanted answers.
“Your coach and money are safe and that’s your business.  How that happened is mine.”  He snarled, turning back to the driver, “If you want the stage to drive out tomorrow you better find someone to repair it tonight.”
Having the gunman turn his back to him, the banker seethed red again, “Don’t you turn your back to me.”  He remembered, however, not to put his hand on Aiken’s shoulder.
Aiken didn’t bother to turn around, “If you want me to guard that damned coach, get the hell out of here.  If not, I’ll go sit in the marshal’s cell until the judge returns.”
“Mr. Young,” Virgil decided to interject, “You’ll need to take care of the coach if you want us to go out tomorrow.  I know that Martin Livisten would be willing to do it but you’ll have to see him before too long or it will be too late to fix it tonight.”
The banker stood behind Aiken for a moment longer before turning around and barging out of the saloon in the same manner that he had entered.
“People don’t seem to be an area of strength for you.”  Virgil remarked, the smile had fully returned.
“Here’s what I know about people, we all die.  I will, you will, Mr. Young will.  All of us.  Some of us end up with our face in the dust and a bullet in our chest like the men on the road earlier.  And some of us lie in a bed, coughing up blood, and hope for the time that we close our eyes for the last time.  We are all equal and we’re all the same when we stand before the first great judge.  Why should I care more about some than others?”  His question wasn’t meant to be answered.
Virgil cringed as Aiken pushed against his ankle, “Do you think it’s broken?”
“It ain’t broken, but you hurt it pretty good.”  Aiken continued to push and prod on Virgil’s ankle, “We’ll have to find a crutch that you’ll have to use for a little while.  I don’t know if you’ll be able to drive for a few days.”
“I’ll be able to drive, as long as you don’t push me off of the coach again.”  Virgil chuckled through a cringe of pain.
“Don’t get in the way again.”  A smile crept across Aiken’s face and he didn’t seem to mind.

The Reckoner: Riding Shotgun, Part 2

It was early in the morning when Virgil knocked on Aiken’s door, but it didn’t matter, Aiken had been awake and waiting.  Santa Fe or Albuquerque or the middle of the dusty desert, he didn’t sleep well.  As soon as Virgil knocked Aiken opened the door, dressed and ready for the day.
“Did you sleep like that?” Virgil laughed as he clapped Aiken on the back.
Aiken shook his head and closed the door behind him.  After spending the evening with Virgil there was something about the man that he liked.  He was warm and inviting, there was no pretense or ungenuine character within him.  He had never met a man like him before, he was difficult to read because there was nothing to read hidden underneath the surface of the man.  What he said is what he meant and what you saw is exactly what you got.  Aiken had spent his life looking for the tell that would show the lie in someone’s story.  Virgil did not have a tell, and that still made him uncomfortable.  Yet he shut the door behind him and slightly smiled, it was unnoticeable to everyone.  But he noticed and he shook his head again.
They walked out of the hotel and saloon and started down the street to the bank and where the vermillion coach was waiting.  Next to the stage were two business men, both in clean suits and new bowlers.  The men were laughing, both of their voices carrying in the crisp, morning air.  It was just cold enough to see their breath and it punctuated the laughter as it entered the atmosphere.
“Mr.’s Johnson and Lee, I hope?”  Virgil stretched out his hand, the same smile on his face.
The men shook Virgil’s hand and then turned them to Aiken, expecting the same kindly welcome.  They didn’t receive one back.  They pulled their hands back with a slight shrug and went right back to their conversation.  Virgil stood their for a few minutes, almost as if he had been part of it he jumped right into the conversation and shared a couple of laughs.  Aiken stood off to the side, never belonging to the conversation.  He stood there and waited.
“Well, let’s get going.”  Virgil said as he opened the door to the coach, “We’ll have you in Santa Fe this evening and in Las Vegas tomorrow.”  After he closed the door he clapped Aiken on the shoulder again and climbed onto the stage.
Aiken climbed onto the stage and took his seat next to Virgil, “Do you want to get this trip started like you did yesterday?”  Virgil asked with a large smile on his face.
Aiken sat down without a word or even an acknowledgement of the joke.  The morning light had washed away any ability to pull down the wall that he had created for so many years.  He pulled the rifle from its holster and watched as he cocked the lever and chambered a round, “Let’s just get going.”  He said, turning his view to the road ahead he reholstered his rifle.
The road back to Santa Fe was the same that they had taken to Albuquerque, dusty with the occasional rabbit running across it.  The only breaks in the monotony were either the conversations that Virgil continued to start and that were routinely ended quickly by Aiken or the Coach Stations that were about every fifteen miles apart.  As soon as they would pull in Virgil would be off of the stage and into the newest conversations with the couples and families that managed the stations.  The two business men were able to get out and stretch for a few minutes and get a glass of water as the horses were changed.  Aiken just watched from his landing, occasionally tipping his hat if he was even acknowledged or answering any questions with one word answers.
The wind changed directions and he shivered once to quickly rewarm himself.  Instinctively his hand went to the gun at his hip as he continued to watch and wait.  The wind was too cold for his liking, no one else seemed to notice the change though.  And why would they?  He was alone and had been for so long that it he had learned to read everything around him.  If the only thing that stands between you and death is yourself, you learn to fight and you never stop fighting.  It was on the wind and he was going to fight.
“Let’s get going.”  He tersely said down to Virgil.
“In just a minute.”  Virgil turned up to Aiken with a questioning look forcing its way through his smile.
“Get those two and let’s get moving.”  Aiken wasn’t going to budge from his stance.
“Okay.”  Virgil wasn’t going to fight, he quickly went into the house and came out with the two business men.
“What is it?”  Virgil asked.
“Just get to driving, don’t go fast and don’t go slow.  And don’t stop until I tell you to.”  Was the reply as Aiken pulled the rifle from his holster and began to cock the hammer and then release it slowly.  The air was getting colder around him and he needed to stay warm.
Virgil whipped at the reins with a “ha” and the coach started down the road to Santa Fe again.  The wind had calmed again, the clouds in the sky had slowed to a crawl as they swept across the painted blue sky.  From the wind, the smell of sage from the brush around the road filled his nostrils.  Behind, the dust kicked up from the coach slowly settled back to the road.  The sound of the desert filled his ear, the buzzing of flies and bees among the sagebrush, the gentle scraping of pebbles as the jackrabbit hopped, the imperceptible rattle of a snake ready to strike.  The pounding of horse hooves against the burnt, desert soil.  The wind picked up, stronger.
“Run the horses!”  He yelled.
“What?”  Virgil’s smile disappeared as soon as he saw the fire in Aiken’s eyes.
“Run, and don’t stop until I say to!”  Aiken never returned Virgil’s look, though he cocked the rifle and left it there.
Virgil whipped at the reins and continued to whip at them.  The wind picked up and the dust from the horses and the coach carried into the wind, around them the pounding of hooves grew louder and through the dust shadows could be seen running through the brush.
“Stop!”
Virgil pulled on the reins as hard as he could.  The dust enveloped the coach as it came to an abrupt stop and the passengers slammed against the front of the coach interior.  The shadows overshot the coach.
“Get down!”  Aiken stepped in front of Virgil.
The dust continued to blow across the stagecoach, obscuring the view out as well as the view in.  Aiken scanned across the front of the stage as he held the rifle against his hip.  The shadows rode back and Aiken knelt on one knee.  The bullet hit the seat of the coach where he had just been.  Another hit a piece of luggage above the coach.  Aiken counted four shadow in total as they rode passed the coach.
“Get off of the coach and underneath it.”  Aiken’s eyes burned, not from the dust, as he directed Virgil, “The dust is going to settle and they’ll see you if you don’t hurry.”
Virgil didn’t need any more encouragement.  He jumped off of the coach and scrambled underneath it.  Aiken stood up and turned around to face the coming highwaymen, the dust began to thin as the wind carried it away from the road.  He could see two of the horsemen and squeezed the trigger.  One fell from his horse and Aiken chambered another round as the other two horsemen came into view through the dust.  Aiken turned and fired the rifle at the lead horse, the horse crumpled and threw the rider to the ground.  Jumping from the coach, Aiken landed on his feet and levered another round into the chamber.
The two rear horses split the coach.  The rider on Aiken’s side leveled his revolver at took a shot.  The ground underneath his feet quaked as the sprayed soil showered across his legs, Aiken didn’t flinch and brought the rider to the ground.  He moved as he chambered another round.  Opening the door of the coach he pulled the businessmen from the inside and pulled them to the ground and kicked to hurry them along to join Virgil underneath the coach.  The wood of the coach next to his head splintered as a bullet passed through it.
Aiken turned around and fired at the man who had been thrown from his horse.  He fell across the horse that he had been using for cover as he lined up the shot at Aiken.  Turning, he chambered the final round.  The bandit reined his horse and looked back at the carnage that had become more and more evident as the dust had blown away.  Aiken could read it on his face, he had seen the look before.  He was going to run like the cur he was. 
Aiken had seen it before and this time was no different.  He had long ago made the decision and he continued to live by it.  He pulled the shortened rifle tight against his hip and fired the last shot.  The rider crumpled in his seat and fell as his horse began to run.  It was a few yards before his foot had worked its way out of the stirrups and he settled to the ground.
He started to walk down the road towards the last man who had fallen.  The coward who would turn and run after trying to inflict so much damage and devastation.  Whether a man would run or face it head on, judgement comes.  He had been weighed and he had been found wanting.  Justice came with the price of lead.  The world turned and soon it would be him who would be found wanting.  Aiken levered the action of the rifle and watched as the spent casing tumbled through the air, landing upon the young man laying in the dust.

The Reckoner: Riding Shotgun, Part 1

He was awake before the sun, not sleeping well was a common torment from the time he was a young man.  He listened to the night tell her stories as he laid on the floor next to the bed, the hooting of the owl, the howl of a distant coyote, the slow stir of the wind through the empty streets.  Simply chaotic in the serenity it somehow offered to him.  He waited for it, could feel it traveling through the cool night air, it was a story of life getting on alone, the fine line between life and death, he had heard the siren song in the story and had come to know it all too well. 
It had been two days since he had consented to riding guard on the Wells Union Stagecoach.  It had been two days of wrestling between the idea of leaving town and staying.  He was accustomed to running but was too set on the idea of seeing a job finished that he had decided to stay.  It was easier to kill a man out in the desert, there was no man to answer to.  But in the city too many men had chosen to take it upon themselves to seat themselves high and thought it their grace to pass judgement.  He felt it but he still wondered why he had killed a man in the city.  And to his unnerving dismay he didn’t feel the need to run.
The coach was ready and waiting for him.  Two passengers waited just outside the coach, a man and a woman who were finely dressed, he had a top hat and morning coat on with a cane in his hand, she, a white dress that accented her petite frame and parasol opened to block the morning sun,  there were multiple sets of luggage packed on top of the coach.  The driver sat on the coach, he had his hat tipped back and a wide smile on his face.  His clean shaven face belied the age that clearly showed in the silver hairs that made their way from underneath the hat.   Aiken could only shake his head as he walked up to the coach, what had he gotten himself into, he wondered.  He wasn’t a gun for hire and he wasn’t a guard.  He knew how to use a gun and there he found himself.
“Mr. Young, your new guard’s here.” The driver turned and yelled through the open doors of the bank.
The banker, as clean and dapper as he was the night that he managed to hire Aiken, walked out of the bank.  His smile hid something and Aiken did not have a clue of what it was, but he knew that his new employer was just a little too slimy for his own liking, and he refused to shake his hand when it was offered once again.
“Mr., huh, Aiken,” The banker pulled his hand back, “How are you doing this fine morning?”
Aiken climbed up to his seat at the left of the driver, ignoring the banker’s question as he did so.
“Well, then,...” The banker wiped the smile off of his face, “You’ll be taking Mr. and Mrs. Tidwell to Albuquerque and delivering the payment in the strongbox to the Wells Union branch there.  Virgil, give the man his shotgun!”
The driver next to him pulled a sawed off double barrel shotgun from the luggage rack at the top of the coach.  It was a strong built piece of iron, it felt cool in his hands as he rubbed them over the well worn stock.  The lacquer used to protect the walnut stock and forearm had been worn and the deep brown was slowly fading to a light tan color.  The action was loose, with a simple flick of the lock the barrels fell open and Aiken could see the cold brass that had been loaded.  Aiken could feel that it has been used and had taken more than one life.
Smooth and cold, Aiken handed the gun back to the man seated next to him, “I won’t be needing that.”
“You have to carry something.” The banker incredulously started.
“I am carrying something,” Aiken fired back as he pulled the rifle from his holster, “And if anything happens that this can’t stop that shotgun wouldn’t have stopped it either.”  He chambered a round as he stared down at the banker.
The banker turned his attention to the man and woman standing at the side of the coach, nervously watching the the exchange between the men, “Alright Mr. and Mrs. Tidwell, Virg and Aiken here will see you safe to Albuquerque.” The smile returned to his face.
After seeing the couple into the coach the banker returned to the front of the coach, “Make sure that nothing happens here or you’ll need more than that rifle to slow me down.”  He hissed through his smile at Aiken.
“Then get the hell out of the way.”  Aiken took the reins from the driver next to him and whipped the horses into a run.
They were out of Santa Fe before he slowed the horses down and handed the reins back to the driver next to him.
Taking the reins, the driver still had a smile on his face.  The events minutes before were completely forgotten, “Well, my name is Virgil, friend.  And you are?”
“Aiken.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Aiken.”  Virgil held his hand out for Aiken, and held it long enough that after Aiken looked at it and then back at the rode, and then back again, that Aiken shook it.
There was something in that handshake that Aiken had never felt.  Perhaps it was what made men shake hands upon introduction, even if it was the hundredth time the introduction had taken place.  It was warm and kind, strong and firm, yet gentle and protective.  It was friendly.  And Aiken pulled his hand back before the shake had finished and went back to looking at the rode.
Virgil didn’t seem to mind, he went back to looking at the rode as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  The bumps and holes in the rode forced Virgil to pull back on the reins and slow the horses down a little bit.  Aiken scanned the road ahead, behind, and the land to the right and left, nothing stirred and the coach continued down the dusty road.
It was some time before Virgil spoke up again, “I’d like to thank you for saving my life.  How was it that you were in the right spot at the right time?”
Aiken just shrugged his shoulders.  How was he going to tell the man next to him that he felt it in the air.  Was there a way to explain that every breathe that he drew before that moment tasted of death, decay filled his nostrils as he chambered a round?  If a man would stop and listen he could hear the reverberation of a soul coming close to the oblivion. 
Aiken just shrugged his shoulders, “Lucky I guess.”
“A man who carries whatever you call that on your hip and argues about carrying it versus a shotgun is a man who understands something more about life and death than just getting lucky.”  Virgil answered his own question.  “Where are you from?”  He continued his jovial interrogation.
“Idaho, but that was a long time ago.”  Aiken surprised himself with the answer.
“Never been to Idaho myself, but I had an uncle that moved there after the war instead of living under reconstruction.”
Aiken nodded and went back to watching the road.  It was an uncomfortable silence that he found himself in.  He hadn’t said where he was from for a long, long time, long enough that he had almost forgotten himself.  Or at least had tried to forget.
The rest of the trip to Albuquerque was uneventful.  The two sat in mutual silence as the desert passed before them.  It was mid-afternoon before they arrived in town and unloaded their passengers and strongbox.
“The bank puts us up in the Occidental down the street before we head back to Santa Fe in the morning.  Grab whatever you need and I’ll buy you a shot.”  Virgil said as he climbed down from the stage.
Aiken followed Virgil from the stage and down the street.  The older man made him uncomfortable, he couldn’t put his finger on it.  Virgil kept the smile on his face the entire time the road down the dusty, bumpy road from Santa Fe.  He was difficult to read and Aiken didn’t like that, he prided himself in the fact that he could read anybody.  It was the simple, overlooked body language and intonations that communicated so much more than what a person said.  Aiken had staked his life on that ability more times than he could remember, and meeting someone like himself, and yet so different, made him uncomfortable.  He felt exposed, he felt vulnerable, and he couldn’t shake that feeling.

The Reckoner: Bucking the Tiger, Part 3

Aiken slowed down, giving the deputy a few steps, giving Aiken a better view if needed.  They continued to an undertakers store front.  There were caskets in front and black drapes in the window.  Aiken could tell that there was something occurring inside that kept the undertaker busy, but there was no crying coming from inside the doors.

"Marshal, this is the man.". The deputy said as they opened the door.

"Mr. ..." The marshal looked at his deputy for an answer and the deputy could only shrug.

"Aiken." Aiken smoothly answered for the suffering deputy.

"Mr. Aiken"  The marshal continued.

"Aiken."  The marshal was cut off.

"Aiken," the marshal shakily continued, "sorry to meet you on these conditions, but is it true that you killed this man?"

"Yes," Aiken stoically answered, tired, "and here's the casing that matches the lead you'll dig out of him." He pulled the casing out of his pocket and put it on the body laying on the table.

The marshal watched in silence, trying to understand everything before trying to get any answers, "I'm going to have to take your gun until we can see a judge."

"I'll go sit in a cell and you can take my belt, but you’re not getting my rifle."  It was said matter of factly, no sense of surprise or argument.

"I need your gun."  The marshal became defensive.

"I don't think you understand," Aiken continued, maintaining his tone, "I'll give you my bullets and I'll sit in one of your cells, but I'm keeping my gun.  I'll go peacefully and I'll not give you any trouble.  I'll wait until the judge gets into town, and then I'll sit before him as he listens to the account of the events.  Or, the judge can find me in the Oriental."

"I don't need any trouble,..."

"Neither do I."  Aiken cut him off.

"I'll need your gun!"  Working up his courage, the marshal continued,  "There's no two ways about it, but as I can tell that your willing to throw down over that piece you can either choose to place it on my desk where you can see it the entire time your in the cell or you can place it in the strongbox yourself.  Either way though, I need that iron."

Aiken reached for the rifle on his hip and the marshal did the same.  Was he going to draw or was he going to hand over the cut down rifle?  The marshal never discovered the answer to that question.

At that moment a man walked into the undertaker's parlor.  He was well dressed, a large cravat around the neck of his silk shirt was partially hidden by the paisley vest that reflected the dim light of the evening with the gold and silver thread it was embroidered with.  A gold chain hung from the vest, attached to a gold pocket watch hidden in the vest pocket.

"Marshal, is this the man that saved my driver's life."  He asked the marshal but couldn't take his eyes from Aiken.

"You could put it that way."  The marshal slightly relaxed.

"Mister, I'd like to thank you.  Not only for saving Virgil's life but for also saving the banks delivery."  He extended his hand to Aiken.  

Aiken looked at the banker's hand and left his at his side.  

Awkwardly the banker pulled his hand back and rubbed it against his pant leg, "I'd like to offer you a job riding as the guard on our lead stagecoach."

"I don't know about that, I ain't no gun for hire." Aiken looked between the lawmen and the banker.

"You've for a gift, mister, uh?"  The banker tried to persuade but got caught by the fact he still didn't know who he was talking to.

"Aiken."  The deputy answered.

"Mr. Aiken,..."

"Just Aiken."  Aiken interrupted.

"Aiken, I just lost my guard and need someone to replace him."

"And you don't seem to be too broken up about that."  Aiken answered.

"There will be time to mourn later, I need someone to guard my coach first thing tomorrow morning."  He displayed unscrupulously, "And it appears your lack of care has created a potential problem with the law in our fair city.  I would imagine that we could convince the marshal that as an employee of the Wells Union Bank you were only performing your job."

The deputy missed it but Aiken caught the wink the banker made to the marshal.  He shook his head, "I don't play that game.  Marshal, when the judge returns to town I'll stand in front of him, but until that time I'll guard your damned coach."

Aiken walked out of the undertaker's shaking his head.  It was the banker who he left with the marshal and deputy that made him uncomfortable.  He understood losing your soul all too well, but losing it for the sake of gold always felt hopeless.  He walked in the darkening evening back to the saloon, back to his home until the circuit judge returned to town, leaving the banker to conduct whatever clandestine business he had with the marshal.

**********

"Here's how I see it Arthur," the banker pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and handed it to the marshal who refused it as they watched Aiken through the window, "he didn't kill the boy out of cold blood and Judge Mathewson isn't going to convict him for stopping a robbery, especially of a bank that he holds stock in.  And either he jumps town tonight and he's no longer your's or the city's problem or he stays and I've got a guard on the bank's coach."  He turned around and could only smile as the disillusionment washed over the young deputy's face.

The Reckoner: Bucking the Tiger, Part 2

Closing the door with a lock, he turned around to see his new hideout.  The room was clean.  The bed looked comfortable, not that it mattered to Aiken, a soft bed made for slow reflexes.  He put the saddlebags, his hat, and his duster on the table and poured water from the pitcher that was sitting on it into the wash basin.  He dipped his entire face into the basin and let it sit there for a minute, letting the cool water soak into his sun dried skin, across his broken lips the water burned with refreshing coolness.  Pulling his face out of the basin he pushed the water off of his face and out of his grease dried hair before he stood up.  Taking the pitcher of water he drank straight from it, the glass next to the wash basin remained untouched.
There was a door to the balcony of the saloon in his room.  Grabbing the pitcher and wash basin off of the table he opened the door and stepped out into the midday sun.  The two roads that converged in front of the saloon were busier than when he entered earlier.  More coaches, more kids, more horses, wives going from storefront to storefront, other hurrying their gaggle of children across the road before the next coach made the turn, men were shaking hands and patting each other on the back as they transacted whatever their business was.  He unbuttoned his shirt as he watched the growing hustle of the day, taking his arms from the sleeves he let the shirt, still tucked into his pants, fall off of his torso.
First he took the washbasin and poured the water from the brow of his head down his torso, washing the dust from the desert off of him, wishing that he could wash more off.  Then he took the pitcher of water and finished the job, getting cleaner but still not washing away the dirt that could only come off in another bath.  He didn’t want to put on his dirty, torn shirt again, but he had nothing to wear.  Pulling the shirt out of his pants he walked back into his room.  He grabbed the billfold out of the saddlebags and walked out into the saloon.
It wasn’t the half-naked man that walked down the stairs that grabbed everyone’s attention, necessarily.  No, plenty of drunk men had come down those stairs with their shirts off, some with a lot more off, not many though had the scars and generally broken body that the man walking down the stairs had.  The most prominent wound was the people scar under his left shoulder, a definite bullet wound that anyone could have pointed out.  Through the muscular veil, the saloon guests could tell that bones had been broken and healed incorrectly, that every muscle was rough but well used, acutely well.
The cut down rifle was still in its holster on his hip.  Easier to see as he walked down the stairs, the patrons of the saloon moved between the half naked man's chest and the gun on his hip, with each shift of their eyes pieces began to fall together.  He was hard, he was rough, he was dangerous, he had used the iron on his hip and he walked with that weight upon his shoulders.  He wasn't sorry, only tired, and it showed.
"Could you have a new shirt purchased and sent to my room?"  He asked the old man behind the bar.
"Yes sir."  The old man replied, unphased by the man in front of him, "that will be two dollars and fifty cents, if you would like I can have that dirty shirt cleaned for an additional fifty cents."
Aiken wasn't prepared for the nonchalance of the old man's response, there was something confidently gentle in his response.  "Thank you," he pulled another five note from the billfold, "put the change towards my room."
"Yes sir, and I'll have the new shirt outside your door within the hour, your old one by tomorrow morning."
Aiken climbed back up the stairs and into the room.  Taking one of the chairs from the table he weren't out to the balcony and sat down.  Propping his feet up, he listened as the commotion in the street reached its zenith.  It was a commotion that a person could get lost in, one that a man could walk in and get caught up in the flow.  And there he sat above it.
Sometimes that flow hits a boulder though, creating an eddy that just spins without anywhere to go.  Aiken could feel it, he sat up in his chair and watched the street below him.  His eyes were darting back and forth trying to find the boulder in the river.  There were some boys chasing each other, sticks in their hands they were playing some sort of outlaw and lawmen game.  Aiken loosed the stock of the rifle from its holster.  There was a clutch of women standing outside what appeared to be the mercantile, the clerk sweeping the boardwalk next to them.  He pulled the big iron from its holster and cocked the lever.  A bright red stage coach, trimmed in yellow, came down the street.  He hadn't noticed it before, there was the bank at the next intersection of the street.  The coach stopped in front of the large brick building.  Aiken stood up from his seat.  The flow hit the boulder.
The coach guard missed him as he came out from inside the bank.  He's was a small man, wiry, almost impish from what Aiken could make out.  Aiken had to squint in the high sun above him to make the man out, why had he left his hat inside?  The impish man pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and fired it square into the coach guard's chest.  He tried to pull the pistol on the driver but felt the burning rip in his gut and he drop the pistol.  Aiken picked up the brass casing from the balcony floor, he put it up to his nose before putting it in his pocket.
He sat back in the chair and waited for the deputy marshal to arrive.  And he did, not too long after there was a knock at the door to his room.  "Come in!" Aiken demanded, not bothering to rise from his seat.
It was the gentleman from behind the bar, a small package wrapped in paper in his arms.  Behind him a man who hadn't been in the saloon earlier.  "I wanted to bring your shirt to you, and a deputy marshal is here to speak to you."
Aiken continued to sit, forcing both men onto the balcony if they wanted to talk to him, "Thank you for the shirt, that was faster than I thought."
"You're welcome.  I'll leave you two men to whatever business you have."  He put the wrapped shirt on the table and closed the door behind him.
Aiken looked the deputy up and down, he couldn't be much older than twenty.  The stubble on his face was patchy and thin, he wore the badge high on the lapel of his coat, proud that it rested there.  He was just been enough to make a mistake.  Aiken stayed in his chair and waited for the deputy to make the first move.
"Sir," he said too confidently, "did you see the incident down the street, outside the back, that occurred not to long ago?"
"Yes."Aiken replied flatly, never looking into the deputy's eyes.
"Can you tell me what occurred?"
"Yes."
The confidence in his voice slowly fading, "Will you tell me what occurred?"
"From what I could see, a man came out of the bank and pulled a pistol from his coat.  He fired it into the chest of the guard and turned it on the driver.  Before that happened a shoot was fired and the gunmen was put down."
"Some say that the shoot fired that killed the gunmen came from this balcony.  Is that true?"  The deputy somehow found his confidence in that question.
"Yes!" Aiken stole the rest of the deputy's confidence as he stood up and finally made eye contact with the deputy.
"Could you possibly come with me to the marshal's office?"  The deputy stepped back as he made the request.
"Yes!" He answered as he took the shirt and walked into his room.
He put the shirt on as the deputy stood waiting. Taking his coat from the table he walked into the saloon and put it on, the deputy heeling behind.  "You're going to have to show me where we're headed." 
The sun was heading down and the street was not as busy.  There was still some commotion at the bank but other than that the business of the day was nearly finished.  The boardwalk in front of the bank was covered with sawdust that had been used to soak up the blood, it did its job well but there would still be a stain beneath.  There was always a stain when blood was spilt, even when the parched ground drank it all.  They walked past the bank and continued down the street.  It wasn't much further to the marshal's office, but they walked past it as well.

The Reckoner: Unforgiven, Part 1

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.
**********
He could feel the sun burning his wind chapped cheeks and he wondered how long he had been asleep.  Reaching for his hat, he didn't want to open his eyes but he didn't want to fall asleep again.  It had been twenty years and every night it was the same dream.  No matter how he tried it always ended the same and he always woke up running away.
Finding his hat he held it up in front of his eyes and he slowly squinted them open. The desert sand had made a firm bed and he had to stretch for a while to get the sleep out of them.  The horse had stayed and just watched as he made his way to a knee and finally stood up.  He stretched again and forced himself to take a step, and then another and another, finally to the horse and the canteen full of water.  Opening it, he splashed a small amount on his face and then took a deep swallow.  "We should be able to make Santa Fe tomorrow morning if we ride all day and night." He said to the horse as he put the canteen back around the saddle horn.
He stretched one more time, pulling hard against the muscles in his legs.  Putting his foot in the stirrup, he thought once more on the dream.  Was there a way to change it, did it matter?  Was there a way to have the dream stop?  And he rode West, one hand on the reins and the other on the rifle holstered to his hip.

The Reckoner: Bucking the Tiger, Part 1

Even on the horse it was a long trip to Santa Fe, a longer trip by far than it would have been if he had stayed on the train.  It didn't matter though, there was nothing particular in Santa Fe that was waiting for him, just another city that he'd be leaving before too long.  Everything seemed to run that way for Aiken, he never got comfortable before he either felt the need to move on or trouble called upon him.  He wasn't sure if trouble found him or if he found trouble, it was immaterial however, trouble was the only friend Aiken Monro knew.

The sun beat upon him and the horse as it reached its zenith.  Even with his duster laid across the back of the saddle he was burning up and he knew the horse couldn't continue on in the heat.  He found some sagebrush tall enough to cast a small shadow and he sat down against it, the horse following suit.

He wanted to tell himself that it was going to be different in Santa Fe, that he'd make himself a home and he'd quit moving on.  Maybe run a faro table in some fancy saloon and shake hands with the owner at the end of every night.  But he knew it was a lie, there would be something that forced him on.  He could feel it on each hair on the back of his neck, he'd be moving on before long.  He had the rifle strapped to his hip and there was a bullet chambered with someone's name upon it, he'd give it to the man and he'd move on.  There isn't a home for a man carrying the judgment of God upon his shoulders.

Finally the sun began to descend, cool enough that Aiken found the horse nearby searching for something to drink.  He hadn't noticed the horse get back up and wondered how long he had sat there daydreaming about Santa Fe and reconciling his fate.  Taking the canteen from the saddle he poured a small amount into his hand and held it to the horse's mouth. Greedily the horse tried to get everything and most fell to the thirsty ground below.  Aiken took a deep swallow and then returned to empty canteen to the horn.

"We'll ride all day and night and make it by morning,"he said as he got on the saddle.  And that's what they did, stopping once at a dirty, fly filled watering hole where the horse took his fill and Aiken thought about it. 

It was a long ride to Santa Fe, but there it was, a regular metropolitan and suddenly Aiken felt it, it wasn't home, it wasn't going to be home, he'd never be home.  In the early morning light he could see the hustle and din of people going to and fro.  Somewhere along the horizon was a castle ranch, rich barons controlling to much of the city with their regulators and cowboy gangs.  Women in the city crying for suffrage while they push their children out of the home. At least it was something he said to himself.

Riding into the city, he looked for the first stable to board his horse.  It was empty except for one lone nag and dust covered hay. It was good enough for him, he'd probably never see the horse again, and if he did the plug wouldn't be any worse for wear. 

"What can I do for you?" An old man slowly made his way through the door.

"How much to keep him?" Aiken pointed at the horse tied up to the post.

"It's one dollar a week and you have to pay upfront for a minimum of four weeks." He hobbled to the horse and began to past it's shoulders and rub its belly.

Aiken dug into the saddlebags as he took them off of the horse's back, he pulled out four silver pieces and dropped them into the old man's hand.  Throwing the saddlebags over his shoulder he turned and walked away.

"What's his name?"

Aiken stopped and turned around, looking at the horse he said, "Never had much use for a name, you give him one and that's what you'll call him."  He turned around and continued into the street, moving between kids, coaches, and horses. 

Down the street on the corner was what he was looking for.  The building stood out among its peers, it's deep blue facade and white trim, the balcony overlooking the street, the sign said The Oriental.  The large windows and blur curtains behind them accented the gold lettering that spelled out Saloon.  Two large doors kept the dust from the street out of the establishment, and he had to wonder if they were meant to keep him out as well.

He turned the large brass knob of the door and walked in, it was dim lit within, most of the windows had their curtains down and everything had a deep blue tint cast upon it.  A few men stood at the only faro table that was running, most wore the dusty chaps that suggested they had just returned to town from some type of cattle work in the desert.  One, however, other than the banker, was a professional, his dapper cloths, pressed coat and string tie attested to his career. 

Catching the eye of the man behind the bar, "Give me a shot of whiskey."  Except for that brief moment Aiken's gaze never left the gambler.  The gambler's eyes shifted between the banker calling for bets or turning over cards, where his bets were placed, and what the case keep showed.  Aiken recognized it, they were cold and calculating, nothing was a risk, a win or a lost was what the cards had in store and he just played the odds.  His cloths were clean, his boots barely showed a hint of dust, it was weakness in a man that was scared to show his dirt.  Aiken hated him for it, and yet there was something about him that in the deepest recesses of his mind and heart, Aiken was envious.

"Are you new to Santa Fe?" The old man behind the bar broke Aiken's concentration.

"Sorry, I am and do you know a place that regularly boards newcomers?"

"We have a few rooms available for rent upstairs, but if you want true accommodations and plan on staying for a while Mrs. McAllister's would be my choice if I had to make one."

"I don't know how long I'll be in town, one of the rooms upstairs will be fine." He pulled a five note and a quarter out of the saddlebags he still kept on his shoulder, "If I'm here longer than what this is worth, let me know."  He placed the five note on the bar and finished the whiskey he hadn't touched.

"That will be the third door once you go upstairs."  The bartender said as Aiken walked away.

He was rubbing the quarter between his finger and forefinger, hearing but not acknowledging what the old man had said.  He walked towards the faro table, trying to get a good view of the case keep he could see that there were still a fair number of cards in play, probably around thirty, with the quarter he could watch a few rounds before his card was called.  Still, why was he doing it he wondered, he rarely won and then he'd be out a quarter and on top of that, upset.  It called him though, the felt and the chance of winning was too alluring.

Aiken shouldered his way into a spot around the table and waited for the current turn to end.  The banker removed the last winning card and exposed the three of hearts, it was the losing card.  The banker then removed the three of hearts to expose the king of spades, the winning card.  Looking at the table, the banker removed the single mark from the three and put into the houses pile, there weren't any marks played on the king for the banker to pay out.  It was a simple and fast game, addicting in the bigger payout as more and more cards from the deck were played.

It was a new turn and the banker called for bets.  Looking at the case keep Aiken put his quarter on the four, in the back of his mind he smiled as the gambler made the same decision.  The banker began to pull the last winning card from the dealing box and Aiken saw the four before the last card was fully removed.  He shook his head and walked away, not finishing the turn or even staying to watch the next.  He walked up the stairs and opened the third door.

The Reckoner: Half Past Sunset, Part 3

Half Past Sunset, Part 1

Half Past Sunset, Part 2

The sun beat down upon him.  The earth was scorched and dry, life hung on by the simple force of sheer will.  Even in the shade it was a slow death, an extra minute in hell.

**********

He had wandered the desert for two days, his coat hung over his shoulder, his hat pulled down low, and the rifle in its holster.  He had passed mirage after mirage, a pool of water or a tree under whose limbs he could have laid for a while.  But it had been false.  And all he could do was keep going, if he was going to die he was going to meet the devil on his own two feet.

His last meal had been a jack rabbit a day before, shot into too many pieces to constitute a real meal.  He hoped to see another, or anything that moved, to be exact.  The horse prints he was following kept going.  They led to The Maze, a labyrinthine puzzle of slot canyons.  He had visited The Maze once before and had vowed to never revisit the cursed place.

Why had he jumped from the train, he wondered.  If he had just finished the business on the train and stayed aboard he would have been in Santa Fe, bucking the tiger with a girl on his lap, a shot of whiskey warming his belly.  But instead, he was tracking a lone horse and it's rider into the bowels of hell.  His entire life had been one rash decision after another, from the moment he lost his soul he had jumped the gun trying to bring justice to those who had done the same.  Every time he walked out alive, yet deader, farther away from his hope.  He knew that it would be the same outcome, bringing justice to others and yet his own further away.
The cliff walls were on the horizon, The Maze loomed ahead and not soon enough.  Regardless of how bad he didn't want to enter those canyons there would be water, and that's what he needed, even more than justice he needed water.  It took another day to enter the shade that the wall cast on the desert floor.  With each step closer to The Maze the amount of hoof prints exponentially grew, some were coming and some going.  The thieves' den was a mecca of the injustice that he tried to right and he felt a sick sense of welcome as he entered the shade.

A small stream trickled from the mouth of the canyon and was quickly swallowed by the parched desert, he fell to his knees and cupped his hand to the water and brought it up to his lips.  The cool water burnt his cracked lip, the subtle tightening of every small muscle as the water splashed against them forced every crack to split wider, a life giving pain that he could only smile about, continuing the painful cycle.  He took more and more handfuls of water, baptizing his hope as he made his stomach sick.

He brought another handful up to his lips as he heard the echoing of thunder come down the canyon.  Quickly he got to his feet and hid in the deepest shadows against the canyon wall.  Riders and their mounts came down the canyon, water splashing as the horses ran.  There he was, taking the lead of the charge out of the canyon was the man that had been prey for too long through the desert.  Slowly he pulled the rifle from its holster and cocked the lever, invisible to the Rogers as he stayed in the shadows.  The horses rode by him, never noticing their doom against the cliff.  When they had ridden about fifty yards out he stepped out from the wall. 

"Hey!" He yelled and shot into the air.

The riders reined their horses and quickly turned them around in the sand.  He quickly cocked another round into the chamber and walked out of the shadows, the rifle butted against his hip.

"I know you!" The man on the horse said, surprised, "You're the crazy son of a bitch that jumped off of the train and killed two of my men."

"And I've come after you!" Yelling back, he continued to walk towards the horsemen.  Every rider pulled his pistol and leveled it at him, "I've got no quarrel with you, yet.  I've come after him," he pointed at the lead horseman, "and him alone."

One of the horsemen barely lifted his pistol and he felt his horse underneath him stumble as a bang echoed off of the cliff walls and he tumbled to the ground, "The next man to raise a pistol is going to lose more than just a horse."  He continued to walk with the rifle against his hip as he cocked the lever again.

"You can stay on the horse or face me on the level," he stopped in the half light where the burning sun meet the shadows of the cliff, "either way, you'll throw down for the last time here."

His quarry sat in his saddle, looking back and forth between his men as the sun continued its downward descent behind the canyon.  Back and forth he looked, unsure of the decision that had to be made.  The sun continued to march on, prey and hunter hidden away in the eternity of final pursuit.  Each bead of sweat glistened in the gloaming, building with each passing second, waiting for one wrong breath so that it could fall.
The rider flinched in his saddle and pushed the six shooter forward.  He pulled the trigger and watched as the bullet sprayed the sand just under his hunter's foot.  He also watched as his hunter squeezed the trigger of the strange iron on his hip, and felt the burning in his chest.  He didn't feel the ground as he hit it.

"If I have to end you right now I will," the hunter said as he chambered another round, "but ride on out of here and we can save that for another day."

The riders stayed there for a minute before turning their horses around and riding off.  He picked up the spent casing out of the sand and smelled the acrid powder that lingered within it.  He calmed his nerves and holstered the rifle, still smelling the casing.  Starting to walk away was the quarry's horse, out into the desert, and if the hunter didn't hurry would be to far away to catch.  Quickly he walked to the horse, tossing the casing down on the dead body as he passed it. 

He caught the horse and after a brief moment of introduction mounted him and rode towards Santa Fe.

**********

The sun had set and it was the stars and a full moon in a cloudless sky that lit his ride.  Bodies laid in the same dim night, laid low by the rifle the man carried on his hip.  Their only headstone a spent piece of brass, a memorial to the life they lived and the justice that was brought to them.  He would lay under the same light one day, with the same memorial stone, he knew it as he looked up at the stars and wondered about His mercy.  Until that day, he was The Reckoner.