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.