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.