John and Roy approach Lawton. The ride has passed in silence with no words spoken. None needed be.
Early rays of brilliant sunlight pierce the sky. The bustle of Lawton has thinned. People no longer crowd the streets. The innocent voices of the children have vanished, the men left their work. Soft glows of candle light the windows of the surrounding homes. A few late working rustlers hop fences and split apart, waving each other off as they return to their waiting families.
The monotonous clank of the horse’s hooves marks their presence as they approach the jail. John looks to Roy who rests against his animal’s neck, arm wrapped thick with bandage. Roy rubs his wound and spurs his steed onward. They stop before the empty jailhouse and dismount, pausing only to tether their horses.
Roy moves on without words, passing up the stairs and into his office. He heads to his desk and pulls the bottle of whiskey out from underneath. He sips the drink as John approaches.
“I never killed a man,” he says, shaking his head, “twenty years and my gun had never left its holster till last week.”
“Well now it has, and you have killed. What do you do?”
Roy wipes his eyes and takes another draw from the bottle.
“The man wasn’t even armed. I didn’t know.”
“Then it wasn’t your fault,” John says.
“I wanted him dead.”
“No one can blame you for that. You lost much. If you hadn’t done what you did, those men would have just killed again.”
“I’m not so certain about that Frank.”
“Well I am.”
John pulls the chair back and takes a seat. He motions towards the marshal’s bandaged wound.
“You should get that checked.”
“Doc will fix it up in the morning.”
Roy finishes the bottle and stares at the empty bottle. He turns it over in his hands, watching the light reflect from its edges. With a sudden shout he hurls it to the ground where it shatters. John doesn’t move. He waits for the lawman to calm.
Roy paces across the floor, cursing beneath his breath and biting his trembling lip. He touches the star upon his chest and traces the edges of its points, then falls back into his chair, the strength of the drink beginning to take hold.
“You did good, John,” Roy says as he rubs his arms, skin rough from the cold.
“I did what was needed. What was needed wasn’t good.”
“But it needed to be done.”
Roy stands and offers his hand. John accepts.
“Where will yours end, John? When Anton is dead? When they’re all dead, every last evil man on earth?”
“It’ll end when I’m back with Rose and everything is right again,” John replies as he releases his hold.
“That may be sooner than you think.”
Roy digs into his pocket. His hand comes back clutching the badges of his dead sons along with a single slip of torn paper. He lets the stars slip from his grasp and land on the scratched wood below. He leans forward and stuffs the sheet into John’s hands.
“There's a house about twenty miles from here where his men hole up when injured. There'll be hurt men there who can point you the way with a little persuasion, maybe even Anton himself if you’re lucky. If he’s there he’ll have guards.”
“I know,” John says. He pockets the strip.
“Just head east and you’ll find it. There’s a grouping of tall grass that surrounds the area. You should be able to use that for cover.”
“Many thanks.”
John turns towards the entrance. Roy follows the young man, his head bowed and voice lowered.
“How many men does one need to kill before he becomes no better than the thing he hunts? How many deaths, even of those who stand against all that’s righteous and true, before you’re sentenced to your fate, condemned as well? You travel too long on a path for revenge and your motivation changes from justified acts to simple bloodlust. How many men have you killed, John?”
Roy waits for a response but receives none. His body shakes from the dulled pain. It seems as though the world has gone silent. The dogs cease their barking and the roosters do not call. He reaches up and grasps his star, fingers fumbling with the pin. With a sharp pull he yanks the star from his chest and tosses it down across the desk beside his sons’.
“How many?” he asks.
John doesn’t reply. He lets the door swing open and exits without looking back, stepping from the porch and into the road. He approaches his horse and pulls a couple of canteens from his pack and the rifle from its sheath. He slings the contents over his shoulder. The horse knickers as he rubs its neck.
“Watch my horse, would you? Make sure she goes somewhere safe. Belonged to friends. I’d like to see her treated right,” he says, tightening the strap of the rifle against his chest.
“I’ll see it done.”
John nods and starts to leave. He stops suddenly and removes his hat, handing it back to the marshal.
Roy waves a dismissive hand.
“Keep it.”
“Much obliged.”
John makes his way around the edge of the jail and crosses through the patches of grass that surround the town. Roy calls out to him.
“There’s a storm coming, John. Try to be hidden when it hits.”
John nods. Lawton fades as he walks, glancing back occasionally to watch as the people of the town rise to greet the new day, already forgetting he’d ever been there.
***
The Tall Man awakens. He feels cold, surrounded by darkness. His head spins and his legs feel numb. He opens his eyes, ready to face whatever awaits him.
He lies upon a bed of silk. He tries to sit up but can do nothing more than raise his arms. Breaths comes shallow and harsh like that of a wounded dog. He reaches up towards his throat where a large bandage wrapped with thick gauze presses against his wound. The pillow he lays on stained dark with dried blood. He calls out for his men. A figure steps through the white door in the corner of the room.
The stranger dons cloth yellowed from age and torn at the seams. Cropped hair leaves his large ears exposed. A pair of wireframe glasses hangs loose against the bridge of his nose. He carries a pitcher of water and several surgical tools which he sets down upon the nightstand beside the bed. The Tall Man studies the newcomer, his dark eyes shifting in his skull, following the man’s every move.
“Are you supposed to be my nurse?” he asks with a grimace.
“I’m your doctor, sir.”
“You, a doctor? This the best my men could get?”
The young man ignores the remark, instead concentrating on arranging his tools. He pulls a line of string and threads a needle.
“Closest doctor in the area. You wouldn’t have made it any farther. I had to come out here to take care of you. Mind you, your men didn't give me much choice in the matter.”
“I see.”
“And I am the best,” the man says, continuing his work without smirking or waiting for response.
He stoops down over The Tall Man and lifts the compress to inspect his wound.
“Looks like your stitches have broken. You must have torn them in your fever.”
“How long have I been out?”
“About half a day. Not long at all considering the damage. I need to re-stitch this. Try and lean forward for me.”
The doctor pulls up a stool and begins to unwrap a roll of fresh gauze, placing his hand behind the wounded man’s head. The Tall Man leans up, careful not to show his strain.
“Why am I so weak?”
“I gave you a sedative to keep you from moving about too much, should wear off soon. For now you need your rest,” the doctor replies as he pushes the needle into The Tall Man’s skin and closes the wound once more.
The doctor works in silence, cutting the thread and re-bandaging the wound. He passes a cup of water and waits while the Rider drains the glass. Once The Tall Man has finished, he returns his tools to his bag and heads for the door. The Tall Man calls after him.
“You know who I am?” he asks.
“I know who you are.”
“Then all that remains is that you introduce yourself.”
The doctor sighs. His body tenses. He does not turn back to look upon the man he tends.
“You can call me Hanson.”
The Tall Man nods. He watches the man for some time before speaking.
“Don’t you fear me, Hanson?”
“I do, sir.”
The Rider closes his eyes and turns away from his caregiver, laying his head against the bloodstained pillow.
“Good.”
***
“Are you ready?”
“As much as I ever will be.”
“But will that be enough?”
John sits alone in the room. The sheets are stitched, the blood never spilt. The single bulb shines with a blazing glory, lighting every corner. Dust has left the surfaces. The sounds of birds echo beyond the walls.
His reflection sits across from him dressed in the same black garments now clean and pressed, its form complete.
“Would you sacrifice everything to destroy him?”
“He’s already destroyed everything I have. My sacrifice has been paid. There is nothing left,” John says. He rubs freezing hands together despite the warmth of the room.
The reflection kneels before him. Its eyes shine white. It presses a hand to John’s chest.
“No. As long as you stand there is a chance for you to move on. Do not think that this is the end for it does not have to be. Not all men have their revenge. Perhaps that is for best. Revenge is a fickle thing and its end will not bring those whom you have lost back. It will only leave you with a deeper emptiness than you could have ever known.”
“But he will be dead and no more will suffer.”
John’s hands close around the weapons at his side. So long has he carried them. So many lives have they taken. The silver handles shine beneath his touch. They weigh him down.
“Do you really believe that?” the reflection asks as it draws back its hand.
“I have to.”
“And if you fail?”
John shakes his head. His hair spills across his eyes, not unkempt and wild, but carefully parted.
“I won’t.”
The reflection stands. John rises with it. They grasp one another’s hands and embrace. The sound of the world greets them. Light spills through the windows.
“Then this must be where we part.”
John’s reflection steps back. It does not grab the wire that hangs from the bulb, cutting it off and dimming the world. The light remains, bright and free.
“Goodbye John.”
***
The Tall Man lies motionless, staring up at the ceiling and counting the holes in the aged wood. His chest rises with effort at every breath. He swallows, the motion stinging the sewn wound across his neck. The creek of hinges meets his ears as Hanson enters.
"How are you doing?" he asks, setting his bag of supplies down and snapping it open.
"Fine."
"Any pain?"
"No," The Tall Man replies, grunting as he turns his head to face the man.
Hanson carries a fresh pillowcase tucked tight underneath his arm. He straightens his collar, pulls the stool over with his free hand, and takes a seat before his patient.
"You shouldn't lie. I won't know how well you're progressing."
"No pain, only numbness."
"Numbness. Alright then," Hanson remarks as he places his hand behind The Tall Man's head and lifts him forward, "I'm going to need to change this."
The Tall Man shakes his head and shifts away from the doctor.
"No need. Leave me be."
"I'm not going to have my patient sleep on dried blood. I don't care who you are or why you're here but this is how it goes."
The Rider relaxes against the man's grasp. Henson tosses the bloodstained sheet to the floor and replaces it, tucking a clean pillow behind The Tall Man's head and laying him back.
The Tall Man closes his eyes. Hanson does not exit. He lifts his bag and places it in his lap.
"How many of my men have laid here before me? How many have you treated?" The Tall Man asks.
"More than I can count."
"And now I lie here, weak and beaten."
"Just because someone is weakened does not mean he has been beaten."
"There is no difference, not to a man like me."
"And what kind of man are you?" Hanson asks. He reaches into his bag, drawing forth a thermometer and a new set of bandages.
A grin forms across The Tall Man’s lips. "You're bold, my friend, very bold.”
"I'm sorry?"
"Speaking the way you speak. Most people do not dare confront me, those who do often suffer as a result."
Hanson leans back and studies the wounded man.
"Will I suffer?" he asks.
"Perhaps."
***
John stands in the midst of the desolate plains. The house lays far ahead, a speck in the distance. High above, the clouds have left the sky. The sun shines down bright.
John lifts the rifle from his back. He removes his canteen next, snapping the straps and letting them hang. He unscrews the cap and drains the last of the water, the cool drink soothing his parched throat. He lets the empty container fall. The final drops dampen the burning sand. He slings the rifle back around his shoulder and stands once more, continuing on towards the shelter.
The soft sounds of his boots hitting the earth echo in his ears, a quiet tap against his focused mind. A second set joins them. John does not turn with revolver drawn and poised to fight. Instead, he continues on. His father’s voice rises from behind.
"This where it ends?" the figure asks, its shadow cast beside John’s own.
"It is."
"And where does that leave you?"
"It leaves me exactly where I need to be."
The building takes shape in the distance, inching closer with every step. Specks of movement, guards and their horses, navigate the perimeter, tracing a path around the house. The Tall Man must be there.
A large patch of dried grass rises from the dirt and spreads out before John. He sinks to his knees, undoing the straps of the rifle and letting them fall away. The bed shifts underneath to wrap his form. He reaches up and draws bullets from the strap across his chest, sliding them one by one into the breech. His father kneels behind him. The metal of his spurs clinks as he steps against the earth. John snaps the rifle shut.
"What will you do when it's over?" his father asks.
"Whatever I can."
"And if you die here?"
John tightens his hand against the butt of the weapon. His father continues, voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you really think you can survive this? Even if you do succeed, what will it accomplish?"
"It will mean that Anton breathes no more. He must be ended."
The form shakes its head and raises its eyes. It lays a hand on John's shoulder.
"In the end we all fade to dust."
"But for some the dust comes quicker than others, either by their choice or the choice of another. I would rather my end come on my own terms," John replies. His eyes begin to cloud. He wipes them with the back of his hand.
Tears spill down the side of John’s cheek. He starts to shake but grabs hold of himself, cursing and pounding his chest. The fear threatens to take over, to swallow him, but soon dies as he closes his eyes and whispers to the earth, to God, to whomever may listen, to free him from its hold.
"Dying is no way to see her again."
"No. No it's not. It's a sweet temptation but it’s not. However, in the end, if that's how I fare, then at least it will be over. That's all that matters."
John raises the rifle to his chest and begins his slow crawl forward. He does not glance back upon his father’s form for he knows it has already gone.
***
The Tall Man sits propped up against the side of the bed, wounds sealed tight with string and bound by cloth. No blood flows from them. He glances towards Hanson who sits across the room and leans back in an old rocking chair, legs resting atop a nearby dresser.
"Who was she?" the doctor asks.
"Who?"
"The woman in the picture."
The Tall Man glances off to the side. His pistols hang mere feet away, dangling in their holsters from a makeshift hat rack attached to the wall. Atop the beaten nightstand sits the framed picture of John's mother, shining and untouched by dust or print. Her beauty burns forth, enrapturing him to this day. He reaches out, careful not to tilt his head or twist his back, grabs hold of the frame, and places it in his lap.
"She was just a girl," he replies.
"She must have meant something to you."
The Rider shakes his head. His fists close tight around the frame, threatening to crack the glass.
"What does it matter? Why do you care, Hanson? What possible reason would you have to delve into my life? I have no desire to discuss my past and you should know this; I would kill you the minute you learned even my name."
"I'll take the risk. I care about my patients, even ones like you, and this woman, whoever she is, obviously meant something, obviously comforts you. That is something every man should understand," Hanson says, dropping his feet to the ground and leaning forward.
"She was just a whore. Just a whore and nothing else."
Hanson stands and approaches his patient.
"No. No, she was special, that I can tell. Even the cruelest man can feel love for something. It would do you well to talk about her."
The Tall Man draws his weapon, his movement blurred from his speed, and fires once. A hole appears in the wall, inches from Hanson's head. The doctor stands still, not flinching or covering his face.
From outside the room men shout. Their footsteps echo through the thin walls as they race to their master. A flurry of beats arise against the door.
"Sir, is everything alright?" one of the guards shouts, voice cracked with terror.
The Tall Man remains still, weapon trained on the doctor. Suddenly, his face changes from its blank mask. A smile splays across his lips, but this is not one of cruelty and contempt, rather something pure. It passes in an instant.
The Tall Man lowers his arm, shoving the weapon back into its holster. He calls out to the guard on the other side of the door.
"Everything is fine. Go back to your post."
The voices die and the two men are left to the emptiness. Hanson takes a seat beside the Rider. The Tall Man loosens his hold on the picture, staring deep into his love's eyes. He speaks slowly, focus never shifting from the frame.
"She was a whore, on that I did not lie, but she was not like the others, did not belong among them. We met many years ago. I fell in love with her. I think in some way she did love me back, I have to believe that, but she was never meant to be mine. I knew that to be so but it did not stop me. She ended up in the arms of a good friend of mine and I forever cursed her for that, forever cursed the man she loved. Cursed him and his kin."
The Tall Man closes his eyes and rubs his hand across the spotless glass.
"We could have been friends, perhaps, but it was not to be. My actions guaranteed that. She was just a girl, a girl who I cared for, and I ended up destroying her the same way I have destroyed so many others. I am poison, it is true. I am sorrow and tragedy in all its many forms and my touch killed her as well. Maybe not by gunfire or steel, but it killed her."
He sets the frame back on the nightstand and stares at it a moment longer before pushing it down, the glass turned to the wood. He glances up at Hanson. His eyes shine with unfalling tears.
"Make no mistake, my friend, I am an evil man."
The sound of gunfire bursts forth outside. Shouts and screams and curses rise in the air. Hanson crosses the room and tugs open the curtain that blocks the window. He looks back at his patient. He has no words. The Tall Man closes his eyes.
"I think it would be best if you left, Hanson. My sins have caught up with me, and they will destroy everything in their path."
***
John rises from the grass, his rifle steady and aim true. Two guards stand outside the building turned away from him. Several more must wait within. The fight will not be easy. The men will be trained and ready to kill. Then there will be Anton himself. He casts all fear away. He is ready. Air hisses through clenched teeth. His finger tightens around the trigger. He fires the first shot.
The side of the closest guard's head bursts open, spraying blood and bone across his partner. The Rider draws his weapon without hesitation, his face stained fresh with blood, not bothering to wipe the gore away. He steps down from the porch and fires wildly in John’s direction. Bullets kick up dirt around John, biting and tearing at the earth. The man is not focused, does not take the time to react. John has all the time he needs. He lets off his second shot.
The bullet catches the man in the stomach. He sinks forward only to have a second shot fling him backwards into the dirt. John lets the rifle fall and draws both his revolvers. They shine with the glory wrought from battle. They await blood. They shall have it.
John advances with one weapon trained upon the fallen man, the second scanning the windows of the house. A curtain drifts back and the form of a man in white cloth emerges from the dark. John sets his aim on the man but does not fire. He holds no weapon. The curtain closes and John returns his focus on the rotted doorframe ahead.
Shouts of fury emerge from inside the house as he approaches. The second guard lays groaning on his back. Blood paints his lips. His eyes widen as John passes. His hand slides to his weapon.
John fires into the man's face without breaking his stride. He continues onward, mounting the steps and pressing his back against the side of the house. He holsters his second pistol and frees his right. He reaches forward, wrapping his hand around the knob of the door and inching it open.
A blast of gunfire strikes the doorframe, blowing it back and showering the ground with debris. John swerves for cover. His Stetson flies from his head. He leans in with back pressed against the wood and arm extending past the doorway. He fires two blind shots and rounds the corner, passing through the entrance.
A Rider stands in the hallway. He lets off a shot that catches John in the shoulder and buries deep into his flesh. John curses and pulls the trigger, catching the man in the throat. The Rider sinks to his knees, gurgling and clutching his wound. Life spurts through his fingers. John fires again into his chest and he drops.
John dives into the nearest doorway and scans the room, drawing his second revolver once more. Eight shots remain between the two. The house has fallen silent.
He’s entered the kitchen. A pot of stew boils atop an iron stove, bubbling over and sending steam floating through the air. He crosses the room to the next door. His spurs jangle as they tap against the wood. John wipes his watering eyes. Still no sound. He cocks his hammer, hoping to draw a reaction from anyone who may be listening. It works.
A flurry of shots burrow their way through the door tearing holes in the wooden frame and shattering the window beyond. John waits for pause then steps in front of the door and fires twice from the revolver in his left hand. The chamber clicks dry and he replies with four more rounds from the second. Beyond the doorway a body hits the floor. John kneels and peaks through the holes created by the shots. A fourth Rider lies motionless in a puddle of blood. John breathes out and lowers his weapon. The beating of another set of boots rises from behind. He turns round, realizing too late his mistake.
The Rider breaks through the door where John entered, his weapon already drawn. John steps forward. The Rider fires first.
John flies back from the force of the blast, the bullet buried in his stomach. He gasps in pain and drops his empty weapon, pressing a hand to his gut to stop the flow. He fires with his second, hitting the man through the wrist, the bullet tearing clean through. The Rider shrieks in pain as blood sprays from burst veins. He drops his gun and falls upon John before he can take another shot, lifting him like a ragdoll and hurling him across the kitchen into the broken window. John drops from the pane and onto the counter, shards of glass buried in his back.
John rolls from the countertop, kicking out and catching the man's ankle. The guard drops to his knees, ducks the next swing, and buries his fist in John's wound. John screams in fury, spitting and cursing, his vision blurring from the pain. He shoves the Rider away and stumbles back against the stove. The Rider draws his second weapon and fires into John's leg. Bone splinters under the skin.
John crumples to the ground. He clutches his ruined limb. The Rider advances, laughing and lowering his weapon. He places his heel against John's leg and digs his spur into the wound. John shrieks, his free leg flailing out to no effect. He grabs hold of the pot atop the stove, hand burning red from the heat, and hurls it forward, showering the Rider’s face with boiling water. The man falls to the side and lets out an inhuman scream, face bubbling and eyes burned black. He chokes and reaches blindly for a weapon.
John drops to his enemy’s side, placing his knee against his back to keep him steady. He locks his arms around the man's throat and jerks back. With a crunch the Rider’s neck snaps and he falls limp against John's hold. John lets the man drop.
He drags himself across the floor, leaving several trails of blood in his wake, and scoops up his two guns, sliding the empty one into its holster. He rises on shaking legs. The shattered bone shifts under his weight and he whimpers in pain as he trips against the wall. He pushes against the sides of the structure, moving beyond the door and to the stairs. Nothing meets him. No sounds. No whispers. No clink of spur against wood. Everyone is dead.
"Anton!" John screams as he stumbles up the stairs, holding the railing for support.
Blood trickles from his wounds and spills to the ground below. Small drops of blood patter the steps with every step he takes.
John mounts the final stair. His body shakes but this time it is not from fear. He breathes through clenched teeth, spitting out the sweat that runs down his skin, ignoring the pain and burying his hand against his gut.
"Face me, you bastard!"
A single door remains shut. John makes his way down the hallway. His head spins, temples pounding with each step. He places his pale hand against the knob and waits. Voices arise from the other side.
John clutches his weapon in one bloodstained hand. He does not bother to reload. The chamber holds only one bullet. That will be all he gets to use. All he will need.
John braces himself against the door and shakes his head to clear his sight. He pushes forward and swings it open, pistol raised, ready to end the hunt.
***
John enters the room. The Tall Man lies upright in his bed. Hanson stands beside him. He holds one of The Tall Man's pistols raised up awkwardly and pointed in John's direction. John trains his weapon on the doctor but keeps his eyes focused on the wounded Rider.
"Get back!" Hanson shouts.
His hands shake violently as he cocks the hammer, unsure of what to do. His glasses slip down to the tip of his nose. He pulls them from his face with his free hand and stuffs them into his pocket. John motions downward.
"Drop the gun," he says, struggling to stand on trembling legs.
"I won't have any more violence in this house!"
"I don't intend violence upon anyone but the man you're guarding. Drop the gun."
Hanson lets out a nervous laugh.
"Hasn't there been enough killing? How many men are dead downstairs?"
"All of them. Drop the gun, I only want him," John replies. He takes a step forward.
"What will killing him accomplish? No, I won't move."
"Let it go, Hanson."
Hanson turns towards The Tall Man, sees the resolve in his patient’s face. There is nothing more he can do.
"What?" he asks.
"This has been a long time coming, now it's here. Your presence will mean just another grave to be dug. Drop the gun."
The Tall Man points to the floor. Hanson nods blankly and lets the weapon fall.
"Leave the room and close the door."
The doctor collects his bag without another word. He passes by John and opens the door, glancing back only once. The Tall Man nods. Hanson shuts the door and passes on, his footsteps rising through the ruined house. The front door slams shut and he is gone.
John makes his way forward, pulling back the chair where Hanson sat and letting his knees give way. The roaring wind fades. The sound of rocks beating against the walls ends. Only he and The Tall Man remain. The Rider shifts against his pillow and leans back.
"So this is it," he says.
"Not the way you pictured your end?"
"No. No, it's exactly the way I pictured my end, but even when it is our time we often fail to accept it."
"Learn to accept it quickly because I'm giving you ten seconds."
The Tall Man chuckles. He scans John, his eyes moving from one wound to the next. A puddle of blood forms under the chair. John shivers beneath his clothes.
"You're looking well," the Rider says.
"You too."
From beyond the window the sun begins to die.
"It's not as satisfying as you might have hoped, is it?" The Tall Man asks.
"I never thought it would be."
The Tall Man leans to the side and extends his arm. John raises his pistol, ready to fire. The Tall Man shakes his head. His hand moves past the hanging holsters and closes around the framed picture of John's mother. He pulls it to his chest.
"She was beautiful," he says.
"She was my mother, she never cared for you."
The picture slips from the Rider’s grasp and clatters to the floor. The framed glass shatters.
"You're wrong, John. She loved me with all her heart, just as she loved your father."
"Whether that is true or not, you destroyed whatever you may have had. It's your nature."
"True," The Tall Man replies. He closes his eyes.
The silence surrounds them now. Neither man speaks. The soft patter of John's dripping blood is all that remains. John trains his revolver on the injured Rider. He breathes erratic, eyes fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird, and tightens his grip on the silver weapon, its handle stained with his blood.
The Tall Man speaks, his eyes still shut.
"What are you waiting for? Do it."
John pulls the trigger and fires into his chest. The sound of the gunshot rises through the house and out to the world. The Tall Man opens his eyes, focused on the ceiling but seeing something else, something more. His smile fades and he breathes out, his chest shuddering with effort. A rattle escapes his lips. His hands fall to his sides. The breath ends and he draws no more.
John sits back. His pistol clatters to the floor. The world continues moving and everything returns. Wind shrieks in the distance.
John rises with great effort, his body now numb. He feels no pain. He lets his hand fall from his wound. With a snap, he undoes his belt and lets the second revolver join its twin. The weight finally leaves.
***
Far off, miles from this place, a slave holds his family, lost to him for so many years, again. He cries.
A young woman whispers final words to her brother and her chief, all those lost. She makes her way back to the camp where rebuilding has begun.
Two men, father and son, tend bar. A beautiful painting of a young girl hangs above their heads. Business is good.
A child sits in church dressed in new clothes. He holds a bible close to his chest, his life begun anew. He prays for the man who saved him.
An uncle holds his nephew close in one arm, his free hand touching that of a widowed woman. Their eyes meet.
The world goes on.
***
John sinks to the ground, his back against the porch beam that holds the balcony up. He does not see the dead men that surround him. They are gone from his sight. The sun drifts towards the horizon spilling out waves of orange and gold across the sky. He bleeds no more. His clothes are clean. The desert thrives. Plants and trees sprout forth. Cool water flows. Life spreads before him. The sound of footsteps meets his ears.
Rose approaches with his child in her arms. His father waits in the distance, mother at his side. His brother Samuel waves wildly, his smile wide. Jane, the child from the oil fields, Paul, they all stand before him. Light fills the sky despite the sinking of the sun.
John’s love sits beside him. She rests her head on his shoulder. He takes his child in his arms and kisses her lips. Together they stare out towards the sun. Warmth begins to spread through his body.
They do not fade away. He does not return to the desert. This time it is no dream. He holds his child close and watches as all the people he loved surround him. He closes his eyes and breathes.
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