A sound like thunder rang throughout the canyon, echoing off cliff sides and scaring prairie dogs and jackrabbits into their holes. Smoke arose from the barrel of the outlaw’s gun and dissipated as it neared the bright blue sky, becoming part of the few wispy white clouds that hung overhead. As he stared at the body that lay before him, he took a moment to recall what he had just done; it had occurred so fast he wasn’t entirely sure if he could even remember clearly enough.
He had found his mark just as he was putting out his campfire. The mark turned towards the outlaw to stomp a stray ember, putting them directly in each other’s sight. Neither moved or made a sound for what seemed like an eternity after that. The outlaw stood there with his arms limp at his sides, and the mark with his foot in the air halfway through a stomping motion. After the mark felt he had sized up the man enough, he slowly lowered his foot to the ground and stood in an air of caution. He was a short man, and the slight hunch he held in his posture did nothing to improve his height. His attire was simple: tattered and patched brown work pants, a white collared shirt, and a deep green corduroy vest. His camp consisted of a smoldering fire, a neatly tied up bedroll, and an iron mug that still contained the steaming remains of his morning coffee. His horse was saddled and hitched to a nearby tree that had dried out and fallen countless years ago.
The mark nodded at the gun on the man’s hip, “That iron for me, boy?”
He nodded.
The mark wetted his lips. “Well, guess if it had to be any day, why not today?” With a smile, the older man’s hand flew straight for the gun on his own hip. He had just enough time to firmly grab the grip of his gun before a bullet sunk itself deep in his chest, stopping just before it broke through the back of his fourth rib. As his last breath wheezed out of his bloodied lungs, he croaked something unintelligible and fell to the dry packed earth, sending up a small puff of dust.
The man closed his eyes, holstered his gun, and released a long, slow breath from his nose. He walked over and knelt by the body of his mark, removing the gun from the holster he wore on his left side and taking the few bullets he had. He hadn’t met too many left-handed gunslingers, but the few he did meet were always a little strange, and oftentimes were as lucky as devils. But luck always has to run out sometime, that was a proven fact..
As the man picked up the corpse, he found it to be lighter than previously imagined; his mark had been short, but he was also a bit stout in the gut. He wrapped the body in a blanket from the bedroll on the ground, and tied it to the back of his mare, a grey Nez Perch named Abby. He patted the horse’s head and removed a clay jar with a wooden stopper from her saddlebags. He sauntered back to the fire the old man had been stomping out and examined it. The abundance of ash told him that the fire had been burning for quite some time, possibly even throughout the night. The still burning kindling was fresh, meaning his mark had built it up again only recently. After he patted out the few small remaining embers and removed the larger bits of charred kindling, he swept the ash into the clay jar and placed the stopper back in. Fresh ash was hard to come by. He found the old man’s canteen near the fire as well, but it was almost as dry as the fire. Next, he had to see to the horse his mark had left behind.
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The mark’s horse was frightened and whipping its head around, throwing its brown mane back and forth. The man stopped moving and slowly raised his hands in a calming gesture, trying to ease the stallion. He spoke in a soft and gentle voice which soothed the creature slightly, allowing him to take a few steps forward. It bucked its head and snorted when he came too close, but the gunslinger calmly stood his ground, waiting for the horse to make the next advancement. It pawed the ground before slowly turning its long face to sniff the air in front of the man. Slowly, it reached its neck further towards the man, who in turn stretched his hand toward its muzzle. The horse allowed him to pet it along its snout which he did softly and with great care.
The man carefully reached into the bag he wore at his side and pulled out a small leather drawstring pouch. From it, he produced a clump of oats held together with honey, which he presented in his outstretched hand before the horse’s snout. The horse sniffed the treat before licking it out of his hand and crunching it between its powerful teeth. As it chewed, the man began to stroke and pat the horse’s side. “I’m gonna hop on now, okay?” he said to the stallion in a hushed voice. There was no indication if it understood, it just swallowed its treat and looked to the man for more. He pulled another oat clump from his leather pouch which the horse took with no hesitation. As it chewed, the man ventured to put his foot in the stirrup. The horse pawed the ground but remained still, crunching complacently. The man threw his other leg over and sat comfortably in the saddle, waiting for the horse’s response. It shook its head and snorted, but seemed passive otherwise. He untied its reins from the fallen tree and slowly trotted back to his own horse on the other side of the camp, allowing the stallion to get a feel for his weight and presence.
The outlaw dismounted and looked through the saddlebags of his own horse before producing two carrots, feeding and petting both horses together. He thought about rummaging through the old man’s saddlebags then and there, but decided against it; the stallion was still wary of the man, and liable to kick or trample him should he make the wrong move.
After he checked the straps on his cargo and made sure the animals were settled, he mounted the stallion and spurred him onward, leaving Abby to walk behind; he did not want the horse to see and smell its dead owner while riding, nor did he want to burden the poor creature with his master’s own body, both options seemed cruel. He resigned to letting his own horse stayed behind in tow; he was sure Abby wouldn’t mind.
Once his train was proceeding at a steady canter, he pulled his gun from its holster and examined it. The smooth, dark wooden grip fit comfortably in his hand, and the silvery metal glistened as he turned it to catch the light of the afternoon sun. He slowly traced his fingers over one side of the barrel, enjoying the feeling of its smooth perfection. Satisfied, the man turned the gun over and once again ran his fingers across the barrel. This time, though, rather than feeling the perfectly crafted and smooth metal of the gun, his fingers brushed over something sharp, rough, and vile; all along the left side of the tubing, ragged scratches curved around the barrel at assymetrical and uneven intervals.
The man stared at the scratches with apprehension and wondered; had he made the right choices? Had it all been worth it?
As if to answer his own question, he removed a sharpened hunting knife from his belt. Slowly and methodically, he worked his knife into the barrel of the gun and made a diagonal slash through four other marks, bringing the total number of ugly scratches to fifteen. The past was the past, and he had made his peace with it long ago. Still, every man must have his doubts.