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Heart racing as a single shot echoed in my ears, I walked straight out the door, carefully stepping over the body, having never pulled the revolver out of my holster. The weapon at my side, pressed against my leg, warm to the touch. Hoping in the confusion, folks scattering for safety, oblivious to recent events. I never looked back, making eye contact with no one. Seeking to conceal my identity. A wasted effort, to be sure, “the doctor killer,” saga, mythos, spreading unabated.
Max collected the weapons. The Mortician and team fulfilled their duties. His assistants carefully wrapping the stranger in plastic for burial. Ms. Bishop received his saddle bags, emptied them, then trashed them along with his personal possessions. Several pictures, eight letters, one unread, a bar of soap, toothbrush, a clean set of clothes, flint, a few coins, ammo, and odds and ends. The stable hands made sure they methodically buried the saddle with the stranger. The horse, brushed and fed, added to our stock. I got the rest of the week off. A week where I will spend my time avoiding everyone.
After a restless night, awaken to conversations, gossip, a growing reputation.
Some said it was murdered other’s self-defense, other still survival of the fitness. Everyone was just happy it was not their time.
“The one who kill the doctor? I hear the law wants him,” voices echoed.
The law? A joke, I’m sure. I hear there’s been talk of some “martial law” committee overseen by a self-appointed “regional governor.” A gang to be avoided, seeking to control the resources, limited as they are, or offering protection for a price. A well placed wanted poster giving bounty hunters employment and the governor a manageable staff. Should someone or group undercut her authority? A fugitive recovery agent for hire. Our scout teams trounced by these units when encountered.
Ostracized by many, except those few seeking to befriend my reputation. These were dangerous characters, reckless seeking notoriety. To be avoided! Young thugs.
Occasionally, someone will stop at the gate looking for a friend, family member, or even someone seeking to collect a debt. Or seeking revenge. There is a real possibility someone will miss the stranger and come knocking at the gate. What story will be told? A lie. It is also possible on one will really care.
My current fear, that a witness will spread their version of the incident. Much of our current condition results from lies.
I hear my sobriquet bantered about simply “teach.” Could be worse.
Tall tales, “He was so fast that he drew, shot and re-holstered… I don’t know, like instantaneously.” Or, “the [stranger] was about to undo his holster and, bang teach blasted away.”
I was to be “promoted,” not based on any skill set, rather rumors. My skill set comprised scooping hash onto chipped plates, chopping and dicing, and following directions. I was about to receive an invitation.
Eyes covered, hiding from the world, replaying the evening. The surprised look, questioning how as he his world darkens, hand pressing against the wound, knees giving way, slipping into darkness.
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