by Michael Tyler

A saloon door swings open, a man with faint impression of stubble swaggers in and while the stride of a man steers him to the bar, the voice of a boy demands a whiskey straight, two fingers.

 His right hand sneaks a feel of his holster and its calming influence. He slugs the drink, orders another and takes a seat.

 At this hour the bar is practically deserted, apart from the boy and the bartender the only other occupant appears Old Man Time himself. Old Man Time with a bottle and a bowie knife.

 “I come looking for Sam Hollister …” says the boy to the ole timer.

 “Well, many folk done come down here looking for Sam Hollister,” replies the ole timer. “And many done sit in that there chair and ask about Hollister himself … not too many folk be leaving of their own volition once they done seen him if you get my meaning.”

 “Well leaving of my own volition ain’t too high on my priorities.”

 “What you looking for Hollister for?”

 The boy pauses, a beat and then, “I’m just looking for him is all.”

 “He kill your Pa? Hollister done him in?”

 The boy pauses … a beat, maybe two … “My brother.” He takes a drink … “Hollister and I got issues over my brother.”

 “Well now,” says the ole timer, “if killin’ Hollister be your purpose you’re in the right town, I’ll offer you that much. Although I don’t know if killin’ be the best thing for the situation.”

 “No offence,” says the boy, “but this is between me and Hollister, don’t see nothing in it for you.”

 “Well it’s true I don’t know much about much and it’s true I done seen better days,” the ole man says as he takes a drink, “but if it’s tales of killin’ you’re after I’ve had more than my fill, of that you can believe. I done killed my share of men and I swear to God almighty it didn’t bother me none then and it don’t bother me none now.” The ole man took another drink and paused awhile.

 “Killin’ a man ain’t nearly the challenge people think it is boy … and courage got nothing to do with it.”

 And the ole man grimaces as he begins his tale and this hits the boy more than one would expect, something about those eyes …

 “You can blow a man’s face off and not give a damn … I’ve done it and it be quite the rush if truth be told … but come your own demise … well that be a whole different story. A one-time I had this brew a goin’ with a fella, name of Wilson, don’t remember what it was about and don’t matter in the end … anyways he and I were a brewin’ to have it out at one point or another so’s I figure it may as well be now, you understand?”

 The boy nods …

 “So Wilson and I meet and what’s needed to be said is said and we end up where’s we want to be – drawing down on each other. And this is for honor’s sake, this ain’t no pussy footing around … each man has one bullet, one bullet in the chamber and that’s it. You take your shot and that’s it. You fuck up and you gonna get fucked up, ya see?”

 The boy nods once more.

 “And I draw and fire and sure enough I’m done before Wilson’s finger hit’s the trigger … but he’s still standing … I done fired my shot and he’s still upright and it’s at that moment I know I’m a dead man.” The ole man takes his time with another sip.

 “It’s at that moment I know I’m gonna die right there, right then and that’s just the way it is, no kicking no screaming no hollering about it, it just is what it is. And I accept it. I was a dead man.” And the ole man takes another drink as his eyes mist just so.

 “Well it turns out Wilson crumples in front of me – turns out I hit him square in the chest but he’s too damned stubborn to lie flat … so now he’s face first in the dust and I’m a dead man no more, but from that moment … well from that moment I’ve seen death and now life ain’t got no more to offer.”

 “It’s at that moment, the instant you know ya gonna die, and you’re not afraid of it no more – it’s simply something you accept the way you accept that the sun gonna rise the next morning – it’s at that moment that you accept your death … that shakes you to your very core. And since that moment life has done lost all its color.”

 “I died that moment and I was born again. Resurrected like Christ himself, except it weren’t good news I was bringing but this … simply this … your life gonna end someday and the party gonna go on without you, so make sure while you’re alive you do something worthwhile. Now, if your brother died unnatural-like in a manner you think weren’t fitting to his character then I say go deal with Hollister and get it sorted.”

 “But if it’s simple revenge you’re after, simple killin for the sake of he killed your kin … well, I figure maybe that ain’t the most worthwhile way to spend your days.”

 “On the other hand maybe I’m just a worn out, tired old man with nary a fang to bare so it’s possible you’d be best off ignoring the rambling of nothing more than a toothless former tyrant … and maybe you best be off and go shoot that shiny new gun of yours.”

 And the boys eyes fall to the floor, his lips part in silent admonition, his right hand drops to his holster, a grip as reminder of former intent perhaps … he stands, turns and steps with purpose toward the exit and a future not formerly considered.

Michael Tyler writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and…