Prelude: One in the Ground

“Five,” the sheriff started.

The man with the gun to his head blinked, but didn’t stand down.

“Four,” the sheriff continued.

The man had a hostage. It was unfortunate for the hostage. A Mexican standoff with only two guns. And the man still didn’t budge.

“Three,” the sheriff’s words were almost starting to fade into the background.

The man knew this wouldn’t end well, but couldn’t bring himself to give up. It would feel like the end of the road. In many ways this was, too. But at least the man would go out with some dignity.

“Two,” the sheriff’s tone was unchanged. There was no more emotion or excitement at “two” than there had been at “five”. This was standard practice. Just another day. Either that or the sheriff had a mean poker game.

The man’s hand shook just a fraction. Wavering at the prospect of dying. Almost with a mind of its own. Perhaps the hand with the gun would start calling the shots, so to speak. The man had to admit that his hand seemed to do what it pleased at times with little regard to its owner’s wishes and intentions. Maybe this would be good. A way out where he wouldn’t have to blame himself.

“One.”

The man’s last chance. The remaining second seemed to last a lifetime. It was almost a good thing. It gave him some space to breathe and think. The rest of the countdown had only served as a distraction. It interrupted his train of thought and forced his brain back to reality. But knowing the sheriff wouldn’t utter another word, it allowed freedom for the man. Freedom from the shackles that the weight of the numbers created. It was like falling off a cliff. You know there’s a bottom, you know how it ends. All that’s left is your thoughts. There’s a weightlessness to it. Like you’re lighter than air. The man felt like maybe he would just float up into the stars. Maybe that would be his way out.

The man’s brain fired every last neuron it had in every direction. Searching for a solution to the problem at hand. It was in these times of desperation that a person comes to know who they truly are. The man’s mind was flooded with memories of childhood. His brain looking for any connection that would assist his present situation. He found nothing but endorphins. He was overwhelmed by skills. His brain looked through every skill he had, gunslinging being the obvious place to start. His options on that front were:

One. Shoot the hostage. The consequences of which would just be his death. It’s a way to go out, but doesn’t really change the situation.

Two. Shoot the sheriff. Even with his skilled hands, this would prove to be damn near impossible with the time allotted. Still…it was an option. If successful it would certainly resolve the situation.

Three. Shoot a bystander. This would be easier than shooting the sheriff. Might even prove to be a distraction for him. Buy the man a couple more seconds. It wouldn’t resolve the situation, but it would get him into a better place. Maybe allow him time to go back to option two.

 Four. Non-lethal shot to anyone. This would be easier. It would buy time at the very least. A viable option. Probably the best option so far.

Five. Shoot himself. This would, in a sense, resolve the situation. It’s not the most desirable option. In fact it would be doing the very thing the man was trying to avoid. It wouldn’t make the most sense, though. It would be less of a final “screw you” to the sheriff than shooting the hostage would be. But at least the man could say he went out by his own hand and nobody got the better of him. Only he wouldn’t be able to say, because he’d be dead. So the man’s brain decided against this option.

 

None of these options proved to be very pretty. So the man’s brain continued searching. Was there a good option out there? The man could try ducking out of the way of the gun. But the sheriff could just as easily follow him and put him down.

Desperate measures. The man’s brain had reached to the far corners and the dark shadows of his mind and hadn’t come up with much. The situation was looking to be inescapable. That’s when the man’s brain started juxtaposing random elements. Random combinations of actions, hoping that something would prove to be an exact match for the current predicament. Something would align properly and allow him respite.

BANG

And just like that, the man was dead.

His blood pooled around him and mixed the dirt into mud. The man that was his hostage was shaking and slowly coming to the realization that he was no longer in danger. He looked at the smoking gun the sheriff held. It was almost an extension of his arm. An extremity in its own right. The same power that had frightened the hostage to the point of pissing himself now provided comfort from the hands of the sheriff. The same power. The same potential. But a feeling of relief.

The sheriff held his arm out for a few long seconds after the shot. It was good practice in the event that the receiving end of the bullet hadn’t stopped breathing. After another second, the sheriff spun his revolver back into its holster. As always, one bullet had done the job.

He was a good sheriff. He always chose to do what he thought was right. He had given the man ample chances to change his behavior. Sometimes that just wasn’t enough.

“Go home,” the sheriff told the hostage. His voice was deep. His vocal cords ravaged by smoking, drinking, heavy decisions, and good, old-fashioned time. The hostage wasted no time thanking the sheriff and immediately started running down the street. The people of this town knew they never needed to thank the sheriff. Because the sheriff knew they were thankful. And he appreciated good time management. He took their obeying his directions and acting immediately as thanks.

The sheriff looked down at the man on the ground. The man’s gun lay in his hand, barely gripped by now. The sheriff bent down and studied the man’s face before taking the gun. The gun was heavy. In more ways than one. It had lived a lifetime and had one hell of a ride. The sheriff tucked it into his belt and stood. Whenever the sheriff returned to his office, he’d add the gun to the pile.

Moving the body wasn’t something the sheriff wanted to do. But then there were a lot of things he didn’t want to do. This was his responsibility, though. And the sheriff would be damned if he didn’t own up to his responsibilities. He couldn’t let somebody else clean up his messes.

* * * * * *

“You wanna give this guy a proper funeral?” the undertaker asked, almost concerned.

“Against my better judgments,” replied the sheriff. They’d known each other a long time. The undertaker had buried a lot of people the sheriff had to dispatch. Every time was the same: Sheriff brings the body, undertaker nails it in a coffin and puts it in the graveyard, then adds a stone saying a body’s there. The graves always remain unmarked. The sheriff had an uncomfortable feeling about this one, though. He couldn’t shake it. He second guessed himself the second he thought it, but he considered having an actual funeral for the man. Prop him up in a coffin and have people come pay respects. He doubted many people would come, though. And on top of that he’d have to host the man in his home. A wave of uncertainty and tiredness washed over the sheriff. He took one last second to consider and said, “Forget it. Just put him with the rest of ‘em.”

As the sheriff took the long back to his office, his eyes were trained on the blood stain that lay in the middle of the street. Like a painting where the eyes follow you. After the sheriff passed the stain and it became uncomfortable to crane his neck looking at it, he could feel its presence behind him. He could sense it all throughout his body, just as intense as he could see. It was a sense and an emotion all wrapped into one. It made the sheriff uneasy. He never regretted shooting a man. Every time he shot to kill there was a good reason for it. He wouldn’t say this was a feeling of regret. It wasn’t. It was something else. Something foreign.

The sheriff took a second to pause before entering his office. He almost looked back at the stain but decided he’d looked at it enough and settled for a moment of silence. Or a moment of acknowledgement. Maybe it was a moment of respect. The sheriff couldn’t really be sure exactly what it was, but he decided a few seconds pause was a good idea. Whatever the hell the moment signified. He realized that in the few seconds he’d paused, at some point his hand started resting on the gun he’d taken from the man. His hand shook a little. He abruptly dropped took the gun out of his belt and walked into his office.

The sheriff’s office was big for just one man. It was just a little too comfortable. The sheriff walked over to the Barker Box and opened it. The smell of a hundred gunfights swirled around his head and into his nostrils. Maybe gunfights wasn’t the right word. In most of the altercations not a single bullet was fired. Sometimes there was, but it wasn’t a fight. The Box held memories. Memories of bad times and good times. Memories of righteous times. The Box was the only part of the sheriff’s life that wasn’t organized. And he liked it that way. It was a place of chaos. A place without order. A lost and found of dead men’s possessions. Dead men who lived outside the law. In a zone where you skirt the line. A place where the rules don’t matter until they’re the guiding the laws of physics into your skull.

The new gun dropped from the sheriff’s hands and joined its comrades. This was its new home. Amongst the dead and forgotten. A graveyard in its own right. The sheriff dropped the lid and closed the lock. He fixed himself a drink and stared at The Box. It was irrational, he knew, but for some reason he half expected the guns to jump out and start shooting him. Getting revenge for the deaths of their owners. Some of the guns’ owners were still alive and well. Out there somewhere with some new floozy in their hand.

Had he finished the drink already? The sheriff fixed himself another. He could barely keep himself from looking at The Box. What the hell’s the matter with me? This had all gone the way it always does. What made this time different? Why couldn’t keep himself from staring like one of those superstitious assholes? I’m cracking. He thought. His concentration was broken by a sound on this window. He walked over with his drink and looked out. It had gotten dark. How long had he been staring at that damn box? It wasn’t nighttime. The storm clouds had moved in. He looked at the window and found a single water droplet. There was a rumble in the distance.

Good. He thought. It had been a long time since it rained. People were scared things would dry up too much. Hopefully the storm would last through the night and fill them up for a while. Meanwhile, the rain could wash up the streets. His eyes flickered to the stain on the street. Just one last look. A glance, really. When the rain hit, it hit hard. Some folk were caught on the street unawares. They’d ran to the nearest building for cover. The droplets were thick and when they hit the dusty road they damn near jumped three feet in the air again.

As much as he resisted the urge, the sheriff’s eyes wandered to the stain again. He stared at it. Watched as the heavy rain dissolved the blood into the soil and drowned it deep in the ground. Buried six feet under. Just like the man it came from. Once the stain was gone, the spot indistinguishable from the surrounding dirt, now mud, a look of satisfaction jumped onto the sheriff’s face. He smiled. Good. It felt like a relief. He felt its weight lift. Felt its ever present sensation subside. The emotion leave. His nerves calm. His body relax.

The sheriff walked back to his desk, the rain drumming on the window in an all too consistent pattern. He grabbed a rag from his desk and opened the door. A wall of sound hit the sheriff and nearly made him stumble. The rain was causing a ruckus. He held his cup outside the door and it filled with water. The wetness began creeping up his arm and he dumped the water out and shut the door again. The sheriff carefully wiped down his glass, then tossed it and the rag in their appropriate resting places. He was never one to leave something out of place. Everything had its place. Everything belonged somewhere. And everything should be where it belongs.

Normally, the sheriff would walk around town at slow times like these. Check on his citizens to make sure nothing was amiss. They were under his protection and trust. He’d come to enjoy those walks around town. Saying “Hi” to his neighbors, friends, acquaintances. He prided himself in being very involved in his community. He knew the names of more people than most sheriffs. However, he couldn’t know everybody. Even though he didn’t know every single person, every single person knew him.

With the rain storm outside, the sheriff decided not to go on his walk. He’d wait. If there was a problem, somebody would run to his door. Until then, maybe the sheriff would shut his eyes for a little. Take a load off…

* * * * * *

The sound of silence woke the sheriff from a deep sleep. A stream of light poured through the window and spilled onto the floor. How long had he been asleep? How long since the rain stopped? The sheriff hopped to his feet and checked himself to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Gun on his hip? Check. Badge on his belt? Check. The sheriff paused on his badge. Looked at it for a few long seconds. He removed it from his belt and brought it to his face for a closer look. A drop of blood. Pretty dry. How long had that been there? Whose was it? Doesn’t matter. The sheriff breathed on it to moisten the blood, then wiped the badge with his sleeve. Blood gone. He clipped the badge back on his belt and held his eyes on it for another second.

The sheriff decided to step out and do his rounds. The sun was shining and the clouds had passed. In fact, the sun was hot. He must have slept for a long time. He couldn’t even see the remnants of the storm. The only evidence it had even happened was the ground. The dirt was still a little muddy. But now, as it dried, it was warped. Divots and bumps from feet, hooves, and wheels treading on the wet, malleable ground. Shaping it from a level road into a mess. It bothered the sheriff. The road was supposed to be smooth. He liked his job because he provided the services of law and order. But there were unfortunately some things he couldn’t put order to.

He strolled slowly down the road. Taking in all of his surroundings. He wasn’t necessarily scanning for trouble. He was just absorbing the picture. Saving the images in his mind so he could look over the details later if the need arose. All the passersby acknowledged him. Not a one avoided eye contact or skipped a “Hello”. Once his feet had covered the main drag he started paying special visits to certain establishments. Just a check-in to make sure everything is going okay. Sometimes people don’t speak up until after the fact.

The first stop was the saloon. It was positioned close to the town’s entrance so that visitors and drifters could stop by easily without having to navigate a labyrinth to get to the only place in the town that mattered to them. The large door creaked open as the sheriff entered The Dragonfall Saloon. All the patrons were regulars. Citizens of the town. They all knew the sheriff. He knew all of them. None of them were worried or unnerved about the sheriff being in their presence. They nodded their hellos and he nodded them back. Almost a form of saluting a general and a general saluting his soldiers back.

The sheriff walked up to the bar. He didn’t sit down, as he didn’t intend to drink. He’d already had enough of that. Instead he just hovered nearby with his thumbs on his belt.

“Afternoon, sheriff,” the bartender said. It was always customary to greet the sheriff first. Which is strange, because usually people in command declare you only speak when spoken to.

“Afternoon,” replied the sheriff. The word rumbled up from the pit of his stomach like it was born in a pit of blackness and raised in a bog, then rode a thunderstorm out of his mouth. The sheer power the sheriff’s voice alone commanded could stop a man dead in his tracks. Needless to say, the citizens of Mercury, Nevada were glad to have him on their side and not against them.

“Oh hey!” the bartender had a sudden realization and ducked behind the bar to grab something. Some law men might have drawn their guns at such a quick action, but the sheriff knew nobody that knew him would dare try to pull a gun on him. He was calm and calculating. Since the sheriff entered the bar he had a bead on where every single person was and how they were moving. He could hear their heartbeats and knew who was nervous and who was drunk and who was lying and who was about to win the poker game. Nothing escaped his attention. The bartender returned from the ground with a broken box. “Just got a new box of cigars. Thought ya might like one.”

Spanish. These must’ve cost a pretty penny, thought the sheriff. He slid a cigar out of the box and held both ends, staring at it. He gave it a sniff and an approving nod. “Ya got a light?” he asked the bartender.

“Of course,” the bartender replied, scrambling for some matches. It wasn’t that the bartender was afraid of the sheriff, per se. The bartender just respected him so damn much. The sheriff was good. Fortunate thing, that. If the sheriff wasn’t good, it’d mean a whole lot of trouble for a lot of people. But that voice just cuts through a man. It was like blowing a big horn from a tall mountain. The bartender ripped a match off the matchbook and ignited it, offering it to the sheriff. The sheriff carefully let the flame touch every part of the cigar’s end, turning the tan tobacco into red hot ember. Once the sheriff took a few puffs and was satisfied, he exhaled hard and extinguished the match. The bartender threw the match into an ashtray and waited for the sheriff to get down to business.

The sheriff enjoyed his cigar for what seemed like a long time. “That’s just fine,” he said, not looking at anything but the cigar. He turned to the bartender. “Anythin’ interesting happen around here lately?” Code for, Has there been any trouble?

“Just the poker game,” the bartender started wiping a glass, not knowing what else to do.

The sheriff laughed. “Yeah, I’ll say. Looks like ol’ Tom over there about has this game in the bag.” The other poker players looked at Tom and he smiled a bit.

“One fer the road?” the bartender offered a glass of whiskey to the sheriff.

“Nah, I’ll pass this time. Still workin’ off a buzz. I’ll let ya get back to yer business.” The sheriff lightly slapped the bar as he gripped the cigar firmly with his teeth.

“See ya later, sheriff.” The bartender already started to forget about the sheriff’s presence and refilled some other patrons’ drinks.

The sheriff turned the knob and opened the door. The creak was less pronounced this time. He quickly shut the door behind him. The sheriff took a moment to soak in the sun as he puffed on his cigar on the porch in front of the saloon. He capitalized on benefits his current vantage point offered and took in his surroundings. Did a sweep of the area. Making a mental picture. Everything seemed fine. After an amount of time he couldn’t quite put a measure to, the sheriff stepped onto the street and made his way to the next destination.

“How ya doin’, sheriff?” a man asked. He was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store.

“Good enough, Pete,” the sheriff replied with a smile. Good enough.

The sheriff felt himself walking around a patch of ground that held nothing extraordinary about it. Realizing what he was doing, he could guess why. But he didn’t let the thought form in his mind. Enough of that garbage. It was something that would turn into muscle memory, maybe. But it wasn’t something he wanted to think about. He’d just tuck it deep down into his subconscious.

The door to the Mercury Inn jingled as the sheriff entered. His boots clomped on the floor and rang with each step. The innkeeper took notice the second he entered and offered a smile.

“Howdy, sheriff,” the innkeeper said.

“Yeah, hi,” the sheriff replied. He decided to get right to business rather than make with the pleasantries. “Any nefarious characters come through I should be worried about?”

“None checked in here, that I’m aware of. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

The sheriff nodded and watched as a man walked through the door and up to his room. His brain worked overtime. Slowed time to take in more of the scene. The man had to be in his thirties. He had short, slicked hair, styled all fancy, no hat. He wore a grey vest and pants. The man hardly offered a glance at the sheriff. The sheriff felt no embarrassment staring directly at the man from the time the door opened until the time the man shut the door to his room. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he just got the feeling that someday he’d have to put a bullet in that man’s skull. Just like he’d gotten the feeling before. With all the other people he’d put down. It wasn’t a form of premonition as it might seem. It was more of an intuition. Extracting information that led to a probable prediction in the future. That skill, or trait, or gift, whatever you want to call it had been with sheriff since he could remember. Sometimes his predictions offered solace, sometimes his predictions offered pain. The sheriff felt a great, heavy sadness at the prospect of yet another gun for his box. It was getting too full as it was. But the sheriff also knew that what had to be done had to be done. He never acted on these predictions before their maturity. Even if he was ninety percent sure or ninety-nine percent sure, he would never shoot somebody before their time. He’d offer them a way out. Hope he was wrong. Hope he could change the course of events. But so far he had never been wrong.

“Tell ya what,” the sheriff said. “Just keep your eye on that one.”

“Whatever you say, Sheriff Bloodworth.”

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