No Time for Justice

CW: Gun violence and language

Not many people walk into the saloon at 10 in the morning. On most days, the dusty room is filled with nothing but the stench of ale and echoes of the previous night’s revels. The air lingers with the ghosts of men who have come and gone, chasing greater purpose than an evening of drinking in a hardly notable hamlet. Passersby pause their journeys for a night’s time to add their story to the symphony of lives painted in the air of the town bar, then leave newfound brothers for a tomorrow somewhere else. In this town, nobody stays for long.

Then again, not every day is the same.

On this particular day, the sun shines as bright as any other. The sand kicks up periodically in lively dances, then settles back down to its place on the street. In the saloon, the barkeep diligently cleans liquor from tables and blood from the ground. So far, the only words he’s had to say this morning are “goodbye” and “safe travels,” while he watches men whose life stories he had heard the night gather their things and prepare for yet another long and arduous journey to weather.

His ears are soothed by the peaceful sweeps of the morning breeze as he goes about his daily chores for the something-thousandth time. Each table gets scrubbed diligently, awaiting its next soiling once the sun goes down. The stink of booze is washed away bit by bit by the soapy concoction, and the house of chaos becomes more and more orderly. Apart from the subtle sounds of dust and tumbleweeds, the world is perfectly silent.

However, the empty silence of the town is soon interrupted by the sound of clacking hooves far away. The barkeep is hardly a stranger to this sound, and he lets out a small sigh as he abandons his cleaning in preparation for attending to the new visitor. The traveler’s fanfare crescendos over the next minute before the horse finally delivers its rider before the swinging doors of the barkeep’s sanctuary. Once the dust settles, through the doors walks a middle-aged man wearing a worn-out coat and hat. A six-shooter sits on his hip, completing the look of a man who’s most likely had use for it.

“Welcome,” the bartender says with a tired voice. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’ll take a whiskey.” The stranger’s voice is rough and gritty, most likely from days of riding with little water and sleep. He takes a seat at the bar, obviously occupied with thought.

The barkeep has seen many types of people in his time working the saloon. Because of its role as a resting place for travelers, everyone from rich businessmen to penniless laborers have spent a night in this quaint town. Outlaws have been born from deadly duels just outside the welcoming doors, and world-changing ideas have been concocted over a drink at the bar. However, to the barkeep, the man sitting at the bar right now is an enigma.

He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and sporting an unkempt beard riddled with grime and dust. Hidden beneath the nest of hair under his destroyed hat, two brown eyes stare into nothing. As his drink is placed before him, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the existence of either the barkeep or the liqueur. He gazes at the wall with an intense focus, yet somehow seems entirely disconnected at the same time. The same face stares back at him under the word “WANTED,” nailed to the wall. Without moving his eyes, he grabs his drink and takes a sip. “Nice town y’all got here. Nice and quiet. I like it,” he says in a low tone.

“Ain’t that so. Not much here; it drives some folks crazy. That’s just what I like ‘bout it.” The barkeep’s voice trails off slightly toward the end.

The stranger turns to face the barkeep and looks him dead in the eyes.“Do you know what it’s like to kill a man?”

The bartender is taken slightly aback by this but doesn’t show it. He gives a halfhearted reply while shining the glasses behind the bar. “Can’t say I do. Heard plenty ‘bout it though. All types of men been ‘round here.”

The stranger chuckles slightly at the barkeep’s lack of fear and leans back a little. “Is that so?”

The silence that fills the saloon between each word is louder than the busiest night of the year. The barkeep may have been scared if he was 20 years younger, but as the years left him so did his fear. In this part of the country, men die young from all kinds of maladies, and the barkeep knows his time could be around the corner any day. Outlaws don’t scare him.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doin’ here, huh?” The stranger pokes a little at the barkeep.

“Sure, if you’re inclined to humor me,” says the barkeep lazily in response. “We ain’t got no banks ‘round here.”

The stranger scoffs playfully. “I ain’t ever robbed a bank. Sounds a good time though.” His face betrays a sense of bittersweet irony.

The barkeep gives in to curiosity. “Then why’s your face up on that wall?” His body tightens slightly. The stranger looks at him.

The seemingly endless silence is broken by the stranger’s slightly frustrated groan. “Bah. ‘Cause I’m a damned fool, that’s why.” He takes his revolver out of his holster and tosses it on the bar to reveal a dozen notches on the grip.

The barkeep still doesn’t show a shred of emotion to the outlaw. “Now, that’s something I’ve never seen before. Even for old-timers like us, that doesn’t happen on accident.”

The stranger picks up the gun and begins to fiddle with it. “I haven’t used this in 15 years. You know, after you kill enough people, entire towns start to hide from you and eyes follow you everywhere you go.” He glances at the entrance, where a pair of eyes flash away, and the sound of scampering footsteps soon follows. “If I could take it back, maybe I would,” he says nonchalantly while spinning the gun in his hand.

The barkeep takes the bait. “Why maybe?”

“If I could go back to the first time I pulled this out of its holster, even now I don’t know if I could stop myself. I had my reasons.” He gazes disjointedly at the revolver as it spins. “Long story.”

For the first time, the barkeep gives an intentional answer. “Go ahead.” Curiosity fills his mind, but a shred of empathy guides his tongue. The outlaw, strangely enough, seems remarkably genuine and calm. Though age can soften a man, the barkeep can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he doesn’t know.

“Some 20-odd years ago, I lived in a small town, not unlike this one, in Texas. I was staying with a friend of mine, who gave me somewhere to live after the measles got my ma and pa. I was hardly a man, and the only thing I owned was this very same revolver. My pa gave it to me just before he died.

“My friend dreamed of starting a business, you see, and sellin’ some kind of new medicine he was comin’ up with. I didn’t know much about it, but he trusted me to help him however I could. Day after day we would wait in the saloon for travelers to stop on by, and try to sell them some of his magic whatever-it-was. He was convinced it would kick the smallpox right out a man’s body, but people didn’t exactly believe him.”

The stranger starts chuckling at this point, which slowly escalates into a hearty laugh and a coughing fit. “Damn dust. Anyway, where was I?

“Ah, the medicine. Well now, these travelers wasn’t exactly privy on buying what he was sellin’. He got into all kinds of fights with people calling him a swindler, and I got some bad beatings myself backin’ him up. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did, with his big ideas and all that…

“But eventually some guy got mad. Real mad. He was sayin’ stuff like, ‘I’m sick of your goddamn voice. Get out of here ‘fore I put a bullet in your brain.’ We probably should’ve wised up and got out of there. But before I could say anything, words had already turned to fists. We were doin’ a number on him, and he got scared. He pulled out his gun, and the only man in this world I trusted got a fuckin’ bullet put through the back of his skull.” The outlaw’s voice trails off. His posture tightens slightly as he digs deeper into the story, which has captivated the barkeep.

“The whole place exploded into chaos, and before the guy could grab my friend’s money and leave, I ran at him and challenged him to a duel. Now, I wasn’t a violent guy. In fact, I was pretty damn spineless. When my parents died, I shrugged and said ‘Oh well.’ When people would spit at me and beat me up for tryin’ to sell stuff, I would get back up and say ‘Oh well.’ But when my best friend’s body hit the floor, I felt a new pain, a type of pain I didn’t even know existed. I wasn’t thinking about saving myself or avenging him. The only thing on my mind was making that son of a bitch feel the same pain I did.” A bitter look covers the stranger’s face.

“To be honest, I thought he would just ignore me and book it, but he accepted. We went into the street, and all I can remember after that is the sound of gunshots and the man’s dead body face down in the dust.

“Before I even realized I had just killed somebody, I grabbed my horse and got out as fast as possible. I didn’t know where to, I was just tryin’ to get somewhere else. After a few hours, once I could finally hear my thoughts again, I looked around and saw I was out in fuckin’ nowhere. I had no money, no food, and blood on my hands that would never go away.”

The stranger seems entirely entranced during this retelling and only pauses to take sips of his whiskey, which the barkeep continually refills. “At first, I planned to stay on the run. Two days without food got me off that idea quick.” The stranger chuckles.

“So soon enough, I rode into some town far away from my last home. I figured no one would notice me, and I could slip through and stay low. Guess I underestimated the speed of news ‘round here. Everybody who saw me gave me some kinda look and whispered about somethin’ or other. ‘What, they never heard of a duel before?’ I thought. Seemed like someone got shot every day back then, so why was everybody watchin’ me?

“I figured some grub would quiet my thoughts, so I stumbled into the saloon and ordered somethin’. In fact, I was so hungry I was too busy stuffing my face with food to see a man come right up ‘hind me. I might’ve run, but I was done caring by then. I figured he would’ve shot me and that’d be that, but he offered to cover my bill instead. ‘Ain’t you that fella who done shot that villain down in Texas?’ he said.

‘I ain’t shot no villain.’

‘I’m sure of it. That fuck was runnin’ people out of all their money and stuffing the law’s pockets for years ‘fore you got him. Matter o’ fact, he was a damn good shooter too. How’d you get him?’

‘I, uh, shot him before he shot me.’

‘Ah, you’re a funny guy huh? Well, I’ll say this, somebody had to do it. Law’s definitely on your ass but you did a damn good thing.’

‘Sure.’”

The stranger pauses for a second before continuing.

“I didn’t think so. After I had eaten and skipped town again, I took a while to think. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t go back to a normal life, and my face was plastered everywhere from here to Louisiana. So I decided to embrace it.

“Like that fella said, somebody had better do it, right? If the law was gonna call me an outlaw, I was gonna be an outlaw. Out there in the desert, I vowed to find the worst men in the West and take ‘em down with me. And it turned out I was good at that dueling thing. Real good.” The stranger analyzed the notches on his gun as if it was the first time he’d seen them.

“Year after year, I’d track down crooked men and challenge ‘em. And sure enough, I’d win. After a few years, as you probably know, the law got stronger. I couldn’t keep jumping between towns, so I had no choice but to set up camp in the desert and hunt for food. I wouldn’t see men for a year or more at a time, and I thought a few times about doing to myself what I did to the rest of the killers. But I couldn’t.

“After a decade of holding on to nothing, I was close to my wit’s end. Every day I would hunt for scraps of food, then sit for hours and do nothing but watch the sun fade away. One day, I came back from hunting and saw my camp up in flames. Everything I owned was destroyed, and the only thing I could gather was a note left on the ground. It read, ‘No more hiding,’ and it had the seal of a Territorial Ranger.

“Now, I had heard ‘bout these guys. They would track down outlaws ruthlessly and kill us like we would do to each other. I got that note a few months ago, and I been seein’ shadows ‘round me ever since.

“I’ve got nothing left, you know. If there’s really a god, this is his retribution on me. Serves me right for tryin’ to do his job. Or maybe there is no god, and I’m just gettin’ what comes around. Who knows.” For the first time since the start of his story, the man goes back to staring at his poorly-drawn portrait on the wall and thinking about nothing in particular.

The barkeep can’t help but empathize with the man. He has heard of all types of struggle, and he’s seen the burden killing places on a man. For each life taken, shoulders get heavier and hearts get darker. He’s seen the bravest men he’s known crumble under the weight of a few righteous killings, and the man before him has a greater burden than he’s ever seen before. Yet somehow, visible inside this sullen form is a brightly shining ray of hope. Looking at the forlorn face of the burdened man, the barkeep grasps the opportunity to finally do more than listen.

“There’s salvation out there for you, I’m sure of it. The only thing you have left to do is find it and embrace it. No more hidin’, right?”

Silence fills the air once again. However, this isn’t the same heavy silence. This is something new. Before either man can fully understand what the silence holds, it’s shattered by the sound of an approaching horse. The ominous steps clack slowly, one after the other. Neither man moves or makes a sound.

After a perceived eternity, the man at the bar grabs his gun and starts to get up. “He’s here. Maybe I’ll give this salvation thing a try,” he says as he slowly hobbles towards the old creaky doors of the saloon.

The barkeep is unable to react, even in the long time it takes the man to reach the blinding rays of the New Mexico sun. What happens next he is unable to see. The harsh wind now blowing through the town conceals the ensuing conversation, and the barkeep is only able to make out one final sentence from an unknown voice. “Then it’s a duel.”

In the town where nobody stays for long, two men prepare for a fatal contest. One, a fabled outlaw, readies his trusty revolver for its final shot. The other, a young ranger, examines his never-used weapon and prepares to deliver his first dose of justice. The world watches and waits to see which side will prevail, but the barkeep and outlaw know there’s only one option.

“BA-BANG.”

Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, and the echoes reverberate for seconds more. Shortly after, a figure wanders through the doors of the saloon.

He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and an unkempt beard. However, a different pair of eyes lie hidden beneath the nest of hair under the man’s destroyed hat. They are bright and brown and stare into a world no other man will ever see. The man walks slowly up to the bar and lets out one burdensome sentence in a rough, gritty voice. “I forgot to pay my tab.”

He falls face first on the bar, with a hole in his chest where his heart used to be.