The Killing of Names

The stories followed him wherever he went and for that he was glad. For words have power and the words spoken of him filled men with fear.  Because of this, he never set a story straight, but would rather lean back in his chair, taking long drags from a pipe, nodding and smiling enigmatically at the storyteller and their dramatic recounting of events. At this subtle recognition the storytellers became overwhelmed with excitement and joy, slamming their tankards of beer on the bar top screaming to all those listening “see! I told you! I heard the tale from my cousin's uncle who had been in town the night of!”

Many of these tales dated long before he had been born, but again he left these facts alone. His face was tan and leathery, aged from hard weather, hard travel, and harder years, so much so that he too felt many years older than he was.  

Tonight was no different than any, the whispers of his arrival wound their way through streets and up alleyways, causing the townsfolk to act odd and on edge. He knew that some women would blow out their candles and make for sleep early while others would light a few more, hoping secretly to catch a better glimpse of the infamous man trudging up their poorly kept street. Stolen glances out the window would reveal a worn looking traveler in simple dress, one standing nearly a head higher than the tallest man in town. His gait was unusual, long and slow, seeming to drag one laced boot behind the other. Strands of ashen hair shrouded his face from view til a sudden gust of wind appeared, sending it flying back. The moonlight would then reveal a deep and darkened scar traveling from cheek to chin and eyes that seemed to be looking everywhere at once. With such a stranger afoot, their familiar roads no longer looked like home.

Men, young and old alike, would make their way for the dimly lit tavern, alerting all who did not catch the change in the air, “the bounty hunter is coming.” More lanterns would be sent for and a young lad would appear with several from the backroom. These were anxiously lit and hung, casting a bright glow through the place, for many of the untraveled townsmen still foolishly believed that bad things could only happen in dark places. They would then wait, playing cards, fingering the foam in their beer, or simply staring at the door, mouth half open, unsure how to anticipate what would happen next. 

The bounty hunter had been in enough towns to know that this was just the simple man’s way. That many had been hanging onto stories of him since before they could properly string a bow. And although he often found these grown men to be childish, he could not help but delight in bringing bravado to his entrance, making a show of it all. He was well known for pushing back the heavy tavern door, shielding his eyes at the bright lights. The men in that night’s tavern would gasp as he pulled out his shiny silver pistol, shooting out a light or two above an empty seat. As the shattered glass fell shining and twinkling across the floor, he would make his way to the chosen seat, a spotlight of darkness cast upon him. And in that moment his reputation was sealed, he was truly the man from the stories. The silent spell would be broken and the uproar of excited chatter would begin.

But tonight the fabled man was in no such mood. 

He came upon the bar and continued right past it, not giving the beat down place so much as a glance. This sent a collective wave of bewilderment through the men inside, and if the bounty hunter were to turn around in that moment, he would see ten or so men, noses pressed against the window panes, watching the traveler exit their town as quickly as he entered. And with that, he was gone, more phantom than man, leaving the townsfolk feeling disappointed and a little bit empty. After several prolonged moments of silence, they remedied this feeling with the only way they knew how, emptying tankard after tankard til they felt warm and fuzzy and the memory of the man seemed nothing more than a dream.

As the men in the bar fell to drunkenness the bounty hunter held his cloak tight against the cold, crossing the bridge that separated the town from the rural farmlands beyond. Lord knew that he wanted to stop. There was nothing he cared for more in that moment than to rest his legs a little while, maybe exchange words with the pretty woman who was bound to work behind the bar. He thought only fleetingly of food, for if he considered the empty pangs in his stomach for too long, he may just waver and turn heel. 

But deep in his pocket burned the presence of a simple slip of paper with two words scrawled across. These words made up a name, one which belonged to a man that he swore he did not know. Yet, when he first held up the paper and read the name out loud, it was as if it was not the first time the name had rolled off his tongue. 

This vague familiarity unnerved him. He wondered if his mind was slipping, if it could be trusted at all. He used to remember clearly the names and faces of every man he captured, their angry, anguished faces burned into his memory deep and clear as a cattle brand. Now they had mostly gone fuzzy, the faces watered down. As far as the names, only a few could easily be recalled.

The idea of retiring, perhaps settling down, had become an intrusive thought several years ago. He contemplated the ease of it all, how he could continue living life as the mysterious dogged hero the stories made him out to be. But here he came to a crossroads within himself. He often scoffed at that word, hero. People loved to throw the word around, it made them feel safe, feel good, to have a hero within their midst. For he knew within his soul that he was no man of virtue. He fought evil with evil, however it seemed when evil was committed in the name of justice, it was forgiven and forgotten. Yet he bore within his conscious the deeds that he had done, the acts he had committed, and he longed for redemption. 

Maybe this job would be different, he’d tell himself, maybe this job would allow him to believe that he was a hero after all. But alas, he knew this would never be true. He had created a  monster in his mind, one that could never be slayed. So he continued accepting job after job, not for the money, but for the simple fact that work allowed his mind to focus on a task entirely different from debating morality. He was a hunter at heart and no human man had yet gotten away once he set his sights to finding them.

As his lips formed the name of his target once more, he again got the feeling that this was someone from his past, long forgotten, and he wondered what it could mean. He pulled the paper from his pocket and stared at it hard, thinking of the curious paths life had taken him on, and wondering if, or when, he had come across this man. He fought through memories, playing them over and over like stills on a movie reel. Suddenly, it dawned on him. Chills raced down his arms as he shoved the paper back into his pocket.   

What trick of the mind is this? He thought.

But he knew in his heart it was not so, for the hooded figure that had approached him with the task had shown him a photo. It was old and grainy and therefore he had not recognized the man for he had known him when he was much younger. 

He had killed him when he was much younger. 

Or, so he had believed.

But he had watched him hang for his crimes, hadn’t he? 

The midnight air was numbing, yet he knew that wasn’t the reason he could not feel a thing. Again, he wondered what it could all mean. 

And in that moment he knew that he had finally come upon the journey that would change everything. For Marshall Bolivar was no ordinary man, and he himself was old and grey. He knew that if he continued on, there was a good chance he would not return this way, that he would not return to the warm hearth of his home ever again. 

So with that thought to bear, he forced one foot in front of the other, damning the cold wind and everything that went with it. But stand still he would not, for he now knew his purpose; he was in search of a dead man risen.