What is life, then, but a waiting game?

No sooner had Miss Hartigan turned to write the lesson on the chalkboard, than the boy dashed through the open door. He hid in the ragged hawthorn bush—prickles and all—panting, waiting, listening. The teacher continued the lesson and he knew he was free.

He‘d never been in town during school hours but he’d imagined it as a veritable showground of adult activity: men and women leaning on railings, drinking and laughing, enjoying the freedom that having their kids in school afforded them. So, when he rounded the bend of the track that led from the schoolhouse into town and saw the empty streets, he wondered if they’d all gone to bed instead.

According to the sign, Maddox had a population of 316 but not a soul, not a horse nor any critter could the boy see. He was taken by a strange compulsion to do something reckless. To strip down to his undergarments and tear up and down the street, to go to the bar and try some of that liquor his mom and James seemed to be so fond of. But in this heat, anything other than diving into the water tank behind the bakery seemed too much like hard work and he made his way down the abandoned main street toward the makeshift swimming hole.

The sun was approaching its apex when the boy saw the two men, sitting in the shadows of store awnings on opposite sides of the street, smoking their cigarettes.

The boy stopped between them. He looked left and saw a man about as old as his grandpa. Even though his hat obscured his face, the boy could tell the man was old by his silver moustache and his slouched shoulders. Old people tended to look like their skeletons were tired of holding them up. His clothes were all brown. Perhaps, when they’d been new, they’d been different colours. Maddox County tended to have that effect, turning everything brown. And the way he held his cigarette … boy, he sure looked like his grandpa. But Grandpa hadn’t lived here for nearly a year. And this old man had guns on his hips. 

The boy looked right. Here was a younger man. He had the clothes of someone new to town—his shirt was yellow and he could make out the black of his trousers. His hat was tall and thin-brimmed, the kind popular with the younger farmhands when it was time to hit the bar. His cigarette glowed in the shadow of his hat then a thick stream of white smoke shot out like when the train pulled out of the station. He rested his arms along the back of the bench, one foot perched on the other knee; the boy was captivated by the man’s boots.

The boy continued to walk, not watching where he stepped along the churned mud road baked hard, and he stumbled. He picked himself up and looked at the younger man, hoping he hadn’t seen him fall. The man leaned forward and said, ‘You alright, kid?’

‘Y-yessir,’ said the boy.

The man leaned back, resuming his position.

The boy looked toward the old man. He remained unmoved.

Emboldened by his escape from Miss Hartigan’s schoolhouse, the boy walked toward the younger man. He stopped at the porch and squinted against the sun. “I like your boots, mister.”

The man chuffed a smoke cloud and patted the seat beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I aint gonna bite.”

The boy sat beside the man and admired his boots at close range.

“Crocodile,” the man said. “You know what a crocodile is, kid?”

“Like an alligator.”

“That’s right. You know how to tell a crocodile from an alligator?”

The boy shook his head though he suspected it was something to do with the shape of their snout.

“Whether you see them later or in a while,” said the man. He was silent a moment, then slapped his knee and broke into raucous laughter. He patted the kid on the back. “Get it, kid?”

“I guess,” the boy said.

The man’s laughter echoed between the buildings and petered out in the dust.

“Where’d you get em?” the boy asked, indicating to the man’s boots.

The man sniffed then spat. “I relieved a gentleman of ill-repute of these boots.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean they were too pretty for a man so ugly. So I took them.”

To the boy, the boots looked to be very valuable. Not the sort of thing a man would part with willingly. He assessed the man as subtly as he could and saw the silver pistol on his hip. “Did ya–y’know, kill him? The man?”

“Why yes, kid. Though it’s rude of you to ask, I surely did kill that man. But you must understand, kid, the previous owner of these boots was a no-good swindler who robbed me first. And many others like me.”

“He was a robber?”

“A cheat!” the man yelled, slapping the bench and causing the boy to jump. He thrusted his finger in the boy’s face. “Aint no man that good at cards.”

At the sudden escalation in temperament, the old man across the street stirred and lifted the brim of his hat. “Boy,” he said, his voice gravelled but thick with authority. And it was familiar.

“Grandpa?” said the boy, rising from his chair.

“Get over here,” the old man said.

“Scuse me, sir,” the boy said to his bench companion, using the impeccable manners his grandfather had instilled.

“Grandpa, hey?” The young man said, patting his holster. “Come back when you’re done with your grandpappy if you wanna see something really worth talking about.”

The boy stepped into the heat, his eyes downcast, and traipsed across the street toward what would surely be a stern talking-to for skipping school. Instead, his grandpa brought up his other favourite lesson. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

The boy sighed. “Not to.”

“And do you know that man over there?”

“No, sir.”

The old man grunted. “What were you two talking about?”

“His boots.” 

The boy looked at his grandfather’s dusty old boots. They were older than he was. Older even than the mountains sheltering the town from the summer storms.

“He tell you how he came by those boots?” said the old man.

“He took them from a robber who cheated at cards.”

His grandfather huffed, took a drag of his cigarette, and flung it into the street. They both watched the smoke curl, then straighten, a single line of white unaffected by even the slightest breeze.

“Why’d you laugh?” said the boy.

“You like his crocodile boots?” said the old man.

The boy nodded.

“And his fancy hat, I s’pose?”

“I guess.”

The old man sucked his teeth and let out a sigh. He corrected his own hat, brown with a dark ring, a jagged white salt line marking where decades of sweat had dried. He looked up to the sun, the lines in his face deep crevices. He pulled out his watch, checked it against the clock tower down the street, and made a slight adjustment.

“The boy’s no good,” said the old man. 

“Aw, Grandpa,” the boy complained. “You say that about all my friends.”

“I do?”

“Timmy Jackson, John Waters, Charlie, Mike—”

“They are no good.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “See?” he said and leaned on his knees. “Where’ve you been, anyhow?”

“Here and there.”

“Mom know you’re here?”

“She does.”

“What are ya here for?” asked the boy. “A birthday or somethin?”

“A funeral.”

“Whose?”

The old man placed his hands on his knees, pushed against them and stood slowly. The younger man across the street stood also. The two men adjusted their gunbelts, their hats, their moustaches. The old man said, “Your father’s,” and stepped onto the street.

“Hey, kid,” the younger man called out.

“Wait. What? My father’s long dead, Grandpa?” the boy said, concerned that what his mother had been saying for as long as he could remember said was true: Grandpa was losing his marbles. “When I was a baby, remember?”

“Naw, that aint true, boy,” his grandfather said over his shoulder. “Just dead to you and your mother.”

“Hey, kid!” the man said again.

The boy looked across the street at the other man, standing, beckoning with his hand. The boy stood and turned his face to his grandfather for permission. The old man narrowed his eyes, looked at the younger man, then nodded his approval.

The boy walked back over and told him excitedly that the old man was his grandpa. “Haven’t seen him for nearly a year!” he said.

“That a fact?” the man replied. “Then who’s been looking after you and your mother?”

“James Moody been staying with us for a while,” he said.

The man went rigid. “Jim fucken Moody shacked up with your mother?”

The boy shied at the sudden aggression and the man calmed himself. “Sorry, kid. Your mother’s a…good woman. And I believe she deserves someone more decent than James fucken Moody.”

“H-How’d you know Mom?”

The man laughed. “Well, you see, your mother and I go a ways back. Back before you were born and—”

“That’s enough, Bill,” said the old man, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Walt,” said the man, tipping his hat. “Didn't recognise you sitting over there in the dark.”

The old man humphed. “I recognise those boots.”

The man turned his foot and the tessellated skin glistened in the sun. “You knew Mitchell then?”

“I did.”

“Then you'd know he was a damn cheat and a liar.”

“He was a good man,” the old man replied. “And an even better card player.”

The younger man smirked and huffed from his nose. “What have you been up to since I saw you, Walt?"

“Waiting.”

“Waiting? Waiting for what, me?”

The old man didn't reply, he just clenched his jaw.

“Well, I have to admit, I waited ten years to come back here,” said the man. “Thought you’d have dropped off your perch by now.”

“I’ve waited twenty for this. Finally got permission from the powers that be.”

The man nodded, contemplatively taming in the street, the boy, the old man and his guns. He said, “What is life, then, but a waiting game?”

The two men stood with the boy between them for some time—the younger man fidgeting, a strange smile on his face—the old man motionless but for a gentle squeeze of the boy’s shoulder.

“Hey, Grandpa,” said the boy at last. “This fella knows Mom.”

The old man grunted his understanding but said nothing further.

“How is Justine, Billy?” the young man asked the boy.

“Hey, how’d you know my name?”

“We got the same name, kid,” said the man. “How bout that?”

The old man said, “Boy, why don’t you run along home and tell your mother I’ll be along presently. She’s been waiting for me and will want to know I’m alright.”

Billy wailed about the unfairness of the request but was silenced by his grandfather’s raised voice. “That’s enough, boy! Now git before I thrash you senseless.”

Perplexed, the boy looked at his namesake who shrugged and said, “Gotta listen to your elders, kid. Nice talking to you, though.”

“You too, sir,” the boy said as he turned to walk away.

“See you around, Billy.”

The boy took a final glance at the man’s boots and trudged down the street for home.

He flipped up the collar of his shirt as the sun bit into his neck and turned at the sound of glass smashing on the floor to his left. He sheltered his eyes from the glare and made out the silhouette of a man at the window. Then another. And another still, each of the windows in the saloon packed with gawking faces. He looked to the right of the street and saw the same thing: each of the windows in the stores was filled with peering faces. 

He stopped in his tracks. Then he turned back down the street. The two men hadn’t moved an inch.

Above the street, the clock tower bell tolled noon, sending a crow cawing into the blazing heat.

As the clangs echoed down the empty road, a woman unseen cried out, “Billy! Get in here!”

“Mom?” 

The panic in the woman’s voice chilled Billy to his boots and he ran toward the darkened opening of the Sherrif’s door. She threw her arms around her boy and the Sherrif slammed the door behind him.

“What’s going on?” Billy said.

“Don’t worry, darling,” said his mother, though everything about her caused him greater worry than he’d ever known. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Why is everyone hiding?”

“Waiting for your grandfather to deal with a bad man.”

“That man with the boots?”

“That’s right,” said the Sherrif.

“He’s got the same name as me, you know?”

The woman broke down and threw her arms around the boy. The Sherrif placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and assured him it would all work out. He and his deputy, along with half a dozen others, were here to make sure of it.

“Make sure of what?” said the boy.

The Sherrif squatted down and said, “That your dad pays for what he’s done.”

Billy blinked, shook his head, then turned to his mother. “What do you mean, ‘dad’?”

“Oh, Billy!” his mother cried and tried to embrace him again. But the boy pushed her away, staggering backwards then turned and bolted back out the door.

“Dad!” he cried and pounded his feet down the dusty street.

The two men now stood apart from each other, hands hovering at their hips as the bell continued to ring out.

“Dad!” he screamed again but was drowned out by the mighty clang of the eleventh toll.

At the twelfth bell, the boy blinked at the gunshots, the two men’s hands moved from their hips to pointing their pistols in front of them as quickly as if flicking between two photographs. Blue smoke hung in the air and enveloped them both before the younger, tall-hatted man stepped toward the old man. As he walked, the boy ran again, stumbling as he cried, “Grandpa! No!”

Tears fell hot down his cheeks while he clambered as if in a dream; he couldn’t get his legs to work fast enough. His grandfather dropped to his knees, the gun fell from his hand. His father lurched on toward the liquid horizon and the silhouette of his fallen opponent.

Sprinting on, the boy passed the man and threw himself at his grandfather and sobbed.

“It’s alright, boy,” the old man said. “It’s alright.”

At last, he pushed the boy away and used him to right himself, standing in the dirt. The boy squinted in the glare and examined the old man’s clothes for blood, but there was none.

He turned to see his father, still walking, a black-red stain spreading across his yellow shirt. He staggered, hand plugging the hole in his belly, steadied himself, then marched on. The man raised a pistol with his free hand and fired. Dust exploded in Billy’s face, caking his wet cheeks, his eyes half-blinded by grit. He dove to the ground and picked up his grandfather’s pistol with both hands, cocked it, and fired.

*

“Hip-hip, hooray!” the crowd cheered.

“Happy birthday, Billy,” said the boy's mother. “It’s hard to believe my little boy is sixteen years old today.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed the breath from his lungs with her embrace.

“Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Nonsense,” she said then waved to the publican who produced a large cardboard box wrapped in a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” Billy said.

“You’ve waited this long. Just open it, you fool, and find out.”

He shook the box, felt its weight and the two items sliding inside it. “The boots?” he said with a smile.

“They should fit you now, at least.”

“But…” the boy hesitated.

“He’s dead,” his mother said. “He’s not going to care.”

“He won’t, sure. But, you know,” said the boy. “I know how you felt about him.”

“Just open the damn box.”

The boy unwrapped the box and removed the cowboy boots he’d wanted from the moment he saw them—too small to fit them and too green to deserve them. He placed them on the floor and slid his feet inside the dusty old brown boots; older than his grandfather, older even than the mountains sheltering the town from the summer storms.