I orginally wrote this planning to make it part of a much bigger story, that fell through however as I hit a wall, so to speak.
I had a better revised copy on another computer, both gramatically and story wise, but this is the 'rough' version.
It's not really a short story, in the sense that there is a flash back in the middle that takes up a lot of story. But whateva!
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The young man waited behind the door with his gun drawn. He had been there for at least an hour. On the same stool, leaning back with his elbows on the same bar in the same saloon. He was going to kill the son-of-a-bitch that killed his father. The second the bastard walked through the heavy oak doors, he would fill him with lead up to his eyes.
He twirled his six-shooter around his index finger clumsily, he was afraid, but even with nobody around he wasn’t going to show it. He wasn’t going to look like a pussy even if it was just himself that would know.
He closed one eye and looked down the shot of his pistol, he imagined the head of the man he wanted to kill showing up in his cross-hair, him pulling the trigger, and seeing an explosion of red end up all over the saloon door.
Dim light filled the room that night, some being from the sparse stars that barely shone through the thick grimy windows on both sides of the heavy oak door. The rest of the light was from the lanterns hanging behind him, showing only the select bottles of alcohol that were lucky enough to be adorned with the light.
The young man was ready.
The man with his hat brim down in his eyes was waiting outside the saloon doors. His guns in his holsters, and a beer in his mouth. He knew that little shit McCormick was in there. McCormick thought it was the perfect place to make his last stand. Who the fuck did he think he was. Custer?
McCormick thought that he was going to win this gunfight. All the young ones did. That goes around comes around shit doesn’t work for them when they have a bullet coming at their head. Yeah, he killed McCormick’s father, of course he did, hell the kid was standing right there when he did it.
Everyone wants revenge. Even though the kid’s father was a drunk, that beat and cheated on his wife, and had the keen idea of smacking the shit out of his own son everyone once in a while. McCormick in the saloon didn’t care. When he’d beat him until his face was covered with blood, and he couldn’t even sat, "I’m sorry!" even though he didn't even know what it was he had done, anymore because he was crying too hard to choke the words out. At least his was
his father doing it. Not some town bully. The man outside the saloon didn’t kill the town bully, he killed the kid’s father.
The man didn’t want to kill the kid. He
really didn’t want to kill anyone. But he’d shoot his own mother first, before he’d let her put a bullet in his heart. Revenge is something that can’t just be done. Revenge is something that takes time. The kid should have taken his time.
The man threw down his beer and kicked the door in.
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Old man McCormick sat at the table in the log cabin eating his dinner, ham is what it was. The cabin was just one large room, with a bed in one corner, and the table he was now in the middle.
He had a bite of ham in his mouth. Chewing slowly, it didn’t have much flavor, he cooked it too long too. It wasn’t his pig, no loss. His son got it for him. He wouldn’t tell him how or why. Beggars can’t be choosers, and ham is ham. And free is free.
He heard his son grunt trying to open the heavy door. Damn kid was too weak. He needs to eat some ham, get some weight on him. How’s he supposed to get a woman, and get in her front door, if he can’t even open the front door to his own house?
Old man McCormick put his hands on the table, and saw his son get the door open, look at his father and glance around nervously. Why the hell is he so fidgety? This kid can’t do shit right.
"What are you doin’ boy, git in, or stay out!"
The boy jumped at his own fathers voice and started to walk in. But something stopped him. A heavy hand on his shoulder pulled him back and threw him against the rickety wooden steps that led up to the door. He connected softly, if that was possible, on the steps and landed in the dirt outside his home.
He shot up, showing more aggressiveness then he ever had in his life. But the man, who was now in the doorway, looked back from the shocked man at the table with ham in his mouth, in time to see the skinny, rail of a boy go up the steps. With a fist the man swung like he was knocking on a door and hit the jaw of the boy sending him flying back into the dirt, and into unconsciousness.
Old man McCormick swallowed the chunk of ham that had been in his mouth. After the initial gag reflex from his now nervous and upset stomach. He finally broke the seemingly endless silence.
"So I guess you want your cut of the money, Huh?" He finished with a nervous, uneasy laugh.
"I know you ain’t got it, ‘cause if you did you wouldn’t be living in this shithole, eating that stolen pig."
Old man McCormick looked down at his meal.
The man continued, "Yeah, I even seen your little shithead son steal the damn ham. Right out of the general store. Had his fellow shithead friend knock over some cans, and got the grocer down there pissed off and goin’ on about watchin’ where you’re goin’"
"Your kid went in back grabbed the ham and walked right out the door. Bell up top rung and everything when he left."
Old man McCormick sat there and said nothing.
The man continued without a hitch.
"I knew the little shithead was yours too, just looking at him. I just followed him down here to this weed filled yard you call your place, and saw him set the meat right by your door. That gave away you weren’t home. You probably out beatin’ your wife or fucking some whore, weren’t you?"
"So I dropped by a little later, and here I am, and wouldn’t ya know luck would have it, that your little shithead opened the door for me and everything. He’s got some manners your boy."
The kid dazed back into the right state of mind, and started to stumble toward the door. With tears of pain in his eyes he saw the man with the hat stand at the kitchen table. He saw the man put his hand near his holster.
"Now hold on a second, I’ll get your money, no promises on when but you have my word." McCormick said quickly, and while blinking rapidly.
The man pulled his gun out completely and put it to McCormick’s forehead.
"That’s bullshit McCormick, and you know it. Soon as I leave, you and your shithead son are goin’ to skip town. Hell, you might even leave him here for all I know."
McCormick felt the steel on his forehead. The man was still talking, but the adrenaline of fear was interrupting his sense of hearing. He looked past the man and saw his rifle leaning up against the wooden walls. Should he try to knock the man down and go for the gun? Would he have time to grab and aim it? Was it even loaded?
His chances were slim, but the time left in his life was even slimmer and getting more so. He jumped and barreled into the man with the gun. Knocking him slightly away. He bounded to the gun. It was only 5 foot away, one more step, he could grab it. He reached out with his left hand, and was inches away from grabbing the stock and swinging it around and placing it up against his right shoulder. But his hand got heavy. Then hot. He looked at his fingers that were just so close. They were gone.
"Dad!"
The boy saw the blood spurt out of his father’s hands. He saw his father get spun around from the bullet and his back hit the wall, and slide down onto his rear end on the ground. He saw his father in a daze try to reach across his body and grab the gun still against the wall.
The man didn’t even move his hand from the recoil. It stood stock still. Before McCormick reached for the rifle, he fired two more rounds, both imbedding themselves in the wood right behind McCormick’s head.
After the smoke cleared from the guns, the kid saw his father slump toward the gun and fall over, and a red circle expanding around his head. The rifle on the wall fell over and discharged, putting a quarter sized hole in the wall. The setting sun sent a beam of light through the burning hole.
1894
McCormick’s still green joints were tightening up from being in the same position. He checked his gun for any problems for the umpteenth time since he had been there. He spun the chamber around.
The door busted in.
McCormick instinct’s took over and he dove to the right while he fired. His barstool clattered against the floor. The chamber was empty, he had fired six times. God willing one of those shells was in the man’s heart.
The man outside had to admit the kid shot fast, but shooting fast isn’t skill, shooting fast and hitting what you’re aiming for is skill. Hitting one out of six like the kid did was pure luck. But pure luck worked both ways. It worked for McCormick that one of the bullets hit the man. The luck for the man with the hat was that it only hit him in the arm.
More luck for McCormick was that the shot that skinned the man’s arm made him drop his gun. But McCormick’s luck ran out. The man had another holster on his other hip. The other holster had another gun. Which had six bullets resting in the chamber waiting to end McCormick’s young life.
The kid on the dirty ground, with cracked peanut shells all around him, had heard the gun clatter after his deafening shots rang out and filled the saloon. The residue from the shells that left his gun fell into the saloon floor, blending with the dust already living there. The darker shadow of the man contrasted slightly with the night directly behind him. He was still standing.
The man looked down at the kid lying on the floor, who was looking back up at him. He couldn’t look too long, or he’d begin to feel reluctant to shoot him. So, before he could think better of it, he emptied half of his chamber into the boy.
The man left the saloon without ever taking a step inside of it.
