The Wild West

Can I really do this?

The gun feels heavy in my hand. I slide it into the leather holster at my hip. I feel sick, is this what everyone else feels?

Mamma said that death was painless. It’s just like going to sleep but you wake up in heaven. When I said I would miss my room and her too much she smiled softly and cradled my cheek.

“Darling I would follow you”

Thinking back, I realised I didn’t understand the gravity of those words. What they meant. Now I do. If I died, she would follow suit. I wonder what she’s thinking right now, looking down from the heavens. I wonder if she has aged at all. Has her soft brown hair turned grey over the years. Did she sing a church hymn for me on my 10th birthday? My 13th? What about my most recent birthday - 15?

I hope she understood that I couldn’t follow her so quickly. That it wasn’t my time. I step into the centre of the road, my boots kicking up the red Arizona dirt. I look up at the blue sky and imagine her face, which has faded over the years. Perhaps I’ll see her today.

“Such a young boy” Someone whispers in the crowd. I stand up straighter.

Three steps. Turn and shoot. The West’s quickest act of justice. One, two, three and fire.

“Tom! Kill that bastard!” I can’t help but smile. Of course George, my best friend, would cheer me on. I wonder if he will be so vocal if I die.

I hope he does.

Behind me, about to walk the opposite way is Fredrick Manfield. 62, grey haired, stomach full of beer, shit and racist jokes. He’s also a wife beater, a gambler and the man who killed my mother five years ago. It’s taken a while to track this fucker down. Originally, I had planned to just shoot him in some alley. But then I thought what would be better, than challenging him for a standoff? Shooting him in an alley probably, but I was drunk, the type that makes you feel invincible. And the thing with big egos is they can be easily threatened. So I had marched up to this fat fucker, whilst George was cheering me on behind me, his beer sloshing down the front of his shirt as he waved his hands. And I had said “You only beat your wife? Or you too fat to win a standoff?”

I don’t think he liked that. I also feel like my comment didn’t make much sense.

Now it’s the morning after, and I think I’m still drunk. And hungover.

“On your marks!” Said Mayor Richards. To him, this is another dandy show before his late evening whiskey. Who knew there would already be a standoff on the second day of 1885.

I told George, if I died, he would have to kill the bastard himself.

I said “promise me”

And George had crushed his forehead against mine and stared me down “Gladly. But you won’t die”

I wish I had his confidence.

The whole town has lined the main dirt road that cuts through the heart of the town. I hear the doors of the bar to my left swing open and shut, signalling another patron joining the crowd. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. George and I have been riding on horseback from one town to another, searching. Searching for Fredrick’s ugly face. All the while, I carry the gun he had used. A colt single action army revolver. It’s one of a kind, with Manfield engraved on the handle. Fredrick used to be a foot soldier, word has it he was rejected for any promotions due to his temper. Swirls of bright silver and gold brandish the entire weapon. It’s meant to distract your opponent, as the sun bounces off the silver. I wonder if this man will recognise his own gun. The one he lost, the night of anger. Did he drop it on my mother’s bloody chest in horror? Or perhaps my mother clung to it, a final act of defiance.

My heart crashes against my chest. My shirt is slick with sweat. The sun so bright I have to squint. I should’ve planned this better. But he killed my mother, I ain’t giving him another minute of living if I can so help it.

I take a breath in. This is my first stand off. May just be my last.

“Get ready!”

I exhale.

“One!”

We step. The gun heavy at my hip.

“Two”

The distance between Fredrick and I widens.

“Three!’

This is the farthest we will go.

“Turn!”

On that I spin on my heels, my right hand unholstering my gun. Somewhere in my mind I register Fredrick standing there, forehead shiny with oil. I see the end of his gun, the way it’s pointed at my head, the same time I point mine at his. I hear the sharp intake of his breath. Feel the satisfaction as I see his eyes widen. He recognises the gun.

Triggers are pulled. The bullets must pass each other at some point. Wave hello, as they speed through the air. They have no choice but to fly,fly, fly until they hit something.

What did my mother used to say? Nothing ever changes course unless it’s forced to. She read so many books, books that were handed down from her father, who was a physician. She’d point to a small stream and tell me the cluster of rocks made it bend. Or she’d throw a rock and say “it would’ve gone straight if the wind hadn’t pushed it”. She was the one who taught me how to shoot. Not my father.

I wonder if Fredrick sees the similarities between him and I. I doubt it though. My mother always said I looked more like her. I take great pride in that. I wait for the pain. For something, as i hold the gun up. The moment seems to stretch, elongate and then Fredrick’s head snaps back.

His knees bending as his back arches. Gravity takes over, his body crumbling.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then George cheers. It’s only then that I feel the pain. Feel the warmth dribble down the side of my neck. I lower my gun, holstering it before touching my ear.

Sharp pain say’s its greetings. And I smile, because Mamma said death was painless.

Which means I’m still alive.