Hiding in the Willows

The long trail ahead was desolate, and the day was getting hotter.

An animal carcass laid nearby, flies swarming around it. Vultures gliding overhead provided the only shade from the heat.

Campbell knew things were bad. He’d been moving from town to town for five months now, barely eating and sleeping even less. He smelled worse than his horse. And the urge was always there, no matter how much he tried.

“Just one more,” he’d mutter at every town’s saloon door.

He was weak, and anyone who looked at him knew it. An average man of average build and height, Bill Campbell had been a simple ranch hand before his life fell apart. It all seemed so distant now; it was hard for him to remember at times.

That’s what the extra shot of whiskey was for. It kept the past drowned, out of sight and out of his empty head. Bill never was much for thinking or conversation anyway, and now with a bounty on him, he wasn’t looking for company.

His skin was cracked; his lip bled from the left corner. Matted, greasy hair hid under his hat and his teeth had slowly turned from yellow to a solid shade of leather brown.

Bill Campbell was a man most wouldn’t pay attention to, except if they passed close enough to smell him or walked over him unconscious in the middle of the street.

And that’s exactly how Bill wanted it.

That fateful night, when the demons had gotten the best of him, Campbell rode into town, sat down at the bar and poured his heart and soul through a bottle. He had just been paid, and with $10 in his pocket, the night was young and there was fun to be had.

The saloon was nothing special. Nothing ever was in Tumbleweed. But it was all the folks had and they treasured it. The spot on the front stoop where Charlie Shepherd beat a Mexican caught cheating at cards, the smell of liquor and women in the air. Degenerates and bottom-scrubbers riddled the room every night. 

Cheap cigars, cheap whiskey, and even cheaper company. That was Tumbleweed.

Sid Pepper had always been an acquaintance of Campbell, if not a friend. It was too bad the way it all ended — Bill had known Sid for a long time. The two started out on the trail together and even worked at the same ranch, until Sid left for prospects in Tumbleweed.

That’s when the rift started. And that night, with a bottle of whiskey in him, Bill decided Sid’s tone wasn’t to his liking.

A punch to the gut, a face slammed into the bar counter, some wrestling on the floor all ended when Campbell’s Remington went off and Pepper slumped back, lifeless.

Shrieks from the bystanders, a few angry groans from the other patrons — the only ones who really cared were the card players, whose game was so rudely interrupted.

Campbell was on his horse and riding fast out of town before what happened even hit him, or anyone else had a good chance to. A drunken few tried, firing off in every direction. But if there is one good thing about herding cattle, it’s that Bill‘s horse was a fine animal, and fast.

Since Tumbleweed, he’d passed through Black Rock, Rio Bravo, Harlan, Fair Valley, Big Stick and Arlo. Bill didn’t know how far he’d have to go or for how long he’d be on the run.  He would figure out his next move once he got to the territory. Not many lawmen would follow him there.

— — — —

Yellow scum,” Marstens thought, scanning the saloon. He knew the people; he knew the town — he’d been in a cesspool like this a hundred times.

If there was ever a place Marshal John Marstens did not want to be, Big Stick was it. He hated the town; it was “high” class — where the card sharks came to get richer, where magical elixirs were concocted from alcohol and poison and sold to the masses. Showgirls ran rampant when they weren’t on stage.

The saloon had a big sign on the outside, surrounded by 18 candles, making it stand out in the night sky. All the buildings were painted black. Marstens never understood it.

There was money here, and that meant graft, which brought the kind of people Marstens did not want to see. He’d only been in town on five other occasions, none of which ended well. People died, and while he never wanted it to end that way, Marstens never lost sleep over it.

A man of tall stature, John Marstens joined the Marshal service after the war, when people with a knack for killing were everywhere with nothing better to do. He’d thought about going home, tending to his father’s farm and starting over.

But there was too much pain there, from his father’s death at the hands of the Greybacks, to his wife’s passing while he was at war. He’d tracked and taken care of the group that killed his father, and decided to continue down the righteous path of doing God’s work, riddling the country of sinners.

The saloon was crowded and rank. The patrons were screaming over the piano, and Marstens had to slowly move his way through the garbage before him.

Finally at the bar, he motioned for the barkeep.

“I’m looking for a man, might have been through in the last couple of days,” Marstens asked.

“Get a lot of folks through here,” the bartender snapped. Marstens let out a low growl as he exhaled.

“Name’s Bill Campbell. Shot a man in Tumbleweed some five months ago. Likes his whiskey, what I’m told.”

“Campbell? Not sure I recognize the name,” the barman furrowed his brow.

Before he could continue, a man pushed through the crowd toward the bar, ran into a table and spilled his beer on Marstens’ boot.

“HAROLD, GIVE ME ANOTHER,” the man said. He stooped over, saw he spilled on the stranger next to him, and added, “AND ONE FER MY FRIEND HERE.”

Harold smiled widely, “Well I’d love to Johnny, except you ain’t paid your tab in two weeks.”

“I TOLD YOU I WAS GOOD FER IT,” Johnny exclaimed. “MY CLAIM IS GONNA PRODUCE GOLD ANY DAY NOW.”

Located near the foot of a long river, Big Stick was the home of many hopeless romantics seeking their fortune in gold. Marstens didn’t care for the lot, thinking of plenty of other ways to reap a reward from the earth that didn’t involve lying in a creek all day.

“Move it, Johnny,” the barkeep said. “You’re cut off till you pay.”

“I GOT YOUR PAYMENT RIGHT HERE,” Johnny cried. He started patting his left side, as if he was about to yell “giddy up” during one of the local horse races.

The drunk raised his head in befuddlement, only to see Marstens holding his pistol — the gun dangling around his index finger by the trigger hole.

“There will be no shooting tonight,” he said. “Best be moving on, before I change my mind.”

Johnny was about to say something, but the glint of Marstens’ badge caught his eye. Defeated, he stood motionless as the Marshal emptied the gun and set it back in his holster before stumbling toward the door.

Marstens looked back at the bartender, who still didn’t know anything about Campbell. Outside the saloon; he was sure in himself that Campbell had been through Big Stick. He could feel it, always had the gift.

It was late, and Marstens wasn’t about to go hunting in the dark. Campbell was out there, and he’d be resting now, so Marstens would do the same. The hotel was usually full, and never clean. He’d head down to the sheriff’s office, and either grab an empty cell or just find a chair and put up his feet.

Marstens had been on Campbell’s trail for almost three months. He’d just collected on Frank Wilson, an angry man who killed his wife and unborn child before trying to make it south into Mexico. He found Wilson in a card game at Rio Bravo, and shot him three times before he dropped his two-pair.

That’s when he heard about Campbell.

The longest Marstens had ever gone between bounties was two weeks, and it drove him mad: Nothing to do, the waiting, the sheer slothfulness of that kind of life. That was early, after the war. Over the last 12 years, he’d hardly stopped at all.

And it was starting to show. His gun was still quick, but not as fast as it used to be. His right leg was always stiff, and his back hurt after riding for more than a few hours. But he kept on going, he had to. There was no point in stopping now.

No one was in the jail, no one at all. Marstens was too tired to care. He made a note in his head to properly instruct the sheriff in the morning.

— — — —

Pete never wanted to cause trouble; he was just looking for his Pa. Sheriff Thompson found him sleeping in front of the general store, and brought him into the jail early that morning.

Marstens jumped at the sound of the door, pulling his right revolver from its holster.

“Easy there, John,” Thompson said.

“Where have you been?” Marstens replied in a low rumble. He was still half asleep.

“Sleeping, in my OWN BED,” Thompson shot back. He was a short, stout human being. His mustache was too big for his face.

Marstens noticed the boy, and turned his attention toward him, “What’s with the runt?”

“Oh, Petey? Found him sleeping in front of the general store. Didn’t I, Petey?” Thompson said.

“Yessir,” Pete replied.

He hid his eyes behind his sandy blonde hair. He was almost 11 now, and was ready to take on the world. He looked at his feet and rubbed them together when he spoke. All he wanted was to find his Pa.

On his own for almost a year, Pete moved from town to town, looking for his father. Pa left about two years back, and it wasn’t until Ma took ill that Pete snuck out in the middle of the night, saddled the plowing mule and headed out into the wilderness.

He’d lost the mule in Harlan, and slipped onto the back of a stagecoach when it was time to move on. Sometimes there weren’t any problems. Other times he got kicked off — either from the rough ride or from getting caught. A coach usually only cost three or four dollars, money Pete didn’t have. He’d been in Big Stick for almost a week. No sign of Pa.

“Nice to see you keeping the filth off the street,” Marstens sneered. “I’m here looking for Bill Campbell, you seen him?”

“Not that I reckon,” Thompson thought out loud, “Unless you mean Don Callahan, but he’s been dead near on four years?”

Marstens and Callahan used to work on bounties together from time to time. John was there when Don was shot in El Paso. He’d given the eulogy at the funeral.

“Thompson,” Marstens sighed, “You make a horse kick to the head seem like a good idea.”

The sheriff stood, puzzled. He wore an old top hat, and his shirt under his coat was ruffled. He looked more like one of them strange performers from the traveling shows than a lawman.

“Well, I’m sure he’s been through here, probably heading west until he gets to the territory,” Marstens continued. “Everyone seems to be afraid of the territory.”

He started to make his way toward the door, right leg moving a little stiff from being propped up all night.

“Might I inquire as to the length of your stay?” Thompson asked.

“I’ll be out of town by nightfall,” Marstens said, as the door closed behind him.

— — — —

He had run short of money — it isn’t easy to get cash the honorable way when on the lam. Campbell knew he was on a one-way track, so robbing a man at gunpoint didn’t seem all that bad to Bill, just a twig on the fire.

The saloon in Silver Pan was too tempting to pass. Campbell was on a bit of a high from the robbery. He didn’t kill the man, but hit him upside the head, just to prove he wasn’t joking.

The force of impact sent a rippling effect through Bill’s body. He felt alive. And before he knew it, sitting at the bar with a bottle of whiskey and a lady on his lap, Campbell was breathing fire.

— — — —

It was almost pitch black by the time Marstens made camp — he was halfway to Arlo and felt stronger that he was on the right track. Due to his year’s of service, Marstens no longer moved in the wrong direction, and couldn’t remember the last time his instincts had led him astray. Those instincts were another weapon in his arsenal, which he relied on more and more. 

And it was those instincts that told him there was someone following him.

Marstens sat by the fire, cooking some beans he’d bought in Big Stick. His revolver was in his right hand at his side, the other sidearm sitting underneath his left leg.

“You might as well come out,” he said. “Otherwise neither of us will get much sleep.”

There was a rustle in the bushes near the tree Marstens’ horse was tied to. Out walked a little boy, leading a horse. He looked up through his sandy hair.

“Hello, Sir,” Pete said.

“Your the boy from the sheriff’s office,” Marstens said, sizing him up.

“Yes, Marshal.”

“Why are you riding out here? Why are you following me?”

“I’m looking for my Pa.”

“Well, he ain’t here.”

“I know, Sir. Thought maybe you could help me find him.”

“I’ve got my own people to find, son. I don’t have time to be looking for a runaway father.”

Looking down, Pete shuffled his feet. The horse snorted behind him.

“Where’d you get that horse?” Marstens said with a smile.

“The horse? I … found it,” Pete responded sheepishly.

“Found it? Where, under a rock?” Marstens was laughing, for the first time in months, maybe years. “Tie it up at the tree and sit down.”

Pete did as he was told. He sat down on his blanket, using the horse’s saddle — which was far too big for him — as a backrest. Marstens stirred the beans, and scooped some out into two cups, handing one to the boy.

“My name’s Pete,” he said, taking the cup of beans.

“Hello, Pete. I’m Marshal John Marstens.”

— — — —

“Where are you headed, Marshal?” Pete asked.

Marstens had been riding for a few days now, but due to poor weather, hadn’t made much progress. The boy was tagging along, until the Marshal could find a suitable place to put him. He’d settle for the nearest jail cell or boarding house.   

“Boy, you can ride with me to Arlo,” he’d said when they started out. “After that, you’re on your own.”

Since then, the boy hadn’t shut up about his father or stopped asking questions long enough to catch his breath.

“Where are you heading, Marshal?” he repeated.

The way to Arlo wasn’t easy. If Big Stick was the low point of the county, Arlo was the high point, both morally and literally. People joke that what started as gold in Arlo ended up as manure in Big Stick.

Marstens tended to agree.

Arlo was uphill, almost 50 miles over rocky terrain. Thistle bushes, dead trees and plenty of critters made the journey an unpleasant one. The trail could be tricky, unless you’d taken it a few dozen times. Marstens had it mapped out, knew it like the back of his hand or the butt of his Smith and Wesson rifle.

“Arlo,” he grunted, answering Pete after his fourth question.

“What’s in Arlo?”

“Might be a man I’m looking for.”

“Do you think you will find him there?”

“Don’t know, that’s why I’m going to find out.”

“What if he is there? Are you going to gun him down or take him to jail? How many people have you killed? How long have you been a Marshal?”

Marstens spit out his tobacco. He’d never chewed so much in his life as he had since picking up the boy. He was growing tired — of the boy, the task, the track, the weather.

“Can you keep your mouth shut for five minutes?” he shouted.

“Sorry, Marshal.”

They rode in silence for the rest of the day, but Marshal could pick up on what Pete was saying under his breath here and there. Pete had gotten so used to talking to himself, he nearly forgot about the Marshal ahead of him, until the first shot rang out.

The horses whinnied. Pete almost lost control, which would have meant certain death considering the steepness of the climb.

“Snakes,” Marstens said. He put his revolver back into its holster, and calmed his horse, before giving it a good kick in the side to continue the trek to Arlo.

“Marshal, are you going to help me find my dad?”

Marstens opened his mouth to speak, then had a second thought. The kid was lost, he didn’t know what to do or where to go. The Marshal pitied him, but that didn’t mean he was going to take him in as his own.

Campbell was out there, probably killing or raping his way to the Indian Territory.

“I’ll take you as far as Arlo.”

— — — —

There wasn’t much for Campbell in Silver Pan after he drank away most of his remaining money. He’d sold some clothes and other valuables he kept hidden deep in the side satchel on his horse, but a bad run at cards left him looking for a way to get back ahead.

“Damn it,” he said while sitting on some boxes outside Potter’s Freight Company.  

He had one bottle of whiskey in his hand, and a few hidden around the town under porches and behind movable walls. Sitting outside the freight station, he could see clear across the thoroughfare, and right into the sheriff’s office.

“Every day,” he thought, “I sit here, staring at that office wall, looking to see if my face is getting nailed up for reward.”

A few nights’ back, he accidentally told a whore that he was on the run for killing a man, and had to slap her around pretty good before he knew she’d keep quiet. Any welcome he had in Silver Pan was almost worn out. 

Soon, he’d have to make the dash for the territory, and a life of solitude, one without much hope of reconciliation or retribution. But he didn’t want to leave, and that’s why he watched. As long as no poster was put up during the day, Bill could do what he wanted at night.

It was late in the day, and Campbell woke when Potter closed the front door behind him.

“Could I bother you to sleep outside someone else’s store, as to make sure customers aren’t turned away or displeased by the aforementioned disposition?” Potter snapped.

He kicked over the vertical box, knocking Campbell to the ground.

“Screw you, Potter!” Campbell said. “Don’t think, for one second, that I give A DAMN what you think.”

Campbell staggered to his feet. Potter turned away and started heading home, down the alley in between buildings.

It was almost dark now, no one was around. Campbell picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. He dusted himself off, and then started down the alley after Potter. The glint from his knife flickered in the thoroughfare candlelight.

— — — —

The jail cell door closed, and Campbell knew it was over. The clank of the iron bars officially signaled he was drowning.

He stabbed Potter in the side, stole his money and headed over to the saloon, now a rich man. Little did he know the strength of Potter’s fortitude. That skinny freight station owner, with all his fancy words, hadn’t given up like Campbell thought he would.

After being dragged under a backdoor porch, Potter crawled out and up onto the nearest doorstep and received help. And before Campbell was halfway through a bottle of whiskey, he was being taken off to jail at gunpoint.

“You’ll hang for this, whether Potter dies or not,” said the deputy.

“Should have slit his throat,” Campbell replied with a huff. If only Campbell had known how far he’d fallen.

Marstens rode into Arlo five hours earlier and found the saloon. There he met a man named Lou Palmer, who spoke of a downtrodden bandit who had robbed him on his way from Silver Pan.

Whether or not the robber was Campbell, Marstens wasn’t sure. But it was the first time he’d heard of anything like this. The Marshal tried to get rid of Pete, but the boarding house was full, and ran by a beastly woman with little care for the ones she kept.

“Does this mean I can stay with you?” Pete said.

“You’ll go somewhere at Silver Pan,” Marstens said. “I’m sure of that.”

The two headed off in the evening, two days from Silver Pan.

That’s where Bill Campbell sat in a jail cell, likely to hang for stabbing Clifton Potter. He didn’t bother trying to claim he was innocent. Instead, he cussed out the world.

— — — —

A double barrel shotgun, three rifles and two colts … that’s, uh, 29 shots?” thought Campbell.

For the past three days, the deputy sheriff treated him — and the other two inmates — like animals. Three men in a two-cell jail made for tight quarters, and the deputy’s behavior wasn’t helping. Campbell was bunking with Davy Walker, a farmer from across the state. Anna Creek, an indian from the territory, sat alone in the cell next door.

Anna didn’t speak, which was fine since no one knew what to do with a woman in jail — except Campbell, who made kissy faces at her— and Walker only had so much story to tell. A small and plain jail, there wasn’t much to look at. That was, of course, until the gun rack was left open across from Campbell’s cell.

“Twenty-nine shots … 29 shots.”

The meals reminded Campbell of the slop he fed the pigs on the ranch, making it easy to have grand illusions of his escape and mad dash for freedom in the territory.

He was deep in fantastic thought, when the deputy struck the cell bars with a cup.

“Whoooooo boy, are you sunk!” he said. The deputy looked 19 at best. “I just got back from the Doc’s, looks like Potter finally gave in.”

The deputy leaned in, his face squished between the bars, “Doc says you bled him dry.”

Campbell exhaled, and the last glint of promise left his body. He rolled over on his cot. There was nothing left to do but hang. Looking out his cell and through the open front door, he saw a rough-looking man dressed in black, riding past with a little boy on a horse behind him.

— — — —

Marstens tied his horse at the Silver Pan boarding house and went inside. Looking back, he saw Pete sitting idly on his horse, not daring to follow him.

Inside, Marstens struck a deal with the owner and old friend, Ms. Bullock. He walked back outside and stopped in front of Pete.

“You can stay here,” Marstens said. “Ms. Bullock will let you stay as long as you help with chores. Pull your weight, and you’ll do just fine.”

“But why can’t I stay with you?” Pete said. “I thought you’d help me find my father?”

“I told you I’d take you as far as I could,” Marstens said, tying the horse’s reins to the back of his saddle.

Pete got off the horse and kicked Marstens in the right leg. The Marshal dropped to one knee, before slapping the boy with the back of his right hand. He couldn’t grab Pete before he ran off through the thoroughfare.

“You never were good with children, John,” Ms. Bullock said from the porch. Marstens looked at her with a huff, holding his right knee.

“Don’t worry, he’ll come back. They always do,” she said.

Marstens unpacked the horses before heading over to the Silver Pan saloon. The main bartender recognized the Marshal’s description of Campbell, but hadn’t seen him in almost a week.

Marstens was close, very close. He could feel that Campbell was nearby. And then came Trixie, who reluctantly said a man had told her what he’d done in Tumbleweed. Marstens looked at her bruised face and knew it was the truth. No one would take such a beating over nothing.

— — — —

The Marshal walked across the roadway to the sheriff’s office to have a word. Stepping through the open door, Marstens nodded at the deputy sitting behind the desk with his feet up, before noticing the two men sitting in the cell.

As the prisoner laying on the cot responded to the sound of spurs on the wood floor, Marstens’ heart set on fire. He stood in the doorway, staring straight into the eyes of Bill Campbell, the man he’d spent the last few weeks tracking, who killed someone in Tumbleweed, who fled into the night, leaving all responsibilities behind. The man who robbed an old man and beat a woman.

Campbell’s eyes grew big, as the man in black stepped toward his cell.

“Hello, Bill Campbell,” Marstens said with a smirk. “I’m Marshal John Marstens.”

Once Marstens and the deputy caught each other up, they turned their attention to Campbell.

“Sheriff says he will hang tomorrow,” the deputy said.

“Where is he?” Marstens asked.

“He’s checking out the hangman’s post,” said the deputy. “Haven’t used it going on five years.”

The Marshal walked out onto the front porch, looking at the last speck of the sun creeping over the horizon.

“The hanging’s set for tomorrow.”

“I’ll collect him in the morning,” Marstens said as he walked outside..

Crossing the street, Pete walked out from the shadows, his head down, hands in the pockets of his overalls. After apologizing, he looked Marstens in the eyes and simply said, “I ain’t never going to find my Pa, am I?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Well I looked all over, and he ain’t here.”

“Come on boy, I’ll walk you to the boarding house. Ms. Bullock makes a mean dumpling.”

— — — —

“Hey Davy, wake up,” Campbell whispered, kicking his cot.

“What? I’m trying to sleep!” Walker hissed.

“Tomorrow, I’m going for it. I ain’t dying in a noose. You in to join me?”

“No, why would I do that? I’ve got two more days in here, and then I’m free. I ain’t doing anything to jeopardize that.”

“TWO DAYS!” Campbell snarled, “You said you were in here for killin’ a man in a duel.”

“I just said that so you wouldn’t give me trouble,” Walker said. “I got drunk and relieved myself on the sheriff’s horse.”

“You peed on the man’s horse?”

“I was DRUNK!”

“Damn, Walker. I can’t do this alone, not with that Marshal here.”

“Well, talk to Anna. Maybe she will help you.”

“Anna? What good is she? Don’t even talk English.”

There was a soft noise to the right of their cell. In the moonlight, they could make out the glint in Anna’s eyes. She was sitting on the floor, cross legged, staring at them. Neither man knew what to do.

“Anna, can you talk?” Walker asked. “If so, tell Bill he’s lost it. I’m sorry, but at some point a man’s got to pay for his deeds.”

Anna didn’t move.

“Crazy, huh?” Campbell scoffed. Her turned toward Anna. “You sit there acting all holy and righteous. But what are you in here for, huh? You ain’t saying nothing, but it can’t be good. Savage woman, probably ate her own kin!

“I ain’t going down tomorrow. Not without a fight. Yous a part of it now, like it or not!”

He spat on the floor of her cell, and turned back toward Walker, “Get some rest, Davy Boy, ‘cause tomorrow, we’re all gonna need it.”

— — — —

It was just after sunrise when Marstens awoke. He stood up, and walked toward the window before a coughing spell forced him to a chair. His lungs burned and his right leg was stiff. He dressed and cleaned both pistols before heading downstairs.

“Morning, John,” said Ms. Bullock from behind the front desk, where she sat drinking coffee.

“Martha,” Marstens replied, tipping the front of his hat. “Got any more of that coffee?”

“Sure do.”

Across town, Campbell was restless in the cell. The deputy rustled from sleep on the front porch when the Sheriff walked up.

“Wake up, Danny,” he said. “Stop messing around.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Sorry, Sheriff.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be alert,” he said. “Now, where’s the Marshal?”

“He’s at the boarding house.”

“All right, that’s where I’ll be.”

Campbell spit on the floor as the Sheriff walked by.

Sheriff Hollman walked down the porch line before crossing the empty street and into the boarding house. Marstens knew who he was immediately.

“Sheriff.”

“Hello, Marshal. Nice to see another lawman. We don’t get too many out this far.”

“Doesn’t sound like you need ‘em. Not much going on in Silver Pan.”

“Well, that’s usually true. Then again, I’ve got three folks sitting in my jail right now. This Campbell we have here, glad to know he’s deservin’ of what he’s got coming.”

Marstens looked up from under his hat.

“It isn’t about what’s deserved. It’s about what’s owed.”

The clock struck. It was quarter to noon.

“Well, we should head on over. I told Danny to have Campbell ready before high noon, that’s when he’s expected at the town center.”

Marstens stood up and thanked Martha for the coffee. He nodded to Pete, who was on the front corner of the porch. As the two men approached the sheriff’s office, Hollman called out for Danny, who didn’t respond.

“DANNY!” the Sheriff shouted.

“You surround yourself with some great people,” Marstens said.

“That stupid boy.”

From the sheriff’s office, the two heard a faint voice, “Hey, Sheriff. Musta fallen asleep again. Come on in.”

Hollman looked at Marstens. “Something ain’t right.”

Before either lawman moved, a rifle shot rang out, hitting the dirt. Hollman dove behind a nearby water trough, and Marstens dashed to the right. Bullets flew behind him, one catching the end of his duster.

“CAMPBELL!” Hollman shouted, “If that’s you, this ain’t going to end well!”

“I ain’t hanging from no post!” he cried.

“All right then, just walk on out and I’ll finish you right here,” Hollman replied.

“YOU AND THE MARSHAL CAN GO TO HELL!”

Marstens moved around a group of tied up horses, scared half to death by the commotion. He got a good glance into the office, and could see Campbell with a rifle, Danny lying on the floor. Neither of the other inmates were visible.

Inside the jail, Walker cowered in the corner of his cell, while Anna desperately reached for the keys out of the deputy’s dead hand.

Something stirred inside Marstens. Crouching down, his eyes focused intently. His right leg didn’t hurt. Running had him feeling good.

Both pistols were drawn. Marstens favored his right hand, but had a better angle from his left. As shots were fired, and echoed down the thoroughfare, the Marshal glanced over at Hollman, who was still crouched behind the trough.

Suddenly, silence. Campbell moved to grab another rifle. He’d unloaded two already, and wasn’t sure if he’d gotten the Sheriff. He knew he’d hit the Marshal, but didn’t know how bad.

Marstens whistled to grab Hollman’s attention. He signaled his intention to go right, and motioned for the Sheriff to go left. Hollman nodded, pulled out his pistol and gathered himself.

Shots fired again from the sheriff’s office through the open front door and the three shot-out windows. Marstens had a 20-foot run across open space before reaching the wall of the jail.

He looked over at Hollman and took off, firing with his left pistol. The Sheriff provided some cover, but Marstens couldn’t dodge Campbell’s fifth shot. His right leg suddenly came alive, its nerves reactivated.

He slammed onto the porch, and rolled up to the wall. The Marshal let out a deep cry, and Campbell was sure he’d hit him.

“What do you say now, Sheriff? I still a dead man walkin’?” He threw down the rifle and grabbed the two handguns, firing each shot by shot.

Hollman moved along the trough, and neared the steps to the jailhouse. By the time he reached the left side of the doorway, Marstens was up on his good leg, reloading his left pistol.

“His shots changed,” Marstens said. “Those are colts.”

“I think he used up the rifles,” Hollman said, gasping for air.

“Well, how many shots does he have left?” Marstens was growing impatient.

“I’m not sure …”

Again, silence. Marstens looked at Hollman, asking with his eyes if Campbell was empty.

The Sheriff started to open his mouth, but never said a word. Through the wall flew buckshot, sending Hollman crashing through the flimsy handrail on the porch.

Marstens almost stood up in shock, but his right leg sent him sprawling to the floor. As he hunched under a windowpane, he swore he saw something out of the corner of his eye, moving along the porch line.

His attention quickly turned back to Campbell, who sent another buckshot through the wall. It caught part of his right side, and Marstens let out an angry growl. He pointed a revolver in the open window and fired; only stopping to change pistols. Hollman was lying in the street, motionless.

Marstens had had enough. The Marshal ignored the pain in his leg, and tumbled through the open window. When he rolled to his knees, he saw Danny dead on the floor and a gun pointed right in his face.

“Hello there, Marshal,” Campbell said. “Glad to see you again.”

Marstens dropped his revolvers — they were both empty anyway.

“Well, Campbell, looks like you have the draw on me.”

“I sure do. First time in my life that things have gone my way.”

“Picked a good day for it.”

“Yeah, and now I reckon it’s time for the show.” Campbell looked into the open cell, and saw Walker curled up under his cot. “Hey, Davy Boy, come over here.” He leaned down and picked up the deputy’s revolver, handing it to Walker. “Today, you get your chance to shot someone.” He didn’t notice Anna or her right arm reaching for the deputy’s keys.

Campbell gave Marstens a kick, “GET UP!”

The Marshal limped to his feet, and headed toward the door. Once they were past the porch, Campbell kicked out his knees and Marstens crashed to the floor.

The street echoed with the sound of the colt being cocked.

“Oh wait, where are my manners?” Campbell said. “Davy Boy, do you want the honors?”

Walker stood at the door, holding the deputy’s pistol in both hands. He looked up, with tears in his eyes. ‘I ain’t a killer, Bill. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I shouldn’t be proud of, but I ain’t a killer.”

“Davy, here is your first and only opportunity. You can be on the winning side today, but it’ll cost you a little something,” Campbell said, turning his gun on Walker. “Either shoot him, or say your last words.”

Before Walker said a word, Pete came screaming from a nearby porch.

“PA! It’s you! I finally found you!” Walker stared at the boy in befuddlement. “I’ve been looking all over for you! It’s me, Pete!”

Campbell looked around, wondering if this was some short of strange joke. “Listen boy,” he said, “I don’t know what you think this is. But you best move on before you join the rest of these folks.”

Walker fell to his knees. “What the hell are you doing here?! You can’t be here, no go!”

“But, Pa! Ma is sick, you need to come home!” Pete reached out to touch his father, but Campbell grabbed him and shoved him to the ground, next to Hollman’s body. He looked up, tears streaming down his face.

“Well isn’t this a pretty sight, a family reunited,” Bill said. “But we’re here to complete a job. Davy, shoot the Marshal, or I’ll shoot your boy.”

Davy thought for a second, and memories came flooding back. His wife, his son, the responsibilities and life we walked out on.

Davy stood, and pointed the pistol at Campbell. “No, Bill,” he said. “It’s time for this to end.” He pulled the trigger, and a loud click rang out through the street.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Campbell said. “Looks like your gun ain’t loaded. Guess you never did enter no duel, you’d have known the weight was off.”

Davy looked at Pete in horror, as Campbell put a bullet in his chest. Pete ran to his father’s body, his scream almost drowned out by Bill’s laughter.

Campbell kneed the Marshal in the back. Marstens started to cough uncontrollably, spitting blood onto the porch. His energy was spent. He could barely keep himself upright. Bill stepped toward Pete, and spat on him.

“Like I give a shit.”

He turned toward the Marshal. “Well, it looks like I get the pleasure after all.” He lifted his pistol and was about to pull the trigger, when Anna came screaming out of the doorway and jumped on his back.

Bill lost his balance and tumbled forward into the street, dropping his gun in the fall. After a brief struggle, he got on top of Anna. Holding her down with his left hand, one solid punch with his right knocked her out.

Pete couldn’t move. He looked at the Marshal, who was close to passing out. He wanted to do something, but couldn’t feel anything other than the wooden porch underneath him, and something cold by his left hand.

It was Campbell’s pistol. He lifted it, and aimed it at the murderer’s back.

“Damn, these Indian women know how to put up a fight!” Campbell chuckled. He turned back to Pete, and saw the gun in his hand.

“Piss off you little runt! What are you going to do with that?”

Pete was sent to the ground from the kickback. Campbell heard the shot, but didn’t feel the stinging in his gut at first. He smiled, thinking the boy had missed, before he became lightheaded and then felt the pain.

Bill dropped to a knee, and felt a burning in his lungs. His neck and mouth were warm. He could taste blood.

After a few minutes, Marstens struggled to his feet, walked over and pulled out a long knife from the side of his boot. A quick slit across the throat, and Campbell fell to the ground.

— — — —

Pete left Silver Pan with the Marshal, and returned home. There he found his long-dead mother, the life he had worked so hard to maintain now gone. Marstens took him to Tumbleweed, and put him in a good boarding house.

He learned to read, to write, how to be a good man, all the things his father never told him. As an adult, Peter Marstens — the name he came to be known by — became the sheriff of Silver Pan. The Marshal came through town from time to time. He never stopped calling him Pete.

It took a long time for Pete to make sense of it all, to come to terms with his past.

The last he’d heard, some 20 years later, the Marshal was still active, roaming the North part of Texas, collecting bounties, transporting prisoners, maintaining the law — both man’s and God’s.