I wrote a western
It began earlier than usual. Dwayne called these his night visions, but now it was closer to dusk and the sun was just sinking behind the mesa. He tried to make certain he was alone when they happened, but guarding payroll for the Union stage company was hardly private. He had to stop Duster and call the others to wait. He was just able to dismount when the colors swirled up before his eyes and formed a new landscape. Then there was black.
It still hadn’t changed. Dwayne envisioned a saloon just about to close. The dancer girls had already changed to go home and the bartender just about to throw out the most stubborn drunks. Then he enters. The stranger comes out of the storm and instantly is the center of attention. He stands in the doorway holding the swinging doors open almost casually. No one speaks for what seems like an eternity until the bartender clears his throat and ventures to offer. “We’re closed.” The man in the doorway, dead calm and lightning fast, pulls out his six shooters and fires. The drunks fall, the dancers fall, the bartender falls. They’re dead before they know what’s happening, their last expressions frozen in a look of shock, very surprised that they are no longer alive. The stranger walks quietly through the massacre and up the stairs. If he worries that the shooting was heard he gives no outward sign. Silence sits heavily on the saloon while the stranger’s boots and spurs echo their way up the staircase. He walks right to the door at the end of the hall at looks at it like he can see right through. He makes use of the longest second ever recorded to pause before kicking in the door. He sees Dwayne lying on the bed, his face already drained of blood, his wrists slit open. Somehow the stranger caused this, and if he can feel any emotion, he is very pleased.
The vision fades and Dwayne readies himself for what always comes next. He staggers, sways and falls over, when he lifts himself up he empties his stomach and struggles back onto Duster. The other guards laugh at him and speculate what his activities must have been in town last night. He lets them laugh and remains silent. It’s better that they laugh, better that they don’t know the truth.
Dwayne remembers when these visions began. He remembers the smell of sage in the Shaman’s tent when he went to find out his future. Others could go to buildings where old women told them comforting lies. He knew magic when he saw it. He knew his past, full of blood and violence. He killed his first man when he was twelve. That was hard, but the rest were easy. Now at twenty-five he wanted to know how much future he had left. The shaman told him he had done questionable things and needed to atone. Dwayne listened, irritated; he could have gone to a preacher for this. He wanted to know how much time he had left on this side of Heaven and what was going to send him to the hereafter.
“You talk a lot mister, but you don’t tell me what I want to hear.” There was a slight waver in Dwayne’s voice he hoped the Shaman hadn’t noticed. Dwayne had been in gunfights where luck alone had kept him till the next sunrise, but this frightened him. Somehow the Shaman knew this. Dwayne could feel it.
“You want to hear that you will die in your bed surrounded by a loving family a long time from now. Those who listen for what they want to hear do not seek me out.”
“Just tell me who I need to kill to live a little bit longer, I know you can I’ve talked to folks that know.” Dwayne’s cockiness rang empty throughout the tent which seemed to get bigger and bigger the longer he sat staring at the fire.
“Those that wish to avoid fate are the ones who are dealt most cruelly by it.”
“Maybe this was a mistake.” Dwayne through a gold piece at the Shaman’s feet and left the tent. He breathed the fresh air greedily he walked to his horse, the Shaman approached him from behind and Dwayne turned gun drawn. The Shaman put the gold coin back in his hand.
“You will be killed by what kills all men. As long as you hold this coin, you will see the moment of your death.” And with that the shaman went back into his tent leaving Dwayne to stare at both the coin and the shaman in wonder. He put away his gun and rode off knowing he would never find that place again.
For three years Dwayne had been having those visions at night. During the day he sought out the man in his visions, thought he had killed him a few times only to have the vision again before the man was buried. He had killed one early this morning, a woman this time wearing a cape and hat that made her look like the stranger in the vision. He didn’t mind that it was a woman. When he looked at the corpse he laughed at his stupid mistake. He was tired of these visions, but could not let go of the coin until he knew he had killed his killer.
The coach pulled into the next town at nightfall and Dwayne went to the saloon for sleep. He opened the doors to the bar and saw his vision. He was so familiar with it that he didn’t even need the bartender to turn around to know his moustache was slightly uneven, or that the drunk at the end had a lazy eye. He had spent too much time here to stay for a drink, so went up to his room and listened to the games of life go by from his bed. They were all dead, he knew, and so was he. He knew this the night he went into the Shaman’s tent. He had been killed by what kills all men, boredom, fear and time. These would do away with him, with the people downstairs and with the whole world. They didn’t need a tall handsome stranger shooting them to die. He contemplated slitting his wrists but it wasn’t worth it. He lie on the bed and listen to the people carry on with their lives below, not yet realizing that they were dead.
It still hadn’t changed. Dwayne envisioned a saloon just about to close. The dancer girls had already changed to go home and the bartender just about to throw out the most stubborn drunks. Then he enters. The stranger comes out of the storm and instantly is the center of attention. He stands in the doorway holding the swinging doors open almost casually. No one speaks for what seems like an eternity until the bartender clears his throat and ventures to offer. “We’re closed.” The man in the doorway, dead calm and lightning fast, pulls out his six shooters and fires. The drunks fall, the dancers fall, the bartender falls. They’re dead before they know what’s happening, their last expressions frozen in a look of shock, very surprised that they are no longer alive. The stranger walks quietly through the massacre and up the stairs. If he worries that the shooting was heard he gives no outward sign. Silence sits heavily on the saloon while the stranger’s boots and spurs echo their way up the staircase. He walks right to the door at the end of the hall at looks at it like he can see right through. He makes use of the longest second ever recorded to pause before kicking in the door. He sees Dwayne lying on the bed, his face already drained of blood, his wrists slit open. Somehow the stranger caused this, and if he can feel any emotion, he is very pleased.
The vision fades and Dwayne readies himself for what always comes next. He staggers, sways and falls over, when he lifts himself up he empties his stomach and struggles back onto Duster. The other guards laugh at him and speculate what his activities must have been in town last night. He lets them laugh and remains silent. It’s better that they laugh, better that they don’t know the truth.
Dwayne remembers when these visions began. He remembers the smell of sage in the Shaman’s tent when he went to find out his future. Others could go to buildings where old women told them comforting lies. He knew magic when he saw it. He knew his past, full of blood and violence. He killed his first man when he was twelve. That was hard, but the rest were easy. Now at twenty-five he wanted to know how much future he had left. The shaman told him he had done questionable things and needed to atone. Dwayne listened, irritated; he could have gone to a preacher for this. He wanted to know how much time he had left on this side of Heaven and what was going to send him to the hereafter.
“You talk a lot mister, but you don’t tell me what I want to hear.” There was a slight waver in Dwayne’s voice he hoped the Shaman hadn’t noticed. Dwayne had been in gunfights where luck alone had kept him till the next sunrise, but this frightened him. Somehow the Shaman knew this. Dwayne could feel it.
“You want to hear that you will die in your bed surrounded by a loving family a long time from now. Those who listen for what they want to hear do not seek me out.”
“Just tell me who I need to kill to live a little bit longer, I know you can I’ve talked to folks that know.” Dwayne’s cockiness rang empty throughout the tent which seemed to get bigger and bigger the longer he sat staring at the fire.
“Those that wish to avoid fate are the ones who are dealt most cruelly by it.”
“Maybe this was a mistake.” Dwayne through a gold piece at the Shaman’s feet and left the tent. He breathed the fresh air greedily he walked to his horse, the Shaman approached him from behind and Dwayne turned gun drawn. The Shaman put the gold coin back in his hand.
“You will be killed by what kills all men. As long as you hold this coin, you will see the moment of your death.” And with that the shaman went back into his tent leaving Dwayne to stare at both the coin and the shaman in wonder. He put away his gun and rode off knowing he would never find that place again.
For three years Dwayne had been having those visions at night. During the day he sought out the man in his visions, thought he had killed him a few times only to have the vision again before the man was buried. He had killed one early this morning, a woman this time wearing a cape and hat that made her look like the stranger in the vision. He didn’t mind that it was a woman. When he looked at the corpse he laughed at his stupid mistake. He was tired of these visions, but could not let go of the coin until he knew he had killed his killer.
The coach pulled into the next town at nightfall and Dwayne went to the saloon for sleep. He opened the doors to the bar and saw his vision. He was so familiar with it that he didn’t even need the bartender to turn around to know his moustache was slightly uneven, or that the drunk at the end had a lazy eye. He had spent too much time here to stay for a drink, so went up to his room and listened to the games of life go by from his bed. They were all dead, he knew, and so was he. He knew this the night he went into the Shaman’s tent. He had been killed by what kills all men, boredom, fear and time. These would do away with him, with the people downstairs and with the whole world. They didn’t need a tall handsome stranger shooting them to die. He contemplated slitting his wrists but it wasn’t worth it. He lie on the bed and listen to the people carry on with their lives below, not yet realizing that they were dead.