How I Got to Sunset

It rarely rains here, but when it does the sky opens up over the mountains you see behind us there. The downpour reaches like tendrils over the rock, and the clouds hang low becoming cobwebs draped across the peaks. This is a forgotten place, tucked like a macabre oasis in lonesome desert.

This is my home, but how I got here is much more interesting.

To say that I had become disenchanted with life would be an understatement. To describe how I felt would be a tale already told by countless scoundrels, but one that is rarely understood.

My days were filled with vicious acts and I was surrounded by ill tempered men that would kill with little provocation. I was a thief, a rustler and on more nights than I would like to admit, I resorted to taking men’s lives as well.

At first these things were merely methods by which survival was accomplished, or so I told myself. This was necessary in order to deal with the darker days on which my conscious caught up with my wandering mind. Contrary to popular belief most killers may be able to justify their acts in the moment, but the images of the past live on in the mind-in some cases more persistently than others.

For me it wasn’t one act that forced me to face what I had become, it was their accumulation.  I realized one day while staring into a campfire that the evil in me had reached a level that was beyond justification. As my campmates (other damned men like me lay sleeping) the fire told me a story through its dancing embers.

Flickering waves of orange swirled and through my drunkard’s stare I saw them recount what I had done. Faces began to swirl in the fire, those that I had harmed. Gradually they changed, molding themselves into others, upon which I had visited other crimes. There were no angry faces as I bathed in that orange glow. To me they only looked meek, and I thought I had reached my depths when my mind fell upon how cruel I was to take advantage of them. By the end of all this, I was crouched, stupefied, likely drooling. And I am thankful that none of the other men saw me in this state, for it would’ve meant grave humiliation.

When the sun found us earlier than we would’ve liked I made no mention of what I had been reminded of last night. The men who didn’t care would’ve only shot me queer looks, and those that did would tell me to not to partake in tonight’s share of the whiskey.

I felt different though. I had a small shaving mirror that an uncle had given me but I couldn’t bring myself to use it that morning. I feared that I might drag the razor across my own throat at the sight of myself. It was as if the marrow had been steeped from my bones and replaced with a tepid form of compunction. This unfamiliar inner chill had taken hold of my heart with a cold palm and its icy fingers skittered towards my brain.

I couldn’t even pretend to be myself. All day on the trail I hung behind the others. I was never much of a talker, and as such, my silence didn’t strike anyone in the party as unusual.

I thought about the people’s lives I had taken, and in turn the lives that I had forever changed. I mourned for them but I could only wonder what this revelation meant for me.

By the time the sun was done beating down on us I had strayed from the bulk of the group by over a mile. As the sun faded so did their silhouettes against the backdrop of the dusty landscape. It was then that I knew what I’d do.

Mine had been a life of lawlessness and thievery, immorality. It took many years for the guilt to catch up to me, nesting irrevocably in my soul. I hadn’t had a change of heart; I was experiencing a change of perspective.  I was going to go out on my terms and I was going to take some of these monsters in arms I had once called friends with me.

I’ll set the record straight by saying that I certainly wasn’t trying to do a few last good deeds to try and buy my way into heaven. And beyond that even a religious dullard such as me knew that assassinating men- even bad ones- wasn’t liable to scrawl a smile across the face of God.

Night fell and we made camp about 20 miles south of Tucson. We’d be far enough away from town that the law wouldn’t be able to interfere with my loosely laid plan.

There were seven of them and I knew I needed to have the opportunity to perform two crucial tasks: hit and kill every man with one shot, for I knew I would not have the chance to reload after the dust had been kicked up. I had also realized I would have to take out one of them silently without the use of a bullet.

Frank Harrison, the runt of the group was first. I had seen him force himself on women, time after time during raids within small towns and villages along the border. I had not assisted in this travesty, but I had been silent. Now to me, these things were one in the same.

I coaxed him away from camp telling him I had a bottle of whiskey that I’d share with him on the sly. When Frank neared a small clearing about a mile away from the camp, I was there standing under the moonlight with a glass bottle that held only piss. I held it out and when Frank’s hand reached forward, pulled it away, and I spoke to him.

“You won’t tell the others that I been holdin’ out on em’?”

“Nah, not even. Mum’s the word, just hand me some o’ that rye.”

He reached out again, and at the same time I met him in a forward lunge. His right hand was busy grasping the bottle, so my left hand locked onto that same wrist. My straight razor worked in a quick arc slashing a ragged crimson smile across his throat. He belched blood and fell forward, his body rolling away into the dark. I tossed the piss-filled whiskey bottle towards where his body lay. I felt it a suitable burial. With my blade deposited back into my breast pocket, I made my way back to camp.

Five of the remaining men were telling lies around the campfire, bragging about who was the most ruthless, or who had committed superior acts of cruelty. There was one man missing. I looked around, trying to see passed the gang’s immobile horses, gear and the smoky glare from the group’s fire.

“Where’d Jimmy get off to?” I asked.

The oldest man, who only went by ‘Murphy’ spoke up, “Went down the way to relieve himself I s’pse.” I saw an image of Murphy from when we joined up. He had shot a Wells Fargo officer and his wife at a train station in Laredo. The officer hadn’t even been on duty. Murph’ had overheard him state his profession during a poker game at a saloon. He had murdered him in cold blood the next morning.

Murphy didn’t point to whatever direction he had left from. I stared long and low at the ground. Jimmy was the only one I was worried about. He was quicker than me with a pistol and now had the night on his side. I tried not to think about the fact that of the cretins I had recently been running with, he also had a bit of intellect to him.

I drew my six shooter and pretended to examine and give it a quick cleaning with my shirt.

Another man, Ken Kerns looked up from the fire, he spit tobacco before speaking to me. I remembered him doing that often. There was a night when he had forced a family of Indians into their tent, and then set fire to their home. Each time one of them tried to rush out to escape the flames, he’d shoot them. The last three got the message, refused to take a step outside and were burned alive. “What’s eatin’ you anyhow?” Ken had his pistol holstered. I had no doubt it was loaded.

Ken’s brother, Paul had often made a living jumping claims. In one of these instances the owner had left his 14 year old son in charge while he went to town for supplies. Ken had robbed and beaten the boy. And then made him to jump down the mine head first. His prospector father had found him two days later, dead in the bottom of his own mine. Ken joined in, “You, you’re looking all nervy. Like before a shoot out.”

Lem the youngest was cleaning his rifle on a low sitting rock. He was new to the group and therefore eager to handle any of the most unsavory acts. Rumor had it that he’d often scavenged the victims of those we had killed or robbed. In one case he had stolen a locket off a child. Inside there had been a picture of the girl’s folks. Lem had ridden into town and under the premise of returning the locket, found them and robbed them as well. He looked up, and studied me for a second before saying, “You look like something’s on your mind.”

 Bill Hamm, the man we looked to as leader was reading from a book. He had perched himself in the crook of an old tree. “You got an idea for our next job?” He spoke without looking up. His guns were thrown haphazardly to one side.

Words that weren’t mine tumbled from my mouth, “My own misery won’t let me rest but my newfound insanity won’t help me sleep.”

The words were the definition of a rant, but very nature of their strangeness caught my victims off guard. I spun the cylinder of my revolver and time stopped. The moon hinted at the six bullets that would soon leave the barrel. From the hip, I fired at Ken who was closest. The shot hit him squarely between the eyes. His head slumped down against his bedroll. It was the most peaceful death I reckon I have ever witnessed.

A second later I was fully trained on Lem. He died, with a bullet in the brain and his mouth hanging open. Shocked at being murdered by a fellow rider. Someone he had considered a friend.

Murphy rolled over quickly, defying his age. He had been a shark at cards. But even he had losing nights. Those less stellar tales began with Murphy losing badly, only to meet the man who had bested him outside of the saloon after the game. He had shot a few, and reclaimed his money. He also had no qualms about keeping the gambler’s other winnings as well. Murphy was able to grip his coach gun in both hands but his aim was off because of old eyes.

Buckshot kissed the lower portion of my left leg and I returned fire. He lay still, but the night didn’t reveal where the bullet had hit him.

I staggered on a partially shredded leg, but falling saved my life. Bill Hamm had reached his gun belt and had fired both pistols without removing them from their holster.

Hastily, Bill had rolled too close to the fire. I let another bullet loose. But because of my fall it was rushed and ill timed. It missed Bill, while still serving a purpose. Reacting to the wild shot Bill went to stand and unknowingly went shooting hand down, right along with his pistol in the burning embers. He cursed as his skin sizzled, dropping his one free gun in the flames.

In the raucous, Paul took a chance and tried to grab me from behind as I struggled to stand. His bowie knife felt cool against my throat, especially when weighed against the heat of the campfire. I recalled how Paul had a fondness for whores. And stronger proclivity for cutting on them with his favorite blade. I fired over my shoulder and blew out my eardrum, as I blew out his brains. Ken’s body crumpled in a heap, bringing up a cloud of dust. 

 Hobbling, I made my way to Bill, who was nursing his hand and trying to find his gun belt in the chaos. He sifted through the sand frantically, brushing past the book he had been reading. Until today, I didn’t even know the man was literate. Bill was a man who never got his hands dirty but had orchestrated every scheme we had carried out. We had always done what he asked without hesitation. I fell on him. Straddling him, I pushed my gun deep within the flesh of his temple. He whispered no, but this time I didn’t listen.

“What in God’s name?” Jimmy came hurdling towards the campsite, hitching his britches and drawing his gun.

“Well it’s a little late to bring him into this now don’t ya think?” I was hot and tired, bleeding badly. Jimmy looked newly sharpened, focused.

Jimmy gawked, taking in the scene. “You did all this?” He cinched his pants, cocked his Colt, and aimed it at my face all with the same hand, and all in one fluid motion.

I pointed as well, pulling the trigger.

Click

Jimmy heard the sound. He showed me a smile that was all black spaces and yellow teeth. He holstered his gun, sauntering towards me as he did it.

“So before I let you die slow,” Jimmy looked around again, seeing the bodies cast in orange firelight, “Just what in the hell was all this about?”

I thought for a moment that I could explain this to Jimmy, get my point across, and make him understand. I shook my head not believing what was in my own head. I wasn’t even sure why I had gone through with it, not entirely. That- plus, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to get into a position where Jimmy, or any of these types could interpret my explanation as begging for mercy.

When I didn’t answer, Jimmy suggested, “Money?”

“You wouldn’t get it son.”

Jimmy approached me slowly, studying. I felt him looking over the leg that Murphy’s buckshot had chewed up. I saw him looking at my ruptured ear, I wondered if any telltale blood had given it away.

“Jus’ tell me.” Jimmy’s voice had taken on an eager, tinny tone.

“Ya Jimmy it was the money. Do what needs to be done.” I held up my hands, not in surrender but in more of gesture that demonstrated I don’t know.

The initial curiosity faded from Jimmy’s timbre. He became angry, demanding. “Tell me or its goin’ to take you a long time to die.”

I backed up; he pushed forward, placing the barrel of his gun on my brow. “Tell me dammit!” he screamed in my face. I was close enough to pick up his foul breath. I threw a punch to his midsection which he absorbed. Jimmy then countered by easily sweeping my bad leg out from under me. I hit the dirt, gasping on hot campfire air and desert dust.

Jimmy knelt, shooting me a cold glance. His eyes were storm clouds in the distance. Briefly, I toyed with the idea that maybe Jimmy was carrying around some of the same demons I had recently become acquainted with.

With as much speed as my battered body could muster I tore free my straight razor.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since then. In that moment I had thought that luck had been holding that knife, fate had carried it into Jimmy’s neck. I am no longer so naïve. Karma held that razor, and the devil used it to kill Jimmy.

At the expense of yet another life I had still had breath.  I musta looked like a drunk after a long night at the saloon when I finally attempted to get on my feet. The leg was likely worthless, if I made it to town, it would have to be cut off. My ear throbbed and it was because of that, I didn’t hear Murphy let loose with the second barrel of his coach gun.

Arms peeling back behind my body, chest colliding with the gravel. These were the last things I felt. I didn’t turn to see Murphy’s eyes. I had no idea if he were expressing glee or distaste at having to kill me. More than likely he was just happy to have survived, even if he had to play possum to do it.

Because I had been such a low man in life, I crawled to my death much the same. I was able to pull myself to the crook of Bill Hamm’s reading tree. I propped myself in the Y shaped hold. Life left me.

But I stayed.

One hundred and thirty one years have passed since that night. I’ve been here ever since.

It took them about six weeks to find the bodies. Some poor bastard was tasked with burying us. And a poorer one still had to try and figure out what happened at that campfire.

So here I am at Sunset Cemetery, confined  to its rusty gates. My days I am forced to see only the skeletons of ancient tombstones. Grave sites that have been forgotten by even the most loyal of families. At night, the coyotes howl a mournful tune. I don’t see anyone, not even the men that shed blood with me on that night long ago.

Here I am at Sunset Cemetery. I know not of eternal rest, but I am no stranger to regret.