“Is he dead?”

Wilcox didn’t answer me at first. Instead, he leaned his Winchester against the wall and took off his jacket, hanging it on a hook near the door. Next he kicked off his boots; the melting snow gathered in a puddle on the floor, and I stared at the water for some time before looking up and repeating my question.

Wilcox shrugged as he sat down opposite me. “I’d hate to be him if he ain’t.”

Wilcox poured himself some whiskey and sipped it slowly. There was still snow in his beard and hair, and he would’ve looked comical if it weren’t for the scar running across his cheek, nor the memory of the dagger that put it there. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, and reputed to have taken on a grizzly bear with his fists. I didn’t know if the rumors were true. I’d only known him a couple years.

He looked up and saw me looking at him. He shrugged again and said, “He’s dead.”

“You’re sure.”

He nodded his head at the Winchester. “Put three rounds in him. Close range. In the chest. If he ain’t dead he’s on his way.”

I nodded and drank my coffee. I didn’t ask him if he’d gotten the money back; if he hadn’t, he would’ve mentioned it. Nor did I ask him if he’d returned it all to the Widow Michaels. Wilcox was many things, but a thief wasn’t one of them. I honestly believe he’d never stolen a thing in his life. He’d broken just about every other law there was, but a man has his limits, his morals if you will, and Wilcox was no exception.

We sat there for a while in silence with just the sound of the blizzard outside. After a while, when his whiskey was gone, Wilcox looked out the window and said, “It’s cold out there.”

I nodded. “Bet it is.”

“I mean it, Horace. Never known a winter colder.”

“You’re wanting a bigger fee?”

“Too late.”

“It is.”

“Just sayin’, you know? It’s cold out there. Wasn’t even sure she’d shoot.”

“That rifle’s seen worse than you have.”

“Maybe so. But still.”

We sat there for two hours, just in case. You have to wait these things out. You can’t just kill a man without repercussions, even in the middle of nowhere, where the law is just an afterthought. So we waited. When two hours were up, I stood and put my coffee down.

“Might as well call it a night,” I said.

“You tired?”

“No.”

Someone knocked at the door. Wilcox and I looked at each other, then he started laughing.

“Took ’em long enough.”

I nodded but said nothing. I motioned him to stay where he was; I saw him eyeballing the Winchester, but I knew he had a Colt on him just like I did, so I wasn’t worried and neither was he. I went to the door and pulled it open. There was an older gentleman outside, and I beckoned him in without even asking who he was. I had a pretty good idea anyways, but in that kind of weather you don’t let someone wait on your doorstep while you make up your mind.

He came inside and hung his coat on top of Wilcox’s. He was slightly stoop-shouldered, and even though his skin was kind of blue because of the cold I could tell he was half Indian. He nodded at me, muttered something in gratitude, then turned around and looked over our cabin. His eyes stopped on the Winchester, then turned inquiringly to me. I inclined my head towards Wilcox, and the old man turned and looked at him.

“That your rifle, son?”

Wilcox stayed seated, but he nodded. “Yes, sir. It is.”

Neither of us asked who he was. We could see the revolver on his hip, and we could see that he was in no hurry to use it, at least not yet. So we waited.

“Fine rifle, son.”

“It is.”

The old man looked at me. “You’re Horace?”

I nodded.

“And he’s Wilcox?”

“I am,” Wilcox said.

“Boys, I’ve got a problem.”

We waited.

The old man sighed. He glanced at the glass in front of Wilcox, and without asking I went and poured him some whiskey. He took it and grabbed a stool and sat down at the table. I sat down opposite Wilcox, so that the old man was between us. I didn’t think he would do anything, at least not without fair warning, but if he went for one of us, the other had him dead to rights. Hopefully the old man was smart enough to see that.

The old man sipped his whiskey for a few moments before saying, “Well.”

I nodded. “Well.”

He looked at me. “Don’t reckon I have any business with you, son.”

“I reckon you do, old man.”

He nodded. “That’s how it is, then.”

“That’s how it is.”

“Okay.” He glanced from me to Wilcox. “I remember a time when young men like yourselves didn’t stick together.”

Wilcox grinned. “Ain’t that young.”

“Ain’t that old, neither.”

We listened to the storm for a bit. I studied the old man while he studied us. He was dressed in poor man’s clothing, even poorer than us. I counted the holes in his coat and frowned. He’d lost most of his hair, but he didn’t wear a hat; either he’d lost it or never had one to begin with. I was betting on the latter. I’d seen people worse off than Wilcox and myself before, but I’d always figured we were near the bottom of the heap. This old man was a couple rungs below us.

The revolver, though. I couldn’t see it, because it was on the side facing Wilcox, but I remembered what I saw of it. Had to be stolen; it was a good revolver. Couldn’t tell what make, not from the brief glance I’d had, but it seemed decent enough. Maybe the old man or his son had lifted it off a returning soldier. I’d encountered enough thieves when I returned from the war. Had to fight ’em off on occasion. Sometimes, men just don’t appreciate what you’ve done for ’em, and you have to remind ’em with your fists. Better that than using your bullets, I reckon.

The old man sipped his whiskey like one who was used to such drink but was pretending he wasn’t. I’d know ’cause I’d often been the same. I got up and poured me a glass, and refilled Wilcox’s glass, then sat back down, putting the bottle in the center of the table. Wasn’t much left, and whiskey didn’t come cheap, but I figured this was an occasion where all three of us would need some ’fore things were settled.

The old man lifted his head and looked out the window. He shook his head slowly, glancing at Wilcox’s damp clothes.

“Hell of a storm.”

Wilcox nodded. “It is. We was just discussing that.”

The old man looked at me. “You know who I am.” I nodded.

He turned back to Wilcox. “And you.”

“Yes, sir. We figured you’d show up.”

“You did.” The old man took a drink. He may have been trying to hide it, but I saw the slight smile that slipped across his face as the whiskey went down.

“Yes, sir,” I said, taking a deliberate drink of my own. “Been waiting two hours, I reckon.”

“The storm slowed me up a bit.”

Wilcox and I nodded. We’d figured as much.

“You in the war?”

The question was directed at both of us, so I said, “I was. He wasn’t.”

The old man turned to me. “North or South?”

“North.”

He nodded. “Where you from?”

“Illinois.”

“Been there.” He drank. “You kill many men in the war?”

“I did.”

“You keep count?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” He sighed. “I could really use a smoke.”

Wilcox got some tobacco and rolled him a smoke. The old man took it gratefully and said to me, “War’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“You fightin’ people just like yourself. Man versus man. Kid versus kid.” He shook his head. “Nobody wins. They teach you that? You never really win a war. You just kill a bunch of people and get called the victor. Never really means a damn thing.”

“Means a lot to the losers,” Wilcox said.

The old man nodded. “Aye. That it does. But we didn’t lose, did we?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and I guess Wilcox wasn’t either, so we just kept quiet and watched the old man as he smoked. He seemed to take as much joy in it as the whiskey, and I could see him relaxing some. I carefully lowered my right hand down to my lap. I didn’t put my hand on my gun, but I kept it ready just in case. I never trust a man with a gun, especially when he’s relaxed. The only men who are relaxed when they’re heeled are men who are used to it.

The cabin creaked from the wind, and I got to wondering how much longer it would last. This wasn’t home, not really; it was an old cabin me and Wilcox had fixed up to last us the winter, and it was beginning to look like we hadn’t done a good enough job.

The old man must’ve been thinking along the same lines, ’cause he glanced at Wilcox and said, “When you boys planning on heading out?”

“Come spring.”

He nodded. “Spring.”

“Got business out west, I reckon,” I said. “Everybody does these days, it seems.”

“Gonna fight the Indians?”

I heard the smirk in his voice and so I shook my head. “Nope. They got a right to their land.”

He nodded. “Not many white men seem to think that these days.”

“I’m part nigger,” Wilcox said.

We looked at him. It was news to me, and I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was being serious. He glanced from the old man to me, and I could see a fight in his eyes, but I just shrugged and took a sip of whiskey.

“Imagine that.”

The old man smiled at him. “Bet you don’t like sayin’ that.”

“Don’t bother me much. Seems to bother other folks plenty, though.”

The old man looked at me. “Bother you any?”

I shrugged again. “Not until it bothers someone else, I guess. Then it’ll bother me.”

He shook his head. “Damn. You just don’t see kids sticking together any more.”

“We ain’t kids.”

“No, I guess you ain’t.”

Silence again. I used my left hand to scratch at an itch on my chin. I was needing a shave; I picked something out of my beard and flicked it aside. My right hand drifted onto the handle of my Colt as the old man finished his whiskey and set his glass down. He pushed himself back from the table and looked at Wilcox.

“Well, son.”

Wilcox nodded. “You sure, old man?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You can leave,” I said. “Nothin’ wrong in it. What your son did was wrong and you know it.”

“I know it. But he’s my son.”

“Don’t mean nothin’ in the long run. A thief is always someone’s son.”

“And therein lies the irony.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant but I nodded like I did. “Yes. And we don’t wanna hurt you.”

The old man smiled. “Son, what you want’s got little to do with it. I don’t wanna be here myself. I wanna be home, with my wife. Or having a drink with my son.”

“Go home to your wife then,” Wilcox said. “Can’t do a thing about your son no more. He should’ve thought before he stole that lady’s money.”

“A couple of vigilantes is all you boys are,” the old man said. He spat. “You stick together, and I admire that, but you’re just a couple of hired guns.”

“Man’s gotta make a living.”

“By killing?”

“What did we do in the war?” I asked. “We were getting paid for it, old man. We didn’t do it out of the goodness of our hearts.”

“No. We did it out of the evil in our hearts, that’s why we did it. And this is the same. You may think it’s different ’cause my son did something wrong, but the fact is you’re getting paid for killing him.” He looked at Wilcox. “Or, at least, you are.”

“Didn’t wanna kill him.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

A shingle came loose from the roof, and we listened as it tumbled away into the night. None of us glanced upwards. The old man was looking from Wilcox to myself, and we were both looking at him. I could see it in the old man’s eyes that he knew what the score was, knew that if he got Wilcox then I’d get him, and it scared me some to realize that he was gonna go through with it. A man his age had no right to be going out for vengeance, but the old man was from a different era, and I could see murder in his eyes, and the worst thing was I knew he had every right to draw down on us. His son shouldn’t have died, and I reckoned it probably hadn’t been necessary for Wilcox to have killed him, but when Wilcox got angry he sometimes didn’t think first. When you’re used to running on instinct, it got hard to listen to reason.

The old man looked at me again. “You got a murderer for a partner. You know that.”

“I ain’t no saint myself.”

His mouth twitched into a half-smile. “No. I reckon you ain’t.”

Then he looked back at Wilcox, and Wilcox shot him in the chest. Just like that. The old man didn’t even have time to drop his hand to his gun. The blast pushed him backward. He fell with the chair, and my ears rang from the gunshot, and we coughed at the smoke. When the old man was down, I saw his shirt was burning slightly from being shot at such close range, and I looked away, out the window.

Wilcox holstered his gun and finished his whiskey. “Damn,” he said, and nothing more.

“Had to do it,” I said, and he grunted.

“Had to do it,” I said again, and this time he didn’t acknowledge it.

I got up and put on my jacket. I turned back to the old man and wondered who I was supposed to call—the sheriff or the undertaker. After a moment I decided on neither, and stepped outside, letting the winter storm surround me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Wilcox pouring himself another glass, and I glanced down at the old man and figured Wilcox and I would be moving out of there long before the spring thaw.

© Copyright 2010 Daniel W. Davis