Nigel's Redemption

    Nigel looked at the clock on the wall. It was just reaching 9:00 am. Five more hours before that 2:00 train came to town. Five more hours before the Merkers were here in Crowseye. There would be a lot of waiting in those five hours. One thing was for sure. In five hours, he needed to be out of this jail cell. There was no peace between him and the Merker brothers. And they certainly weren’t going to let him live. Five hours. He began to wait.  He began to plot his escape. The seeds were sown inside the deputy. He waited. 

    The shadow of the man stretched elongated across the wood floor of the marshal’s office.  Nigel saw the silhouette that matched the shadow standing in the doorway. Recognizing the arms by his side and the outline of his hat, he called in the old gunslinger.

     “Jim Gartman. Come to pay your respects?” 

      Gartman took a step out of the brightness to reveal his war torn face.  The white papered cigarette, undetectable from the pose in the doorway, almost gleamed as it was held unlit between his lips. Gartman pulled a match and lit the thing, puffing the smoke into the dusty air. Nigel could smell the burn of the tobacco mix with the smell of the morning  business from outside. After a second puff, Gartman completed his entrance and stood half way between the doorway and the jail cell.  Nigel, who had been seated, stood to give his official greeting. 

      From where he stood, he stretched his hand out that held the pack of Marlboros offering a smoke to his counterpart. He knew that Nigel would be able to just stretch far enough to reach. It was the perfect positioning for a man in his profession. 

     Nigel declined the offer. 

     “These Merker boys,” he grunted. “Mean son’s-a-bitches.” 

     “You know them, then?” Nigel replied. 

     “I know them. They coming to kill you, stranger?” 

    “They are not coming for me, Gartman.” 

     “You run Rufus out, did you?”  

     “No. He ran on his own.” 

    Silence. Gartman took another puff of his cigarette as if he were in deep thought. 

    “What are you going to do, Gartman? Thompson is no match for them.” 

      “I never wanted to fight for this town, Coleman. But a man’s got a reputation.” He chuckled to himself as if that’s all it was to him. “A retired shootist. What’s that really mean, Coleman?” 

     “Tell me.” 

     “There’s only one real retirement for us, Coleman. You must know that. There’s only one real retirement for a shootist.” 

      Nigel understood. He felt the pain in Gartman’s soul. You live the life forever. Forever or until you die. He thought about his own retirement.  No, he thought. Gartman was wrong. He still could live a life of peace.  Clear his name and atone for his sins and he can be a free man living a free life. It was out there, he was sure of it. “It’s not too late for us, Gartman. We are not dead men.” 

      Gartman finished his smoke and put it out on the desk. “No,” he agreed.  “And I won’t die a coward, either.” He turned to start his exit with his head held down. As he reached the doorway, his silhouette once again  matching the shadow cast upon the wood floor, he turned slightly to Nigel Coleman. “I hope you find what you came searching for, stranger.  Just don’t end up like me.” 

     Gartman’s figure vanished into the daylight.

     “Have you heard?” Thompson asked in an attempt to stop Gartman from ending their meeting.

     The question intrigued Gartman, as it was intended to do. Now with his back turned towards the deputy, he turned his head and gazed out from under the Black signature hat of his. He waited to hear the rest.

    “The Merkers are coming to town,” Thompson revealed with the quiver still in his breathing.

      Gartman kept his pose gazing upon the young lad. The news that made ordinary men quake with fear did nothing to even raise a tingle from the hair on his neck. He thought about it. It certainly could have been true. The Merkers were rumored to be in these parts for the past several years. And so what if they were coming to town. He had no quarrel with the Merkers. Deciding it was of no concern to him, he turned back and  started to walk away.

      “Ain’t that botherin’ you?” Thompson asked raising his voice as the distance between them grew. “The Merkers are coming.” Thompson started his trot to follow the proud gunslinger. “Rufus is gone, Gartman. It’s only me.”

     “It ain’t botherin’ me any,” Gartman replied as he kept his pace. He began to think about where he was headed. His home was in the opposite direction, but to turn back now was to face the young deputy again. He knew to  look upon the boy’s face would cause the compassion to creep even more  into his system. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He wasn’t the man they thought he was. His days of a shootist were over.

     “What do we do?”

      The fear in Thompson’s voice bade Gartman to a halt. He turned and looked the lad in the eye. The cold-hearted stare of a gunfighter could  be enough to devastate an unskilled gun handler. The lifeless eyes, like a shark’s eyes when it stalks its prey, just stares blank without feeling of the striking blow it is about to take. He had no intention of striking a blow towards the helpless young lad. He just wanted to see the boy’s fear. He was surprised though. Thompson did not look away. Oh no, not this young deputy. He stared back with pleading eyes. Not those pleading eyes that screamed and begged for his life, but the pleading eyes that almost commanded the gunfighter’s respect. It worked to draw the compassion from the once faceless gunslinger. Gartman thought for a moment. What could he say that would help the lad? “The way I see it,  boy,” he finally answered him, “is that you got two choices. You can run like a coward like Rufus done. Or, you can stand and face the Merkers.”  He almost assured himself that Thompson would want to make the right choice. “Are you a man, son? Ask yourself. Who are you?”

     “I’m the Deputy Marshal of Crowseye.”

      “Then do your duty, Deputy. Do your duty.” And with that bit of encouragement, Jim Gartman turned and walked away. There was a certain finality to his strut as he squinted into the morning sun and lowered his black hat to shield his face from the early morning rays.

     “And what about you?” Thompson asked. “Will you not face the Merkers?”

     Gartman did not answer. In his silence, he contemplated his future. He contemplated how little of it he had left.