The sun’s rays beat down on the old train as it barrels along the rails. Black smoke rises above the dark metallic stack, scattering soot along the tracks as the train carries on. A shadowy specter glides along the open desert; the cacti and tumbleweeds flash by windows of the seven train cars. All while raven-colored storm clouds hover in the distance above the snow-covered mountainside, hiding the sun behind its dark cloak.
Two men in long coats step outside the second to last railcar slamming the door behind them. They rush inside the last train car, revolvers in hand, and are greeted by an uncanny chill.
“Jesus! It’s cold in here!” grunts the man in a black Stetson hat. The brim of his hat appears weathered and creased in some parts. It contrasts with his dark brown coat, pants, and dark brown leather boots, but carries that same weathered appearance: his coat having a few bullet holes here and there. The floor creaks as he cautiously steps into the car, his boots scraping off pieces of decayed wood from the floor. “We’re in the desert, it’s not supposed to be this damn cold! I mean hell, look out the windas. It should be as hot as Carson City here!”
The other man follows closely beside him. His hand pushes up against his grey Stetson hat, scratching his forehead. “Maybe it’s me, but every car we’ve gone through has gotten colder,” he utters. “That, and we ain’t seen another soul on this train neither.” The man in the grey Stetson carried himself a little differently than the other man. Despite his gun drawn, there was hesitation in his eyes. His clothes, a lighter shade, differing from his partner.
The men’s eyes wandered around the cabin. The cushioning from the seats, once a beautiful red velvet color, now a faded brown. The once great dark oak that held the cabin and furniture together appeared almost rotted with termites eating everything from the inside out.
The man in the black Stetson looks around the interior of the car. “Safe to say there ain’t a thing worth robbin’ here,” he adds with a chuckle. “I mean, hell, Jack, look at the place.”
“This must’ve been one helluva place, I reckon.” Jack pushes up his hat as he looks at the dark wooden pillars secured behind one of the seats. He brushes a hand along the pillar, and pieces of termite ridden wood crumble into the floor and into his hand. “Jesus! I’m surprised the Goddamn thing is still standing.” He grunts, shaking the rotten wood out of his hand.
“And we’re barreling down the rail in it.”
“You wanna jump, Will?” Jack asks.
“Hell, we might have to.” Will leans over one of the seats on the right side of the cabin, staring out the window at the cacti and tumbleweeds passing by his line of sight, all still untouched by any direct sunlight. He turns to Jack. “We should start moving to the front of the train. It’s time to get the driver to slow down.”
“I guess if the conductor is a bit unwillin’, you’ll hold a gun to his head?” Jack says.
Will locks eyes with Jack, giving him an intense stare. “Ain’t that what I usually do, no matter if they’re willin’ or not?” Jack’s eyes drifted down to his boots, his face softening. Nausea slowly builds inside his stomach. He moves his hand across his midsection, trying to bring some semblance of calm to himself.
“Well, are we gonna do it or what?” Will looks at Jack with impatience, as a familiar thought crosses his mind. Jack was never cut out for this kind of work.
“Yeah, just give me a second.” Jack steadies himself, trying to let the nausea pass. “All right, let’s do it.”
“Okay.” Will nods as he tightens his grip on his Schofield revolver.
The two men move through the car, guns ready, prepared to add another robbery to their reputation. They make for the door at the end of the cabin. Before they can reach for the handle, Will stops dead in his tracks, prompting Jack to follow suit. The glass in the window of the door is covered in icy mildew and a dark silhouette stands behind it. Their eyes dart to each other, their hands gripping their pistols tightly as they slowly step back.
Jack’s eyes stay on the sinister figure. Quick flashes of glowing red shine through the glass. Exactly where a person’s head should be. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, blinking, and wondering what exactly he just witnessed. He looks over at Will for any kind of reaction. My mind is playing tricks on me, he thinks. Before he can even open his mouth to ask Will anything, the door handle slowly creaks and twists. The cabin door lets out a soft drawn-out banshee-like cry as it turns. Will steps back, cocking the hammer of his Schofield, and aims at the door.
The door slowly opens, what light remaining within the cabin pierces through the shadow of a man in a pristine black suit, black bowler hat, and a well-trimmed handlebar mustache. He is a strange-looking figure, his slender frame giving the appearance of someone suffering from consumption, and his attire that of gamblers and moneylenders the two have seen in every town they’ve ridden through. Will and Jack look at each other, with Will shooting Jack a smirk all too familiar. Easy money.
“Hello, gentlemen,” The man utters in a smooth baritone voice. “We meet again.” The remaining warm air is quickly sucked out as he sets foot inside the cabin.
“I don’t reckon I’ve ever had business with you,” grunts Will. He grips his pistol, ready to fire with a flick of the wrist and a pull of a trigger.
“No use in being on edge, Mr. Harrison. I’ve no intention of harming either you or Mr. James here.”
“How the hell do you know our names?”
Jack shoots a quick glance at Will before refocusing on the stranger. That’s a helluva thing to ask. Will knows we’re wanted men and we’ve been recognized before. But, like Will, Jack didn’t remember ever doing business with this individual.
“Oh, I know all my best clients.” The stranger smiles as he strokes his mustache with his index finger and thumb.
“Clients? Like I said, I don’t know you.” Will glares at the man, his impatience bubbling up inside. “And I never forget a face.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Just like that pregnant woman at the bank in Dodge City.”
Will stood slightly, a bit caught off guard by the man’s response. Jack’s eyes drift down to the floor; he knew exactly who the stranger was talking about.
“She was a fine lady, seven months pregnant and overwhelmed with joy to bring a baby into this world. You snuffed that dream out with the pull of a trigger…and just for the hell of it if I recall.”
Jack’s eyes bolt up from the floor, a moment of fury overcoming his judgment. “How in damnation do you know? You weren’t there!”
The Stranger turns to look at Jack whose eyes pierced through him like a knife. Holding a sly grin, the man glares unfazed. “You’re just as much at fault, Mr. James,” the man says. “You stood by and let Mr. Harrison here splatter that poor girl’s brains all over the bank’s window.” The stranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver pocket watch, taking note of the time. He turns to stare out one of the cabin windows, looking at the dark storm clouds in the distance. “Such a shame…like I said, I know my clients well.”
“And like I said, I don’t remember ever seein’ you before,” Jack says.
“Oh, but I’ve been with you two for some time. I was with you when you both robbed that train coming out of Missouri. I was there during the big shoot out at the saloon in Amarillo. And I was there when you shot that older man and his grandson in cold blood outside of Virginia City.”
Will and Jack look at each other. Out of all the terrible things the stranger could’ve named, he mentioned the one thing they somehow got away with without a soul knowing.
“All the old man had on him was five dollars, that and the horse and wagon.” The stranger slowly shakes his head in mocking disapproval. “And all because he told Will here to piss off when you two tried to rob him and his grandson.”
“How in hell do you know that?” Jack stares at the man, his eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open.
“As I’ve said before. I’ve known you both for a long time.”
The Stranger glances out the window. The storm clouds move closer across the desert towards the train, gradually covering dry land in near complete darkness. Slowly consuming every ounce of sunlight left in the desert. Another snakish grin appears as he takes in the approaching shadow.
“Course, it’s not like you both didn’t have a choice in all the things you’ve done. No matter what reasons you use to justify them. I know how you were raised, Mr. James.” The man snaps his neck in Jack’s direction. “You did whatever you could to keep a roof over your family’s head…at least when they were still alive. You could have just as easily taken another path in life but instead you chose this one…which brought you both to me.”
Jack stares at the man, rage bubbling up inside him like a pressure cooker ready to explode. “Who the devil are you to judge us for what we’ve done!”
“I’m afraid that responsibility belongs to someone else.
Will pulls the hammer back on his pistol, his face beet red.
“I’ve had enough of this sumbitch.” He flicks his wrist and forearm upward in the blink of an eye, pulling the trigger. The hammer strikes the primer of the .45 cartridge sending a loud crack throughout the cabin. A flash pops from the end of the gun’s barrel, the smell of burnt powder filling the room. The sound briefly overwhelmed that of the steam engine. The .45 caliber bullet whizzes through the air and seemingly pierces the Stranger’s left shoulder. The barrel, still hot with smoke hovering around the end, stays pointed at the black-suited specter.
The man’s gaze drifts to the point of impact on his shoulder and his right eyebrow raises. He brushes the bullet hole, in a manner similar to when someone removes dust off their clothing. Both men look on in horror at the pale, thin man, the ghost-white face, despite being hardened by the struggles of the West.
“What the shit are you?” utters Jack, words stumbling out of his mouth, his face turning as white as the stranger’s and his hands shaking as every ounce bravado leaves him.
The man stares at Jack, his dark hollow eyes focused intently on him, like a diamondback rattler ready to strike. “You know me, but the exact words have escaped your tongue. I’ve gone by many names. Some, you know very well.”
The dark storm clouds that moments ago seemed off in the distance, hover over the train. Their shadows encompass everything, draining all light from the cabin, sending the occupants into a cold dark. While everything around them fades into black, Jack sees the same flashes of red from before. They flicker like candles in the man’s eyes.
“Goddamn you!” shouts Will, his voice cracking, appearing almost choked up. A sharp distinction from the confident tone Jack is familiar with.
The man turns to Will and smiles one last snakish grin. “He already has, Mr. Harrison…he already has.”
Originally published in the River and Stone Anthology by the Morgantown Writers Group.
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