The cabin was small to look at but larger than one man would need. This made it a bit harder to keep warm in the winter. But Jonathan Renzetti had selected a good location to build it. A single spine of a mountainous ridge ran along the western edge of the plains for almost 20 miles. While a majority of it could be traversed by a man, it was almost all un-navigable by horse and mule. The eastern slope of the this range was steep, spotted with cliffs and the remains of ancient landslides. Except for one area just north of the approximate center of the range. This area offered a more gradual slope from the plain up towards the Alpine tree line. It was as if some force had intended to cut a smooth pass, about half a mile wide, through the ridge during its creation than gave up halfway through. What this meant for Jonathan was easy access to a large section of the thick forest of Ponderosa Pine that grew along the ridge from one end to the other. Harvesting the timber he needed to build his cabin and keep it warm was comparatively easy to the timber that grew thick along the sharp slopes north and south of him. That is why he built the cabin here. Backed up to the tree line it was afforded some protection by the ridge and forest with convenient access to the resource of timber. To the east the plains opened in front of the cabin as far as an eye could see. It was Jonathan’s recognition of the value of this location that had brought a fight to his door.
When Jonathan Renzetti had come across this spot, he had shortly before left a wagon train. The trail intersected the ridge several miles north. From there the train would swing up and pass the northern tip of the ridge and continue heading northwest. The beauty of the ridge covered in strong pine and the open plain, thick with grasses, appealed to Jonathan. He decided there must be a place worth settling along this ridge and, after learning from the wagon master there was another trail that skirted the southern point of the ridge with a town, he decided to break off. A day later he found the spot for his new home. Jonathan spent a week investigating the area. Not only did he confirm it would be an appropriate place to settle, he ensured he could find no sign that yet belonged to someone else. From here it was it a day and half ride south to the trail town of Stillwater. Jonathan took four days to make the journey so he could learn the geography of that part of the ridge south of him. When he arrived in the town, though it was small, it was busy. Jonathan made his way to the surveyor’s office.
On the wall was a large map representing most of the surrounding territory. The map was continuously being updated as new information became available and you could see how rivers, canyons, springs, woodlots and other landmarks were added over time. By the end of the day, Jonathan had a piece of paper identifying the claim on his land and on the map an area, much the shape of a rectangle, had been drawn in with his name written inside it. As it was early evening, Jonathan Renzetti decided to stay in town and head back first thing in the morning. Finding the small hotel in town full and unable to accommodate him, Jonathan approached the hostler and made a deal for his horse to be looked after and him to be allowed to sleep in the hay loft. Before turning in for the night, Jonathan still had a few coins left after paying the fees to file his claim, so he walked to the saloon and slid into a stool on an end corner of the bar. After a few obligatory pleasantries with the bartender, Jonathan began enjoying his beer. He was halfway through his drink when his attention shift from internal thoughts of his new claim to his surroundings. That’s when he focused on the conversation of the two men, siting just around the corner of the bar from him. The man drinking the whiskey was speaking quickly, in excited tones and while he was making an obvious attempt to keep his conversation private, he was doing a poor job of it. The other man was working on a steak and potatoes from the plate in front of him and while he participated in the conversation, it was evident he was not happy with the intrusion upon his meal.
Jonathan heard the man with whiskey, “They have to come through here. Right? I mean…the surveyors are here. They have to come through here.”
The man eating dinner put a piece of meat in his mouth, chewed a couple times then spoke out of the side of his mouth, “They don’t have to do anything. That’s why the surveyors are here. To see if it’s worth while.”
Whisky looked into his glass. “It sure would help. It sure would be nice to see this town grow. I could use the money.”
Dinner spoke around a bit of potato. “We all could use the money the railroad would bring.” A piece of potato projected from his mouth onto the bar next to his plate. Still holding his fork, the side of his hand swept across the bar wiping up the bit of food, then disappeared under the bar for a moment as he wiped it on his pants. “That’s why Timmerson is going to have a talk to those surveyors.”
“What’s the mayor got to say to them?” Whisky asked as he got the bartenders attention and showed him the empty tumbler.
“All us business owners agreed…” Dinner watched as the bartender poured the amber liquid into Whisky’s glass. “…to pitch in and pay the surveyors an incentive if they ensured the best route for the railroad was past our town.” Dinner’s eyes met those of the bartenders and for a moment they shared a sly grin of agreement before the bartender walked way. Dinner spoke into his plate as he cut a piece of meat. “His saloon stands to prosper too. See, we all have a stake in this.” He was using the fork with a piece of meat to point at Whisky and punctuate his sentence. He then put the meat in his mouth and began chewing. Whiskey took a swallow of his drink. Both men turned and noticed Jonathan for the first time as he got up from the bar and walked towards to the door. Whiskey watched him walk out, but Dinner found his plate more interesting and focused on that again.
He gently slid open the stable door just enough to slip inside. In doing so, Jonathan noticed the light of a candle flicker in the breeze that came through the door. The candle sat with a bottle and a glass on an overturned wooden crate next to a cot along the wall just to the side of the door. The hostler sat on the cot wearing only a pair of ragged, dirty white long underwear pants and long sleeve shirt. The overalls and blue plaid shirt he had on earlier in the day hung from a nail on the wall behind him. The long, curly, gray and white beard blended into the long white hair that covered his head. Jonathan had not noticed the hair earlier being that it was covered by a hat. The white hair was hanging down along the sides of his head as he was bent over studying a newspaper in his lap by the candle light. Jonathan figured he must be able to read as most of the paper was writing and lacked any real images. It took a moment for the old man to look up a Jonathan. As he brough his head up from the paper, he picked up the glass and tossed the contents down his throat.
“Hello again,” Jonathan said as he removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Ha-low,” the hostler responded reaching for his bottle.
Jonathan still had traces of excitement within him from the days activities. Not quite ready to sleep and hoping for some conversation he nodded towards the news paper, “Anything exciting happening?”
The hostler gave him an inquisitive look and for a moment and Jonathan feared he may have intruded. Then the old man’s face softened and he gestured towards another upturned crate in the next horse stall. As Jonathan slid it over near the cot and sat down the old man retrieved another glass off the wall behind him and poured from the bottle into it. The two men clinked glasses and took a hardy swallow. Jonathan pulled from his pocket paper and tobacco and in the low light, expertly rolled a quick cigarette. When he offered it to the hostler, Jonathan saw the hint of a smile flash across the man’s face as he said, “Thank-ee!” He then rolled himself a cigarette and hung it from his lips as he pulled a box of matches from his pocket. Flicking one on the side of the crate he sat on, it sprang to life with a quick fizzle and he lit the hostlers smoke, then his own. With drink and a smoke to keep them busy for a few moments they listened to the small noises of the barn. A horse shifting positions; small drafts wisping through the warn joints of the barn’s siding; the creaks from the men’s own shifting. Jonathan Renzetti rolled two more smokes while the old man poured two more drinks. “I’m gonna miss this place,” the old man said looking into the dark as he handed Jonathan the drink.
“You going someplace?” Jonathan asked, the glass almost to his lips.
“Aww, hell.” The old man said after a swallow. “They’re trying to get the train to pass through here. That happens – this hotel will need to get bigger. That means they’ll need a bigger stable. I can’t handle that so they’ll get a feller that can, then… well, no need to pay us both.”
Climbing up to the hay mow, Jonathan heard the old man begin to snore. He was thinking how fast the man had fallen asleep, sure the remaining excitement of his own piece of property would keep him up half the night. Settling into the hay, he began to look forward to his ride back and very quickly those thoughts turned to dreams.
The old man had coffee percolating on a small, potbellied, stove near his cot. As Jonathan saddled his horse, the aroma was inviting. The old man came back in through the barn door. Age and ware had taken its toll and he moved with a shuffle in his walk. He moved to the stove, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Still holding the pot, he turned to Jonathan, “Reckon you have cup.” In a manner that betrayed his excited anticipation of the hot coffee, Jonathan retrieved his cup from a saddle bag. The two men sipped the hot liquid for a minute and then the old man spoke, “You Jonathan, right?”
“Yeah?” Jonathan replied looking across his mug with the furrowed brow of inquiry.
The old man sipped more coffee before he spoke again. “I was heading into Tom’s which is – Tom owns the store – which is next to the surveyor’s office. The surveyor’s door was open and I heard mention of a stranger that came in yesterday. So I stopped to listen. Sounds like you filed on some land.”
“I did. Yesterday.” Jonathan had forgotten about his coffee and absently held the cup against him with both hands.
“Well, it sounds like those railroad men might be interested. They was asking about it, asking who you were, when you came in, all kinds of questions. They asked Mitchell – he’s the surveyor – they asked Mitchel if it was legal. He told them sure enough it was. Then they started asking…more like suggesting ‘cause it didn’t sound like a question that maybe it wasn’t a legal claim. Suggesting maybe something didn’t get filled out correctly or maybe you didn’t sign the right place.”
Jonathan’s hands tightened on the cup and his jaw tensed up. The old man took a sip of coffee. “Well, Mitchel… he won’t stand up for or again’ anything, but he ain’t no liar. He told them it was all legal and proper. That’s when the man with the two guns low on his hips stepped closer to Mitchel, telling him maybe he didn’t realize they wasn’t actually asking a question.”
Jonathan had dropped down onto the crate he sat upon last night. Still holding his coffee but staring into the black liquid as if he were watching everything unfold in the cup. He sat the cup down and built a cigarette and, without thinking about it, handed it to the old man before building another one for himself. He took a few draws, starting at the floor, then raised his eyes when the old man began to speak again. “That’s when some feller in a nice suit put his hand on the shoulder of the man with the guns. Well, he stepped back again and the man in the suit asked if maybe you’d want to sell. Mitchel told ‘em he didn’t know but figured everyone likes money. The man in the suit shook Mitchel’s hand and he and the mister guns start to leave. Then mister guns turns around and says to Mitchel…”
The old man took a long, slow draw on the cigarette. He looked at Jonathan and noticed the impatience in his eyes, so he continued, “… he asks Mitchel what if you’re not there anymore. Mitchel says what did he mean and the man says what if your just gone. Well, like I says, Mitchel is no stand up feller but won’t lie. So he tells them if your off the claim for a year then it be forfeit. The man in the suit never turned around, but when he heard Mitchel say that…well… I know I saw him smile.” Jonathan sat, smoking, and holding the handle of his coffee cup as it balanced on his knee. The old man took up the bottle and reached over, adding some to Jonathan’s coffee before doing for himself. Jonathan emptied the cup contents in a single swallow then returned to his horse and placed the cup back in the saddle bag. As he lead his horse out the door Jonathan reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of coins, placing them in the palm of the old man as he passed. The Hostler, glancing at the coins, looked up quickly and began to object. Without turning around, Jonathan cut him off, “For the whiskey.” The old man looked back at the coins in his and grinned. He knew Jonathan wasn’t paying extra for just the whiskey. The Hostler poured himself another shot and as he threw it back, he thought Hell, I wasn’t going to talk about this to anyone else anyhow.
Jonathan let his sorrel work its own way along the faint wagon trail that ran parallel with the ridge. He was lost in thought and didn’t have the attention to guide the animal himself. He kept turning the words of the Hostler over in his mind. First, trying to decide if the old man was pulling one over on him, then considering the possibility he misheard or misinterpreted a conversation. As the old man knew his name, Jonathan was sure it had come up in conversation somewhere. Since Jonathan didn’t mention his name to anyone – except the surveyor when he was filing his claim – then the old man must have overhead his name from a conversation in that office. The return trip took him a bit over two days as he was continuously moving along, stopping only to camp for the night. As he moved along the ridge, his eyes often followed the lines of the cliffs, focused on ancient rock slides and probed the thick trees that hung to the slopes. It was while Jonathan watched an eagle lazily glide from the face of a sharp cliff, out over the plains upon which he now passed, that it came to him; a reason why these men may want the land he just filed on. For the next eight months Jonathan Renzetti kept this idea tucked away in his mind. He had many other things to focus on. One of those things was building the cabin. He had almost forgotten about the conversation with the Hostler until, one evening, sitting under the small ramada of his home, four men rode up.
Jonathan set his coffee cup on the small bench next to him. He stood up and shifted to the side so he was leaning against the doorway of the cabin. Just inside, standing against the wall, was his rifle. The four riders approached, riding abreast of each other. When they were about fifty yards out, two riders slowed and fell back. Jonathan didn’t know them but he could tell one wore a nice suit of cloths. The other wore two guns. The two men that continued closer, drew up short of the cabin, but close enough they could be heard without shouting. Jonathan recognized one of the men as the surveyor – what did the Hostler say his name was? Mitchel, that’s right – with whom he filed his claim months before. It was the other that spoke. “Mr. Renzetti?” He shifted in the saddle, placing both his hands over the pommel to show he was at ease. Jonathan nodded. “Mr. Renzetti,” the man continued. “I’m Alexander Wheeler. I’m the mayor of Stillwater…” the surveyor had been looking at Jonathan, but now shot the other man a confused look. Pretending not to notice the man speaking continued, “…well, a mayor of sorts. You see, we are still in the process of setting up our town and no official…” the man emphasized the word official, “…election has taken place. But I’ve taken the responsibility to begin setting up our town and it’s only a matter of logistics now.” The man paused, lost in his own pride for a moment. Then he quickly spoke, “Anyway Mr. Renzetti, I’m here on behalf of the Town of Stillwater and the Southern Line Railway Trust. You see, in a few short months the Railway will be approaching our town. Which means we have a station to build. As well as a hotel to expand and Slim want’s to add few rooms onto his tavern for…entertaining.” Wheeler, flashed a big grin at the Surveyor who didn’t return the gesture. He was still grinning when he looked back at Jonathan. “You see, Mr. Renzetti, I’m sure you’ve noticed, this ridge holds the majority of the harvestable timber for…well…for a long ways around.” A voice in the back of Jonathan’s mind spoke up now and he told himself that he was right. That thought he had tucked away for so long was now at the forefront. Wheeler swept his hand, palm up, out in front of him, gesturing at the trees around Jonathan’s cabin, “As you well know, this area is the only area with any kind of access. The rest of the ridge is too steep. The infrastructure it would take to get the timber off…” Wheeler’s voice trailed off as he looked South into the distance, as if contemplating this. Snapping his attention back to Jonathan, Wheeler spoke again, more definitively, “Mr. Renzetti, I have been authorized to purchase this land from you. At a very handsome price, if I do say so myself.” This last part he said proudly, as if presenting Jonathan with a great gift. He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and held it out as he nudged his bay forward. “I have here a bank draft for…”
“Not for sale.” Jonathan’s words stopped Wheeler’s voice and his horse, as he drew up suddenly. Concentrating on Jonathan for a moment, Wheeler then extended the paper a little further, this time holding his horse in place, “Sir, if you just look at the offer, I’m sure you will…”
“I am keeping my land, Mr. Wheeler,” Jonathan had not moved from the doorway. Wheeler, pulled back the paper a little, “Sir, if this is about money…that is, if you feel this land holds a certain value to you… Well, I’m sure I can talk to the interested parties and explain your…” Jonathan stood up and cut Wheeler off, “It seems our business is done. Good evening Mr. Wheeler.” He took a step back into the cabin but stayed facing the men in front of him. The man in the suit had moved his dun along side Wheeler and spoke. When he did, it wasn’t to introduce himself. He went right to business and because Wheeler became quiet an withdrew, Jonathan new the man in the suit was making the calls. “Bringing the railway through Stillwater is going take timber. For building, for ties and what we can ship back East for sale will help raise funds to keep progress going. I’m offering to buy out your claim because we’d like to keep this transaction…clean.” He pushed his hat back on his forehead and leaned back in the saddle. “After all, we’re not unreasonable.” There was a pause and in the silence one of the horses nickered. Jonathan was about to speak but the man in the suit, realizing this, cut him off. “In reality I don’t have to spend a single coin. You see, your claim was posted in Stillwater. Though, without an official government, it has no standing unless it’s filed in Socorro. You see, we don’t owe you anything for this timber.” The man paused then added, almost as an after thought, “But we’re not unreasonable. We would be willing to buy your place.”
Jonathan stood a moment, thinking. Then, still looking at the man in the suit, he spoke to the surveyor, “Mitchel.” the surveyor jumped slightly in surprise that this man knew his name. “Is that true about my claim needing to be filed ins Socorro too?” The Surveyor shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and wrung his hands on the pommel. Mitchel licked his dry lips “Yes…” Jonathan saw the man in the suit straighten up a bit and grin as Mitchel confirmed it. Mitchel continued, “…any claim with me would not be valid until filled with the court in Socorro. After you filed your claim, I posted it to the office in Socorro that same…”
“Regardless…” the man in the suit’s voice boomed, cutting Mitchel short. As if on que, the man with two guns rode up along the man in the suit. “We don’t know if that claim made it to Socorro. We’re not sure any of this is legal. We’re trying to be reasonable here.” Jonathan let the silence hold a moment as his eyes passed over the men. “No. I believe you do know. I suspect you sent word to Socorro and confirmed it. That’s why you are offering to buy my claim. Otherwise you wouldn’t be spending your time or money on me.” The man in the suit leaned forward in the saddle, his face red, his eyes slits and speaking through gritted teeth, “Listen here. We need this timber and we need this access to it. We offered to buy it but it would certainly be easier for us if you were just… not here.” The corners of his mouth curled up in an unfriendly smile and he turned his horse around, sharing a look with the man with two guns. When he was facing away he hollered over his shoulder, “You have until the end of the week.” Then he spurred his horse away from the cabin, swinging South back towards Stillwater. Wheeler seemed to be searching for something to say, but just turned his horse and trotted off. Mitchel followed. The man with two guns had begun building a cigarette. He lit it and drew a few times just sitting there looking at Jonathan who remained standing in the door way. After a few minutes, he grinned, then turned his horse and casually headed out.
That night, Jonathan sat on his porch with coffee and looked toward the stars. He combed through what options he could see ahead of him. Riding into Stillwater was out. The only way he’d find any law there was if he happened show up the same time a US Marshall was in town. He could try and ride to Socorro and get evidence of his claim then see if he could get a lawman to ride back and verify it. That would take a couple of weeks, at least. While he was gone the railroad would assume he left and take over. By the time he got back there would be nothing left of his place. His decision ended up being the only one he knew he had. Jonathan would defend his home. He was in the right, he knew that. Even if no one else cared.
Over the next several days Jonathan secured the small cabin. He checked his food stocks, firewood and ammunition. In the small stable he made sure the sorrel would have plenty of hay and gave her oats a bit at a time over the few days. He led her to the creek several times. This way she would be okay for a while. Until someone took her. Should something happen to him.
On the evening before the day marking the one week deadline, Jonathan left his cabin and made a walk he had not been able to before. North along the tree line to a small alcove in the trees. Here he found the grass green and thick and the soil soft, brown and rich. He sat in the grass between the two crosses. One smaller than the other. The earth in front of them had been disturbed not long ago, but the lush grass wasn’t wasting any time reclaiming where it had once been. Jonathan spoke to his wife and daughter as a man who had not seen them in quite some time. He talked of the cabin and the small garden they had started and he was keeping up. He told his daughter of recent antics he experienced with the sorrel and of the critters that would pass by the cabin when he was sitting on the porch. He spoke of the meat and fruits he had canned, thanking his wife for teaching him that skill before the sickness became so bad she could no longer speak more than a couple words at a time. He hoped they liked the final dresses he had chosen for them. He talked of washing them in the creek and drying them in the sun before he placed them on his girls. How beautiful they looked. He told them of how he missed them. The struggle of being without them. How his memories would make him laugh but the realization that followed always caused his heart to feel like it was collapsing. He told his daughter he loved her and missed her. Then he turned towards the larger cross and spoke only to his wife. He explained that the men finally did come. The men he warned her about that day he returned to the wagon after filing the claim in Stillwater. The men he thought about while building the cabin. His wife always trying to alleviate his concerns as they worked diligently together to build their home. But he knew the nature of men. He had delt with it before. As he sat in the grass he told his wife of what was to come. He asked her not to watch what he would do and to keep his daughter from seeing it. He kissed both crosses and it was dark when he walked back to the cabin.
The next morning Jonathan stood by the wood stove, waiting for the coffee to percolate. He looked out the window and thought through the day. He suspected the same four men as last time arrive. Though, his guess was this time they would be accompanied by at least three others. Two would ride with the man with two guns and one would sneak through the woods to try and get behind him. His cabin was well protected. He had built it that way expecting this day to come. The benefit was, he was a day and a half from town. This meant, for the men to show up today, they had to spend the night on the ground. Additionally, they likely wouldn’t show up until mid-day, at the earliest. If they came any later than that, the sun would be working its way back towards the horizon and shinning right at them. But Jonathan was not counting on that. Jonathan took a mental inventory again, ingraining in his mind where his rifle and shotgun were placed. He thought about how many shells for each he had and exactly where he had placed them. Then he thought about the gun around his waist. Despite not having worn it in years, the black tooled leather was still firm, yet supple enough for comfort. There were brown leather inlays on the holster and on the belt on each side of the buckle. The bluing of the revolver was contrasted by the dark, deep, red of the wood grips. Jonathan had ensured it was cleaned and oiled and fully operational. It was slightly after mid-day when Jonathan saw the riders. He took a final swallow of coffee and slid the cup down the bench from him. His left leg was up, it’s ankle resting on his right knee. The men drew up about 30 yards from the cabin. Jonathan saw the same four as before. Next to the man with two guns, were two new faces. Jonathan figured there was certainly one, maybe two, more guns trying to circle behind him. When he heard his sorrel nicker, he knew he was right. It was the railroad man who spoke first asking Jonathan if he was ready to sell. Jonathan put his left foot down and stood up, side stepping just enough to put the cabin door way behind him while keeping his hand away from the pistol as he did. The railroad man was saying something about wanting to avoid trouble when the man with two guns interrupted him by uttering a low, deep, curse.
Irritated that his train of thought was broken, the railroad man responded with a sharp, “What’s your problem?”
“What did you say this fella’s name was?” the man with two guns had turned his head towards the railroad man to utter the inquiry but kept his eyes on Jonathan. Not seeing any reason for the quite nature of the conversation, the railroad man hollered at Mitchel, “Mitchel! What’s this fellers name?” The surveyor responded without needing to first consult any notes, “Jonathan Renzetti.” The railroad man turned back to the man with two guns, “And…?” The man with two guns stared at Jonathan a moment then his brow furrowed and he addressed Jonathan, “Reznor? Red Reznor?” Jonathan frowned slightly then replied, “Not in a long time.”
The man with two guns quietly cursed again, then turned towards the railroad man to see he, Mitchel and Wheeler were drilling him with a confused look. He slowly took paper and tobacco from his pocket and began rolling a smoke. “About seven years ago six hombres pushed a heard into a small trail-head town out in Kansas looking to sell them. Problem was, the rancher who owned the cattle had been killed and that bit of information had been working its way around the plains. Well, when these hombres tried to sell that beef, the tally man knew better and refused to buy, so they shot him where he stood.” The man drew on the cigarette, sitting back in his saddle now. As he spoke, his words drifted through the air like his smoke. “The shot brings this deputy over. Some young kid. Well, those hombres fan out around him like a horseshoe and proceed to punch 18 holes in the kid. The sheriff was off, I don’t recall where. After killing the law, I suspect these hombres figured to ride roughshod over the town for a bit.” The man flicked ashes from his smoke and stared at the burning end for a moment. Then he blew gently on it and looked back at the men sitting aside him. “Then this fella comes walking out of the saloon. Walks over to where the deputy lay. Those hombres are laughing back and forth while they take their time to reload. They see this fella standing in front of them and at first don’t think much of it. Mabee they figure he’s drunk or just come to take the deputy’s body. But he just stands there, watching those hombres reload. Well, now they’re getting a little agitated at this fella and start telling him, he’s next. The first hombre that gets his gun loaded swings it up…” The man with two guns hadn’t realized the cigarette had burnt down to his gloved fingers as he sat looking at Jonathan. “What happened?” Mitchell nearly shouted. The man with two guns looked back at the group. “I never saw it myself but to hear it told by those that were there… hell. Hell showed up in that small town. That feller ran six rounds through his Colt so fast people claim he only ever shot once or twice. Three of those hombres dropped where they stood, done by the bullet that hit them. The other three were wounded in some form. One unable to fire his pistol but two were taking shots at this fella. Well, that fella grabs the pistol from the dead deputy and starts moving. As he does he takes a couple more shots. Now four hombres lay dead and two are trying to drag themselves to cover. This fella walks up to those last two, looks down at them at moment, then… finishes it” The man with two guns sat looking at Jonathan from under the brim of his hat. Now, everyone was looking at Jonathan. Wheeler was the first to speak up, the tone of his voice betraying his nervousness, “That your name? You Red Reznor?” Jonathan didn’t speak. The silence was broke by the man with two guns. “Naawww. His name’s Jimmy Reznor. Red is just a nickname.”
“Cause of all the blood, huh?” the railroad man directed the question at Jonathan. Then he heard a slight laughing from the man with two guns. “You would think so. Most people think so. No, people were calling him red before that on account of those fancy redwood grips he got on his colt.” Everyone’s attention now shifted to Jonaathan’s pistol and the dark, wood, polished grips showing at the top of the holster and only slight below his hand as it hung from the edge of his jacket.. The man with two guns turned to the railroad man, “Well…?” The railroad man sat, looking at Jonathan, for a moment then, almost to himself, “That don’t change nothen.” The man with two guns turned his head back and spoke into the back of his mounts head, “Yeah…I figured as much.” His right hand dropped to his side and as he brough his head up to look at Jonathan, his gun came up with it. The sound of that first shot was immediately drowned out by all the others that followed as the fight began at the cabin of Jonathan Renzetti.
The man with two guns brought his right pistol up and at the same time he squeezed the trigger a tug on his coat sleeve caused his shot to go wide right, into the cabin wall. Irritated that someone could be tugging at his jacket at a time like this, he tried to get a quick second shot off on target this time. When he realized he couldn’t bring the gun back up, he looked at his right arm and found a round had passed through, just above the elbow and now blood ran down his limp forearm, off his fingers and onto the pistol he had dropped in the dirt. Using his left hand, he reeled his horse to the right, and spurred it away as he wrapped his bandanna around his upper arm to stem the flow of blood. He barely heard the gunfire behind him.
Jonathan had been standing in the cabin door way. Had not, the man with two guns, been looking at the back of his horses head, he would have seen Jonathan take a smooth, single, step back putting him just inside the cabin. He stood there, feet spaced, weight even watching the man with two guns and knowing what was about to occur. Jonathan didn’t worry about it, didn’t really think about it and didn’t yearn for it. He simply waited for it and then delt with it. As soon as the man with two guns moved his right hand, Jonathan’s hand dropped to the redwood grips and muscle memory took over. In one smooth action the pistol was brought just far enough out of the holster rotate the barrel up, the hammer cocked during the process, and Jonathan gently pressed the trigger. He saw the man’s right arm flinch and realized he was a bit left of where he aimed. As he was making compensation for this, he brough the gun up to eye level and had turned to the two riders that had been sitting at the end of the row of men on horses. His eye picked out the furthest right one as the greater threat and Jonathan put a round through the bandana that hung around the man’s neck. The man’s body hadn’t even begun to fall from the horse as Renzetti put the muzzle on the other gunman. This man got a shot off, but Jonathan could see by the angle of the man’s muzzle that he was in no danger of being struck. So, as the shot went wide, striking the cabin, Jonathan looked at the man’s forehead across the sights of his revolver, and gently pressed the trigger. The man’s body pitched backward off the horse, following the same path the top of his head took.
In those moments the railroad man recognized he may be in trouble. Whipping his coat aside and grasping at his revolver as his eyes flared at Jonathan, he hollered from the side of his mouth to Wheeler and Mitchel, “Shoot him!” Wheeler quickly grabbed for his gun but before he could get it out of the holster, it felt as if he’d been punched square in the chest and he fell to the ground, unable to catch his breath as everything went dark. Jonathan leveled his pistol on the face of the railroad man and paused only long enough to see the man look him in the eyes, then Jonathan Renzetti fired, for the fifth time, against another man today. The railroad man looked at Jonathan’s eyes as he was bringing up his gun. In a flash of a moment, he saw how cold and grey those eyes were, then they were enveloped in a flash of light and the railroad man’s body hit the ground, with him never having heard the shot.
A quick glance at Mitchel found him staring wide-eyed at Jonathan, with his hands out in front of him, trembling has he held the reigns of his horse, not sure what to do. Seeing he was no threat, Jonathan stepped around the corner of the doorway, deeper into the cabin. Has hands, through memory, reloaded the revolver with cartridges from his leather belt. Jonathan’s eyes looked out doorway but all he could see was the open prairie. Four bodies lay in the grass, the horses having wandered off. Mitchel and the man with two guns were not in sight. Jonathan knew he wouldn’t be able to see where the man – or men – who flanked the cabin were. Not without stepping out on the porch to look past the front corners of the cabin, back into the tree line. For now, Renzetti was going to play it as if there were two men out there. One on the North side of the cabin and one on the South. Clearly they had not been ready when the shooting started as no shots had come from either of those directions. Jonathan moved to the back of the cabin and slid the bed aside. Below it was a small access door in the floor he had built in against this scenario. At the back of the cabin, on both the North and South end he had wood piles. Intentionally placed so as he came out from under the cabin, they acted as protecting walls.
He bellied across the ground to the South wood pile, removed his hat, and quickly raised his head just enough to get a quick glance for any shape or movement of man before lowering it again. He didn’t see anything and since no shot came, it’s likely they didn’t either. Finding a rock, from the concealment of the wood piles, he tossed it back into the woods. As he did so, he looked over the wood pile again and, when the rock hit the ground and rolled a bit, he saw a shadow move around a tree, such that it put the tree between itself and where the noise came from but now exposed to Jonathan who quickly, and smoothly, rose up on his knees and fired. As the man grunted and fell, Jonathan swung around quickly to look over the North wood pile. He saw the man standing on that side of the cabin, in the trees, gun raised. Instinctively, Jonathan, still on his knees, pushed hard, throwing his body to the right as he raised his gun and fired.
Most men are right-handed and shoot right-handed. Under the pressures of a gun fight, steady nerves and a clear head facilitate accuracy. Most men feel speed is required and, in the haste to be the first to lose a round, they tend to pull sideways ever so slightly on the trigger, causing the muzzle to move minutely. This movement is enough to bring the round off target. In this case, between Jonathan’s quick push to his right and the gunman’s error, the bullet passed through Jonathan’s upper left arm, missing the bone – rather than hitting him center mass. Jonathan’s bullet didn’t miss and the man in the woods dropped as Jonathan fell against the back of the cabin.
Jonathan holstered his pistol and using his right hand, squeezed around his upper left arm trying to keep pressure on both the entrance and exit wounds. He walked around the North side of the cabin, looking towards to the body of the last man he shot. He noticed his shot had entered the man’s left eye and he suspected there was a large opening on the back of the head. Walking around the front of the cabin he looked at the bodies laying in the grass. He did not look forward to disposing of them. He debated not burying them but instead dragging them a half day out onto the prairie and leaving them to feed the scavengers, both terrestrial and air borne. And the grass. In the end, this didn’t appeal to him. He didn’t want to leave them to rot in the open so he would bury them out there. Though, he didn’t easily take to the idea of having to dig six graves… Wait… Suddenly his eyes focused on the bodies and he realized he only saw four.
The sound was ever so faint. Just a light scuff of a boot on a wooden floor. Jonathan dropped his hand to his gun as he turned his head. The man with two guns stood in the cabin doorway, drawing a bead with the revolver in his left hand. Jonathan tried to shift to his left as he presented to his target but it wasn’t quite enough. The man’s bullet took Jonathan at an angle just below his left breast and exiting out of the point between his side and back, having passed through his ribcage. Jonathan’s shot, pulling slightly off target, took the man in his left collar bone. Jonathan had dropped his gun and stumbled back but remained on his feet. The impact of the bullet on the man’s collarbone knocked him to the floor. Quickly Jonathan stumbled to the cabin and up the stairs. As the man was attempting to grasp his revolver, Jonathan dropped to his knees, letting his weight fall on the man as he straddled him, bringing his right knee down on the man’s left arm. The man released a sudden yelp and was no longer able to move his hand. He looked up at Jonathan’s eyes. They were slate gray and betrayed no emotion if Jonathan was feeling any. They were cold. Much colder than he remembered them. As his consciousness began to fade, the man spoke with difficulty, “I didn’t know it was you Jimmy…” he spit some blood out of the corner of his mouth. “They said… said…ya were a lone man. Where… where…the girls?”
Jonathan struggled breathing and a bubble formed in the blood on his lips. His right lung was damaged. “Fever took them a few months back,” he said in a horse voice. “You shoulda turned around.”
The man turned his head a bit to spit, “I… Sorry…” He began drifting off. “I never did… see… niece. My sister…probably not…let…”
“You shoulda left!” Jonathan Renzetti nearly yelled. This snapped the man’s attention back, “I didn’t know it were you. Sittin’ by them man that paid me. It was too late…”
“You shoulda left when you first got hit. Them men ain’t around no more.” Jonathan said, weakly grasping the man’s lapel with his left hand.
The man almost grinned, “The paid… It… my job… You know…I… I… hadda come back.”
Jonathan lowered his head in a bit, in sorrow, “Yeah…I know.”
The man’s face lost any trace of a grin and it was replaced by an expression of sorrow, “I’d…like…my sister…say goodbye…”
Jonathan looked the man in the eyes for a moment, recognizing very little. Then, with his right hand, he slid the blade through the man’s throat. After a few more gurgles, the man was gone. Jonathan struggled to rise and barely made it to the frame of the cabin’s door.
Several hours later, long after the shooting had stopped, Mitchel, easing his horse along, made his way down out of the woods. He cautiously began looking around. He knew that two of the men trailing with them had split off before getting close to the cabin. They were going to try and circle around. He suspected they were back in the woods somewhere. Four bodies lay in the grass and he could see legs on the floor, through the cabin doorway. As Mitchel eased up to the cabin and, from the back of his horse, looked in he could tell the legs belonged to the man with two guns. He wasn’t sure where Renzetti…or Reznor…or whatever…where he was. As he was about to dismount, Mitchel looked down to the grass in front of the cabin and though he was by no stretch of the imagination a tracker, he could clearly see a man in rough shape and bleeding had left the cabin and headed up towards the woods. Mitchel pointed his horse along that sign and gave him a nudge.
When the horse ambled up to him Jonathan was laying on the ground next to two wooden crosses at the head of two graves. One was only half the size of the other. When Jonathan groaned, Mitchel stepped down from his horse and knelt by him. Realizing someone was there, Jonathan tried to react, tried to reach for his gun, but his body wouldn’t respond appropriately. Instead his breathing grew labored, wheezy and wet. He looked up at man next to him. Mitchel saw Jonathan’s eyes clearly for the first time. They we cold and stoic and showed no sign of concession. The muscles around them; the wrinkles in the corners and the way his lips tightened betrayed his eyes by showing a clear sign of pain and exhaustion.
“Easy.” Mitchel said placing his hand on the bloody spot on Jonathan’s right breast. When he flinched, Mitchel pulled his hand back. “It’s bad…” As Jonathan relaxed a bit and looked at Mitchel, Mitchel shifted has gaze to the wound and continued, “Look. I wanted nothing to do with that. I told them your claim was filed and legal. When they started talking about forcing you off, I was the one who first talked of buying you out. But damned if you didn’t want to sell…” Mitchel looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the cabin, “I didn’t want to come here today but Wheeler made me. Said he expected me here so’s I could make sure we knew the proper boundaries of your claim…once you was gone.” Mitchel looked back at Jonathan and was startled by the apparent clarity in the eyes of the man looking back at him. When Jonathan spoke, it was not in the normal tone of his voice. It was in a low, quite, breathy, gurgling sound as he struggled to push air through his throat and out his mouth. “Bury me… please… my family,” he moved his hand on the ground so his finger pointed in the direction of the two crosses. Mitchel looked at the crosses and began, “Yeah. Okay…” then his voice trailed off a bit as he looked around and the trees and the gentle slope of the bank. “But… once the railroad starts cutting these trees, they will cut a path through here and never think twice about trapsing all over you.” Mitchel looked back at Jonathan and found his eyes were no longer cold. Now, they clearly reflected the despair that had come to Jonathan as he heard that. Ashamed, Mitchel turned his head quickly away. He stood up, pushed his hat back on his head and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Looking around he wiped his hand across his shirt then had an idea. Kneeling back down, he found Jonathan’s eyes closed. “Hey!” Mitchel said, startling Jonathan’s eyes open. “Listen. I got kin out East that have been wanting to come out here. Try their hand at cattle. These pastures…” Mitchel jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “would be perfect. You have honest claim to this and if you let me buy it from you, I can assure you this land will be used to support a family and your resting…” Mitchel looked at the crosses, “your families’ resting place will be respected. What say you? Will you sell?”
Jonathan gently shook his head. Mitchel, exasperated, closed his eyes and began shaking his head, “For the Lord’s sake man! Once you’re gone, your claim expires then I’d have to…” A gentle pat on his Mitchel’s thigh caused him stop speaking and open his eyes. Jonathan was smiling and barely got the words out. Mitchel leaned closer, “What was that?” Jonathan repeated, “Have it.” Mitchel stared for a moment then, “You sure? I can pay you…I mean…you got kin somewhere? I can pay them.” Jonathan shook his head and again pointed at the resting place of his only kin. Mitchel straightened his back and his voice took on a more professional tone, “Mister. As your dying declaration, are you giving me your claim to this here land and the cabin hereupon?” Jonathan gently nodded, “Yes.”
The cabin. Jonathan thought about the cabin and patted Mitchel’s thigh again. “Cabin… man on floor.” Mitchel furrowed his brown a moment, “Oh, yeah. I saw him.” Jonathan pointed across the two graves, “Bury… there… please.” Mitchel sat back, “you want me to bury that man next to your wife?” he didn’t mean to blurt it out that way. Jonathan simply said, “His sister.” Mitchel’s eyes widened and he pushed his hat back on his head, “Oh Dear God. Okay. I will.” Johnathan closed his eyes and his lips were trying to work away the dryness but his body was running out of moisture. Mitchel stood up and as he moved to the canteen on his horse, he looked around. He thought of the man on the ground and everything he must have went through to bring his family here. Then everything he endured to protect their home, even when they were no longer around. Finally, asking for his wife’s brother to be buried with them, despite what had happened. In thinking through this, Mitchel felt a sense of what honor must be. He had always worked in an office. Having to deal with the towns people. Anytime he had to give out bad news, he hid behind the law. Blamed the law. Told them there was nothing he could do, it was the law. No matter how unjust it felt to him and even when there was a chance he could help, as long as he could move the responsibility, he felt okay. Just okay. Never good. Never strong. That’s why he moved from town to town. That’s why he was so far West of his family. Eventually the folks became sick of his laws and he found it tougher to live in the same town with them, so he’d move. As he stood, now, he began feeling a since of pride. A sense of honesty in what he was doing to help this man. Oh, he could sell the claim off as soon as owned it, but just thinking about that darkened something deep inside him. So he thought about bringing his family out. About living on this land. About keeping his word to this man. In doing so, he felt a fire grow within him. It felt good. He began looking forward to living is life like this. To stand up honestly and justly. Looking at Jonathan work his dry lips, he said, “Mister!” and Jonathan opened his eyes. “That feller in the cabin – I know his name. What’s yours? Red? Reznor, right?” Jonathan moved his hand again and pointed to the two crosses, the surname on each reading: Renzetti.
“Okay,” Mitchel said, unstrapping the canteen from his saddle. “That’s what your cross will say. By God you’ll have the best little resting place in Pine Ridge. You and your fam…” Mitchel had gotten the canteen for Jonathan and now, standing there with the water in his hands, he saw. Jonathan’s lips no longer moved. His chest no longer raised. The energy had left his eyes. Mitchel tied the canteen back to the saddle. He supposed there was a lantern and a shovel at the cabin. And most likely a coffee pot on the wood stove in the cabin. It was going to be a long night.