There Will Come A Reckoning
A Western-ish Novelette
Chapter 1: Revenge.
To avenge (oneself or another), usually by retaliating in kind or degree.
He thumbs the hammer and pulls it back till it locks into that deadly sweet spot — you know the one — where that satisfying handshake of metal on metal happens. It ain’t no gentleman’s agreement, either. Oh, it makes me giddy just thinking about it.
Extending his arm, he looks down the sights at his distracted target. One eye closed, the other locked in a threatening gaze, he squeezes the trigger. CLICK.
“You son of a bitch.” The Sheriff draws his nickel-plated revolver and points it at that evil son of a bitch, Tim Tooley.
A tumbleweed does not roll through the scene. There is no whistle or off-key guitar strum.
“I could have had you, Cole,” Tim says, spinning the revolver and holstering it.
Tim’s not the hero of this story, he’s not even the main protagonist.
“You better have my damn money when this is over, Sheriff Slaw. Else next time, it’ll be loaded.”
He’s a bastard in every sense of the word. Born fourth in a string of accidents and assaults, he’s the youngest of the crew. Which is perhaps why he’s still the most lucid. His other siblings, Tom, Tina, and Donald, have been on the bottle for longer than he’s been alive.
And I’m not talking milk.
All these idiot bastards know of their fathers is they split before their momma’s legs shut, and no one has seen or heard from them since. If I was reciting a fable, we might call that old whore a man-eater in the most literal sense. But this is not a fable, and she is not a cannibal, to my knowledge.
And reckon I would know.
“Tim, the only way you’d ever get the drop on me is if God plucked you up and you rightfully fell through the floorboards of heaven.”
That’s Sheriff Cole Slaw speaking now. Try to keep up.
“And even then, your aim is so shaky you’d shoot your eye out aiming at the side of a barn.”
Sheriff Cole Slaw wears a copper star on his chest like a literal badge of honor. Maybe the last bit he’s got left. It’s a rite of passage to him — a right to go anywhere and do whatever he damn well pleases. He holds the position, not from the popular vote but because the other fella he was running against, the righteous Doc West, fell into a horse trough and held himself under until he expired.
A “tragic accident,” the paper called it. I’ll give you one guess where they got that quote.
Between the hours of sunup and sundown — you know damn well he can’t tell time — he sits behind an old mahogany desk as rotund and obtuse as the belly hanging over his belt loops. If he’s the letter of the law, it’s a portly O punctuated by the pop of a cork and the passing of gas.
“Where the hell is the rest of that bastard circus you call a family?”
“They had business at the saloon,” scoffs Tim. “I told you they’ll be ‘round when they’re ready.” Ready in this sense, being numb to the world, short on memory, and long on liquid courage. “You know Tina and Todd is shit without a drink in their bellies. And Donald, well, he’s just shit either way. But he’s kin. We think.”
“They better be ripe to handle their business.” Sheriff Slaw lumbers from his overburdened chair. It’s a process of stops and starts, of bracing and grunting until he can heave his obese form to those poor feet. The floor lets out a creaking, fatigued breath. The chair, a sigh of relief. “Damn old chair keeps shrinking on me.”
“I’m no scholar, but I don’t think wood shrinks, Sheriff,” Tom says. “Could be you’re a few belt loops too large for it.”
A rabble of boots cascades over the floorboards outside, and the door to the Sheriff’s office flies open. Before the other members of the Matchstick Boys can utter a wobbly syllable, the odor of whiskey punches the Sheriff in the face, damn near knocking him back into his chair.
Tina Tooley two-steps through the door, a bottle of bourbon loosely clutched in one hand, her pistol in the other. “When the fuck’r we gon’ settle this business, fat ass?” She’s dressed almost identically to Tim and Donald — old wool trousers worn ragged and thin as her soul. A burlap top that barely conceals her tits, not that anyone’d wanna see anyway. Suspenders draped over her sloping shoulders, doing the Lord’s work of holding the shambling outfit together.
“It’s time to wipe those smug bastards off the map and get paid.” She lowers her eyes on the Sheriff. “You better have that money, or another body is going in that pit.”
“Yeah, we’re not mercenaries,” Donald adds as he walks through the door, winking at Tina.
“Shut up, Donald,” she says, eyes fixed on Sheriff Cole Slaw. “That’s exactly what we are.”
Holding Tina’s gaze, hand on the pearl grip of his pistol, the Sheriff doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t you worry about the money. Just worry about your aim.” A single bead of sweat runs down his wrinkled forehead, between bushy eyebrows, and pauses precipitously on the end of his nose. A gun belt rattles, betraying Donald’s nerves.
“I’m coming along, too,” says a high-pitched voice from somewhere behind the drunk rabble.
The Sheriff disengages from the high-stakes staring contest. “Hold on a damn second, I know that voice.” He cranes his neck, looking toward the entryway. Tina holsters her pistol and raises an eyebrow, stepping aside.
“Goddamnit, Annie Hitchcock, I done told you,” he slams his sweaty ham-like fist down on the desk. “You’re too young to be chasing outlaws.”
He sizes her up too quickly. Tall black boots, 5 sizes too big — last worn by her deceased kin. Frayed farmer overalls tucked in at her knees. A loose red and black flannel, ten years too big, drapes over her sloping shoulders. Her hat, bleached straw, over-baked from too many hours under the sun, hides a face only slightly assaulted by the aggressive western sun. An outstretched arm, like a snowman’s twig, leads to a tiny, callused hand. Clutched tightly in her paw is a Model 1873, damn near as tall as she is. Her weapon may have won the west, but all it’s winning her is some frantic eyebrow-raising.
She ain’t exactly intimidating. You get the picture.
“Give Donald your daddy’s rifle, and git!”
Faces twist into a montage of eyes all squinty and full of questions only death or some higher power can answer.
Someone exhales through their nose. It don’t break the tension at all. Donald, that poor idiot bastard reaches for little Annie’s daddy’s rifle. He must have completely forgotten how it is she came to be an orphan. Otherwise, he’d be more likely to take cover behind the Sheriff’s girth.
One year ago, that same poor idiot bastard and his idiot bastard kin decided to make a stop at Mr. and Mrs. Hitchcock’s residence, uninvited. They’d been out hootin’ and hollerin’ at their own camp when the warmth and smell of a home cooked meal compelled them. Well, Mr. Hitchcock didn’t take too kindly to the request and saw fit to deliver his refusal in the form of a swift right hook to Tim’s nose. Though his face was already a lost cause, Tim’s pride was swollen with brandy and mighty offended.
He accepted Mr. Hitchcock’s refusal. After a sobering speech about learning his lesson and being “mighty sorry,” he announced they should return to town to nurse their wounds with another bottle of brandy or bourbon or whatever poison might suffice to appease their demons.
Relieved of the intrusion, Mr. Hitchcock closed the door and returned to preparing the table for four. A job normally reserved for little Annie, who just happened to be getting her first spotting in the outhouse. Poor thing was paralyzed by the sight of her own blood.
We don’t often get to choose our last words, and if he had to do it over again, I’m sure Mr. Hitchcock would rectify his. ”Where the hell is that worthless girl?” ain’t the last thing a father wants to utter on this mortal plane. A hail of bullets from three directions cut down Mr. Hitchcock, Mrs. Hitchcock, Joe Hitchcock, and a nameless soul yet to even take its first breath, all while Annie cowered in the outhouse.
There was quite an investigation led by Sheriff Cole from behind the very same mahogany desk he presides over today. There was lots of finger-pointing and gesticulating and sipping of brandy and chugging of whiskey, and, in the end, there was no proof of wrongdoing other than little Annie’s word of hearing Tim Tooley’s hissing laughter and guttural “Giddyup.”
Sheriff Slaw’s final decree, “Well, the word of a little girl don’t mean much round these parts when it comes to word of law,” did not sit or settle well with Annie. But a fatherless child is akin to a boat with no keel, adrift at the mercy of the elements.
What she did have was a burning fury, a vendetta, and a pact with God sworn on that very night: once she took her revenge, she would dedicate her life to doing good, and that was that.
Until tonight, when forces of evil reunited this squalor of ruffians most precipitously. Yes, I’m surely capable of using such big words.
“Sheriff Cole Slaw, I would just as soon give Don Tooley a bullet between his crossed eyes and shit on his grave. This here rifle is sworn to a higher power as an agent of change.” She punctuates her speech with a swift kick.
“Name’s, Donald gah dammit!”
Her boots may be five sizes too big, but they meet their mark on Don’s shin.
“I’ma kill you, you little shit,” Donald spits, hunched and nearly eye-to-eye with his pint-sized aggressor.
“You had your chance, Don,” whispers Annie. To which he seems confounded and confused, rubbing his shin quizzically. “It’s my turn,” she finishes.
“Annie!” The Sheriff shouts, heaving his belly from behind the desk. “This ain’t no task for a little girl and no time for settling old scores.”
“Seems to me, that’s exactly what it is,” she seethes, backing out of the Sheriff’s office.
Thank you for reading!
This is the first chapter in my upcoming novelette, There Will Come A Reckoning. The final beta read is in progress, now. Hoping to publish in the next 30–60 days.
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