Grim

It was late September when he showed up in Red Canyon. No one knew who he was, just that he was bad, evil. That's not to say the town wasn't without bad men, but he was in a different league. No one knew his name. Everyone called him Grim, on account of the black hood he wore over his black hat and his long black duster. His beard was grizzled, his eyes were a piercing cerulean blue, and his skin was the color of sand, rough like it too; from riding across the 200 miles of desert to get to Red Canyon, they say. He was rumored to have come by horse; the only man ever. Everyone else came by the only way there was - by train. The night Grim arrived in town, Old Bill Murphy was down at Jacob's saloon having a drink, to ease the pain of his brother passing. The way he tells the story, you'd think Grim was the angel of death himself.

That particular night happened to be the 33rd anniversary of Red Canyon - which was founded back in 1802 - and Jacob's saloon was full of men in high spirits, drunk with celebration. Now, Red Canyon was a mining town, known for its hostile climate and even more hostile populace. The townsfolk were here because they had to be; thieves, liars, cheaters and killers with nowhere else to go. It was lawless. Even the sheriff, Wes Clancy, was rumored to have shot a man in cold blood because he spat tobacco on his newly shined boots. Clancy was the kind of man who you feared because of his misuse of power. You obeyed him because if you didn't, you might turn up missing, or your house might be robbed or burned down. He was someone you wanted with you (at an arms length), not against you. They say he came from the same town as Mad Maynard, a man renowned in the west for murdering six marshals and four rangers before they cornered him in Reno unarmed and in bed with three whores.

Just to give you an idea of the kind of mischief the boys were making down at Jacob's that night, Wes was said to have hauled off half the bar to jail, for disorderliness. It was the only time in the town's history that anyone was ever deemed disorderly. There were overturned tables and ceilings that looked like swiss cheese, broken chairs and a blood-stained doorway, the floors littered with broken glass. Jacob nearly closed down the saloon, and would have - if the money weren't flowing as it were. By this time it was just past three in the morning. The only thing left was the trouble you find at the bottom of the bottle; conscience had long since fallen asleep and scruples had been drowned in drink hours ago. Wes was busy at the jail, wrangling some of the town's finest criminals, shaking them down for whatever they had. The other criminals, the ones Wes couldn't - or wouldn't - wrangle, were still at Jacobs's, gambling and hollering, shooting off pistols.  This was when Grim showed up.

At the far table, the Bradley Boys - all five of them - sat and leered at the other patrons, with eyes that paced like a dog behind a fence. They all sat drinking and not saying a word.

"Looks like another one for me boys," Curt Weston yelled. "These sorry sons a bitches couldn't beat me if they shot out both my eyes," he continued. "How about I buy you boys a round to keep you from frowning; God forbid you laugh or smile or somethin," he said over his shoulder to the Bradley gang.

Curt's two opponents and the Bradley gang both glared hard. They were fed up with his insistent talking, and the others, with his winning. "Say, Curt," Clem said from across the table, "how you figure a man could win five hands in a row?"

Curt smiled and said, "a victory for each finger my friend."

"I ain't your friend, boy," Clem said coldly.

There was the sound of crunching glass, but no one noticed. Without the music playing, everyone in the saloon was hung on the words exchanged at the poker table, watching excitedly to see what would happen next. "Frankly, I'm sick of your mudsill face, and I think it's time you leave," Clem said, staring meanly while sliding his hand toward his hip.

"Is that so," Curt asked, taking a drink from his glass. He brought it from his mouth and examined it carefully, sucking his lips, savoring the taste. "Them sounds like fightin' words, Clem," he said, without looking up from the glass. Still spinning it in his hand he said, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you was tryn'a call me a cheat."

Clem's fingers tapped cooly against the metal revolver on his hip, flirting with the idea of perforating Curt Weston. Curt was said to be one of the deadliest pistoleers in Red Canyon. He shot sharp; he could shoot off six rounds into a wall and leave only one exit hole. Clem was a prideful young man of eighteen and hadn't ever backed down from a challenge. When he was young, his father had ingrained a daring sense of fearlessness in him. The kind of fearlessness that made a man feared. His pa told him bravery was doing the thing everyone else is too scared to. And there was no one in Red Canyon who wasn't scared to showdown with Curt Weston. Hummingbird, they called him, on account of how fast he was. He wore a green and purple bandana around his pistol to reinforce the fact.

Clem's best friend, Johnny Hackwell, saw Clem's fingers inching toward the trigger. Fearing he might try to kick up a row with Curt, he said: "Come on now, both of you - we just having fun here, right? Curt how about you buy those drinks and Clem and I will shuffle the deck. We can all bend elbows and play a game of cards." But Clem didn't take his eyes off Curt Weston.

"You tryn'a have a staring contest with the Hummingbird, boy," Curt asked, casually sipping from his cup. "Because it looks to me like you got three fingers on that cannon there. Been a good two minutes now," Curt said smiling. "What you thinkin' bout doin'?"

"I don't need three," Clem said hotly, "just one." "I ain't scared of you," he added, speaking more to himself than to Curt Weston.

"Well, that was your first mistake," Curt said as he swallowed the last of his beer.

In a flash, he smashed the empty glass into Clem's face and it caught him in the nose with a loud crack. Clem was disoriented; his vision blurred and his eyes stung with tears, blood ran from his burst nose. He reached and tried to unholster his pistol but Curt had long beat him to it.

"Don't," Curt said, "I'm gonna give you a chance to apologize. I like your courage, stupid and misguided as it may be."

Johnny Hackwell interjected and said, "Naw, c'mon Clem, let's just get on outta here before someone does something they regret - no hard feelings." The man in the black hood and duster, the man that no one had seen come in, the one who sat at the bar behind the men at the table, turned around in his chair to watch.

"I wasn't talking to you Hackwell; you'd best bite your tongue, before I do," Curt threatened. "What's it gonna be," he asked Clem. "Two words, or two paces," he asked.

Clem turned his head and spat blood on the dirty wooden floor. "Go to hell, Weston," he said. Realizing Clem wasn't going to back down, Johnny Hackwell started to pull away from the table.

"Where you goin' Hackwell," Curt asked, not taking his eyes from Clem.

"I don't want no trouble Curt," Johnny said, "I been drinkin' and I had my fun. I tried to smooth this over but I don't want no part of it now, it's between the two of you," he finished. Without looking, Curt shot him in the face - between his eyes. Johnny tumbled backward over his chair, his spurs jingled like dropped coins as he collapsed into the floor.

"I told you to watch your tongue, Hackwell," Curt said, placing his aim back on Clem.

Two of the Bradley boys stood up. Abraham, the youngest of the bunch, addressed Curt: "That wasn't right; Johnny didn't mean you no harm. You might as well of shot him in the back."

"Ain't no honor among thieves. Sit yourself back down; this don't concern you," Curt said, keeping his aim on a stunned Clem Williams. Johnny Hackwell had been Clem's best friend since boyhood. The first time he had ever shot a gun was with Johnny, out by the creek on the south side of town, where they'd learned to shoot by shooting on crows. They swore to each other - it was a blood-pact - that if either of them was ever wrongfully killed, the other would avenge his life. Abraham Bradley happened to be sweet on a girl who was cousins with Johnny Hackwell, and had liked Johnny a great deal. If he could capitalize on Curt's drunken stupor and avenge Johnny, surely Susie would take his hand.

"No! There's dirty and there's dirty," Abraham said excitedly. "I knew Johnny; he didn't deserve to be dealt with like that," he said, drawing his pistol and holding it on Curt.

"Ok, fine," Curt said, "allow me to make amends. I'll give Clem the chance to avenge his friend's death."

"I was his friend too," Abraham said, "why shouldn't I be able to avenge him?"

"I have enough bullets for the both of ya," Curt said. He stood up and motioned for Clem to rise. The three of them stood with their guns trained. The hooded man at the bar lit a match and began to smoke a cigarette while he looked on. Old Bill Murphy, looking down from the balcony, says nobody in the whole place stirred. Isaiah, the eldest member of the Bradley gang, called out: "Curt, if you's fighting with Abraham, you's fighting with us all."

"Well, then; the more the merrier," Curt replied.

Curt knew Clem was the biggest threat in the room - and he happened to be the closest - so he took aim at him first, and blew off the fingers of his gun hand. A part of him didn't want to kill Clem. He wanted to ruin him. Curt believed there ain't nothing more tortured than a prideful man stripped of his pride. To take away a man's hand was a kind of castration, especially for a gunslinger: the ultimate disrespect. Curt rolled and took cover under the table as the bullets from the Bradley boys flew. He only had four bullets left, but there was five of them. He knew he couldn't stand his ground and try to take them all on at once. So he got crafty. While he was on the ground he unholstered Johnny Hackwell's pistol and tucked it behind his back.

"Shoot the bastard," Isaiah screamed as shots and gunsmoke clouded the saloon. Curt fired through the smoke and caught Buck Bradley in the throat, wounding him fatally. When the smoke cleared, Curt had moved himself to the adjacent table and fired at James Bradley, lodging a bullet deep into his lung.

There was a momentary ceasefire as Curt and the surviving Bradleys hid behind overturned tables. Everyone else in the room, except for the man at the bar, had receded to the corners of the saloon. Bartholomew Bradley clutched James in his arms, cradling him and rocking gravely back and forth. He was losing blood fast. The color fled from his face and left it pale like cotton. James' gasping pained breaths bubbled and popped from his chest. Tears fell from Bart's eyes as James looked up and asked, "I'm gonna be okay, right Bart? Tell me. I'm gonna be alright, right?" Then he stopped moving. Stopped breathing.

Bart and James had been the closest of the Bradley brothers, largely because they were the closest in age - nine months apart - but also because they were both there when their ma was killed by a runaway train. Evelyn Bradley had lost her hearing when Abraham fired a shotgun inside the house, at a bounty hunter by the name of Jack Scallion, who had broke into their home to claim a then $500 bounty on Isaiah's head. When he fired the gun the buckshot scattered and hit an oil lantern, igniting it and spraying liquid fire out onto the right side of his ma's head, all in her ear. The town's Doctor, Doctor Browne, fixed up the burns and kept her from getting an infection, but never quite understood why she'd lost hearing in both her ears. So that Sunday, when the train couldn't stop, she never heard the horns blaring. She'd been rushing toward Abraham, who'd just come back to town after being gone for a year in Reno, and when the locomotive hit her she was killed on the spot, right in front of Abraham. The other Bradleys had a disdain for Abraham because of this. They always had. They felt he was a curse on the family, and they weren't wrong. After all, he'd gotten them into this mess at Jacob's.

Bart had a bad temper, a notorious one. He'd once choked Father McCafferty for telling him to recite too many Our Father's. They had to recruit the congregation to help pry him off of him, after he'd pulled the poor priest from the confessional. At the sight of two of his brothers shot and killed, he lost his head. He leapt out from behind the table and started charging Curt Weston, shooting off rounds blind into the table as he went. Curt shot back over the table, hoping to catch him in the head but hit him in the belly instead. Bart was unphased, unstoppable and unconsolable, numb with rage. He had a pistol in one hand and a large knife in the other. He dove over the table Curt had taken up behind and landed the knife down into his shoulder before Curt was able to shoot him straight in the heart. He pulled the knife from his arm and checked the wound. It was deep.

"Let's rush him," Abraham screamed, "he's only got one bullet left; he can't kill the both of us!"

Isaiah followed as Abraham charged, shooting as they went. From all the firing, the Bradleys had cut a small hole in the table. Looking through the hole, Curt waited until they were a few feet away, holding the knife in his left hand, and with his gun in his right, he placed the barrel through the hole and shot Abraham in the foot. Abraham stumbled and fell, and Isaiah toppled over. As Isaiah was falling toward him, Curt came up from behind the table and impaled him on his brothers knife, eviscerating him. With his boot on Abraham's throat, he pulled the dead man's gun from behind his back and pressed it against the last Bradley's head.

"Only fools rush in, boy," he said wryly, and pulled the trigger. With a bang the fight was over. Clem still lay on the floor, clutching his mangled right hand, dried blood all crusted up beneath his nose. Curt's head was swirling from all the killing - it made him lust for more. A madness came over him, the same madness that came over him years ago, in the desert heat. He was outnumbered and alone, his party had been killed in a stagecoach robbery gone wrong. Without food and water for days, stumbling through the desert, seeing apparitions, a band of Indians came across him. The last thing he remembered, standing in the desert surrounded by Injuns, mad as a boar, was a vision of a frantic hummingbird darting round his head, wings fluttering. His adrenaline surged and he changed his mind about letting Clem live. Laughing slowly, he pointed his gun at the young man.

"Leave the kid alone," someone from behind Curt said. It was the man at the bar, smoking a cigarette.

Curt didn't turn around immediately. He hesitated, like he was hearing a voice he'd known in a past life, like he was coming out of a dream. "Mmmm. I've been waitin' for someone like you," Curt said, looking back over his shoulder.

"Shut up," the man at the bar said, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.

"What'd you say? You think you can come in here and talk like that," Curt asked, turning around with a deranged grin on his face. Blood dripped from his shoulder down his arm. It had soaked through his sleeve. "I'll make you my lucky number 7, boy."

The man at the bar took one more pull of his cigarette and tapped it out on the counter. Old Jacob poured himself a strong drink and drank it fast. Then did it again. His gulps were loud as rocks hitting a lake. The hooded man crossed his arms underneath his duster and said, "Not tonight, I'm afraid; tonight's not your night."

"It's not my night," Curt asked with shocked impatience, looking around the room for affirmation. "You come in here and run your mouth, boy, you don't know who you're dealing with; I got no known competition."

"I told you to shut up," said the man with harsh equanimity. Posing at the bar, he looked like a living breathing wanted-poster. "I seen what you did. You shot a kid in cold blood, blew off another one's hand and killed 5 drunks; got yourself stabbed doing it, too. Should I be impressed? No. The way I see it, you're awaitin' retribution - divine reckoning; a celestial intervention."

Curt licked his lips and smiled. He stomped his heel and threw up his arms and said, "you talk real funny, boy." He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol, the bandana hanging limply from his side. It was so quiet you could hear Curt's blood patter against the wood floor as it fell from his sleeve.

"You gonna draw," Curt hollered.

The hooded man sat statue-still. After a moment he said, "I don't draw; a draw is a tie - I win," and he jumped up out of his chair, leading Curt to draw on him. With a thwip, and a greased metallic click, Curt had fired ineffectually at the man slowly moving toward him.

"Forgot you were out of bullets? I thought you would," the man said. "I bet you wish you'd saved those two bullets you spent on the kid and his friend," he said, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. "The past has a way of catchin' up to us, don't it?"

Curt's eyes became wild and he took a step back to think. "You ain't the type to pass up a draw, stranger. I'l get a weapon and we'll do this like men," Curt said with a bit too much urgency.

The man in the hood stopped a few feet before him and waited. He saw Clem writhing on the floor behind Curt. "You want a weapon? Ask him for his," he said, motioning toward Clem. "I'll wait."

"Now, that ain't...he ain't..." Curt trailed off. The man interrupted and said, "go on, ask. What use is the gun to him, after what you did to his hand and all. Not like he'll shoot ya." Curt glanced back at Clem, and when he looked at the hooded man he saw the hollow eyes of a shotgun staring back at him.

"I don't need five lucky fingers, just one," he said, before he pulled the trigger and blew Curt's leg clean off. Curt was thrown onto the floor from the blast, his leg flopped over like a dead fish. When he looked up at the man's blue eyes, the shotgun was already tucked back inside his duster. "Looks like you're goin' all to pieces on me," he said, unraveling some rope. Curt cried out and thrashed on the floor as the man bound his hands.

"You son of a bitch," he hollered, "my leg, you took my god-damned leg!"

"Hey kid," the man said, looking at Clem, "your gun; you'll let him have it, right?" Clem looked at Curt dazedly. Disbelief and a sadistic smile spread across the young man's face.

"NO! No, don't let him; you can't let him," Curt pleaded, "this ain't right!" "Somebody do somethin' to stop these rapscallions! You can't kill me, you can't!"

"It's looking pretty grim," the man said, lighting up a cigarette.