Been out in the woods chopping some would today. The weather has been nice most of the week. I've been trying to finish doing a lot of writing while I'm up here. It was always hard for me to get stuff done back home due to distractions. The only distraction up here is I have too much time to think, so little stories keep coming to my mind that keep from finishing up some of my bigger works. Anyway, thought I might as well share this one that came to me while I was working a few days ago. Hope y'all enjoy it:
The Last of His Kind
Buck Thornton sat the vacant poker table sipping his coffee, chewing on his cigar and reflecting as his life drew to a close. Fifty-four years old and not a damn thing to show for it, except a battered sheriff’s badge pinned to his breast pocket and a rusted Colt’s Peacemaker holstered at his side. He looked at himself in the glossy mirror behind the plank bar-top. He was old and gray like the snowcapped mountains looming over the town. His eyes were baggy, his moustache bushy with streaks of white. He had been wearing the same three-piece, three dollar suit for the past four years. What little money he had was locked away in the bank, but wasn’t sufficient to pay off his debts. What’s more his back was aching, his boots were muddy and in four hours he would be in a pine box with some Bible beater reading over him while strangers employed by the undertaker lowered him into the ground.
Last night the telegraph had come through for Thornton as he made his nightly rounds. His old partner, Taw Gunther, retired marshal, now warden up state, wired him the unfortunate news. Thornton crumpled up the message and left it lying in the mud. Print Cooper was a name he had nearly forgotten in recent years. He remembered the boy was only sixteen or seventeen when he was shipped off to the penitentiary. Even that spineless old coot Judge Harper could not turn a blind eye to rape and murder. He sentenced the boy to twenty years, knowing full well he would be dead and buried by the time Cooper was released and able to enact vengeance. It was Buck Thornton who would bear the brunt of that. He had arrested the boy at rifle point and could vividly remember him sitting in the stuffy courtroom that summer day and yelling, “I’ll come back for you, Thornton. As sure as there’s a fire burnin’ in Hell, I’ll come back!” Then they dragged him out in chains and shipped him off.
“You doing alright, Buck?” Abner Jenkins asked worriedly. He was even older than the sheriff. He had been there since before Colorado was a state, before the town ever had a name, some folks said before the dawn of time. He wiped off a beer mug with a dirty rag and peered at the sheriff with his beady eyes. “I’m fine,” Buck said in his rolling, gravely voice. Abner did not believe him, but did not press the issue. Buck pulled out his pistol, looked down the sights, and then set it on the table top. “There’s gonna be a fight, ain’t there?” Abner asked. “Yeah Ab, I reckon so,” Buck admitted with a sigh. Abner set the glass down with shaking hands and tried to sound strong, “You need any help?” Buck shook his head, “No. This is a personal matter.” He wasn’t even sure what he meant.
That morning, a few school boys in their caps and jackets staged a false gunfight in the snowy streets of Nazareth, Colorado. And Buck Thornton watched them with uneasiness in his eyes. He saw there little fingers shaped into pistols, the boys yelling, “Boom, bang!” One falling theatrically into the fluffy frost and wiggling on the ground like a man bleeding out. After a while, Thornton turned away. He downed his remaining coffee, holstered his piece, put on his broad-brimmed hat and out the door. “You boys move along,” he said authoritatively and the children scattered in all directions.
The town had changed drastically since Thornton had arrived there in the 1870’s. It was mostly tents and a makeshift shack simply dubbed “The Bar.” Now telegraph poles aligned the streets, a horse drawn trolley ran on its track in a circle around the city, and Mr. Kennedy, a man who had made his fortune off the backs of Chinamen laying railroad beams, puttered about in his horseless carriage, waving with a cheery smile and blood money in his pockets. Men with canes and fancy hats walked arm in arm with ladies in expensive fur coats, and all glared judgmentally at Thornton who was viewed as a relic from the old days. The dawn of the twentieth century loomed and the world he knew was closing fast.
“Mr. Thornton, Mr. Thornton,” the Mayor heralded him, using the morning’s paper to wave him down. Thornton tipped his hat. “Won’t you come in for a moment?” the Mayor beckoned him to his office. Thornton hated that place, with its gas-lit lamps and stiff leather chairs. He smiled and clambered slowly up the stairs. “Brandy?” the Mayor offered, once inside. That was one thing Thornton could abide about the man: he enjoyed a good drink. “Just a taste,” Thornton looked at his brass pocket watch and saw that it was barely after ten o’clock. The Mayor poured two glasses and they clanked them together. The Mayor sipped his, pinky outstretched. Thornton took his in a gulp.
“Mr. Thornton,” he cleared his throat and laid his hands upon his desk, one on top of the other. “Rumor has it that a certain nemesis of yours from the old days has resurfaced and is making haste towards our fair city.” Thornton could not stand all of the Mayor’s proper grammar. He was a banker’s son from back east, educated at the finest schools and come west for an adventure. “That’s right,” Thornton replied straight-faced. The Mayor drummed his fingers nervously, “Well, what do you intend to do about it?” Thornton set his glass on the desk with a clatter and ambled over to the window, his boots clicking against the hardwood floors. He pointed across the street, “You let me put a man with a rifle atop the bank over ‘ere, maybe another one in the horse stables, and me in the street with my shotgun, we’ll make short work of him.” The Mayor gasped, “Good Heavens!” He stood up and joined Thornton at the window, “This is not Dodge City, Mr. Thornton,” he scowled, “We’ve come a long way since those bloody days and I will not have them revisited.” Thornton smirked, “Then what do you recommend, Mayor?”
“Can’t you talk some sense into him?”
"Lead speaks a lot louder ‘n words. 'Sides he ain't the sort that'll listen.”
The Mayor resumed his seat, running his fingers anxiously through his hair. “You could send for the marshal,” he suggested with a smile that insinuated he was proud of himself for the thought. “It would take him three or four days to ride up here,” Thornton replied bluntly. He walked over to the rack and pulled off his hat. “Either this town stands with me, or I stand alone,” Thornton stated his ultimatum. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton,” the Mayor said genuinely. “Nazareth is no longer the rough and tumble frontier camp it once was. Most men don’t even wear guns anymore.” Thornton nodded and shut the door behind him.
He stood alone.
Thornton trudged through the mud and the snow towards his office, his breath wafting like smoke on the icy air before him. He stopped by the telegraph office on his way. Ike Johnson sat behind the grimy window, puffing on a cigar. The whole place reeked of tobacco. “Got anything for me, Ike?” Thornton asked through the smoke. Ike spun in his chair, opened a drawer, shuffled through some papers and handed a note to Thornton. Looking up and down the street to ensure no one was watching, Thornton pulled on his glasses and read the post:
Thornton,
Cooper on the 12 o’clock train to Nazareth. Good luck. – Gunther.
Thornton flung of his glasses and gritted his teeth angrily. It was nearly eleven o’clock already. Time was slipping away. “Thanks, Ike,” he said and continued on his way. Ike coughed and nodded.
In his office, Thornton set a pot of coffee on the stove and looked at his collection of guns. He settled on the double barreled shotgun and took it from the case. He polished off the barrels with a rag and blew the dust out of the chambers. It had been almost fifteen years since he had leveled a gun at another man with the intent to kill. He wondered if Cooper were any good with a pistol. After all, he had not been much more than a child when he was sent away. Perhaps prison had changed him for the better. Thornton knew it often changed men for the worse. In the end it mattered little whether Cooper were proficient with a sidearm or not. Thornton was old, out of practice, and his eyesight was bad. He should have shot that little nip when had the chance twenty years ago.
With a heavy heart he began to clean out his desk. He took all the wanted posters off the wall, pinned there eons ago. Men long since dead. He looked at the empty jail cells, bars rusted and filled with spider webs. He went to his own little nook of a room and glanced at the empty, sunken cot, the bedside table with the stub of a cigarette and a burnt down candle set upon it. He saw the faded photograph of his mother and father hanging in a splintered frame on the wall, the couple just as stoic as he remembered them.
Susanna walked into his office without knocking, which she knew Thornton hated. He grimaced at her and then went back to loading his pistol. She came up beside his desk and laid a hand on his shoulder. Thornton looked up at Susanna. Forty eight years old, and had not aged a day since she was twenty. Her eyes still pale blue, her hair as blonde as a meadow in autumn. She was a widow eight years now, every man in the territory out for her hand. He wondered why he had been such a fool not to have married her before. That general store owner had been a good husband to her though, and had given her the stable and peaceful life that Thornton could not have. And he knew that. “Leave town now,” she said desperately
“You know I ain’t gonna do that,” he said as he clamped shut the chambers of the Peacemaker. Susanna took his big, weathered hands in her soft, dainty ones and looked into his eyes. “Please, Buck…I’m begging you.” Thornton found himself staring, unashamedly, back into those beautiful eyes. “I was a damn fool for not marrying you when I had the chance,” he said earnestly, kissing her on the forehead. He got up off of his desk and went for his overcoat. Susanna watched his every move, as her heart broke inside her chest. She knew it was no use arguing, Buck Thornton was a stubborn as a bull and twice as mean when it was called for. With teary eyes she helped him into his coat. “I always loved you, Buck,” she whispered. “I always will.” Thornton drew her close to him and they kissed passionately. She gripped his neck as if she would never let go. A few minutes later he was out the door. Susanna stood alone in the drafty office.
Thornton made his way down to the Smithy shop where Able Johnson hammered away at a horseshoe. He was a bulky old black man, a former buffalo soldier, a veteran of the Indian Wars. The kindest man Thornton knew. He raised his gray head and smiled as Thornton came in. “Mornin’ Buck,” he said in his deep voice. Thornton shook his hand, “Need you to saw this shotgun down for me, Abe, close to the stock.” Thornton took a seat on an old crate and began rolling himself a cigarette. Able looked from the gun to the sheriff and back again with a confused expression. “They’s somethin’ wrong, Buck?” Thornton shook his head, “Not yet, Abe. You just go ahead and saw her down.” Abe dropped his hammer and walked over to Thornton with a frown. “You tell me what’s happenin’ Buck Thornton or ain’t no guns gettin’ sawed.” Thornton accidently snapped the paper and tossed the cigarette away with a groan. “Print Cooper is gonna be in town in about half an hour,” he said bluntly. “He means to kill me.”
Able went back into his cubby of an office and returned with his dusty old Colt’s Revolver, army issued years ago. “He gonna have to kill me too,” Able said firmly.
Thornton smiled, “Put that away, Abe. There ain’t no sense in both of us getting shot up.” Able stomped over to his fire, “The hell I will. We doin’ this together, just like with the Indians.”
Thornton smirked at the memory. He could recall his first days as sheriff around those parts, working hand in hand with the cavalry to wipe out the last of the tribes. Able Johnson had done a lot of scouting for Thornton in those days. But they were old men now, worn and tired. “I won’t allow it,” Thornton said firmly, and Able knew that was an end on it. He bashed the saw with frustration against the rocks, “Then at least deputize some o’ the young men and shoot him to Hell!” Thornton crossed his arms and leaned back against the rough wall. “Half these dandies don’t even carry guns no more, Abe. You know that.”
“It’s finished,” Abe said after a spell and handed the weapon back to Thornton. “Good,” Thornton examined the piece, “That’ll make for a wider spread.” Able shook Thornton’s hand fervently before he left. “You take care of yourself,” he said, choking back the tears. “I’ll see you afterwards,” Thornton assured him, both men knowing it was a lie. Thornton took a left out of the shop and made treks towards the edge of town, and the train station. A few bystanders watching from shop windows and boardwalks, the streets nearly empty.
It was a few minutes until noon when Thornton reached the station. He leaned his shotgun against a freight box and lit himself a cigarette. “Pardon me, but why the hard wear?” a man in a suit, toting a trunk, asked him. “Best get outta here, mister,” Thornton advised the man. He nodded without inquiring further and jogged away. The only other bystander was a gruff old timer reading the daily paper. He glanced at the sheriff without interest and went back to his reading. Have it your way, Thornton thought to himself.
He could hear the train chugging along before he ever saw it. The breaks screeched the iron beast to a smoky halt. Thornton lifted up his shotgun, checking the chambers one last time. The conductor got off, saw the sheriff, and made for cover. Down the cars a ways, Thornton saw a man step down. It had been years since he had seen Print Cooper, but those slanted eyes, that crooked jaw, his shaggy dark hair, were all unmistakable. He smiled the most vile and bone-chilling smile at Thornton. His look was that of bloodlust. With a brace of pistols holstered about his hips he began walking towards the sheriff. Suddenly out of the smoke stepped two more figures, armed to the teeth. Three against one, Thornton thought, what odds.
They stopped and stood shoulder to shoulder at the end of the loading docks some fifteen feet from Thornton. He glared back at them, the snow falling steadily now. His black suit dusted in white flakes so that he resembled some angel of justice. Silence followed. “You Buck Thornton?” Print Cooper asked in an ignorant drawl. Thornton nodded. “You know who I am?” Cooper asked coldly. Thornton nodded. “Then I guess we got nothing left to talk about.” The fight which ensued lasted no more than twenty seconds and was the bloodiest mess that Nazareth, Colorado had seen in decades.
Cooper pulled both pistols lightning fast and put as slug in Thornton’s leg, intending to make the old man suffer before killing him. Thornton fell back into the mud with a painful grunt, the butt of the shotgun slammed into the mushy snow and both barrels erupted. Cooper’s legs were cut out from under him and he fell like a stone onto the wooden platform, wallowing in his own blood. The man to his right got his pistol caught in the holster and struggled fearfully to pull it out. Thornton drew his pistol and shot the man clean through the head. He fell flat on the planks, a bloody pool forming like a halo about his disfigured head. Thornton turned to the henchman at Cooper’s left and was met with a bullet through his right shoulder, and then his chest. With what strength he could muster, Thornton raised his right arm and shot the man in the guts. He fell on the platform, flailing with pain, just like the boy had done with his playmates in the snow that morning. A final shot rang out and Thornton lay dying, shot through the sternum. Cooper’s barrel smoked white and then the outlaw went unconscious.
People cautiously filed out of the bathhouses, brothels, and barbershops several minutes after the shooting stopped. The local newspaper man was the first on the scene with his weighty camera, capturing the aftermath. It was written up as “the damnedest mess” he had ever witnessed. A woman shooed away a group of boys intently studying the entry wound on Cooper’s man, which had exposed a portion of his brains. One of the saloon patrons pointed at Cooper and said, “That ‘n ‘ere’s still drawin’ breath.”
Cooper’s legs were causing him to bleed out and required amputation. He was shackled, placed on a train bound for the penitentiary, and hung the following morning. The two unknown henchmen were stood up against a wall, photographed, and then thrown in shallow graves on the outskirts of town and forgotten.
That evening as the sun faded pale in the west, Susanna, Able, and the Mayor, who attended out of obligation and not sorrow, made their way to the graveyard. They listened to a stoic preacher read emotionlessly from the Bible, while two men hired by the undertaker lowered a coffin into the rocky Colorado soil. There was no reporting on the death of Gregory “Buck” Thornton beyond what was printed in the Nazareth Star. No laments were written in his honor, no songs in his name. His headstone was washed away in a hellish storm later that year, and no one thereafter could locate his resting place.
Nazareth continued to change and grow as the years progressed. Automobiles eventually replaced horses as the main mode of transportation. The city streets were paved with gravel and bordered with electric light poles. The old, quaint sheriff’s office was torn down and replaced with a two story jailhouse. For a time, it was the most rapidly growing city in the state.
Throughout the years Thornton’s name would come up every so often. Over a shave in a barber shop, during a card game, between men enjoying mugs of beer. Gentlemen in tall hats would curse him for a fool set in his backwards ways. Laborers and cowhands would remember him as the sort of fellow who always gave a man a fair shake. Children exaggerated the number of men he killed in his lifetime, and sometimes re-enacted his showdown at the train station. Women would often shudder and whisper something to the effect of “ruffian” when he was mentioned. But whether they had admired the man or not, one thing was always agreed upon: He had been the last of his kind. And the world would never see his like again.
The End.
