The Stranger Rode to Hillside One Day
The Stranger licked his lips and raised his hat to look into the distant setting sun. His
burro trotted along slowly cross the dry desert wastes. He reached into his knapsack and pulled
out a flask. He chugged it down, and water ran down his chin. The Stranger had sandy blond hair
and dull blue eyes. His large leather hat casted a shadow over his eyes, shielding him from the
merciless sun’s hot rays. His poncho hung down, covering the gun belt and the weapon beneath.
The poncho, brown and ragged, a genuine from the Andes Mountains, had been given to him
long ago. His revolver stood hanging at the large belt on his hip. It was a noble weapon, a handle
of dark oak, a shining metal protruding from its face. He’d first received the weapon when he
was thirteen.
The Stranger remembered his father handing him the weapon. Ol’ Sam, he’d called it.
Remember, chico, this gun will save your life one day. And when that day had come, the
revolver had become his life. Always slung at his waist, it blazed with deadly accuracy.
The gunman rode atop his slow but sturdy burro. He had named it Travis, after a man he
had known long ago. The ass had been with him for years, and proved to be a noble companion.
Its rough brown fur split into black towards the rear, and its sturdy legs plodded across the desert
sands.
The Stranger approached the sign on his left. HILLSIDE, it said, its broken wooden face
dilapidated and ruined over the years. Before the Stranger a dusty, winding road led down to the
small town before him. He trotted in. The people looked at the Stranger striding in on the back of
his burro. They looked on with shocked faces. The Stranger rode ahead. The tilted and old
ruined houses glared at him from all sides. The men and women spoke in hushed voices. The
Stranger stopped in front of the crusty building with the faded TAVERN side on its top. He
jumped down from his mount. On a nearby pillar rested a crinkled yellow sign.
The Stranger rolled a cigarette and read on. WANTED, it said in brazen letters.
MATTHEW COOPERSMITH—$5,000 DEAD OR ALIVE.
The Stranger lifted his hat, scratched his head, and swung open the doors to the tavern.
The people stopped in hushed voices. The man sitting at the piano, who had been playing a
quick, merry ragtime, stopped his performance. A hush seemed to rise from the ground to the
ceiling. The Stranger took his place at the front of the room. The bartender approached him
quietly.
The bartender had a look of worry hidden in his brown eyes. He was a tall fellow, almost
as tall as the Stranger himself. He wore a decent if ragged suit, and his small bowler hat hung off
to one side. His long curling moustache ended in a swirl.
“What can I get you?” he said.
“Whiskey,” said the Stranger.
The bartender walked to the counter and poured him a tall drink. While he did so, the
Stranger looked around the room. The people began to speak once more, looking at him,
whispering amongst themselves. The glass clunked loudly as it landed in front of the Stranger.
He took a drink and looked into the bartender’s frightened eyes.
“Anything else?” asked the bartender politely but anxiously.
“Yeah. I’d like some information, if you’ve got it,” said the Stranger in a slow, calm
voice. “What can you tell me about this place?”
“Well,” said the bartender, shifting his weight. “For starters, the name’s Kevin Mills, and
this here’s Hillside.”
“Don’t look like much of a hill to me,” said the Stranger, gesturing towards the dry desert
outside.
“This town’s been around ferever now. I ‘spect nobody knows why it’s named like that
no more.”
The Stranger sipped his whiskey. It was good. Not great, but good. The ragtime on the
piano started playing half-heartedly once more.
“Well,” began the Stranger, looking at him with cold, cool eyes, “What do you know
about Matthew Coopersmith?”
If the previous silence had been returning to life, it was squashed out of existence at the
sound of that name. The pianist plopped down the cover of his piano and marched straight out of
the room.
“They say it’s bad luck ter mention his name,” said Mills. “He’s an outlaw, you see.
Biggest damn one this town’s ever seen. They say he got the sheriff wrapped around his rope like
a cattle. He lets up the sign to let newcomers know who he is. If I was you, stranger, I’d get out
afore you start anything. I reckon Coopersmith don’t take kindly to strangers like you.”
“I ain’t a stranger to Mr. Coopersmith,” said the Stranger, a ghost of a smile on his face,
and finished off his whiskey. “Thanks for the drink.”
He dropped several coins on the counter and stood up, walking outside into the dusty
roads. It was later than midday, and the harsh sun would be finishing its rounds soon. The
Stranger stood quietly outside for a moment, and began walking down the streets. Suddenly, a
bustling young man ran into him, knocking him over.
“Oh!” he said, leaning over the gunslinger. He had darker blond hair and looked at him,
the beginnings of a beard growing on his chin. “’Scuse me! I didn’t mean nothing by that.”
The Stranger stood up and brushed himself off. “Calm down,” he said. “Where are you
headed to?”
“Oh!” began the lad. “Uh…” he showed the Stranger his badge. “I’m the new town
deputy! Name’s Pfenning—Paul Pfenning. Iff’n you don’t mind, I’d better be headed. The
sheriff really needs me.”
The Stranger held an arm out. “One moment. I need to see him too.”
The deputy stared at the Stranger for a moment, stroked the hairs on his chin, and
shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He’s o’er by the water fountain, see.”
The deputy bustled cross the town and the Stranger calmly followed after him. Pfenning
bumbled past the tavern and cross the stables. They ran a ways out till they approached an old
water pump by a collapsed fence. A tall, gaunt figure wearing a black leather hat was hunched
over something. Upon hearing them arrive, the sheriff stood and looked down at them. He was
even taller than the Stranger, and older too, much older, the bags under his dulled eyes hardened
by the years. A ragged beard sprouted forth from his face. He regarded the Stranger suspiciously.
“And just who is this?”
Pfenning jumped and said, “He just walked into town. He says he wants to have a word
with you.”
The Stranger paid no attention to this, instead looking at the sprawled corpse beneath the
water pump. A young woman, surrounded in blood, a gunshot in her torso. Her sprawl of dark
hair was tangled in the rocks and dust. The Stranger felt a firm hand placed on his shoulder.
“These are tough times, wanderer,” said the sheriff. “If’n you’re lookin for a place to
stay, I’d suggest elsewhere. The name’s Kael Sherrard, and I’m sheriff.”
The Stranger shook Sherrard’s extended hand and nodded. “What’s this here?”
The sheriff sighed and looked at the body. “’Nother victim. Coopersmith’s men. Can’t
imagine why they’d want ter kill ’er. Her name was Grace Durenberger. She came here from
northwards, so I’ve heard. Well, I’m guessin you’da heard of Coopersmith by now. He’s been
terrorizing this town fer near three months now. He and his band o’ ruffians. The biggest one of
em is some sort of a Spanish feller they say. Big, fat, ’n’ ugly. The call him the Bull.”
The sheriff paused his story, looking at the Stranger. He said nothing.
“Quiet one, ain’t you?”
The man with no name nodded. “Saves me some trouble.”
“Right. Well. Coopersmith and his band of apes came into town a few months ago and
we ain’t been able to do nothin’ about it. We paid em off. We assumed they’d leave us alone.
They did. And now this. These are harsh times, stranger, harsh times. Men like Coopersmith tear
the world down.”
The wanderer nodded. “I know Coopersmith. I came here for him.”
The sheriff’s eyebrows leapt to the heavens. “Well, if you catch the dog, there’s a mighty
fine reward in it for you.”
The Stranger nodded. “I think I’ll have to pay him a visit. Where is there to sleep?”
Pfenning interjected, looking up at the Stranger. “There’s cheap beds at the tavern, and a
hotel near the store, iff’n you prefer something a little more fancy.”
“Thanks. I’d best be on my way.”
“Fine talkin’ to you,” said Sherrard, stroking his beard.
“Yeah,” the Stranger said, walking back into the town.
---
The Stranger walked back into the tavern, and this time no one paid him much attention;
it was night, the drinks were full, the piano was playing. The Stranger walked up to the counter.
“How much for a bed?” he asked Mills.
“Ah! Welcome back, stranger. A bed’ll ring you up about ten dollars.”
The Stranger pushed the money onto the counter and ordered a scotch. So Coopersmith
was here, he reflected. It had taken the Stranger what seemed like a lifetime to find him, but here
he was. Or close enough. It was likely that Coopersmith wouldn’t even remember him. It didn’t
matter. The Stranger remembered him. The Stranger was about to stand up when Sherrard
entered the bar. All eyes went to him and murmurs of greetings arose from the bar. Sherrard
nodded and walked to the front, greeting the Stranger.
“Get me a beer,” said the sheriff to Mills.
“Yessir,” said the barkeep, jumping to his feet.
The Stranger observed Sherrard with his peripheral vision. The sheriff sipped his bear,
dribbling it into his beard. He remained another half hour, talking to Mills and the other drunken
men of the pub. When he finished his beer, he rose and looked at the lone ranger.
“Well, so long,” he said pleasantly.
“Where are you headed to?” asked the Stranger.
Sherrard frowned briefly, before turning back to its usual conserved expression. “Nothin’
much interestin’, stranger. This and that.”
With that, the sheriff strode out of the bar. The Stranger dropped his coins on the counter
and followed after. Exited the bar; the sheriff was going out to the north, to the stables. The
Stranger, obscured by the dark of the night, followed closely behind. Dogs barked in the
distance. The Stranger saw Sherrard enter the stalls and come out atop a large dark horse. He set
off with a trot onto the desert. The Stranger walked toward his own steed and rode atop. He tread
across the sheriff’s path, marked by scuttling and upturned dust and weeds. He followed a long
ways to the east to where Sherrard was headed. He galloped forth across the dry dunes. Off in the
distance, in what little light remained, he saw a crackle of flame and fuming smoke. He jumped
off his horse. The two men were situated underneath the cliff where he stood. He could make out
Sherrard, along with two other men. Neither looked friendly. He could overhear their ardent
argument.
“…it wasn’t part of the deal. Tell Coopersmith that he can’t go that far.”
The Stranger recognized the sheriff’s voice, though higher strung than usual. Now one of
the thugs started talking, a throaty, pugnacious voice.
“Real nice. You want the money or not?”
A pause. Sherrard muttered something about payment. Then the other spoke, his voice
heavy with Spanish accent and years of smoking. So this was the Bull.
“Very well. We have the money right here.”
They stopped. Some scuffling sounds, and Sherrard said something in a low voice.
“Say that again?” said the Spaniard. “Coopersmith doesn’t like it when people back out
of his deals. What? Speak up, sheriff.”
“I said,” began Sherrard’s strengthening voice. “That you tell Coopersmith to leave my
town alone. This has gone on for too long. Leave. Never return, or so help me, you will pay.”
The shorter thug laughed, and the Bull chuckled and said, “You acted a fool. Ahora vas a
pedir por tu vida como el perro que eres.”
The Stranger knew what would happen before it did. Two loud gunshots rang through the
air and a loud gasp and smoke rose through the dark air.
“Leave him. He’ll be dead by morning,” said the Bull. The two men mounted their
animals and rode off.
The Stranger got up once they were a fair distance away. He looked at the gentle burro
and mounted its back, riding down into the canyon. Sherrard, bleeding, lay on the desert ground.
The sun gave its final goodbye and sank underneath the slopes. He was dead. The Stranger
looked solemnly at the former sheriff and put down the man’s sombrero over his eyes.
He mounted the donkey Travis and galloped into the dulling horizon, back towards the
newly lawless town. It looks like Pfenning would have to be in charge now, and the Stranger
doubted that he had the skills necessary to defend against Coopersmith’s men. Pfenning was apt
to get himself killed on the first day.
The Stranger arrived into town. He soon entered the inn and slept well enough. Gunfire
at dawn awoke him soon enough. He gazed outside the window—a band of men wearing black,
large sombreros over their faces. Pointing guns at Pfenning. The pistolero flew down the steps
and snuck to the door. He listened to the men.
“Oíe, Pfenning!” said a vaquero. “Get out of town while you still have the chance! This is
our property now!”
He fired a few rounds at the poor sheriff’s feet. He jumped up and down, avoiding the
pistol fire as well as he could.
The men all laughed. There were four of them, chortling amongst themselves.
“I’d suggest,” said the Stranger, hands hovering above his big iron. “That you leave the
man alone.”
The four men turned their heads. “Sí? And are we supposed to fear some stupid white
Americano?” The others had a good laugh at this.
“As it stands, this Americano is packing heat, and could have all your heads off before
you finish laughing. If you value your lives, you leave. Simple.”
The face of the head man underwent a gradual transformation. His smirk turned into a
hideous scowl. “I’ve had enough.”
The man’s arms threw down towards his guns. Before he had a chance to even touch
them, he and the three others were down on the ground, clutching at the place where a small hole
had appeared right over their hearts. The last man standing looked at his former compadres with
a look of horror and shock.
“You, what’s your name?” said the gunman softly.
“J—Jan, sir. Jan Deutsch.”
“Tell Coopersmith that if he has any trace of honor left, he’ll confront me alone.
Tomorrow.”
The man nodded eagerly and ran to his ride. He took the reins. Then the Stranger made
the mistake of looking the other way but for a split second. Two shots fired into the air, and the
sound of hooves ripped through the vaquero’s ears. The Stranger looked at himself; he was fine.
The bullet had completely missed him. Pfenning, on the other hand, was a different matter. He
lay on the ground, his hand clutching at the gaping, bleeding wound on his torso. Pfenning
coughed.
“The doctor,” said the Stranger, bending over him. “Where is he?”
But Pfenning was unconscious. The Stranger looked behind him at the gawking
townspeople.
“Well? Where’s the doctor!” he demanded.
They looked at him blankly. The crowd parted, and an elderly man with parted grey hair
and a curly moustache walked through, holding a drink in his left hand. He looked at Pfenning
through his small, crooked spectacles.
“Sawbones. It’s about time. Would you like to take a moment to finish your whiskey
while your only remaining lawman dies?” said the Stranger sardonically.
The short medic looked distraught and hunched over to the Stranger. “My name, youngin,
is Teixeira. Cooper Teixeira, that is. I’m the finest damn doctor you’ll find around here. Treat me
with some respect!”
“Mmhmm, I see. While you’re telling me all this, that young man over there has a .45
slug lodged in his trunk and is bleeding to death. So why not save his life before talking to me
about respect, old man?”
Old Teixeira huffed at this before making his way to the shivering body of the young
policeman. “It’s not thick. Whoever shot him didn’t get him too bad. He might make it through.
Help me take him to my clinic.”
The Stranger nodded, and lifted the bleeding Pfenning to the crumbling old medical
building. The rest, he thought gravely, was up to Teixeira’s hand—and maybe a little of God’s
luck, if the deputy deserved that.
The Stranger slept the remainder of the evening in his shanty room. The bed was
uncomfortable, and he could hear the fluttering of bats over his room during the night. He didn’t
sleep well. He dreamt of the fire, the smoke and the flames rising high into the cold desert air,
the cries around him, his sister was running, she ran, she ran, but she couldn’t run fast enough.
His mother was crying, sobbing, kneeled, and the Stranger could bear to see no more.
When he awoke he walked outside the inn into the orange morning light. The wind was
blowing softly that morning, and a dry, dead tumbleweed crossed past the Stranger’s spurs across
the desiccated desert ground. He heard the familiar shot of a gun behind him, and he spun
around, his right hand hovering over his poncho.
The Bull stared back at the loner. This was the first time he had seen the man up close,
and the Stranger wished he hadn’t. The Bull was a giant hulk of a man. His dark brown hair,
covered by a wide black sombrero, fell down messily over his blackened, wrinkled forehead. His
wild brown beard spat out from his grizzled chin, and when he grinned wildly he exposed a long
line of yellow, rotting teeth.
“Coopersmith sent me to end you, chico,” said the Bull, smirking.
The Stranger said nothing. He simply stared the figure on the horse before him.
The Bull chuckled, his rank breath spitting into the hot air. “I was there. I was there on
the night we killed your family. I still remember it.” The Bull looked at the Stranger with light
dancing in his mirthful eyes. “You were crying. You wet your pants. Your parents were dead,
and all you could do, niño, was stand there crying with warm piss running down your legs. Your
father died begging for life. I remember that so well. I can still the look on hi—”
The Bull was suddenly interrupted as two slugs entered his forehead and neck. He was
dead before he hit the ground.
“Next time,” said the gunslinger, “maybe you’ll remember to shoot before you talk.”
He stared at the body, ran his hat down over his eyes, and walked away.
--It was mid-afternoon when the riders came. There were three of them, dressed in rawhide
leather and packing carbines on their backs. The Stranger looked at them as they came,
whooping and shooting at windows. When they saw him leaning against the tavern post, lighting
the cigarette in his mouth and throwing the match away, they stopped their antics.
“Can I help you, boys?” asked the Stranger.
They looked at each other. “Si,” began the shorter one. “Señor Coopersmith wants to see
you at his camp. We’re to accompany you there.”
The Stranger chuckled. “And why, exactly, does Señor Coopersmith want to see me?”
“He says he wants to talk to you. He also said that you would come willingly,” the rider
looked at the Stranger with fear in his eyes.
The Stranger nodded. “Mm-hmm. Sounds about right. If you fine, upstanding boys will
give me a moment to get my ride, I’ll come right along.”
The three looked at each other in surprise. They were visibly relieved. The Stranger went
to his donkey, and rode forward to the three men. “Well?”
One of them, a very ugly man, with a large, throbbing wart on his darkened forehead,
looked at him. “Well…we’re supposed to put this on you,” he said, showing a thick red bandana.
The Stranger only laughed. “Do you really think you’re going to get me to wear that?”
They looked at each other again. They had seen Jan return. They had heard his half-mad
ravings about a man who could shoot so fast that it seemed he had not moved at all.
“N…no,” said the ugly man apologetically. “Let’s go.”
The Stranger nodded, and the four riders set off into the winding desert sands. They
trotted forward quickly, and the three men spoke to each other in a fierce, quick Spanish. The
Stranger rode before them all. He only caught a few words of their vocal transaction, but he
knew they were talking about what would happen upon returning to the camp. By the time the
four men arrived at the camp, the sun had begun its gentle descent into the curved slopes and
dunes of the winding land.
The camp consisted of a few tents and walls. The men there looked at the coming riders
with ride grins. They were looking forward to the coming confrontation. The Stranger rode on.
They came to a halt in the middle of camp.
“He was supposed to come blindfolded,” said a nearby man.
“Yeah! He could kill us all! Did you hear what—”
Suddenly all voices hushed. A tall, lank figure approached. He was wearing a black, old
suit and a large felt hat. His black boots treaded into the ground. His thumbs were tucked into the
brown belt around his faded black cotton and he leaned back, grinning. He had two silver .45
revolvers slung at his hips.
The crowd parted. The Stranger stared silently at the tall man in the dark suit.
“Well,” said Coopersmith. “It’s been a long, long time.”
The Stranger said nothing.
Coopersmith grinned and stepped toward the Stranger. “I’m sensin a bit o’ tension
between us, son. Now, I know there’s nothin you’d like to do more than to whip out that gun of
yours and blast me straight to hell. I’m thinkin that the fact that you’re surrounded by…oh,
twenty of my men might be a tad discouraging. I think we should have us a lil’ talk. Whaddya
say, son?”
The Stranger continued staring fiercely into Coopersmith’s sharp brown eyes.
Coopersmith shifted his weight, and a sliver of unease crossed his face.
“Hey!” he barked towards his men. “Me an’ Angel Eyes here, we’re gonna have us a
dinner. So how about you idiots bring us some drinks?”
They jumped to their feet, and brought some drinks to Coopersmith. The Stranger took
none.
“Now, fellas. Get inside your tents and shut up.”
The men did so only too gladly, but many stood by the doors of their tents, listening
intently while getting drunker and drunker.
Coopersmith sat down and started a fire, flicking his match into the pile. It ignited
quickly. Coopersmith sat cross-legged before the fire, and the Stranger sat and did likewise,
rolling himself a cigarette. Coopersmith drank his whiskey and took out a long Indian smoking
pipe. The air was cool and blue and the moon peaked over them, showing a multitude of stars.
Orion’s Belt illuminated the air above the two sitting gunslingers as they smoked quietly.
“Why did you come?” asked the man in the dark suit quietly.
The Stranger stared at Coopersmith’s face, brightened by the slowly flickering flames.
The man had a long scar running down from his forehead to his jutting chin. It hadn’t been there
the last time the Stranger had seen him.
“We’re two men, kid. I think we can talk things through.”
“We’re not.”
“What?”
“I said,” said the Stranger, removing his hat, “we’re not.”
“Care to explain that little leap in logic?” said Coopersmith sarcastically.
“If a man were to look at us right now, he wouldn’t see two men, sitting around a fire. He
would see a man and a dog.”
“Why you son of—”
“You’re a coward, Coopersmith. You’re nothing but a yellow-bellied dog. A dog who
hides behind its pack. I sent that man to you with a simple message. If you want to see me, come
fight me. And what did you do? Try to bring me over to where you knew you were safe. You’re
a coward, Coopersmith, plain and simple.”
Coopersmith was fuming. “Listen, you smug bastard, it ain’t my fault that you decided to
come over here. I’ve had enough of this. I think I’m tired of hearing your—”
The Stranger stood up. “If you shoot me now, Coopersmith, which of these men would
follow you? Who would follow a man cowardly enough to confront his enemy only with twenty
guns behind his back? I came here because I knew that the only way, son, for you to face me like
a man was to confront you with your own cowardice. If you have any honor left at all,
Coopersmith, you’ll face me off one-on-one. Alone. If not, order your men to gun me down now.
They’ll probably do it. But they’ll know who you really are. They’ll know and they won’t follow
you. Not for long. ” A smile had crept its way into the Stranger’s gaunt face. He looked down at
Coopersmith, who was shaking in loathing and in horror, a man exposed and writhing before his
hidden inner weakness.
Coopersmith stood up, and the Stranger could see the pure hatred in his eyes. He stood up
and went so close to him that their lips were nearly touching. He could smell the man’s rank
breath.
“Listen right here. We’ll have it your way. A Mexican standoff. Tomorrow at Hillside.
Six in the morning.”
The Stranger turned to leave, and felt Coopersmith’s firm hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t think you’re going to live. I’m the best gunslinger this part of Barston County.
And I’m gonna make sure you die slowly. The way your father did.”
The Stranger went to his ride and galloped off into the cold, dark desert. It was midnight
by the time he reached Hillside, and when he entered the tavern, they all looked at him in
surprise.
“Hey!” said the bartender. “You’re alive! I thought you was gonna die for sure when
those men got you. What happened?”
The Stranger looked at Mills with a small smile. “Conflict resolution,” he said, and went
to his room.
--It was dusk when the Stranger awoke. Soon Coopersmith would be here. He walked
outside into the dusty town. The sun had just exposed its tip over the nearby mountains, and the
land was the dark-golden color of morning. The Stranger walked forward slowly to a bench, his
spurs clacking softly as he sat. He buried his face in his hands and thought.
--It’s morning, nearly six. The boy walks with his father out to the ranch. He’s going to
ride with his father to the nearby town, Agua Caliente. The boy is fifteen now, and already as tall
as his father. His mother hugs him and kisses his father.
“We won’t be long now, Flora,” says his father.
The boy’s younger sister runs over to the boy and embraces him eagerly. “Goodbye!”
“So long, Isabel,” says the boy, “We’ll be right back.” He grabs his hat and walks
outside with his father. The journey would last just about a day, and they would spend the night
in Agua Caliente.
The boy and his father walk to the horses. The boy’s is not yet fully grown, but a strong
steed. Just as he’s about to mount it, he hears the sound of horses on the horizon. His father is
looking out, his face confused.
“Dad, who’s that?”
“I’m not sure.”
It’s a group of five men. The one in the lead approaches quickly, and the others behind
him guffaw.
His father walks towards the men, his face full of worry.
“Well, hello!” says the man in front gleefully. He is about thirty and has a face filled with
scars.
“Coopersmith? What are you doing here?”
“Don’t play games with me,” says the man, riding closer. “I’m here for the five
thousand.”
“Mr. Coopersmith, I told you, I haven’t had enough—”
“You had until the end of the month. And…you, boy, what day is it?”
The boy looks up at the man with large, worried eyes. “It’s the twenty-ninth, sir.”
“Hahahaha! Sir, he says! Such class! Well. You know what ain’t so classy? Not paying
your dues. Now, give me what you have.”
His father takes a step back. “I can only give the thousand—”
“I didn’t ask for a portion of the money. I asked for all of it. Ramón! Grab the kid!”
A tall man walks towards the boy and grabs him, putting his revolver to his head.
“Do you want to see your son die?”
The boy’s father is blubbering. “No!” he says. “Please! Anything!”
“Get me the money. I’m done with games. Now. Get me the five thousand, or I’m going to
blow this kid’s brains out.”
His father wordlessly runs back to the house. The boy tries hard not to cry. He can hear
his mother saying something. She sounds worried. The seconds last as long as minutes. Nothing
can be heard. Suddenly, there’s an enormous shot, and the man holding the boy falls to the
ground. Without thinking, the boy runs and runs.
“THAT BASTARD!” screams the dark man. “KILL HIM! KILL ALL OF THEM!”
The boy tries to find a gun, anything, but he falls to the ground. He sees them shoot his
father in the gut and light the house of fire. His mother and sister are dragged out screaming.
Coopersmith laughs and laughs and laughs. He shoots them all. First his sister, then his mother.
“The boy. Where’s the kid? Kill him! KILL HIM!”
The boy has begun to run. He runs for the hills and he hears them shooting after him. He
runs into a dark crevice and he stays there for all day and all night. When he finally comes out,
everyone is gone. Everyone except the corpses of his family. He walks forward. The horses are
dead too. He steps forward and
--The Stranger’s thoughts were interrupted by the plodding of a horse. Before him is the
man he has been tracking down for the past ten years. The man gets off his horse. Wordlessly
they stand apart, hands at above their hips, seven meters away. The Stranger looked into the
man’s eyes. He saw hatred there, and determination as well, but what else he saw gave him a
trickle of hope. He saw fear in Coopersmith’s eyes.
A woman steps out of the nearby inn. “You!” barks Coopersmith.
She looks at the men, distressed. “Please, I don’t have anything! I’m just tryin to make
my way!”
“Shut up. Count to ten.”
“What?” says the woman. “I’m gonna call the—”
“Count to ten,” said Coopersmith calmly, “or I’ll shoot you.”
The woman shut up. “O-one…”
The Stranger’s fingers tensed. Cold sweat started on the back of his neck.
“Two…”
Coopersmith looked at the man before him. Surely he wasn’t as fast as he was. Or was
he? No one had ever beaten him, but…
“Three…”
The Stranger thought of his father teaching him to shoot from the hip. It was a difficult
skill to learn, but the Stranger had done it better than any before him.
“Four…”
Coopersmith began to panic now. He felt his fingers loosen and tighten again and again.
He felt himself clench his bowels. He thought of days come and gone. He had been born to a
prostitute. He had taught himself to live and to shoot and joined a street gang at the age of six.
That ambition to survive and become stronger, he supposed, had never left him.
“Five…”
The Stranger had found his gun unharmed by the fire. It had been softly buried under the
ashes of his former room. It was a miracle. Perhaps God was on his side after all. With the gun
and two bullets he had trekked off into the desert, alone and afraid.
“Six…”
Coopersmith remembered the first time his gang had killed a man. It was a robbery and
the man had resisted. His guts had splayed out onto the rocky earth. Coopersmith had vomited all
his dinner onto it as well.
“Seven…”
The Stranger had managed to make some money cleaning dishes. Once he could afford
some ammunition he went bounty hunting. He never forgot of his family or of Coopersmith.
“Eight…”
Coopersmith had been twelve when he’d killed his first man. He remembered how proud
he had felt. A clean shot in the head. His gang had congratulated him. He had eaten well that
night. But when he slept he had had nightmares. What if that man had had dreams like him? Did
he have a family?
“Nine…”
The Stranger looked at the man in the dark suit before him. He had never hated anyone in
his life as much as he had Coopersmith. He couldn’t lose. Could he? If he did, there was no God.
Coopersmith looked at the stranger in the poncho before him. He felt true fear gnawing at
his insides. He had not felt fear since he had been a kid. Could this man really be the end of him?
“Ten!”
The Stranger pulled out his gun. Coopersmith pulled out his. There was a loud shot, and
it broke through the sunlit air. Coopersmith fell down to the ground, clutching in pain at his
stomach. The Stranger walked over to him and looked down on the pathetic, writhing man below
him.
“I win, amigo,” he said dryly.
“Please! I’m sorry! I turn myself in! Don’t kill me! Please God don’t kill me!”
“Don’t worry. God won’t kill you,” said the Stranger, and shot him. Coopersmith
spasmed and quieted.
Suddenly the town broke into applause before him. Many had come out to see the duel
and they cheered and praised him. The Stranger sat down on the sand and buried his face in his
hands.
“You did it!” said a voice above him.
The Stranger hardly noticed. The man he had spent ten years hunting was dead. He could
finally begin his life. He stood up and looked at the cheering mass around him. Pfenning was
alive, it seemed, and was patting him on the back.
“You look better,” said the Stranger.
Pfenning guffawed. “I b’lieve I owe you five thousand dollars.”
“Yeah?” said the Stranger. “Oh. Right. The reward. Mm-hmm, I don’t think I’d mind that
at all, sheriff.”
He gave the Stranger his money, and the Stranger went over to his donkey and mounted
it.
“Wait! Can’t you stay here?”
The Stranger shook his head. “Sorry. No can do, kid.”
“What’s your name?” the crowd looked at him with enthusiasm.
The Stranger looked at them. “Call me strange,” he said with a smile, and galloped off
into the rising desert slopes, softly illuminated by the burning sun.