The Last Gunslinger

In the wild west, heroes are born and legends are made. But when you reach the top of your game, people are always looking to overtake you. Out here, that means everyday could be your last day.

Back in the day I was a legend. Bringing vagabonds to justice, hunting down gangs of outlaws, I was admired and feared when I rode into town, when people heard my spurs. I'm now an old man, drinking my life away. All the old legends are dead and gone, all but me. The world has changed, forgotten the old west, forgotten me. But every now and then, some young gun comes along, trying to be a hero. They think that if they are faster than me, they can take the mantle of 'the legendary gunslinger of the Old West'. It pains me that I must send them home to their parents in a box. Each day my vision gets a little blurrier, my draw a little slower. Now every new challenge could go either way. I wake up each day wondering if this is my last, wondering if it will be the bottle or a bullet.

Drake woke up to the harsh sun blasting through the cheap thin curtains. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The prostitute beside him was still asleep. He stood up and approached the window. The sun was high above the mountains, it was nearly midday. He looked down at the horses outside the saloon, a few new ones meant there would be a challenger looking for him. He got dressed then slipped down the back stairs, taking an apple from the storeroom.

Walking down the dusty street, he glanced at the people working.

“Hey, Mr Drake!” Bart Jeffries, the general store clerk, waved at him.

“Mornin' Bart.” Drake said, tipping his hat. “Big delivery today?” He stopped to examine the cart outside the general store.

“Yessir. Just got new toothpaste from Conneticut.”

“Don't you mean tooth powder?”

“No, It's some fancy cream it a tube. Apparently it works better than the powder.”

“Well, I'll be...” Drake muttered to himself. The times really were changing.

“Do you want to try some?” Bart asked.

“No, thank you. It'd seem a waste for someone like me.”

“Well, how about some of Clark's Rattlesnake oil. It will give you some vim and vigour.”

“Bart, I'm afraid you've been duped. You know that stuff is useless.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Bart admitted, his voice tinged with melancholy. “Well I hope this toothpaste stuff takes off or I'm finished.”

“Good luck with that.” Drake said sincerely. Bart was a good kid, just like his father. Drake couldn't help him, he was no good with money or marketing. His only skill was in taking lives “You seen the sheriff about?” He asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Oh, he's in his office, looks to be a quiet day.” Bart said, wiping his brow.

“Thank you.” He said, tipping his hat again.

Drake continued to walk down the street, eating the apple. He passed a woman in a large dress, waving a fan. Drake recognised her to be Mrs Pelton, the school teacher.

“Good day, Mr Drake.” She said, curtsying.

“Howdy ma'am.” He responded, tipping his hat.

As he neared the sheriff's office, he gave the core of the apple to a nearby horse. He then took some tobacco out of a tin and rolled it in a cornshuck.

Drake walked into the office to find it empty save for a single man frantically searching for something.

“I'll be with you in a minute.” The man said.

Drake lent against the wall, taking a match out of his breast pocket.

“You alright, Joe?” He asked, lighting the quirly. The man turned to Drake.

“Oh, Mr Drake, please take a seat.” He said, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured them each a drink and handed one to Drake, before returning to his searching.

“Ah, here it is.” He said, pulling out a shiny revolver. “My Grandfather's gun.” He holstered it on his belt. “So, what can I do for you, Mr Drake?” He asked, wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. He looked exactly like his grandfather, who had helped Drake many years ago.

“Where are your deputies?” Drake asked, through the quirly.

“Passed out in the saloon presumably. But you aren't here for them?”

“No. You look a little busy, maybe I could help.” He said, taking another drag.

“Well, I got a gang out in the country holding up stagecoaches, some cattle rustlers preying on the farms out West and the drunks in the saloon, looking to shoot up the place over a game of poker.”

Drake swigged the whiskey. It was strong but his face was too weak to contort.

“Tell you what,” He smacked his lips. “why don't we go and deal with those road agents, give you one less thing to worry about. Maybe your deputies will have sobered up by then.” Perhaps this could also help Bart.

“That would be most appreciated, Mr Drake, They have a camp up in the hills, shouldn't be too hard to find.” He said, drinking his whiskey. Drake left the office first and waited for Joe to lock the door behind him. They walked down the street to the stables and reached their horses. Drake dropped the quirly and stamped on it. Riding past the saloon, he glanced inside. There looked to be a new kid, annoying the locals. Drake closed his eyes for a few seconds and sighed.

The sun was high above them as they raced across the plains.

“Know anything about this gang?”

“Not much, they tend to keep away from town, guess they rob whiskey wagons or else they'd be in the saloon. Their boss is a fella named Nelson. Real piece of work, he is. Been trouble since my grandfather's time.”

This Nelson must be quite old now, as Joe's Grandfather, John Hale, was one of the old legends. Could Nelson be one of the last gunslingers?

The plains were empty save for the sparse vegetation that clung to them and the dust that the horses kicked up. Nelson's hideout was in an old quarry, Drake and Hale could see it a mile away. Joe slowed his horse as they got a bit closer. He was a smart kid and just like his grandfather, he never charged into battle without a plan. Drake had no cause to second guess him. He slowed his horse and they both dismounted at the base of the hill. Joe rummaged in his saddlebag for a few seconds.

“You know this place?” Drake asked.

“Yeah, been here before to try to reason with Nelson's boys. They're on the other side of this hill, by the old mine. There's a couple of shacks and caves at the bottom. They don't have any lookouts as they don't expect visitors.” Joe said as he took a bundle of dynamite out of the saddlebag. “We can flush 'em out using these.” He gave half of them to Drake, who put them in his holster. They crept up towards the top of the hill.

“I've got a favor needs askin'” Drake said, solemnly.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Let me go after Nelson. He's one of the old gunslingers, like your granddad and me. He should go out in a duel to me.”

“What if he is quicker?” Joe asked as they reached the top.

“Don't worry about me kid, my times nearly up. If he beats me, then you'll take him down.” Joe paused for a moment.

“Alright. Nelson should be in one of them shacks.” He pointed to the small wooden buildings at the bottom of the quarry. “I'll draw his men away and you get into the shack.”

“Thanks kid, I appreciate it.”

The outlaws below them were milling around the base of the quarry, most were near to the shacks. A few men walked in and out of the cave.

“'I'll draw them towards the south, you climb down here.”

“Good.” Drake nodded. He looked to the cave. It was an unknown, anything could be in there. “Stay away from the cave. Once we deal with the men outside, we will clear it out.”

“Okay. Let's get these outlaws.” Joe said, creeping around the edge of the quarry.

Drake waited for Joe to get in position. When he nodded back to Drake, that was the signal. Drake lit a match and the first stick of dynamite. He threw it towards the fire a few men were sitting around. The explosion shook the ground, throwing dust, rock and limbs skyward. Joe began tossing some dynamite into the camp and the men began advancing on his position. They were not the most talented gunslingers around and Joe was able to hold them off by himself, even taking a few out. Drake crept down the hill, making as little sound as he could. All of the outlaws were advancing on Joe. Drake lit another stick of dynamite and threw it at some of the men ducking from Joe's shots. The rock cracked with the explosion, throwing the two outlaws into the stony hillside. One by one, he checked the shacks. The first was empty, but the second was home to a fearful man fumbling with bullets. He aimed at Drake as he entered, but Drake had already pulled the trigger. He looked past the smoking barrel of his gun to see the man he shot was a young boy, barely an adult. Drake sighed. This man had his whole life before him but had joined the gang at the most unfortunate time. There would be time to lament after the battle. Drake had to find Nelson, he had to bring an end to one of the last legends of the West.

The third shack was larger than the others and the door was still closed. Could Nelson have known what was coming? Drake kicked the door open and jumped into the room. Nelson was sat at a table, smoking a pipe. He was an old man, much like Drake but the years were harder on him. He was gaunt, had a large scar across his face and he wore a tattered black suit. A top hat rested on the table beside him. Outside, gunshots echoed around the canyon.

“That would be the sheriff?” Nelson asked, glancing at him.

“Yes.” Drake said, keeping his aim on Nelson. “Do you know who I am?”

“Deadeye Drake, I presume.” Nelson said, looking out the window. “You're the oldest gunslinger I've ever seen which means you must be the quickest draw around. You're here to take me in?”

“No.” Drake paused. “We're the last of the Old West. There's no sense in you dying in a cell. We'll duel.”

“Why?” Nelson asked, chuckling. “So future generations will remember our names?”

“It's the way it should be.”

“I knew the sheriff's grandfather, John. He didn't die in a duel. He was killed in his sleep by a cattle rustler. Where's the justice in that.”

“You aren't leaving here alive. You know that. If I don't beat you, then the kid will.”

“I don't doubt it. But I'd like to enjoy my last moments on my own terms.”

“Men like us, we don't get those moments.”

“Yeah, I suppose we don't.” Nelson stood up. “But, I won't duel you.”

“Why?”

“I've lived a long time, longer than most, 'specially in my profession. I know the 'age' of the gunslinger is over. But I'm still an outlaw and I ain't gonna let you be the one to kill me. I may not get to enjoy my last moments on my own terms but I will go out on 'em.” Nelson began to draw his gun. Drake waited for him to raise his gun, noting that he wasn't trying to aim at him, but at his own head. Drake pulled the trigger of his revolver, sending a bullet into Nelson's heart. He fell to the floor and as his hand hit the floor, his gun fired into the wall. Drake watched as the life faded from his eyes. Now he truly was the last gunslinger.

“Mr Drake?” Joe shouted from outside.

“In here” Drake replied. Joe ran into the room, gun drawn.

“What happened?” He asked, staring at Nelson's corpse.

“He wouldn't come peacefully, so I agreed to duel him.”

“You still are a quick draw.” Joe said, fixated on Nelson. “I suppose this was a fitting end for him.”

Drake and Joe left the shack, the sun now high above them and the bodies of the outlaws scattered upon the hillside. All that remained was to clear out the cave. Drake knew that the only men in there were cowards or opportunists. If they left these men unchecked, the gang would seek retribution on the town and that would cause even more senseless death. Being in the business of life and death, Drake was familiar with balancing the scales. Taking a few lives now would save more in the future. There was no argument, because, sooner or later, these men would have bounties on their heads. Joe leaned towards the cave entrance.

“Still got a stick of dynamite?” He asked. Drake smiled.

“Yeah, right here.” He said, handing him his last stick. Joe lit the fuse and tossed it in. They both moved aside and leant against the cliff face. The explosion blasted dark smoke out of the cave. The cliff shook and dust fell onto their heads.

“I guess that was where they stored their dynamite.” Drake said, grinning.

“And that would be the last of them.” nodded said. “Should we bury the bodies?”

“No point. The quarry was this area's goldmine. Now it's all gone. No one will be coming here anytime soon.”

Upon their return to town, Drake walked with Joe back to the sheriff's office.

“You did good, kid. Your grandfather would be proud.”

“Thanks.” Joe said, taking his hat off. “You've been a big help. Now the townsfolk can sleep a little easier.”

“With you as their sheriff, they'll be fine. See you around, kid.” Drake said, leaving the sheriff's office. As he walked down the street, he passed the undertaker.

“Still got my money?” He asked.

“Yes sir.” The undertaker croaked. “Want it back?” Drake paused.

“No.” He said, finally. “Today could be the day."

He could not put this off any longer. He had to return to the saloon. Pushing open the swinging doors, Drake could feel all the eyes piercing him. One of them was a challenger. He walked straight to the bar and the regular ambience returned. He overheard some murmuring from a corner of the saloon.

“You know who that is? That's Deadeye Drake!” A voice whispered.

“Who?” Someone responded.

“Deadeye Drake, scourge of the Union? He killed a hundred men by himself at Gettysburg.” The first voice said.

“I heard he was at Little Bighorn and he scalped a hundred Indians as revenge for Custer.” A third voice piped up.

Drake leant against the counter and the bartender brought him a glass of whiskey. He slid a few dollars across. The bartender picked them up, counting them.

“For the drink and the room.” Drake said quietly. The bartender simply nodded, pocketed the money and walked away.

“Drake!” A youth called from behind him. He took a sip from the glass. “You're Drake, the gunslinger.”

Drake said nothing, instead drinking from his glass once more.

“Hey old man! I'm talking to you.” The young man said angrily, his hand resting on his gun.

“Sit down, kid. Have a drink.” Drake grunted, looking at his half empty whiskey. The young mad sidled up to the bar and flagged the bartender for a beer.

“Are those stories true?” The kid asked.

“They're exaggerated.” Drake said. “I fought in the confederate army, I was a Marshal, I did some 'colonising' up North.” He swigged the rest of his whiskey and pushed the glass to the bartender who poured him another glass.

“I want to duel you.”

“What's your name, kid.”

“Michael. Michael Hamilton. Come outside now.” Michael said, drawing his gun. “Or I'll shoot you right here and now” He cocked the pistol. Drake swigged his glass.

“If you shoot me now, you'll be forever known as the coward that shot an unarmed gunslinger in a saloon.”

“No, I'll be known as the man who was faster than the legendary Drake.”

“The coward that shot Drake.”

“Then come on out and duel me.”

“Look kid, my dueling days are done, just leave me alone. No sense in you dying.” Drake said. He realised the last thing he said sounded like a boast. Drake closed his eyes.

“I'm faster than you! Your dueling days are done when I put a hole in you.” Michael barked. “Tomorrow then, at dawn. That should be enough time to sleep off the whiskey.”

Drake slid his glass towards Michael.

“Get me another.”

“Huh?”

“Get me another and I'll duel you tomorrow.”

Drake heard the hooves across the plains, the screams of warriors and babies. He saw the tomahawks and the scalps, the blood and desecration. The screams grew louder and louder until they jolted him awake. Dawn had come quicker than Drake wished. He ate an apple and a biscuit before leaving. No point in dying on an empty stomach. Like every morning he looked out the window at the same blood red sky and spoke.

“What'll it be today? The bottle or the bullet?”

Stepping out into the hot Nevada sun, Drake spotted Michael about ten paces away. They walked into the middle of the street and they faced each other, hands hovering over their guns. In his youth, Drake lived for this moment. Now, he dreaded it. Though he welcomed death, he could not go out to some kid. He had to draw his quickest, so even if he lost, at least he gave it everything he could. He waited for Michael to make his move. As he did, Drake drew his revolver, cocking the hammer as he did. Michael had drawn and was lining up the shot. Drake thought where to aim. The quickest death would be the head, but the kid deserved an open casket. Drake pulled the trigger, sending the bullet into Michael's heart, knocking him to the floor. As Michael crashed to the ground, his gun went off. It missed Drake but echoed around the town. Drake sighed. Michael was quick, almost quick enough. But almost meant nothing in this world of life or death.

Drake walked up to the body, staring at Michael's cold dead eyes. From the corpse, he took a fistful of dollars. He did not feel happy about winning, instead feeling a small amount of guilt. Had Drake been in another saloon or been killed already, this young man would have his whole life before him. Drake was ready to die, the old has-been had lived a long exciting life. The kid did not need to die today.

He walked back to the saloon as people had gathered around the body. The undertaker meekly approached.

“Here.” He said, handing the undertaker the fistful of dollars. “Make sure the kid gets back to his parents in a good box.” The undertaker took the money, licking his lips. Business was good when Drake was around. “As for me, today's not the day.”