No Mercy for Roy Ramson

No Mercy for Roy Ramson

He was out of place. Too finely dressed for a gritty old saloon set at the edge of a frontier boomtown. But he’d come here anyway, looking for one thing, and he wasn’t going to leave until he found it. His eyes scanned the crowd, what little there is, and he finally settled on the proprietor of the saloon. Marching over to the man, he kept one hand pressed firmly over his coat, feeling the pistol tucked into the front of his pants. He wasn’t used to carrying a gun and was afraid of dropping it right out of his trousers.

“I am looking for Roy Ramson,” he told the balding man, his accent acutely Northern. “I beseech you to reveal his current whereabouts.”

The proprietor eyed him a moment and it seemed his strong, educated demands hadn’t left the impression he’d meant them to. Snorting the man didn’t seem frightened in the least, more likely he was amused. But he nodded his head towards a lone figure at one of the tables. “Right in front of you, son.”

Turning to look at the man he’d pointed out, a sliver of doubt crept into his mind at the sight of him. Not doubt for his capability of taking on the man, but doubt at the man’s legend and grandeur. This wasn’t exactly the frontiersman he had expected. His clothes were torn and dirty, a floppy hat on his head covered graying, bedraggled hair. It looked as though the man had been without a shave for months. A scar ran itself across the man’s cheek and the index finger of his left hand was missing from the knuckle up.

“Surely you’ve been mistaken,” the out of place man laughed, turning back to the proprietor, who merely shrugged and went about cleaning the glasses he stocked behind the bar. Seeing no further help coming from him, the man turned back to the disheveled cowpoke and puffed his chest because this was the moment he’d been waiting for. Since setting his foot off the train, this had been his goal, his motive, his reason for leaving home and traveling West.

He marched over to the man, coming to a stop next to him and sucking in a breath before he announced, “Roy Ramson, I am here to put a bullet through your head in the name of…” he trailed off as an unsavory smell caught him off guard. He nearly gagged and his strong bravado deflated as he brought a hand to his nose. “Mother of Mercy, what is that god awful smell?”

The man at the table shrugged a little, never looking up, but focusing on the half empty mug of beer in front of him. “Suppose it’s me,” he said, his voice gravelly and low, scratching at his throat on the way out. He threw back the rest of his beer, slamming the mug down on the table before leaning back and looking up at the boy, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “You look like a Samuels,” he observed.

Letting out a huff and dropping his hand from his nose, he gagged a little bit more on the awful smell in the air before he jutted his chin. “I am indeed a Samuels,” he confirmed. “Two years ago you shot my daddy dead and I’m here to avenge him.” He pulled back his coat and fumbled as he pulled his pistol out. He cursed beneath his breath at his shaking hands but managed to get a firm grip on the pistol and pointed it at Ramson’s face.

Roy just smirked and looked up at him, no fear or shame or surprise in his eyes. “That’s a nice pistol,” he said, voice as calm as could be.

Samuels frowned in confusion, looking down at the pistol in his hands before turning his attention back to Ramson. “You don’t believe I’ll shoot you here and now?” Samuels asked, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Oh I believe you will, son,” Ramson drawled, draping one arm across the back of his chair as he turned get a better look. “I know you come a long way, probably been stewing it over in that learned head of yours. You Samuels are men of your words. But, and here is in where the problem lies – I just don’t give a flying fiddle if you put a bullet in me.”

For a moment, Samuels wondered if this was a trick, but when Ramson made no move to say or do anything further, he let the pistol fall down to his side. “You’ve so little value for your life?” he asked.

“Devil catches up to everyone who deals with him, someday,” Ramson said simply.

Scoffing, Samuels shook his head, throwing his hand up in exasperation. “So I came all the way out here to kill my daddy’s murderer, and you turn out to be some old drunkard whose too stupid to live and who smells so ripe even the buzzards wouldn’t touch you? Remarkable.”

Ramson shrugged. “What was you expecting? Times are tough, boy.”

“I’m still going to kill you, Mr. Ramson,” Samuels told him, but even as he said the words, they felt like a lie on his tongue. He studied the man a moment before he ran a hand over his face and gave a frustrated yell. “What kind of a name is Ramson anyway? I know it isn’t a city name.”

The man actually laughed and nodded his head. “Nope. Texan. Supposed to be Ransom, you know, like a nickname so they remember me when I’m food for the maggots. But you know those country boys don’t know how to spell to save their hides. One fool newspaper spells it wrong and next thing you know, they’re all spelling it wrong. Ain’t that my luck.”

Samuels gaped before he shook his head. “Maybe I’ll just bring you to the Sheriff, or the Pinkertons. There’s got to be a reward for apprehending a man like you.”

“Last I saw, $500. That’ll buy you a pretty new suit.” Ramson pointed at Samuels’ coat. “Arizona dust is hard to get out. I’ll show you the way if you like. I’m at your mercy.”

“Mr. Ramson,” Samuels said, trying to calm the raging anger and exasperation in his chest. “Your complacency is remarkably disturbing and unwelcome. Surely you mean to ambush or murder me along the way. This benevolence isn’t who you are.”

“That educated talk puts a big old target on your back in this town, son,” Ramson nodded, reaching up to run a dirty hand through his wild, untrimmed beard. “Well, you’re the lucky son of a bitch who caught me on the day I was retiring,” he said with an air of nonchalance. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. Samuels tensed, bring the pistol up again. The move made Ramson pause, but he continued and pulled out a small pouch of tobacco and paper. He turned in his chair to hunch over the desk as he started to roll a smoke.

Letting the pistol fall to his side again, Samuels quirked his head to the side. “Retiring?” he asked. “From being a murderer?”

“Yeah, ain’t that something?” Ramson asked, licking the paper to make it stick before he pulled a matchbook from his pocket as well. He puffed the smoke and tucked everything back away. “The Almighty’s got a damn sense of humor, don’t he?”

Samuels’ opened his mouth, but floundered over his words. “Why are you retiring?” he demanded at last, the only question he could seem to put to words.

The man’s eyes fell for a moment, just a small slip in the man’s hardened state of being. He pulled the mask back on quickly and left Samuels wondering if he’d seen it at all or if it was a trick his mind was playing. Ramson pulled his floppy hat off and laid it on the table, his hair wild and thinning and clumped with grease. “Nelly never approved of my…line of work.”

“Nelly?” Samuels interjected. “Your wife?” he ventured a guess.

Ramson nodded. “Pretty as the California sunrise,” he drawled. “Newspapers never say nothing about her, because she died long before Roy Ramson ever made it to print. Tuberculosis. Painful way to go. I thought when she was on her deathbed, she’d ask me to quit. But she didn’t. You know what she said to me instead?” He glanced up at Samuels and the man just shook his head, a softened, almost compassionate look on his face instead. “She says to me, Roy, I’ll be waiting up there for you and the quickest way I know for you to get there is to keep on doing what you’re doing. And so help me if you make it to be an old man, you better not retire and soften up before you come. One day you’ll get old and slow and you’ll find someone to send you to me.” Ramson laughed and tipped his head to look up at Samuels. “And I told Nelly, sugar, the day I retire is the day I die. I ain’t gonna sit around and wait to come see you.”

Samuels looked soberly at Ramson as the man’s smile faded from his lips. He frowned and asked, “Then why are you retiring? You’re still breathing.”

The comment made Ramson laugh. He didn’t say anything as he turned in his chair, moving his foot out in front of him. He grabbed the leg of his trousers and pulled them up. Samuels gasped at the sight of the man’s leg. Just above the rim of his leather boot, the skin was rotted and black. The smell he’d gagged on earlier was emanating from the man’s foot. Samuels brought a hand back up to his nose, eyes wide as he looked at Ramson’s face.

“Gangrene,” Ramson explained. “I’m a dead man walking. Fool’s accident. Shot myself in the foot five weeks ago. Spread like wildfire up my leg. Only a matter of time now.”

Samuels looked away from the leg, the sight making his stomach churn and boil. “You could always amputate,” he said. “There are doctors…”

“I know there are doctors,” Ramson cut him off, pulling his pant leg back down and waving a hand at Samuels like the notion was preposterous. “They ain’t taking my foot. I’m marching through the gates of Heaven to see my Nelly, I ain’t crawling.” Ramson leaned forward in his chair and grabbed the pistol in Samuel’s hand. Samuel’s tried to pull it back, but Ramson wasn’t taking it from him, he was just moving it up so the barrel pointed at his own forehead. “So killing me dead? You’d be doing me a favor, son. I weren’t kidding about being at your mercy.”

Samuels swallowed thickly, his finger still on the trigger of his pistol. He glanced down at it and this was what he’d come here for. He’d come here to see Ramson dead. Avenge the death of his father and send Ramson to meet his maker. But here Ramson was, going on about mercy. What mercy had he shown his father? What mercy had he shown his other victims? Samuels felt pity for the man, but to give mercy? He remember the day he came home to find his father dead. He remembered the wails of his mother and sisters. He remembered his father’s blood staining the floorboards.

“Mr. Ramson,” Samuels said and their eyes met. “I am not a man of mercy.” He yanked the gun out of Ramson’s hand and shoved it back into his trousers, nodding his head at Ramson before he turned and started walking towards the door.

“You’ll regret this moment, letting me live. You’ll wish you pulled the trigger years from now,” Ramson called, but there was something desperate behind the words.

Samuels smiled to himself. “No I won’t.”




-----
Word count: 1991

Winner of March 2011 "What a Character! : Official WDC Contest"