The Man with No Name

The sun was hot, an inexorable heat that seared the flesh, swirling in the sky like a golden coin, flawless in its make and merciless in wake. It soared above the town of Ephrath, whose name meant something once when the folks were not far gone. But the world had moved on. The man rode in on a destitute steed, a horse more like a wraith, a ghost who no longer knew what it was doing but kept on anyway. It was emaciated, hungering, looking for solace. The man trekked onward, caring not for the pain of his companion. They traveled by the old path that cut through the endless hardpan and to the various towns that pockmarked the desert in endless numbers like blemishes on a teenager’s forehead. The dust rolled in from the west, the way the wind came, and it never stopped. You could wait a hundred long years, ten hundred, one hundred one hundred and never would the wild wind cease. When they arrived at Ephrath, they were greeted by the same rolling dust they had always known but this time also by the whistling howling as it ran through the seemingly ancient constructs. He left his horse to die outside of the town, and it sputtered and gasped for air in the cookery sun and lied to rest eternal. The man did not look back. He took his water-skin from his belt and gulped the last remaining drops. Some of it spilled onto his scruffy whiskers and formed crystalline dewdrops, a stark contrast to the harsh dryness of the desert environment. He began to amble apathetically through the town, his gun on his belt and his spurs on his boots clanking as he walked, the wooden boardwalk creaking with each solemn step. He was a regular music man. His wide-brimmed hat and thickly-knit poncho both shielded and embraced the sun’s piercing heat. He chewed on a smoldering cigarette clenched between his teeth. He walked past a drug store, a few patrons inside waiting busily for their goods, shuffling about as if they too were ghosts with no true purpose but to impersonate what the real folk did. He walked passed a barber’s; the mayor in his regal garments and glorious handlebar mustache was getting a haircut. The bank was empty, save for the teller who sat like a guard dog, obediently waiting for a customer to ask for money, only to deny them on some ridiculous grounds. And finally after an eternity he came to the pub, glorious as it was. The batwing doors beckoned any man worth his coin to have a round or two at its cooling bar, to wash his troubles away in that delicious demon rum. The man had traveled long, he had traveled so long. He had killed many and died a thousand times. He went through three horses on his journey, each one of them a better friend than any human could be. He loved them all, but he still regarded them as instruments. This bar was his goal. He came here for one reason: to kill. And perhaps this kill would end the killing for good. Either he would get his quarry, or vice versa. Either way suited Him, crusty and haggard from years of endless traveling. He took the gun from his belt—a revolver with six bullets to its name. He had no more than six, but six was all he needed. Six tiny missiles ready to end the life of any man he so chose. He brought out the cylinder and spun it once, and it danced momentarily and shined in the fading, orange sunlight. He returned it into the gun. He pulled back the hammer and waited for that sweet click of load. He was ready. Either he would kill his target and retire a rich man, or he would sleep forever. He took the smoke from his mouth and threw it to the ground. With a chuckle he said, “I guess it’s in God’s hands now.” He kicked the batwing doors of the bar in. Like the mouth to Oblivion, they welcomed him with open arms. The shots rang obstreperous. It was in God’s hands now, whatever that meant.