Crumbs
Two bits to his name and a laconic drawl that stretched words like hot taffy. There wasn’t a gunslinger in the west that hadn’t heard of Russell Jeffries (RJ). People asked him how he did it. He couldn’t answer any more than a hummingbird could explain how they flapped their wings. They just did.
He’d draw, aim, & fire in the space it took you to realize he should start. Over before it began and another challenger spilling their crimson conscious onto the dirt.
West Texas is flat as an ironing board and twice as hot as the devil’s oven. None of that stopped RJ from taking in the landscape like a fish to water. Hanging off the side of his saddle was a small easel. That’s how he garnered the name “The Painted Kid,” not that he liked it.
The painting, certainly, the name, not so much.
But when the public gets ahold of something that’s put mud in your eye— they keep squelching till there’s nothing left but soggy feet and sore feelings.
Each town heralded his arrival like a fallen angel— open distrust and an inability to look anywhere else.
RJ figured once he hung up his guns, he’d make his way over to Barnum and Bailey’s. Seeing as he’s already a show.
Some challengers would call him out on main street. Crying out that they’d find him at high noon or see the back of him running off.
Most days, he had no problem raising to the task of pest removal. But once in a blue moon and deep in his cups, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he scampered away in the night like a spooked jackrabbit.
His mama told him that bravery was well and good, but making it home for dinner would always be better.
Ain’t much of a choice between being a coward or death.
RJ had no intention of dying in Mesa Verde. But then again, not many of us see the soft steps of Death tread upon the ground before us.
A boisterous young thing from Colorado had set about claiming the state as his stomping grounds by the time RJ crossed into the county.
Unfortunately for RJ, there weren’t many left in the west that didn’t know The Painted Kid on sight.
One look at the saloon and the whole street filled. You’d swear the town had planned it, the way they spread out, ready to see a quick man take the long nap.
That’s the problem with destiny— you can’t offer your legend without knowing you might be building another.
They called the young man “Billy.” He was all of five foot five and mean as a stamped snake. He had a sneer wiped across his face that made you think he took a personal offense to anyone who breathed the same air he did.
Some of us aren’t meant for a tender soul. Lord knows Billy did not tend the gardens and pet stray cats. This was a man meant for killing. One way or another— he’d ride the coattails of the reaper all the way to the land of fire. Blank eyes— without even a thought he couldn’t win.
That’s why you don’t trust fate. She’s a tricky catch at the best of times. But when you’re knocking on the door to the afterlife, it’s polite to wipe your boots on the mat first.
“I hear you want to die, old man,” Billy said. Sun tanned and sweat through, he took a slow drag from a badly rolled cigarette.
“Or we could leave the day as friends. I don’t need to warm my guns if there aren’t any fools in front of me,” RJ replied.
The crowd took a sharp breath in. A pack of land sharks instead of humans, the way they smelled the blood in the water. Despite the pretty words, no one would be leaving early.
“You calling me a fool?”
“Are you standing in front of me just to gibber?” RJ said with a wry smile. One day he’d learn not to egg melonheads on. But it wouldn’t be today.
“You know the time— high noon. Wash your face, I’ll let you die real pretty.”
Billy ashed the cigarette and blew RJ a kiss before stomping off to the saloon.
“Oh, and how about you paint me a picture or something. That’d be a real nice memento to remember you by.”
RJ looked at the crowd and sighed. He’d been crossing his fingers for whisky and cornbread. Didn’t seem like the day would settle for anything less than sour attitudes and spilled blood. Shame.
RJ guided his horse, Glenda, to the stable. The muck-filled stalls and rotten straw gave him pause. Best to finish this quick and find that cornbread elsewhere he thought.
The clink of spurs echoed through the street as the church bell rang out twelve peals between the crowds bated breath. Forget the sermons and songs, this was legend in the making. Two men set to battle and only one to walk away.
“Ten paces, easy as you like. You get six slugs, but I’ll only need the one. Tip your hat to the boss when you catch him down south. Tell him Billy sent you.”
“You gonna jaw all day or do you want to die?”
“On the count then, old man.”
“One,”
…
“Two,”
…
“Three!”
Two quicksilver hands whipped up their guns and fired. The street silent before the slump of a body. A drip and an “I’ll be damned,” followed. A second slump and the crowd was left in wonder.
Two slugs found the mark. Heart and head, RJ & Billy, respectively.
Don’t wrap up your desires in the hands of fate. You’ll go hungry more oft than not. A young boy watched the fall of two titans and wiped away yellow crumbs from his mouth. His fingers itching for his own chance at destiny.
