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Short Stories & Tall Tales
On the Heels of Carter Gray
By J.J. Daniels
Rumors had circled for weeks predicting his arrival. Circled like buzzards gliding in a dead noon sky. They grew in number and ferocity as he drew near, sensational stories of cruelty and wonder that would soon be shaped into legend as time caressed them with sand and tongue. Door locks were reinforced, valuables stashed in dark places, and a watchful eye set on the horizon for the coming of Carter Gray.
He arrived in blistering heat and, though he rode in more than a hundred yards from the outskirts of town, the bartender was the first to lay eyes on him. His skin was rough and weathered, his clothing torn and dusty. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat down lower than seemingly possible as he strode purposefully into the run-down saloon. All eyes followed him from the door to the bar.
"Whisky, leave the bottle." He coughed.
A catatonic bartender tried to find his breath.
"You hard of hearing?" Carter lifted his head to reveal a beard white as the pearly gates and eyes black as the abyss. His request was granted, tremulously.
"How about some food, as well?" He pulled his duster tighter. "I might be a while."
"Y-yes, sir, Mr. Gray," came the reply.
Carter scoffed and turned to find an empty table for his bottle.
The bar was old and made no attempt to hide it. Warped floorboards, splintering columns, and an ever crumbling roof outlined a room littered with circular tables and wooden chairs that had seen their fair share of late-night drinking, gambling, and carousing. Carter felt at home.
He found his spot at an empty table in the back corner of the saloon where the sunlight failed to reach. Cloaked in shadows, he removed his hat and filled his glass. The burning liquid felt good as he swallowed, and it reminded him how empty his stomach was.
Whispers slowly began to break out among the patrons brave enough to remain in their seats.
He was three drinks into his bottle when a hesitant bartender edged his way into the shadowy corner with a hot plate of dark meat. Carter relaxed as the food and, ever so slowly, a fork and knife dropped before him.
"Let me know if it's enough," the bartender mumbled into his chest before making a hasty retreat. Carter dove in without a word.
He savored every bite down to the bone, rabbit he thought, as he pushed the empty plate aside. With a sigh, he refilled his empty glass and reached for a cigarette. Suddenly, the saloon doors crashed open, startling every patron in the bar save one. Striding in with the dust kicked up from the commotion came a young man highbrowed and cocksure. His air was regal and his light eyes blazed with purpose. He tightened a tailor-made frock coat around broad shoulders and a puffed chest. Silver glistened from somewhere underneath.
The newcomer scanned the bar effortlessly, reading faces, demeanors, and body language. In seconds he was standing over Carter Gray, hand beneath his coat.
"There have been four false alarms in as many weeks regarding your presence in my town, sir." The young man's voice was hard, yet strangely giddy. "And here I was thinking we had a fifth."
His words hung in the air in the now eerie silence of the saloon.
"Yet here you are," the newcomer continued. "In the flesh."
Carter did not look up at the boy as he spoke; instead, he fumbled around aimlessly under his filthy jacket. Before he found what he was searching for, however, the newcomer brought a deft hand with a lit match out from under his coat.
"Have a seat, lawman," Carter signaled with a nod of his head after indulging in his company's generosity.
"Let's be frank," the young man cleared his throat as he dusted off the seat of a nearby chair. "If I were to ask you to accompany me in a civil manner to the jailhouse down the street, you would not oblige that request, now would you?"
Carter savored the smoke in his chest before breathing out gently.
"I thought not," the lawman seemed almost elated as he slid into his chair mechanically. Leaning in close to his opposite he whispered, "Then if you will not offer yourself up into the hands of the law, Carter Gray, as U.S. Marshal Samuel Turner of this third district, I will be forced to draw firearms with you as you are a wanted criminal and villain."
The old gunslinger sucked on his cigarette once more before he slowly leaned forward and reached under his discolored coat.
"Easy, Gray," the lawman's young hand fled instinctively to his side as his hawk eyes watched their prey's every move. "We can do this all messy-like in here. Or we can do it the proper way outside in the street."
"You play cards, Marshal?" Gray asked as he revealed a deck from his pocket and a sardonic grin from behind his white whiskers.
"I do," came the uneasy reply.
"Well, I'm not in any hurry to rush outside, shoot fire, and take life. Especially with half a bottle still left in front of me." Gray spoke coolly with a nod of his head. "So, what do you say to a game of cards, eh Marshal?"
"Fine," the lawman's hand eased from his side. "But know you're just delaying the inevitable, Gray. No tricks. You aren't walking out of here a free man, not without getting through me." He tapped the badge beneath his coat proudly.
"No tricks," Carter echoed the boy's words as he began shuffling the cards back and forth with astounding dexterity. "Just regular five card draw. You know the game, I’m sure."
The marshal nodded and they played a few hands in uneventful silence.
"Rumor has it you're drifting from down south," Turner spoke abruptly after throwing away a pair of twos. "Word is you slew a handful of lawmen down there while robbing a grocer."
Carter dazzled with the deck once more before tossing out a new hand.
"I heard you single-handedly lifted a bank over in Little Rock, as well," the marshal continued, unfazed. "Killed a couple of deputies on your way out of town."
A folded hand was the only reply.
"But you know what I think?" The young man lowered his voice. "I think such stories are mere ghost tales. Fabricated myths snowballed from the youth of a washed-up old scoundrel who rides his own legend from town to town basking in free drinks and the fear of innocent folk."
The outlaw's dark eyes blazed as he took in his opposite, and though the marshal spoke too softly for anyone to have heard, a collective breath seemed to draw throughout the entire saloon. The card game stalled as the two men held each other’s gaze, intransigent. The air turned sour, as if they had already marched out into the street and the death toll hung high. Finally, Carter spoke.
"You're rather young to stand behind that badge, aren't you, Marshal?"
The hostility broke, and the cards began flying once more.
"It takes a tremendous amount of skill and character to rise to this office," the boy's voice swelled. "More than most men find in a lifetime. The few that do mostly see their glory days behind them. I am the youngest man ever to hold the office of U.S. Marshal."
"Sam Turner," Carter spoke the name absently.
"Marshal Samuel Turner," the lawman's voice was emphatic. "You should know it. My accolades are second to none. I apprehended Blazing Willy Miles as an 18-year-old sheriff, shot down three members of the Train gang on horseback as a 20-year-old deputy, and now my name and reputation have established the third United States district as the safest territory in the nation."
Gray refilled his whisky.
"Brigands and outlaws like yourself avoid my district, go around it even." The marshal shook as he spoke, his face colored. "My skillful hands and keen intellect form the most effective weapon of justice. Fear."
"Straight to the king," Carter laid his cards down placidly.
"Are you listening, Gray?" Turner raised his voice. "You who just waltzed into my territory, probably the most wanted man in the entire nation, blood of the law on your hands from decades of unspeakable villainy?"
"Can you beat it?" came the reply.
The marshal threw his cards face down on the table and let out a deep cleansing sigh.
"I am going to savor this moment, sir." He smiled cruelly. "The moment immortality came for a drink of whisky on my front doorstep. It is this moment that will cement my name in history, Marshal Samuel Turner, the man who killed Carter Gray. It will be the apex of my young and illustrious career. I could even be considered for attorney general after this, imagine that."
"My bottle’s almost dry," the old outlaw shifted in his chair.
"Don't bother ordering another," Turner was curt. "This delay has gone on long enough."
"One more hand and one more drink," Carter suddenly spoke forcibly, catching the marshal off guard. "This time I talk and you listen."
The young lawman had no words as the final cards began to fly.
"I've lived a long time, boy," the outlaw’s voice was low and dark. "Too long for my liking. You speak of accolades, my list could dwarf mountains. You speak of reputation, more men know my name than the president’s. You speak of immortality, I’ve been chasing it all my life."
Turner threw down one card for an exchange as his head cocked slightly left, intrigued.
"I am four decades older and a thousand steps ahead of you, son." Carter did not take a card exchange. "And I am more lost now than the day I started kicking up dirt."
The marshal scowled.
"You see, I have this theory I've been developing throughout my life." The old villain relaxed slightly as he laid his cards face down on the table and reached for another smoke. "I have tweaked it a hundred times over, and now I finally think I have it right."
"And what is that, Gray?" The young lawman scoffed while his fingers conjured up more fire.
"It's a theory on life," Carter nodded and accepted the light. "I've never spoken a word of it to anyone and yet..."
He paused.
"I’ve come to believe that a man's role in life is determined well before he enters this hostile world." As he spoke, the old gunslinger poured his last drink. "Not his specific role, mind you, but the scope and depth of his life I am convinced are predetermined."
"Predetermined by what?" Turner's voice was skeptical.
"Perhaps providence or fate." Carter shrugged absently. "I can't say what exactly directs our path. I suspect that answer is slated for the next life. What I have determined, however, is the method used. I started out with many different factors, but have since boiled it all down to just the three. It really is very simple when you consider it."
"The three?"
"The three characteristics of every man: intelligence, skill, and luck. It sounds so small, but it is everything. Think of it in this way―three dice, each one representing a different characteristic. Before any of us are born, our dice are cast. Where they land determines our entire life scope. The banker, for instance, won out in intelligence if not perhaps in skill or luck, while the master gunsmith is dumb as a rock, but so incredibly skilled he can work pure magic with fire and steel. Some roll average numbers such as the storekeeper or the bartender while others, like the gravedigger or drunkard, lose out on every cast. Everybody is free to live their life however they see fit, but how far they go and what they accomplish is already laid out on the table."
"And what of the man who rolls top numbers with all three dice?" The young lawman's eyes glistened as he spoke.
"Already you've anticipated my point," Gray pointed a resolute finger at his opposite. "Such men are destined for greatness in all they do, be it enforcing the law or breaking it."
"We are such men?" Turner mused, gesturing around the small table.
"Your accolades speak for themselves and I've already marked you as intelligent; for instance, you had me sized up before taking two steps into this bar. Even now, I’m betting you've noted a hundred things about me based on our conversation alone."
"And a thousand more from things you haven't said." The boy swelled. "Like how it has taken half that bottle just to stop your trigger finger from shaking."
"Has it?" Carter glanced down at his old hands longingly. "How lucky you are remains to be seen though. That measure is hardest to quantify I think."
"Quite a theory you've adopted, Gray," the marshal leaned back with pride. "I appreciate you sharing it, especially with someone like me. However, as with most theories, it's only worth its weight when proven, and the time has come I think to put it to the test."
As he spoke, the young lawman stood up and flipped his final playing cards over with a flourish.
"Four kings. How's that for luck? Now no more talking, Carter, our time is now."
"Not quite yet." The old gunslinger spoke coolly, ignoring his opposite's haste. "This isn't just some philosophy. I said I've been chasing immortality my entire life, yet have never laid one finger on it. Intelligent, skilled, and lucky as I am. I have won out on every roll of the dice and yet my days have been one curse after another."
Turner raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not relating my theory simply to feed your ambitions, son." Carter spoke softly, as a grandfather to a child. "I'm telling you right now the road to fame, riches, and glory ends here, at the bottom of a whisky bottle. I am especially telling you, Samuel Turner, because you are capable of attaining greatness in all that you do. But listen to me closely when I tell you that immortality is a beast that will devour you from the inside out."
"What is this?" The young marshal shook slightly. "Some kind of clever maneuver? A mind trick so you can ride out of here a free man?"
"No tricks, son. In fact, for once in my life I am showing my whole hand." With that the old outlaw casually turned over his cards, four aces and a deuce. "There is nothing worth chasing on the road to greatness. I know, I stand at land’s end."
"And what would you have me do instead?"
"Take a different path. Find a woman, start a family, create many pleasant memories. Abandon your thoughts of fame and glory. Smother the fire of greatness that burns within you. Replace it with joy and increase. Perhaps salvation lies in such things. For all the roads I've traveled, I fear I’ve never found it."
A penetrating pause between the two notorious men brought time and space to a standstill. The outlaw steadily drew his last few breaths full of smoke, his face hard as black granite. The marshal stood wavering over a losing hand of cards, scales hanging in the balance. A transcendent moment. Yet, life crept on, and though a small glimmer of light seemed to shine momentarily somewhere deep within the young marshal's eyes, the world allowed little time for it to grow. A deep sigh, a shake of the head, and the reverie was over.
"Forgive me if I am a bit skeptical," Samuel Turner spoke suddenly with disdain. "But here, sitting an arm’s length away from me, is perhaps the single most notorious outlaw known to man. Wanted on a thousand counts of kidnapping, theft, hijacking, assault, and murder. Hunted by every law officer in the entire nation. Glorified by every roving miscreant that shares your trade, and feared by every peaceful man, woman, and child from here to the capital."
Carter raised a dusty grey eyebrow.
"Sitting an arm’s length away from me is immortality itself." The young marshal cracked an ambitious smile. "A chance for me to attain greatness. A chance for stories to bear my name. A chance of a lifetime, and you are telling me to throw it all away for a woman, for a family? You, the final ridge on my mountain climb to glory?"
The old desperado quickly threw back the last of his whisky and rose to his feet. There was nothing left to say.
The noonday sun was blistering and the gunslinger's eyes winced against the sudden glare as he stepped out of the dusky saloon. The weathered main street was already lined with a surprisingly large crowd, all hushed and suffering. A wave of terrible whispers broke out among the onlookers as the marshal exited the saloon behind his adversary, head high, chest out.
"A duel to the death," Turner shouted with bravado, raising both arms into the air. "Between Marshal Samuel Turner of the United States third district and the infamous outlaw Carter Gray, wanted by the federal government for countless acts of unspeakable cruelty."
Carter checked his pistol in silence and marched to the center of the road for the thousandth time. The young marshal continued to stir the crowd with high waves, handshakes, and hype.
By the time the two men finally turned to face each other, the townspeople had fallen quiet with dread. Turner wore a smirk on his face, his hands hanging loose at his sides. Carter was an ocean of sweat, his arms bent and rigid. A cool breeze swept through the street, a lonely crow screeched. The outlaw blinked a dry, watery eye. The marshal went for his holster. Two shots rang out, both from the lawman's gun. Cheers erupted as a wounded Carter Gray staggered back. A rapturous grin enveloped Sam Turner's face, yet as he lifted his eyes to the heavens, he heard a third and final gunshot.
Carter sat sublime―his shooting arm outstretched, the other bloodied and cradled close to his chest. He steadied himself on one knee as blood trickled down from somewhere beneath his beard. Turner looked around in a stupor. He opened his mouth to speak, but only foam and fluid came forth. The outlaw's bullet was masterfully aimed. Within seconds, the young marshal collapsed to the dusty earth.
"Lucky," Carter spoke under his breath.
An astonished crowd looked on in paralyzed silence as the old gunslinger slowly rose to his feet and checked his wounds. A superficial graze to the cheek and a hole clean through the upper left shoulder, neither fatal. Not a soul stirred as he holstered his weapon and moved toward his ailing adversary. The young marshal kicked and twisted with every failing breath, yet as Carter approached a strange calm seemed to fall over the street. With waning strength, the boy motioned the outlaw closer. Carter knelt an ear in close, listened quietly, then closed Samuel Turner's eyes.
He stood with resolve, a hundred stares at his back, and moved toward his waiting horse. With a wincing hop and a click of his tongue, the small town began to drift quietly by.
"Wait," a young boy yelled after the desperado, breaking the crowd's long reticence. "What did the marshal say?"
Carter turned in the saddle and pulled his hat up to look at the boy.
"He said he could see the path to salvation."
"And?" the boy spoke with eager lips.
"And I'm an eternity away from it." With that, and the turn of a cold shoulder, the legend disappeared into the distance.
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