Deserted

A wind rustled through the land. No one heard the gunshot. No one saw the man.

If anyone had been there, watching in that desolate place, they would have seen a tall, lanky man walking out of the desert with a shotgun slung across his shoulder. They would have watched as he climbed into the faded red Ford pickup, fixed the weapon to the gun rack, and drove off down the dusty road. But no one saw this, and no one knew.

The truck continued on down the abandoned road. The man glanced in his rearview mirror and saw nothing behind him; he looked forward and saw only the painted clouds in the sky. Sunset was coming; that was probably just as well.

When the rickety old Ford finally pulled into an equally aged and washed-out town, the sun was already half-hidden behind the horizon. The man turned right at the town’s only stoplight, and then pulled into a side street and parked. He picked up the tan Stetson sitting on the passenger’s seat and climbed out of the truck, placing the hat on his head as he did so. His long strides took him quickly up the sidewalk to his destination.

He paused for a moment outside the door of the bar, and then reached for the handle. Suddenly, it swung open from the inside. The man withdrew and stiffened. He saw a flash of star-shaped gold on a field of khaki; in an instant, he recognized the deputy sheriff.

“Evenin’ officer,” he said, tipping his hat. The deputy mumbled a reply, and then moved away down the sidewalk. From the way he staggered along, the sheriff was clearly off-duty.

The man opened the door and entered the bar. A few dusty faces turned towards him, but most of the patrons remained captivated by their beer and whiskey. He glanced around, and not recognizing anyone, made his way to a bar stool. The bartender knew him and came over.

“Well, what’ll it be, Jim?”

“Just a beer—nah, something stronger. Better make it a Jack Daniels.”

The man watched as the bartender poured the whiskey and set the glass in front of him. He raised it to his lips and took a long, careful sip. When he set the glass down again, a short, stocky man he hadn’t seen approach was sitting on the stool next to him.

“Rough day, Jim?”

The man recognized the voice and turned to face his new companion.

“You might say that, Harry.”

The shorter man turned to the bartender to order a Budweiser, and then turned back to Jim.

“A word of advice? Don’t think about it too much. Just remember he had it coming sooner or later—better you than somebody else, right?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right.”

The bartender returned with the beer and the two men drank in silence. Harry was the kind of guy who knew when to keep his mouth shut; he drank his beer promptly and said goodbye, leaving Jim to his second glass of whiskey.

By the time he finished the second glass, the bar was beginning to fill up. He felt like having a third, or even a fourth, but instead he walked out the door while he was still in better shape than the deputy sheriff. The sun had vanished completely by then, and he climbed into the truck and flicked on the headlights.

Nobody saw the truck pull into the driveway on the outskirts of town, and nobody watched as the man leaned over the passenger’s seat in the darkness. He picked something up off the seat, and then took the shotgun from the rack. There was the sound of metal clinking against metal as he walked into the house.

The man entered the kitchen and laid the gun on the table. There was no one to see the man carry the other object into the bedroom, and no one to watch as he stretched himself on the bed holding it to his chest.

No one saw the tear slip down his weathered cheek as he stared for a long time at the dog collar in his hand, stroking the brass name tag with his thumb. After a long time he fell asleep, dreaming of the place that no one knew about, where he had left his closest friend.