Red Headed Stranger

A stetson tumbles in the wind. A crow flies overhead. A bleached skull of a longhorn. A six-shooter clicks. A horse rears. An unmarked grave.

It’s 1901.

Dust. Dust fucking everywhere. Dust for fucking miles. The landscape occasionally plucked by rocks, or a strum of saguaros. Dry, dusty, and miserable.

Every desert has its lupine, and she was his. Someone to greet him, someone with welcoming kisses. Which is why her betrayal hurt more than a baby being torn to shreds by a panther. She had reignited a previous romance, a flame to tinder. He spent his nights crying and screaming.

His grip tightened around the rein, his pony saddled and ready to ride. The back of his hand smeared with the tears of a man he once knew. The lesson has begun.

He couldn’t believe it was true. Knocking on the door, calling out her name. Nothing. No kiss, no affectionate reply. Just a still silence. It felt like a decade had passed in that moment. The moment before it all turned to shit. His eyes well; his broken heart swells in his chest. The only hope that remained was that of her happiness. Thinking of another man’s hands on her sends a pulse down his spine. His jaw clenches, his fists curl. His heart thumping within him. Tears hit the sand beneath him, redundantly. Trying to forgive, but only a fool would forget. He couldn’t believe it was true.

Forgiveness turned out rarer than streams through the desert. Try as he might, try as he pleased, he tried to forgive her for the pain deep in his soul. His qualm wrestling made him restless. His restless made him reckless. In the middle of the night, he saddled his steed. Tried as he might, he left for his ride.

The lesson was over. The killing begun. The year of O-one.

Not everyone finds what they were looking for, and he hoped to join them. He rode into Blue Rock, exhausted and parched and found a place to lay his heavy head for the night. In silence he ruminated on what could be lost.

Hope for the worst, pray for a mess. Hidden and out of the way, he found the problem to his solution. He stepped through the door. Not even Death could wipe the grins from their faces.

From preacher to outlaw, best to let him be. Do not approach him and don’t cross his path. His sorrow has robbed him of reason. His pain, though hidden, isn’t affected by the miles he’s ridden. Don’t fight him, don’t spite him. He’ll eventually fuck on off.

What once was blue, now is black. Regardless of colour, they still cry the same. His heart heavy, his conscience heavier. After kissing the hangman’s noose, he hopes to stroll hand in hand again. The love that once glowed red, gone. What once was blue, now is black. Regardless of colour, they are still crying in the rain.

“His little lost love is now six feet under.”

The red headed stranger rode in from Montana, astride his black stallion. A little bay pony in tow. Lips tight and eyes like thunder. His little lost love is now six feet under.

A blonde headed bitch hung out of her window, recoilin’ in fear at the sight of the stallion. How was she to know what that bay in tow meant to the stranger? He’d happily bring an end to her life. Lay a hand on the bay and he would become the red headed danger, for it was once ridden by his wife.

Later that evening, Blondie approached the stranger. He bought her a drink, spared her some change. His mind wandering elsewhere. As it came time to settle up and saddle up, she followed him out to the stoop. She was giggling and flirting as he readied his stallion.

He shot her as she went for the bay.

Don’t fight him, don’t spite him. He’ll eventually fuck on off.

The blonde headed horse thief was buried as the sun set, another woman six feet under at the hand of the red headed danger. There ain’t no hanging a man for protecting what is his. He’ll eventually fuck on off.

26 seconds isn’t a long time. But it’s long enough to know that in the year of O-one, there was a time of the preacher and what he had done.

When you think it’s all over, it’s only begun.

You can go from the top of Montana to the middle of Colorado and still put no distance between you and your past. Best learn to live with regret. As the bright lights of Denver appeared on the horizon, the stranger eyed the shadows. No one to greet him, no one at all.

Out of the way at a tavern in town, she eyed the stranger as he stepped through the door. Not even Death could wipe the grin from his face as they danced in the little out of the way place.

You’re born by yourself, you die by yourself. May as well live your dash on your own too. Riding the waves of the desert, until you come across the one that will knock you off your horse. Eventually finding yourself down yonder. No way back, full of regret. If our outlaw is lucky, he will only find an empty abyss.

A refuge from grief, somewhere our preacher can feel safe. A warm place to sleep. Her arms perhaps? He won’t do no wrong. He’s still searching for answers to why his love had left him (He’s aware of why she left this mortal coil). Her arms look like a good place to ponder that question. He won’t stick around, you have no hold for him. But it’s been so cold lying on his lonesome. So can he sleep in your arms tonight? He promises, beneath the covers, he won’t do you no wrong.

“Well, now she and eternity are one.”

The red headed stranger still remembers. He remembers when she told him they would be one forever. He remembers when he was going to be hers for eternity. Well, now she and eternity are one and the outlaw won’t be the same outside of his own memory. A prettier face, a bigger house, a faster horse may replace him when he’s gone. Another lover, with a bolder heart. It seems when the sun was gone, well so was she. Hearts are broken by fair-weather friends, she ain’t got no time for knowing that now. If only she could see him now. The back of his hand smeared with the tears of a man she once knew. If only she could remember him then, when the candle lights were still gleaming.

When all hope is lost and control has evaporated, when the bottom of the barrel has nowhere to go, it’s the same old story. Our outlaw had nowhere to hide and he was tired of running. He found her at the end of the old dusty trail. He found himself in her eyes. His journey through every bar, beneath the stars, led him to her. He could have gone up in smoke, but her peace has turned him around. He’s in control of his life now. Our preacher now finds himself under an oak tree, fishin’ with his grandson. Quick on the wit, while shooting the shit. The only hanging here is with the boy and the woman they both enjoy.

The lesson was over. The livin’ been done. This was the story of the preacher who was betrayed in the year of O-one.