Last One Out

by Earl T. Roske

  “Not your problem? All right.” Clayton drank down the rest of his whiskey. He eyed the bottle but decided not to press his luck. “Where’s that leave us.”

  “It leaves you leaving town.”

  Clayton smirked. He could feel the tug of the one-sided smile. He knew it infuriated many a man that tried to challenge it. It’d cost them, and then it cost Clayton a whole lot of freedom. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “And what if I don’t feel like leaving town?”

  The shotgun was in his face before he could blink. The speed made him appreciate his decision not to draw on the sheriff earlier.

  “You’re leaving. Not because I don’t care. I just don’t want it on my conscience.”

  “What on your conscience?”

  “Never you mind. Get to your horse. Let’s go.”

  Clayton preceded the sheriff along the planks. A couple of cursory looks over his shoulder showed that the sheriff was maintaining a strategic distance from him. There’d be no surprising a sheriff who seemed so cautious, so much on edge.

  “Seems strange,” he said as he stepped down onto the street. “A sheriff keeping the law in an empty town. Seems mighty strange, Sheriff Josiah. Got some sorta dark secret you’re trying to keep hidden?”

  The sheriff responded with a meaningful wave of the shotgun barrel. “On your horse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clayton scrambled up onto his horse’s bare back, shaking the reins loose from the post. He sat without putting the horse in motion.

  “Take the south trail. It’ll get you out of the valley faster.”

  “Might put me in some trouble if I go that way.” It wouldn’t take him directly back to the posse whose trail he was avoiding, but it would increase the chances of an encounter.

  “I’m saving you some bigger trouble.” He pointed to the road that cut to the left of the church.

  “All right, Sheriff. All right. Thank you most kindly for the hospitality.”

  Sheriff Josiah remained stone silent while Clayton waited several breaths for a response. Finally, he shrugged and jerked the reins of the horse, pulling her to the left. He gave her a heel jab and sent her into a canter toward the dry scar of dirt that cut through sage on the east side of the church before disappearing into scrub trees. He knew the path, he’d taken it many a time years before.

  He cast a glance at the church as he rode by. There was a weighty silence that seemed to roll out from it like a dense fog. He was surprised to see that all the wood missing from the town’s other buildings was stacked along the sides of the church. What was the sheriff on about? Was he taking the town apart? Was he looking for something? He’d never heard any rumors but he wouldn’t be surprised if there was something. Some of the miners had been digging in their holes for years. Who knew what they could have uncovered.

  Maybe leaving wasn’t the right move.

  Josiah watched until the rump of Clayton’s horse disappeared beyond the trunks of the stunted pines. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to string up a known rustler, horse thief, and killer. Clayton was the worst of what existed in the West. Now, however, he’d begun to understand how fleeting life was and how important it was to hold onto it as long as a person could and to respect it in others.

  He shouldered the shotgun and walked across the main street to the doctor’s home and his task around back. The sense of activity in the church seemed to have receded to the darker places with the outlaw leaving.

  Josiah paused to check on the sun. Still plenty of daylight left.

  At the back of the house, he set the shotgun down and stripped off his holster belt. A small silver picture frame with a wedding image had fallen off a cross timber in the wall. Josiah set it back in place, pausing to look at the young couple who’d stood still so long for the exposure, fighting the giggles that threatened to consume them. Newlyweds visiting a railroad town. Even in the photograph, her eyes managed to sparkle.

  After a painful silence, he hefted the handles of the barrow and leaned into it, forcing the iron wheel to roll. He pushed it down along the path behind the buildings until he reached the church. The still sunlit side of the church.

  He unloaded the wood from the barrow, stacking it with all the other wood he’d stripped from the houses and buildings of the town. Originally he’d pulled the buildings apart to reduce their hiding places. He’d had no idea what he was going to do. But one particularly cold night, when he’d wished he’d had a fire in the jail cell with him and not them surrounding him, he knew what he would do.

  When the last of the wood slats clattered onto the pile he pushed the barrow back around to the doctor’s house. He began loading more slats.

  In the safety of day he worked. The task had been rough in the beginning. He never knew from what shadowy place one of them might stumble. The daylight confused them, which gave Josiah a few seconds to either leave or shoot. He’d shot quickly enough in the beginning. That’s when he discovered the pistol was ineffective. But the burying slowed down his self-appointed task. So unless one of them tried to attack him, he left them alone to find another dark place to hide.

  Josiah had been chasing them from the dark like cockroaches. Herding them to the church. A logical spot for congregating. With each subsequent day and each building reduced to timbers, there were less and less of them to expose. He was almost done.

  During his fourth trip back with the empty barrel, he paused for a second, an ear tilted toward the church. He checked the skies but they were as clear as they had been for days with only a smattering of clouds past the hills. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out. Then he lunged for the shotgun. It was missing and he stumbled as he grabbed empty air. He rolled as he struck the ground, coming up with the pry bar he’d been using to tear off the slats. He swung wildly. Five, six, seven times before he realized no one was attacking him.

  “Careful, Sheriff, you’re liable to hurt someone like that.”

  Josiah dropped the pry bar once he laid eyes on Clayton. He shook his head and occupied himself with dusting away the dirt on his pants. A glance to the side verified that his pistol belt was also missing.

  “I told you to leave. You should heed good advice.”

  Clayton stepped out from behind what remained of the doorframe to the carriage station.

  “Had a change of mind, Sheriff.”

  “You’re a fool, then,” said Josiah. He began loading more wood onto the barrow, keeping Clayton in his peripheral view.

  “Hey, now,” Clayton said. He walked over and shoved the wheelbarrow onto its side. The wood slats clattered to the ground like dry bones. “Let’s finish our conversation like gentlemen.”

  Josiah shook his head. “The conversation was over when you left town.”

  “And now it’s started again, but with me in charge of it. How do you like that?”

  “What do you want, Clayton?” The sheriff turned to him, holding out his arms. This was wasting time. Daylight didn’t stay forever. “You want to shoot me? Please, go ahead.”

  The gun in Clayton’s hand faltered for a second. Josiah could see uncertainty in the outlaw’s face. He was probably used to people begging for their lives rather than offering it up willingly. But other people weren’t living through what he was living through. As much as Sheriff Josiah wanted to live, no one should have to live through this. Dying would make it not his problem.

  After a pause, Clayton spoke up. The cockiness in his voice stiffened his resolution. “I want what you’re hiding.”

  Josiah laughed. It was a rough laugh at first, filled with contempt. It went a little too long and crossed the border into the edges of hysteria. Clayton’s gun hand slowly dropped, though he kept a safe distance from Josiah.

  “You don’t want what I got. And I wouldn’t wish it even on the likes of you.”

  He righted the barrel, the last whimpers of his laughter keeping him company. Was it worth it to save one lou
sy outlaw’s neck? Let him stay? Let him see the truth? It’d be a short respite for Josiah with their attention turned elsewhere. But to die like that?

  Suddenly a pistol barrel was pressed against his temple. “I don’t care about your games, Sheriff. All I want is the gold.”

  “Gold?” Josiah leaned away from the pressure of the pistol. He could take Clayton now. Two, maybe three moves and the pistol would be his. But what use, really?

  “It’s a mining town, Sheriff.” Clayton had stepped back, relieving Sheriff Josiah of the temptation to act. “I bet it’s here. It’s why you’re doing all this, right? Tearing apart the town, looking for the rest.”

  “And what did I do with all the town folks? Look around you and ask yourself why I’m here alone. You were wondering about it earlier.”

  Clayton shrugged, though he did lick his lips and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. “None of my concern. Maybe they all left. Maybe you killed them all. I saw the fresh mounds out back of the church. None of that matters to me. What matters is you giving me the gold you found. Then I’ll be on my way. You can keep whatever you find after that.”

  “It should matter to you, but you’re a fool,” Josiah said. He lifted his hat and wiped at his brow with a forearm. “I’ll show you the gold.”

  “I knew it! I knew it!” Clayton danced a quick jig. “Even the lawman gets the sickness.”

  Josiah walked along the outer edge of the town, continuing to keep his distance from the few shadows and darkened entrances to root cellars. He noticed that Clayton was starting to act a bit more nervous, following his lead and keeping clear of any place still casting a dark shadow.

  They stopped at a well, built by the first shopkeeper that had set up in the valley. “Down there.”

  Clayton moved around Josiah and took a flash peek over the edge of the well. “Don’t see anything.”

  “It’s in the bucket.”

  “Pull it up,” Clayton said. He flicked the pistol barrel to indicate Josiah should get over to the well and start hauling on the rope.

  Josiah shrugged and shook his head. He went to the well and pulled on the rope. It was harder work than lifting a pail of water.

  The gold had been an accidental discovery. A byproduct of his deconstruction of the town. He’d found it stashed in small quantities under floorboards, in walls, behind pictures, in shoes. He’d held on to it with a sense of guilt at first. But later, as he realized what he was dealing with, it seemed a justifiable reward. He’d planned on moving south when he left. As far as he could. Move where there was as much daylight as night, all the time, and enough heat to cook the chill from his bones. Maybe sweat out the nightmares.

  “There it is,” Josiah said. He dumped the bucket over and five, wet leather bags, flopped out and thumped onto the damp earth at his feet.

  “That’s a lot.” Clayton whistled. Then, “is there more?”

  “If there is, I haven’t found it yet.” He paused. “And you said I could keep that.”

  Clayton looked past Josiah’s shoulder. Josiah was certain that the man was estimating the quantity of hiding places that remained.

  “Cellars might be good hiding places,” Josiah said. He smiled. “You could always check for more there.”

  “No. No, don’t want to do that.” He waved Josiah back. He dropped Josiah’s shotgun and pistol belt by the well and pulled the sacks of gold into the crook of his left arm. The weight on his arm leveraged a smile on his face. “It’s never good to be greedy. I’ll just take what’s here and mosey along.”

  “My guns?”

  “Guns? These?” With his Colt still keeping Josiah at bay, Clayton lifted the pistol belt and dropped it into the well. He dropped the shotgun down, too. “You’re welcome to them. I’ll show myself out, Sheriff. Good day.”

  Josiah turned and watched as Clayton loped across the street and between the snaggled remains of the bank and the frame of the mercantile. The bank had been a problem. But the mercantile carried dynamite and it had made short work of the brick building. Anything in the basement wasn’t ever getting out.

  He looked up. The day was getting on and now he’d have to walk back to the jail for another shotgun. Not much more would get done before quitting time.

  Clayton burst into his own little victory dance the moment he was behind the rubble of the bank. His mare, tied to a stub of a post, shied away from his exuberance. He was rich! The heft of each bag assured him that he could live the life of a baron. No more scraping through the days and weeks and months. Of course, there was a certain amount of pleasure in the things he did now. Perhaps there were things the wealthy did that were equally as pleasurable. Hell, he could probably pay to shoot people. The rich could do anything.

  He breathed heavily as he finished his dance. A manic grin was still cut into his face. If only the mercantile had still been in one piece. He needed a saddle and supplies. He looked around, not sure what he expected to see, and realized there were a dozen tarpaulins back where the trees edged up against the town. They were held to the ground with large rocks, and they covering things.

  Bodies? The sheriff could be as loco as Clayton imagined, but the shapes beneath the canvas were too sharp-edged and angular to be bodies.

  Still clutching his gold, Clayton went to the nearest tarpaulin and kicked the rocks off the edges. He grabbed a corner and whipped the canvas back, stepping away. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe the sheriff had him spooked. What he saw made him laugh.

  There were crates beneath the tarpaulin. Dozens of crates. Dried beans, coffee beans, flour, jerky, shirts and other clothes. He ran to the next tarpaulin and yanked it free of the rock anchors to find blankets, boots, saddles, and mining tools.

  The third pile had Clayton nodding appreciatively. Beneath the canvas had been hidden, along with random tables, chairs, and couches, a full-sized copper bathing tub. There was also the boiler for heating the water, and it was full.

  A bath. A bath and new clothes. Then saddle the horse and take the gold. Maybe he could double back to the east, make for Boston. Change his name again and claim to be one of the lucky ones from out west. He was certainly feeling lucky.

  He looked about, turning in several circles until he saw a crate whose top had been previously pried open. He slid the lid over and dropped his sacks of gold onto a pile of petticoats, replacing the lid. With his gold hidden he began preparing the boiler.

  It took a little longer than he’d planned, but he’d never stoked a boiler and rarely made his own campfire. That didn’t matter, of course, because in the very near future he would hire servants to prepare his bath and tend his fires.

  Soon enough, he was settling into the tub, foamy suds dripping over the edge, a randomly found cigar clamped into the corner of his mouth. The smoke wafted back to him, allowing a second inhalation of the rich, deep tobacco smoke. This was what rich people did.

  With warm soapy water lapping around his body, Clayton settled back to enjoy the cigar.

  Then something solid pushed against the cigar, pressing it into his mouth. He gagged and swung his arms as he scrambled, slipping in the soapy water. He tried to push the cigar and the metal assailant away at the same time. Finally, he flopped over the side of the tub and jumped to his feet. He blinked, trying to see through the soap suds dribbling down his face.

  “Sheriff,” he said, wishing he had, at the least, his hat at hand.

  Josiah had seen the smoke while he was returning from the church with the empty barrow. There’d been a heart-thumping moment of panic that it might be the mist. But he rationally recalled that the doctor, in his notebook, described it as green and rolling along the ground. This was rising gray smoke. Someone had a fire going.

  “Damn fool,” Josiah muttered as he set the wheelbarrow down and took up his new shotgun. He checked the sun and shadows.

  It was getting late and clouds were coming in now. It was time to retreat to safety for the night. But what about the outlaw? Leave him to what he dese
rved? Did anyone deserve that? No, not after he’d seen what happened. Not even a man liked Clayton deserved such.

  Josiah pocketed the silver-framed picture and marched along the back side of the buildings to the end of town. Along the way, he continued to leave extra space between himself and the growing dark spaces. Now that the light was fading it was even more important to be on guard.

  At the top of the jailhouse steps, he turned to look back across the town to the church. The shadows at the front of the church were dark. Even so, they wouldn’t emerge until the town was smothered in darkness or something drew them out, like blood or noise.

  The jailhouse was sturdier than even the bank. Where the bank had been brick, the jailhouse was quarried stone. The door had been thick planks with iron straps but it’d been torn out of the frame in the first few days. Inside there’d been several desks, a gun closet and a bunk for a deputy to use when prisoners were in the cage. They were all gone, smashed by the others and then removed by Josiah. All that remained was the oversized cage in the middle of the room.

  The cage was made of iron straps and rivets. It had been installed before Josiah had come to town. More often than not it had housed drunk miners for a night. Occasionally it was home to a murderer or a thief. Now, it was Josiah’s home.

  It was the only place safe at night. It had taken him three weary evenings and half his ammunition before it dawned on him. Let them come, they couldn’t get through the cage walls. He’d stocked the cage with weapons, ammunition, some foodstuffs that could be eaten without preparation, all stacked neatly in the middle. Across the top of it all was a bloodstained mattress and a couple of blankets. From all sides, Josiah’s tiny zone of safety was more than six feet from any of the cage walls. Nothing could touch him when he was locked in.

  Inside, he strapped on a new pistol belt, loading the cylinder of a new pistol before slipping it into the holdter. With the shotgun in hand, he went back outside. He paused on the stairs once more and saw that the clouds on the horizon, like a herd of stampeding buffalo, were rushing to cover the sky. It was going to be a very dark night. The worst kind.