A Second Chance

April Round-up Challenge

By janajinbc

He sat with his back to the wall, whiskey bottle and glass on the table before him. Nothing about him invited approach, especially his double-holstered gun belt. He looked as tough as a man could look, scruffy and unshaven, with eyes that pierced through anyone who came too close or looked his way. Even the saloon girls steered clear of him. Paradoxically, though, his presence filled the room. Try as they might, no one could truly ignore him or forget he was there.

There were some who tried. Across the room, the three Cartwright brothers were settled around a table enjoying a well-earned beer after a long week of ranch work. Banter and friendly insults flowed as freely as the beer, but none were immune to the stories and conjectures floating around the room. Most of the saloon patrons were convinced that the lone man at the back wall was a gunfighter or desperado of some sort. Typically, it was Joe who finally broached the subject that his brothers were trying hard to avoid.

“Cosmo says he’s been in here every night for a week. Sits there all evening, walks out to the boardwalk at midnight and holds a gunfighter stance for fifteen minutes, then rides off somewhere and comes back the next night. What’s that all about?”

Adam downed the last of his beer and reached for his hat. “He’s minding his own business, just like you should do. Roy says he’s not wanted for anything and hasn’t caused any trouble. Now, let’s go. We need to get an early start on those horses in the morning.”

Exchanging exasperated glances, Hoss and Joe followed Adam out of the saloon, mounted their horses, and headed for home. Thoughts of the mysterious stranger were relegated to the background as the everyday demands of the Ponderosa took precedence.

A week later, Joe drove the buckboard into town, Hop Sing’s supply list in his pocket and cold beer on his mind. Leaving the list with Ned Cass at the mercantile, Joe spent a relaxing hour in the Silver Dollar. Remembering his last visit there with his brothers, he asked about the stranger, but apparently the man had moved on. Resigned to never knowing the whole story, Joe said his goodbyes, collected the mail and the loaded buckboard, and headed back to the Ponderosa.

The neigh of a horse brought Joe’s mind back from his speculations on who he would ask to the spring dance he’d heard about in town. He was miles from both home and Virginia City; there was no one in sight, and the possibility of bushwhack or robbery was enough to hone his attention to the here and now. Hauling the team to a stop, Joe scanned his surroundings. He could hear the faint jingle of a horse harness and spotted movement off to the side of the road.

Rifle in hand, Joe approached a saddled bay tugging restlessly against reins tangled in the brush. Neither horse nor brand was familiar; whoever it belonged to was not local. Murmuring softly to calm the animal, he eased past, tracking deeper into the brush in search of the rider.

It was a toss-up as to who was the most startled, but both men reacted with impressive speed. As Joe rounded a boulder-strewn crag, he nearly tripped over a man slumped against the rockface. Each brought their weapon into shooting position—a classic Mexican standoff.

Giving his heart a moment to settle, Joe eyed the man in front of him, instantly recognizing the two-gun stranger from the saloon, even scruffier now and clearly injured. One arm was wrapped across his body, his hand clamped over a crude bandage on his side.

Making a decision, Joe lowered his rifle and took a step back, arms wide. “Mister, I mean you no harm. My name is Joe Cartwright. I found your horse back a ways. Let’s get you into town to a doctor.”

It took a minute before the handgun finally lowered too, but the response was an unequivocal “no.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? You’ve been shot and you need care.”

“No doctor and no town. I’d be obliged if you’d bring me my horse. Maybe even fill my canteen. Then be on your way and forget you ever saw me.”

Joe considered. The guy looked like hell, but there was a lot of fight left in him, and Joe knew he couldn’t force him anywhere. Still. “Okay, how about I take you to our ranch? You can rest up there, and our cook is good with home remedies. Get you back in shape to travel.”

“No. My horse, some water, that’s it. It’s been two days since I got shot. It was a through and through and it’s healing. I’ll be fine.”

Shrugging in defeat, Joe picked up the empty canteen and retraced his steps to collect the horse. It was enlightening to come up against someone maybe even more stubborn than Joe himself. Riding this time, he directed the bay back to the rockface, stopping to fill the canteen and allow the horse a much-needed drink. The stream he found was a seasonal one, running well now in spring but likely to dry up in the summer. Thinking of that reminded him of its course, and he grinned. He knew where he could stash his wounded stranger.

It took some talking, but the practical value of convalescing in a seldom-used line shack with access to basic amenities for both man and horse finally won the day, further cemented with the promise that Joe would ask no questions and tell no one. By the time he was settled with fresh bandages and hot coffee, the man unbent enough to offer his name.

Joe lifted his mug in a casual salute. “Pleased to meet you, Jack Simons. I’m gonna hike back to my wagon now and get on home. I’ll check in on you in a day or so.” He hesitated, then plowed ahead with the question that had been nagging at him. “Is there somebody else out there I should be looking for? A body, maybe?”

Silence from the cot. The answer came reluctantly, maybe even sheepishly. “I didn’t fire a shot.”

It was enough. For now.

Over the next two weeks, Joe checked in on Jack regularly and, little by little, heard his story. Jack had been sheriff in a rough border town, replaced when people wanted a more respectable, less gunfighter-style lawman. He wandered the West, where range wars, land disputes, and sometimes bounty hunting provided plenty of work for a man handy with a gun.

Jack listened to Joe’s stories, as well, but had no frame of reference for family life. Joe’s tales of adventures with his brothers and the obvious respect and affection with which he spoke of his father sounded almost like fiction to the loner Jack had become, appealing but something he barely understood and wouldn’t know how to find.

On this day, Jack was angling for his supper at a nearby fishing hole when Joe settled in beside him. Knowing he’d be leaving soon, and as a kind of payment, a debt of gratitude perhaps, Jack decided to offer up the rest of his story.

“Somebody had been stalking me for a while, and when I got to Virginia City, I’d had enough. I stuck to a routine, sat in the same saloon, stood in the street at the same time. I waited for two weeks but no one called me out, no one tried anything. Figured it was over, or maybe just my imagination, and decided to move on. That bullet caught me when I was right about where you found my horse. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, a rifle in my back and a boot prodding my side. He said I’d killed his son and he’d been looking for me ever since. He wanted to finish me off but couldn’t do it. Finally just rode away.”

“Know who he was?”

“No, and it don’t matter. I likely did kill his son, but I didn’t murder him. I didn’t murder anyone, but in gunfights, people die.”

“Maybe gun work isn’t what you want any more. My Pa would hire you at the ranch.”

“It wouldn’t work, Joe. You saw how it was in town. People look at me, see a gunman, and trouble follows.”

“But it wouldn’t have to, Jack. Taking off one of those holsters would help a lot, be less challenging! Not many cowboys wear a double rig. And you’d like my brothers. We could make it work. Or—it wouldn’t have to be here. Pa says there’s free land available for settlers in Oregon. You could start over. Think about it.”

They left it at that and enjoyed their fish dinner before Joe left for home. He was sorry, but not surprised, when he returned the next day to find the line shack empty. He guessed he’d pushed too hard. Jack had moved on.

Two Years Later

Joe yanked at his string tie with one hand while finger-combing his hair with the other. Finished with his day-long contract negotiations, he was ready to relax at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. He didn’t even see the older man approaching from his right and almost knocked him over.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to run you down. I’m Joe Cartwright. Can I buy you a drink to apologize?”

“Joe Cartwright? A rancher from Nevada?”

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“No, but I think you know my son-in-law, Simon Jackson, from Oregon. He speaks highly of you.”

“Simon Jacks—” Joe stopped speaking as the name clicked in his mind. Jack Simons, Simon Jackson. He grinned and ushered his new acquaintance into the bar.

-The End-