The Last Story
1926, Arizona.
Kevin squinted, trying to see the ramshackle buildings in front of him better through the blinding Arizona sun.
The buildings of the town looked as if they were about to fall apart. Most of the business’s signs had rotted and fallen apart. Two buildings, however, still had legible signs. One was missing two letters, but looked like it said "The Marjorie." He looked through the batwing doors that looked like they would fall off their hinges with a good pull. Inside, he saw a bar that was in remarkably good condition, but nothing else except for empty, rotting shelves behind it. This must have been the saloon then. The sign on the other building, however, was in remarkable condition, and he had a feeling that whoever had made the saloon’s bar had also made this sign. It read "The Clarion," but there was nothing inside to indicate what it had been.
"Was the newspaper office."
He jumped at the sound of the voice. It was old, but strong, and the southern drawl gave it a softness that was…unnerving.
He turned around, surprised that anyone else was on this land. The government owned it, and it had taken him over a year to get permission to come here. Nobody had said anything about an old man being there too.
The man was as old, if not older, than his voice sounded, but something about him made his age indeterminable. He stood at an inch or so beneath six feet, but he leaned a bit to one side, so that made telling his exact height hard. His stark white hair was thick and fell to his shoulders. His skin, while taut, was covered with age spots. He was lean, but Kevin was sure that there were muscles in there. He was also dressed like something out of the last century.
"What…what are you doing here? The government owns this property, you’re trespassing."
"And you aren’t?" The old man started walking towards him, making Kevin nervous. Something in the brown eyes made him think that his days were being counted, and that there weren’t many left.
"No, my names Kevin Steele, I have permi-"
"Steele?" He stopped just barely a foot away and peered at Kevin, as if trying to see some sort of resemblance to someone. "You a writer?"
"I…uhm…yeah. Have you read some of my work?"
The man ignored his question. "You related to Jock Steele?"
"Uhm, he was my grandfather. Actually, he wrote three dime novels about this town. That’s why I’m here actually, I-"
"Just like the little fella, only skinnier." He thought he heard him mutter, but wasn’t sure. "No, I haven’t read your work Mr. Steele. Read your grandfather’s though, not half bad, bit more dramatic than the actual events mosta the time though."
"How do you-"
"So what brings a writer here these days Mr. Steele? Tumbleweeds?"
"No, just looking for a story."
"You’re two decades late, this town died almost twenty-five years ago."
"I know. You never mentioned your name or why your here Mr…."
"I came home to die." Kevin was floored, and absently followed him across the street, and down it a ways, until he stopped at a store front and glanced up and down the street and shifted a bit, as if trying to find a certain spot. "Fifty years ago today."
"What?"
"Vin Tanner was standing right here, sweeping off the porch, when a bunch of drunken cowherders decided to hang Nathan Jackson, the local healer, when he couldn’t save their boss from gangrene. Chris Larabee, he was standing right over there, in front of the saloon." Kevin glanced across the street, seeing that they were directly across from the saloon. "they might notta done anything-probably woulda, but might notta- ‘cept that Mary Travis, the newspaper lady, came out inta the street with her shot-gun, plannin’ on stoppin’ ‘em herself…"
Kevin pulled out his notebook and started jotting down what he was saying, realizing that he was getting his story.
+ + + + + + +
"Hey! Hey, wait!" Kevin hurried to keep up with the old man, surprised at how fast he was moving. "Where are you going?"
"Cemetery."
"The cemetery? Why the cemetery?" And what was the guy’s deal with death anyways?
"Gotta say goodbye to a few people."
"But-you didn’t finish the story. I mean, what happened to Tanner and Larabee? And what about that kid? And where was Mary Travis during all of that? And-"
"You ever satisfied with what you got?"
Kevin managed to cut the stranger off midstride.
"Look, I just want the full story. Do you want all that stuff to die with you?" This time, he managed to match the old man’ stride when he stepped around him. "Look, just tell me what happened after the shootout? Tanner, Jackson, and Larabee were three of the seven men that my grandfather wrote about, was the kid J.D. Dunne? And why did they stay to protect the town? And just how long did they-"
"They were hired for a month, ended up stayin’ a lot longer though. And yeah, the kid was J.D."
"Okay, then how did they meet the other three? And how did the kid get them to let him join? And-"
He stopped when the old man bent down at a grave. At least, he assumed it was. There was a sectioned off plot, but no tombstone that he could see. At first.
He helped the old man pull weeds off of what looked to be a flat piece of wood shaped like a tombstone that had been split in two.
"Was this a tombstone?"
"Yup."
"What happened to it?"
"Looks like lightening."
Kevin bent closer to the still partially covered pieces of wood, seeing the remnants of intricate carvings.
"Who was it?"
"My wife."
+ + + + + + +
Kevin jerked awake when he heard wood hitting wood nearby.
"Hunh? Wha-?"
"Morning." As it had the previous day, the old man’s voice startled him.
After he had said that the broken tombstone had been his wife’s, he had picked up the then freed halves and walked away. Kevin hadn’t expected to see him again after that, but was glad that he’d come back.
"So, uhm, what are you doing?"
"Making a new one." For the first time, Kevin noticed that the other man had taken out a small carving knife, and was carving a piece of wood that was the size and shape of a tombstone.
He bent down to his knees on the other side of the sheriff’s desk- the jail’s cots had some how managed to stay in good shape, even if they were dirty and uncomfortable- and watched the stranger carve.
"You must have really loved her."
He thought the man wouldn’t respond for a moment, until he stopped carving and looked Kevin in the eyes.
"When I go out there and die, her face is the last thing I’m gonna see."
"How did she-"
"Childbirth."
"I’m sorry."
"I’ve had thirty years to deal with it. Sorry doesn’t mean a whole lot anymore." Maybe he’d had three decades, but Kevin could see, in that brief look, that the pain-and the love- was as strong and fresh as it had been thirty years ago.
"What was she like?"
He stopped carving, leaning back in the old chair, looking for the right words.
"She was…beautiful, inside and out. Smart, rash, strong, crazy, spunky…lord did that girl have spunk." A small smile crept onto his face. "Only known one other person with half as much spunk, and that was our daughter."
"Daughter?" He was almost afraid to ask, but couldn’t stop himself.
"Jessica. Girl looks and acts just like her mother. Still haven’t figured out if that’s a good or a bad thing." Kevin was about to ask another question when the old man switched topics. "After the fight, Larabee and Tanner took the doc back to the saloon for a drink. Mrs. Travis tried talkin’ to them while they were headed that way, but they weren’t in the mood."
Kevin scrambled for his pen and pad. He really wished he could have some sort of warning about these things.
"It was in the saloon where things got real interestin’."
+ + + + + + +
Kevin woke up a week and a half later, several hours before dawn, to find the old man looking at the papers that were on the corner of the table by lamplight.
"I say all this?"
"Yeah."
The last week and a half had been spent with the old man carving his wife’s tombstone, and Kevin-when he wasn’t looking around the town- sitting there with the pen and pad that he’d learned to keep ready at all times, waiting for the bursts of stories that came without warning or noticable reason.
"Never talked this damn much in my life."
"I’m glad you did." Kevin glanced at the tombstone. In all this time, he’d never actually managed to get a good look at it. Plus, the man had never offered his name, even though Kevin had asked several times, and he hoped that he would learn it by looking at the tombstone.
"Say, can I…" He waved his hand in the direction of the tombstone and the old man nodded, walking outside to play his harmonica. Actually, ‘play’ wasn’t the right word for the discordant notes the man played. They’d given him a headache at first, but he’d gotten used to them.
It was beautiful, but simple. Kevin didn’t know what he had expected, but it hadn’t been this. The border was a twining of two vines with small leaves. There was only a first name, and the date of death, but underneath, he had carved ‘Fire, Ice, and all that was ever between.’
"Why isn’t there a last name?"
"Too…confining. Like taking a force of nature, and claiming that ‘wind’ is all the description that you’ll ever need for it."
"Oh." Actually, he had no idea what he had meant by that, but didn’t think he was supposed to.
"Go back to sleep Mr. Steele." That sounded like a good idea.
+ + + + + + +
When he woke up again, it was daylight, and both tombstone and man were gone. The old man’s bootos, however, were still there.
Kevin found him finishing putting the tombstone on his wife’s plot.
"Hey. Hi. Uhm…" He realized that he had been running, and that, while he’d put his hat and vest on, the vest was buttoned, but his shirt was untucked, and he was gasping for breath, and probably red-faced. He supposed that that accounted for the amused look in the other man’s eyes. "I was afraid you’d left."
"Was just about to."
"But…why?"
"Told you, came back here to die. Only stayed this long to fix this."
"I meant, why do you want to die?"
"Not a matter of wanting, it’s just time. I’ve lived my life. Seem one century turn into another, stood before God and made a promise my heart made long before that, buried my wife, watched my children grow-watched one die-seen my grandchildren, and I’ve said my goodbyes. Nothin’ left for me, I’m ready."
"But that’s not…I mean…There’s so much left that you could do."
"I’m tired boy. Tired of life, tired of death, tired of bein’ a part of a time that’s gone, and ain’t comin’ back. It’s time."
"But-"
"Goodbye Kevin." It was the first time he’d called Kevin by his first name. "If you’re half the writer Jock Steele was, you’ll do just fine."
"I, uhm, that is…thanks."
He watched the old man start to walk away.
"Can I ask you one more question?"
The man stopped.
"Shoot."
"Why barefoot?"
"I want to feel the dirt between my toes, the earth beneath my feet, one last time."
Kevin watched the figure go smaller in the distance until he remembered something.
"Wait!" he yelled. "You never told me your name!"
He didn’t know if the old man replied, if he even heard, or if it was just the wind. But he heard it none the less.
"Tanner," he heard the on wind. "Vin Tanner."
The End