(no subject)
I just finished this. It's based on Jakes submissions. It's not good, but remember that alot of it is supposed to be spoken, not read, so keep in mind a flawed character is telling you the story instead of a grammatically adept narrator whilst ye read.
There's an old gravestone on Gearson's hill, right outside of town. You know, the one right off of Tarrington road. Yes, you remember the place, now. Even in the bright of day it's hard to see much of anything up there from the roadside, but if you sit long enough and don't get dust in your eyes from the passers-by, you'll see him, plain as day, standing right by his own grave.
Now let me tell you a little bit about the fellah this stories about. I wish I could tell you more, but to be honest no one knows much about him. Nobody knows his name, but the law still labels him "that wicked son'uva'bitch". Man had no home neither, as far as anyone can reckon. No girl, no money, no horse...all the man had was the coat on his shoulders the day he walked into town. Worst of all he walked into town never knowing Sheriff Meritt.
Good Lord help the man, he turns old Meritts neck.
Now the Sheriff's never was an angel; in fact some say he was in league with the darkness itself. I myself never had a problem with the man, then again I'd known since the moment I seen him he wasn't any lover of the law. The man was a pig by the physique, but a snake by his eyes. Sometimes you look a man in his eyes and you can just see him lying to you. Well that's what Meritt was.
Well Sheriff Meritt had been in place for years by then, and everyone had been whispering about his scheming. See, it wasn't that the man was an outright criminal; it seemed much more so that he was an monster of the law, an self proclaimed "iron fist of God's morality." The bible-thumper praised one law above all others: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But slowly an eye became a hand, a hand became a limb, and a limb became a life. He ruthlessly tore into the con artists, the robbers, the prostitutes, the cheaters, and the murderers. The man didn't believe in jail, no sir. He believed in a show of force, an immediate response to a rising tide of crime in a city that had gone wild before his entrance. He'd maim the tongues of the cons; the fingers of the robbers; he'd cut the prostitutes pretty faces; he'd burn the cheaters hands; he'd kill the murderers outright. No man met mercy for what he done, even if he hadn't really done it. Nobody ever escaped his law. Nobody.
And strangely it all seemed to work. These walking (except the murderers, of course) symbols of merciless penitence were able enough to take any thought of illegal action from the common mans mind. The town was quiet, the scary kind of quiet where you know that things are so in control that they are completely out of hand. The kind of quiet you read about in stories where the ghoul is just about to jump out of the darkness. Nobody liked it save the Sheriff.
We never got a chance to ask the kid, though.
To his credit, the kid had walked into town a man of integrity. His first entrance to Desmond's he looked straight for a game of cards, and turned out he sat with Cal and Burton. The kid never made even the slightest of moves, they said, and they saw no flaws in the man's character at the table. Eventually the kid cleaned em both out on one hand, but Burton told me something I'd never forget:
"That son'uva'bitch, he never even reached for the money. He said, 'You fellahs split it. It's impolite to take a strangers money.' Well I near about feel off my chair. The bastard walks into my game, takes my money clean and takes more pride in beating me than takin' my money. I wanted to punch the son'uva'bitch, but instead I bought him a handle."
Well, apparently the kid took one swig when a Colt shot bellowed outside. Now him being the fool that he was, he rushed out to see what the fuss was about. Sure enough the deputies were cleaning up the Sheriffs mess.
"Now," the Sheriff said to the pile that once was a man, "I'll tell you what you're charged with." Before he could even blink he raised his head toward the kids direction. "Hey boy, you're want a piece of advice? Best watch yourself in my town, you hear?" He spit on the corpse. "Now get off."
The kid just turned around back toward the bar and dropped a dollar on the counter.
"Hey, hey, hey," said Burton, "I said that was on me."
The kid grinned and said, "I'm buying you another one, pops." He turned back out toward the street again. "Stay inside."
Well, any man told that in this town knows there's trouble, and naturally trouble gets attention. Cal and Burton looked at the kid in disbelief, wondering what the hell was going through his mind.
But that moment of stunned silence gave way when they heard the kid yell, "Hey bastard, tell it to me again!"
Not one man could sit for this. The bar and every other house in shouting range sprang to life, and a wave of people poured out on the street to watch what no one had done in the longest of times: call out Sheriff Meritt.
Well by now Meritt was at the door to his office, but he wasn't going in. He sat blankly, perhaps amazed that a man who had just seen the hard hand of the law come down on some poor sucker was challenging his authority. He stood there not meaning to go in, not meaning to walk back out, just contemplating with bizarre, morbid curiosity how he would handle this upstart with a big mouth and a tiny brain.
Finally the Sheriff walked back into the street and turned toward the kid.
"What you want, little boy?" he said. "You want me to shoot out that wicked tongue of yours, or maybe blast those iron balls of yours off?"
The kid just laughed. "Come on, Sheriff," he said tauntingly, "I'm challenging you. Want to know what I'm gonna do?"
Well by now the murderous side of the Sheriff was out in full force. His eyes told of his wanting nothing but to rip the kids heart out and make a big fat banner of him to wave in front of his town, his home. But beneath that rage was an uncertainty, an puzzled and weary look that made him hold just enough from killing the arrogant little prick in an instant.
"Alright then," the kid said. "You're either leaving town now, or you're never leaving town," he said as he held three fingers up facing Meritt. "Want to go quietly?" The kids face lit up like the sun overhead.
"Yeah I do," said the Sheriff as he whipped out his Colt and fired a single shot from the hip.
Now I don't know much about nothing, but I know that when a man of Meritts reputation wouldn't miss a shot like that. The guys were less than 30 feet apart, and I've seen old Meritt hit from 30 yards. The man was a crack shot.
But not today. The bullet whizzed somewhere into history as the only shot anyone had ever seen the Sheriff miss.
"Well Sheriff, you lost that time," the kid said, still grinning like a ghost.
The Sheriff tried to fire again, but the chamber was blocked.
"Come on, give it up," the kid mocked. "Or you can always come get me."
Well what the Sheriff lacked in shooting he made up for in fighting. For such a short, fat man, he could deck and brawl with the best of them. The man had no flaws fighting, and yet when he charged at the kid he seemed like he was flailing at thin air.
The Sheriff threw a right that tore the air around him, but the kid ducked underneath somehow. Meritt followed up with a left to the body, but the kid knocked it down and threw his shoulder into him. He easily drove Meritt to the ground and threw his elbow across his nose. The Sheriff, bloodied, almost managed to stick his hand in the kids face, but it was parried and pinned down by an incredibly timed maneuver.
"Well, Sheriff, it's been fun, but I think you should know who I am now," the kid said as he leaned over and whispered into Meritts ear.
Nobody heard the name, but the look on the Sheriffs face made it all too clear the terror he was going under.
"Oh yeah," the kid said out loud again. "They called me alot of things. Billy, Jesse, Blackjack...but now I got a new name. A new name for a new future."
The Sheriff tried with all his might to throw the kid off, and by all means he should have, but the kid had power belying his size. Even the deputies were stunned beyond their duties. Nothing was gonna help old Meritt now, and the town was sighing relief collectively.
Well, the kid relieved the Sheriff of his gun and got up. "Alright Sheriff, come on. You've done something wrong, and now you're gonna pay." Well the Sheriff was in no mood to appreciate the irony. He looked over at his deputies, who still remained unwilling to alleviate his plight.
"You bastards," he cried out to them, "You best watch yourselves if you ever leave here. You'd best!"
The kid prodded him in the back and pushed him in the direction of Tarrington road. "Come on, come on, I don't have all day." Sheriff Meritt brushed the dirt off his greasy head and sweaty coat, then started walking down the road with the phoniest of prides remaining.
The kid tipped his hat and followed the Sheriff out of town.
Well nobody knows for sure what happened after that. Everyone kept talking for days and days. Nobody really cared what happened to the Sheriff; most of the talk was about the kid, and if he was ever coming back. Never did, not in 20 years, and no place I know of has seen him since.
But the Sheriff, on the other hand...
Well, like I was saying, there's a punishment for everyone in this town. The Sheriff wouldn't leave, and the kid made sure he stayed here forever. Only go up there during the day, if you must at all, and always come down before dark, but if you need to see for yourself go on and look. The words are a little worn out, but you can make out some of them clear as day:
"P--e- M-ri-t, S-e--ff, 1838-----"
There's an old gravestone on Gearson's hill, right outside of town. You know, the one right off of Tarrington road. Yes, you remember the place, now. Even in the bright of day it's hard to see much of anything up there from the roadside, but if you sit long enough and don't get dust in your eyes from the passers-by, you'll see him, plain as day, standing right by his own grave.
Now let me tell you a little bit about the fellah this stories about. I wish I could tell you more, but to be honest no one knows much about him. Nobody knows his name, but the law still labels him "that wicked son'uva'bitch". Man had no home neither, as far as anyone can reckon. No girl, no money, no horse...all the man had was the coat on his shoulders the day he walked into town. Worst of all he walked into town never knowing Sheriff Meritt.
Good Lord help the man, he turns old Meritts neck.
Now the Sheriff's never was an angel; in fact some say he was in league with the darkness itself. I myself never had a problem with the man, then again I'd known since the moment I seen him he wasn't any lover of the law. The man was a pig by the physique, but a snake by his eyes. Sometimes you look a man in his eyes and you can just see him lying to you. Well that's what Meritt was.
Well Sheriff Meritt had been in place for years by then, and everyone had been whispering about his scheming. See, it wasn't that the man was an outright criminal; it seemed much more so that he was an monster of the law, an self proclaimed "iron fist of God's morality." The bible-thumper praised one law above all others: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But slowly an eye became a hand, a hand became a limb, and a limb became a life. He ruthlessly tore into the con artists, the robbers, the prostitutes, the cheaters, and the murderers. The man didn't believe in jail, no sir. He believed in a show of force, an immediate response to a rising tide of crime in a city that had gone wild before his entrance. He'd maim the tongues of the cons; the fingers of the robbers; he'd cut the prostitutes pretty faces; he'd burn the cheaters hands; he'd kill the murderers outright. No man met mercy for what he done, even if he hadn't really done it. Nobody ever escaped his law. Nobody.
And strangely it all seemed to work. These walking (except the murderers, of course) symbols of merciless penitence were able enough to take any thought of illegal action from the common mans mind. The town was quiet, the scary kind of quiet where you know that things are so in control that they are completely out of hand. The kind of quiet you read about in stories where the ghoul is just about to jump out of the darkness. Nobody liked it save the Sheriff.
We never got a chance to ask the kid, though.
To his credit, the kid had walked into town a man of integrity. His first entrance to Desmond's he looked straight for a game of cards, and turned out he sat with Cal and Burton. The kid never made even the slightest of moves, they said, and they saw no flaws in the man's character at the table. Eventually the kid cleaned em both out on one hand, but Burton told me something I'd never forget:
"That son'uva'bitch, he never even reached for the money. He said, 'You fellahs split it. It's impolite to take a strangers money.' Well I near about feel off my chair. The bastard walks into my game, takes my money clean and takes more pride in beating me than takin' my money. I wanted to punch the son'uva'bitch, but instead I bought him a handle."
Well, apparently the kid took one swig when a Colt shot bellowed outside. Now him being the fool that he was, he rushed out to see what the fuss was about. Sure enough the deputies were cleaning up the Sheriffs mess.
"Now," the Sheriff said to the pile that once was a man, "I'll tell you what you're charged with." Before he could even blink he raised his head toward the kids direction. "Hey boy, you're want a piece of advice? Best watch yourself in my town, you hear?" He spit on the corpse. "Now get off."
The kid just turned around back toward the bar and dropped a dollar on the counter.
"Hey, hey, hey," said Burton, "I said that was on me."
The kid grinned and said, "I'm buying you another one, pops." He turned back out toward the street again. "Stay inside."
Well, any man told that in this town knows there's trouble, and naturally trouble gets attention. Cal and Burton looked at the kid in disbelief, wondering what the hell was going through his mind.
But that moment of stunned silence gave way when they heard the kid yell, "Hey bastard, tell it to me again!"
Not one man could sit for this. The bar and every other house in shouting range sprang to life, and a wave of people poured out on the street to watch what no one had done in the longest of times: call out Sheriff Meritt.
Well by now Meritt was at the door to his office, but he wasn't going in. He sat blankly, perhaps amazed that a man who had just seen the hard hand of the law come down on some poor sucker was challenging his authority. He stood there not meaning to go in, not meaning to walk back out, just contemplating with bizarre, morbid curiosity how he would handle this upstart with a big mouth and a tiny brain.
Finally the Sheriff walked back into the street and turned toward the kid.
"What you want, little boy?" he said. "You want me to shoot out that wicked tongue of yours, or maybe blast those iron balls of yours off?"
The kid just laughed. "Come on, Sheriff," he said tauntingly, "I'm challenging you. Want to know what I'm gonna do?"
Well by now the murderous side of the Sheriff was out in full force. His eyes told of his wanting nothing but to rip the kids heart out and make a big fat banner of him to wave in front of his town, his home. But beneath that rage was an uncertainty, an puzzled and weary look that made him hold just enough from killing the arrogant little prick in an instant.
"Alright then," the kid said. "You're either leaving town now, or you're never leaving town," he said as he held three fingers up facing Meritt. "Want to go quietly?" The kids face lit up like the sun overhead.
"Yeah I do," said the Sheriff as he whipped out his Colt and fired a single shot from the hip.
Now I don't know much about nothing, but I know that when a man of Meritts reputation wouldn't miss a shot like that. The guys were less than 30 feet apart, and I've seen old Meritt hit from 30 yards. The man was a crack shot.
But not today. The bullet whizzed somewhere into history as the only shot anyone had ever seen the Sheriff miss.
"Well Sheriff, you lost that time," the kid said, still grinning like a ghost.
The Sheriff tried to fire again, but the chamber was blocked.
"Come on, give it up," the kid mocked. "Or you can always come get me."
Well what the Sheriff lacked in shooting he made up for in fighting. For such a short, fat man, he could deck and brawl with the best of them. The man had no flaws fighting, and yet when he charged at the kid he seemed like he was flailing at thin air.
The Sheriff threw a right that tore the air around him, but the kid ducked underneath somehow. Meritt followed up with a left to the body, but the kid knocked it down and threw his shoulder into him. He easily drove Meritt to the ground and threw his elbow across his nose. The Sheriff, bloodied, almost managed to stick his hand in the kids face, but it was parried and pinned down by an incredibly timed maneuver.
"Well, Sheriff, it's been fun, but I think you should know who I am now," the kid said as he leaned over and whispered into Meritts ear.
Nobody heard the name, but the look on the Sheriffs face made it all too clear the terror he was going under.
"Oh yeah," the kid said out loud again. "They called me alot of things. Billy, Jesse, Blackjack...but now I got a new name. A new name for a new future."
The Sheriff tried with all his might to throw the kid off, and by all means he should have, but the kid had power belying his size. Even the deputies were stunned beyond their duties. Nothing was gonna help old Meritt now, and the town was sighing relief collectively.
Well, the kid relieved the Sheriff of his gun and got up. "Alright Sheriff, come on. You've done something wrong, and now you're gonna pay." Well the Sheriff was in no mood to appreciate the irony. He looked over at his deputies, who still remained unwilling to alleviate his plight.
"You bastards," he cried out to them, "You best watch yourselves if you ever leave here. You'd best!"
The kid prodded him in the back and pushed him in the direction of Tarrington road. "Come on, come on, I don't have all day." Sheriff Meritt brushed the dirt off his greasy head and sweaty coat, then started walking down the road with the phoniest of prides remaining.
The kid tipped his hat and followed the Sheriff out of town.
Well nobody knows for sure what happened after that. Everyone kept talking for days and days. Nobody really cared what happened to the Sheriff; most of the talk was about the kid, and if he was ever coming back. Never did, not in 20 years, and no place I know of has seen him since.
But the Sheriff, on the other hand...
Well, like I was saying, there's a punishment for everyone in this town. The Sheriff wouldn't leave, and the kid made sure he stayed here forever. Only go up there during the day, if you must at all, and always come down before dark, but if you need to see for yourself go on and look. The words are a little worn out, but you can make out some of them clear as day:
"P--e- M-ri-t, S-e--ff, 1838-----"