Clint had been bartending
for the last uneventful half of his 65 years in this world. He smiled just
enough at work so that anyone who happened to pick his brain would feel that he
was interested even if he really wasn’t. On his face and hands were obvious
wear and tear marks from the countless days of being a nomadic ruffian
throughout the early rising sun of Nevada desserts. He found it a lot less
stressful to pour drinks and pretend to be interested in the gossip of the
locals. The townsfolk considered a Clint a local at this point but he would
always say his home was somewhere else, lost to him in his old age.
Just after all the clocks struck noon a new customer
found his way walking through the double waist doors that continued to swing
behind him. He was the first man in a long time that Clint had seen that just
might be older than he was. The normal rustle of human life in the bar came to
a stop for all but 2 seconds until he tipped his hat and let out a soft but
audible “Howdy” as he walks up and sits down at the center barstool. Having
such a visible pistol when walking from place to place had gone out of style.
Margaret, the owner had almost dropped her entire tray of glasses to the ground
after being startled by the newcomer.
“Hey
there stranger, what can I get ya? The name’s Clint. Don’t see much of old folk
out here these days”. Despite the skin slowly losing grip on the new customer’s
body the way his jaw moved as his spoke made Clint’s stomach sink through the
floor.
“Name’s
Anton. I’ll take a Number nine, thank you. Y’know I could say the same thing
about you ya wrinkly bastard.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke. “Haven’t
seen an old soul in all 3 days I’ve been travelin’”.
Clint
seemed even more shocked surely someone older than him would end up gunned down
or dried to death out of thirst in this hot dust pocket. “At your age?” he chuckled. “The hell could
you be searchin’ for out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Anton’s
smile started to fade as he glanced at his drink then at the counter before
picking his head back up. “I haven’t seen my son in over 50 years. He ran out
on me back when he was just a scruffy little shit. But I loved him I did… I still
do. I don’t even know why he ran. But I know he went out this way. He’s
probably dead anyways. But I still want to know what happened to him before
nature catches up to me and realizes I’ve been living for too long.”
“Well
fuck, I’m sorry I prodded. I’ve been out across this whole cursed desert, if he
was out here I’ve surely seen him at some point. What was his name?”
“Wilbur
Jakobs”.
Clint
nearly collapsed to the floor as he heard this name. It had been so long since
he had heard it out of anyone other than himself. Maybe it wasn’t the same boy. It couldn’t have
been. “Did your son have a scar right under the curve of his left calf?”
This
sparked a sharp breath in Anton as his eyes opened wider as memories flooded
his brain. “He did! He really did. He got it from messin’ with- ”
Clint’s
own excitement cut him off. “Messin’ with a wolf cub… right?”
“So
you really met him then huh? Is he alive? Do you know where he is? C’mon just
tell me where to go. ”
“Sir
your son was one of the greatest men I’ve ever met in my life and I truly mean
that. Unfortunately about thirty years ago he disappeared in the dead of night.
Probably had a bounty on his head none of us knew about”.
The
sadness returned to the forefront of Anton’s countenance. “Oh. I see… Well you
were close with him right?’ Could you tell me what he was like? I suppose it’s
all there is left I’ll be able to find until the reaper and I have our final
shoot out.”
“I’m
sorry I can’t do more for ya but tell our story, take a Pain Killer on the
house. You’ve earned it.”
“I
should be glad I get any answers at all. I appreciate the free drink partner.”
Clint
pulled up his own stool and poured himself a drink before he began his own
narration. “Let’s just start from the beginning. I myself was orphaned when a
group of banditos killed both my ma
and pa before I could even have my fifteenth birthday. We were just traveling
to go see the real mountains that I had dreamed of at the time. I didn’t leave
the wagon for 5 days. I fed off the rations we had packed and did my best to
give ma and pa the respect their burials deserved, ain’t much I could dig by
myself though.
Just
as I hooked my father’s Big Iron onto my own waist— it didn’t have a single
notch in it. Pa was never a man for violence, just for emergencies. Anyways,
just as I hooked it to my own body a new round of outlaws had stumbled upon our
bloodied wagon. I saw about 7 of them all still youthful with the oldest being
about 26 years. The youngest looked about 19 at the time. That’s when I met
him. Wilbur Jakobs looked at me with a certain kind of optimism in his eyes and
a confidence in his jaw that I was in awe. My hands trembled and my knees were
weak as I attempted to stand up. He reached out his hand to me and said ‘Ya
didn’t kill these folk did ya? You look a bit too soft to do somethin’ like
that.’
Shaking,
I grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes. He was actually an inch or so
shorter than me but his personality was seven foot four. I struggled to get out
a response. ‘These are my parents actually. Couple of mule riders must’ve
thought we was merchants by the way they gunned us down.’
Jakobs looked back at the oldest of the outlaws and he
nodded with a smile. Then he spoke again. “Yer gonna get yourself killed next if
you stay out here much longer. Just come with us for a little while. If ya like
it enough we might even just recruit you, pipsqueak.”
They helped me bury my ma and pa properly and then we
were off. A week turned into a few months. Then it turned into a year. Next
thing I knew I was an outlaw for over 20 years alongside your son. We mostly
tried to steal from rival outlaws but a proper train heist every now and then was
always invigorating. Over the next couple years I got to know your son more
than any other man may have before me. His stare was hypnotizing. In a time
where I was left with nothing your son took me in and taught me how to love
even without my parents. The way he carried himself was my life’s breath. He
truly was a good man at heart”.
Clint took a short breath and looked at Anton
to notice he was gripping his glass rather hard and no longer looking directly
at him. He didn’t continue his story. He just watched and waited.
“So that’s why he ran away” Anton said to himself. Clint
seemed oblivious to what he even meant by that. Then it struck him.
“You
didn’t know did you, Anton?”
“That
he was… different? No. I had no idea. He must’ve been too afraid to tell me.
Scared that I’d have him shipped to Siberia or somethin’ huh? Did he ever talk
about me?”
“Only
on very rare occasions, I may have loved him but that doesn’t mean I paid
attention to every word he said. He did talk quite a bit.” The silence of the
last three decades was started to weigh on Clint’s mind. “Maybe he just didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Did
you know you were different too before your parents died?”
“Not
exactly. We were pretty isolated for most of my kid years. It wasn’t until I was
looking up at the scruffy grin and saw the light behind Jakobs eyes that I knew
who I was. We taught ourselves how to be comfortable in our own skin. The man
was convinced you would have hated him. I don’t even know why he believed it
but he thought you wouldn’t love a son like him.” The grip on Anton’s glass
grew stronger as he started to weep.
“I
would have loved him just the same. He still would’ve been my boy. He still is…”
“Jakobs
would have loved to hear you say that, truly. After our gun running days were
over, most of our time together was actually here in this very saloon back when
it was a dustier place. He loved the atmosphere. Especially Margaret over
there, she was one of the first to support us despite being criminals. She knew
we were virtually harmless.
When he disappeared I decided to work here for the rest
of my life in hopes that he’ll turn up one day. Death’ll catch up to us both
soon enough, Anton. Should we just move on?”
A
new voice chimed in “Death won’t be catching up to anyone until I get my hands
on you again Pipsqueak.” Neither Anton nor Clint had noticed a third elderly
man enter the saloon. Clint looked up from his glass of grief to find that very
same jawline just a bit more wrinkled standing still an inch too short just as
he used to right in front of him once again.
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