The Stranger
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-Transcript-
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Reckon I was about six years old when the stranger came strolling into our little town. Back in those days, I had a job cleaning tables at the local saloon. It wasn't glamorous work, but it paid a nickel a day and patrons would entertain you with drunken stories of unearthed treasures, bloody shootouts, and even the odd ghost tale. Though as the adage goes; nothing is stranger than fiction. The saying held true when one summer day, as I was washing dishes and listening to a patron exaggerate about his brush with Billy-the-kid, the doors swung open and in sauntered an intimidating figure. The ominous man was clad in black leather, smelled of desert sun, and dragged a full-sized coffin strapped across his back like a satchel. He stood tall with military posture; his perfectly fitting clothes were likely tailored to his immense towering stature. Two revolvers hung off underarm straps between his vest and jacket, and a sawed-off shotgun sat in a hostler tied off to his left leg.
The sight of him caused a rare silence to befall the bar. The stranger stood silently in the doorway glancing over the tables. After a tense moment he walked up to the front seats, hoisted of coffin off his back, and rested himself against the counter. My boss didn't know what to do, judging by his face, he was somewhere between running out of there and pissing his pants. Luckily the stranger ordered a neat whiskey which prompted John into pouring one from muscle memory, snapping him out of the fit.
As a kid my curiosity could not resist such a moment, I sneaked behind the counter and peaked at the mysterious man with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. His eyes were hidden by a sliver of shade cast by his wide-brimmed, high pinched crowned hat. His bristly unshaven face and sun-tanned leathery complexion clashed against pale fighting scars covering his cheeks and jaw. His knuckles were calloused over smooth, and for a moment as he lifted the glass to his gullet, I could swear the man had no fingerprints. Lastly, before the barkeep yanked me away, my gaze fell upon the stranger's peculiar guns. They hung off him, bathed in a black patina, the bizarre make of no mark I recognized. Etched in strange symbols and intricate designs, their enormous barrels larger than any caliber I knew of.
He finished his drink and leaned in towards John, then in a gravelly voice lacking any human inflection, he spoke:
“Where can I find Sam Wilkins.”
Despite his reserved tone, the bar went silent again and our conversation garnered an audience. The stranger wasn’t vexed by this, he just leaned in even closer, and repeated the question once again, this time articulating each word.
“Where can I find Sam Wilkins.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.” John answered with a tremor in his voice that betrayed his bluff. A tremor which briskly moved itself to his hands causing him to drop a glass to the floor.
Without hesitation, the stranger placed a handful of coin on the counter. Then with a tip of his hat, he lifted the coffin over his shoulder and left. The typical lively atmosphere never returned to the bar that night. Everyone spoke in hush tones, wearily discussing the queerness of the events and the fidelity of the owner. Our town is small, we all knew old man Wilkins, but no one dared speak up. Even I, as a child, knew better than to point a bad omen in a neighbors direction.
The sheriff took a statement, but no harm was done, and the man was nowhere to be seen. One could not be arrested on eeriness alone, and a query had to be made before anyone knew if the man was wanted. So, it was left at that, and as quickly as the stranger came, my mind has just as swiftly set it aside for childhood musings.
That same night I awoke around the witching hour and stumbled outside to use the privy. It was a full moon, and the cool night air carried a heavy silence. On the way back to a warm cot an odd chill hit my spine. Much like an animal sensing danger an inexplicable feeling washed over, puppeteering my body through sheer gut instinct. I furtively clung to the underside of the northern fence, moving towards the street. Each footstep deliberate in its placement, carefully avoiding dry leaves and twigs. Curiosity carried me forward as I reached the end of our property and stopped at the last post. Staring out into the street, surveying my surroundings the unmistakable features of the coffin man from earlier in the day came into view.
The figure stood motionless on the neighbors porch, head cocked to the side, listening. I held my breath in fear of his meticulous actions picking up on my unwanted audience. After what felt like an eternity, the stranger drew his pistol and with a weighty kick, smashed the door clear off its hinges. The bedlam which ensued was almost incomprehensible to my young mind. Immediately as the door fell to the ground a high-pitched scream rung out, followed by stern commanding orders being barked. The words “get my gun” and “who goes there” were distinct amidst the commotion of shuffling footsteps and knocked-over furniture.
Suddenly a pistol discharged and windows on the first floor lit up like lighting. It was followed by a shriek of horror and two more low-caliber gunshots. “Damn it, Mary, shut your goddamn mouth!” roared old man Wilkins from the second floor before a crack of a hunting rifle erupted. In between the gunfight, temporary moments of restful nightly silence befell the residence before being broken once more by thundering bangs and flashes of white light. The stark contrast was surreal, almost dreamlike. I ran along the fence, peering through its slits, following in parallel whatever carnage was ensuing. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of the stranger through a window, his large shadowy figure unshaken, gun at hand, walking headfirst like Death's call. Other times my attention was grabbed by the frantic jittery movements of a panicked Wilkins, darting in and out of view on the second floor, rifle tightly hugged to his chest.
One of the upstairs windows slid open, from it Ms. Wilkins plummeted out onto the backyard in her nightwear. She yelped like an injured dog when her ankle twisted upon impact, snapping like a dry rope. She fearfully dragged herself away from the house, screaming for help so forcefully her voice would fail. It was around then my young mind started to question how no one had been roused from their sleep. Houses stood mere feet apart from one another and the ripping of bullets snapping throughout the night sky was unmistakable. Even the sheriff lived not but four doors away, a distance easily covered by the echoing chaos. I myself thought of running to help, waking my father, waking my brothers, riling them to action, but simply couldn’t. My body moved itself, muscles uncooperative, logic hazed by the illusory situation. All I could do was stare at the spectacle as my blood curdled cold.
Another bang of a rifle knelled, followed by half a dozen pistol shots. The windows of Wilkins houses fluoresced like a firework display. Then a loud grunt squawked, followed by a moment of oscillating silence before a single reverberating boom of a 12-gauge shattered the stillness one final time. Peace blanketed over the small town once more as twilight began to break. Mrs. Wilkins had clawed her way under the oak tree on their property line before passing out. It was for the best as soon after the stranger kicked open the rear door, hauling Mr. hun Wilkin's lifeless body into the backyard.
Surprisingly the stranger looked completely unscathed. Much a bull, he was not out of breath in his unbroken stride, not fazed by the gouged body parts held together with strings of flesh. His stoic collected demeanor unbroken as he retrieved the coffin from behind the garden shack, having likely stowed it in secret before the assault, and unceremoniously shoved Wilkins corpse into it like old linens. He then strapped the coffin to his back, and sauntered off through the backyard into the desert, his march defying the weight-bearing his shoulders.
My pa always told me not to play in the desert behind our house ‘cause if I got lost, the nearest town was hundreds of miles away. That distance any ill-prepared man would surely perish in the vast plains. And besides the stranger's coffin, he had not even a satchel. I stood there in disbelief as the silhouette of the man grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing into the horizon. Once out of sight, my body regained function, and I ran home screaming for help.
Mrs. Wilkins was never the same. Once a spirited woman, now does not leave her house but for supplies. When townsfolk catch glimpses of her, she is bedraggled in appearance and melancholy in movement, frequently breaking down into tears. The sheriff made the case a priority for many years, maybe from the guilt of having slept through the ordeal, but progress never came. No evidence was collected, no witnesses other than myself, and inquires with the Pinkertons brought forward no signs of bounty hunters or open investigations. Rather quickly people moved on, the sheriff retired, and the incident was lost to time.
My mind too had pushed out the memories of what happened that night. The dream-like horror that befell our neighbors was simply too much to bear on my soul. It wasn’t until last night, coincidently on the thirtieth anniversary of the murder, that news broke of a man carrying a coffin on his back arriving into town.
Though unfortunately this time…
…he was asking for my name.
