The End of the Line

PREFACE:
I was going through my old computer's hard drive a few months ago when I came across a short story I wrote in 2013. After careful thought, I've decided to put it up here. I made a few changes but it's largely the same as when it was originally written. I was particularly big into Westerns at the time I wrote this and I also wanted to come up with a little tale about redemption. I deliberately left the main character nameless to amplify the feelings of lowliness, unworthiness and insignificance that the character carries with him throughout the story.

A good friend from Venezuela by the name of Luis whom I sent this story to had some very kind things to say about it which I will leave at the bottom of this post.

Hope you enjoy!

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The End of the Line

by Daryl D. Tan

He sat in his kitchen fiddling with his Smith & Wesson Volcanic, caliber .31. The gun was used to keep away marauders and way-ward vaqueros from stealing the cattle from the ranch, but here he was now with a totally different idea in mind.

This is the end of the line, he thought to himself.

He had no family and practically no one to love save his horse, a Chestnut Saddlebred he simply referred to as Bud. He was getting old. His body, apart from being riddled with scars and numerous war wounds, was bogged down with chronic injuries that were taking a toll on his capabilities as a rancher.

He stopped playing with the gun and looked at it for a moment as a bead of sweat dribbled off his right bushy grey eyebrow. He lifted the gun to his head and pressed the barrel against his temple.

This is the end of the line.

Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He thought about what his father had always told him when they went out hunting for game back in the day. The greatest kind of death is a dignified one: to go out with glory, and honor, and all that. Sure, he thought it was cranky old-fashioned hokey, but he thought about it, and thought hard enough he did to realize that shooting himself just wasn’t the way to go. He wanted to go out with a bang, but not in the literal sense.

He slotted the gun back into his sandy brown holster, stood up, and looked out the dusty window of his little dilapidated ranch overlooking the Sierra Nevada plains.

He could only see his cattle grazing the field outside and the sun slowly setting in the distance.

He gazed into the distance, and a smile began to form on his lips.

Eureka.

He would jump off the cliffs of the Yosemite falls. It was the most graceful way to die that he could think of; the summit of Yosemite falls boasted beautiful scenery, and perhaps - his soul would live in tranquility forever in such an idyllic place if he were to die there. He had made up his mind. Even the local minister would be hopeless in trying to convince him otherwise. He was redundant, old, and better off dead. His life became increasingly meaningless as the world around him began to advance technologically, and whatever he knew belonged to days of yonder. Modernity was not his cup of tea.

He had gone through hard times: almost being mauled to death by a grizzly bear during a hunting trip in Montana, having fought as a Confederate Captain in the Civil War but never commended for his efforts, and being a gunslinger for the law in a small town in Wyoming in order to feed his alcohol addiction. Neighbors thought he was a bona fide loony, and sometimes even he believed so himself.

He whipped out a rusty flask of rye whiskey from his back pocket, took a swig from it, gargled, and swallowed. His face flushed and hardened even further. He stepped out the front door on to his porch before reaching into his breast pocket for a pre-rolled cigarette from a tin box. He placed it between his lips and pulled out a match and lit it. He took a long drag before looking out into the distance. The sky was darkening and coyotes in the distance were beginning to howl. It was getting late alright. Yosemite falls wasn’t that far off anyway.

The man was responsible to say the very least. The cattle needed lookin’ after, so the man decided that he was going to be more generous than usual. He would give the cattle to his neighbor living about a rifle shot away.

After a few more long drags, he dropped the cigarette on to the wooden planks that made his porch floor and put it out with the sole of his snakeskin boot, twisting his leg back and forth. He walked back in to his house and shut the door. He stayed inside for thirty minutes, getting dressed, and penning a letter, before coming back out again. He walked to his stable and draped a saddle over his the back of his horse, Bud, before gently nudging him towards the pathway to his neighbor’s home.

--

He tapped lightly on her door. A frail looking woman opened the door slightly ajar and her protuberant and cautious eyes peered out. Behind her, dim orange lights illuminated the interior of her cozy and rustic home.

“Oh, it’s you. Living down the trail. How can I help you?” she inquired, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of a familiar face at this ungodly hour.

“Uh, well, Ma’am, I’m gonna be uhh leavin’ here for quite uhh a while, and I was just uhh hoping someone would take care of the cattle fer me” he awkwardly stuttered.

She was a widowed homesteader who lived all by herself. The man had always wondered how such an old lady like her could keep up with the task of managing her own farm without the help of her - as she affectionately called him when he was still alive – Old Carrot.

She looked at him quizzically – wondering why he was all suited up with his horse behind him.

“Leaving for?” she asked curiously.

“Yosemite” He replied.

“In the dead of the night? Are you out of your mind? Come on in, I have a pot of coffee on the stove. I will set the table and make you something to eat."

“No Ma’am, I must get on my way, I have some business to do.”

“Please come in for some biscuits at least.”

She insisted, and finally he relented.

His dusty worn-out snakeskin boots made creaking noises on the wooden plank floor as he made his way in. Framed photographs of the old lady’s family members adorned the living room, and a dusty chandelier light fixture attached to her ceiling swung back and forth lightly making a repetitive squeaking noise. He took off his crumpled and battered hat to reveal a messy tuffle of greyed hair that had clearly been baked by the sun of the Southwest for many years. He placed his hat on the edge of her dining table and pulled out a wooden stool – clearly too small for him to sit on.

“Why Yosemite?” she asked as she walked out of the kitchen with a plate of odd-colored biscuits and a piping hot mug of coffee. “I’m fixin’ to get down to some family business” the man replied laconically, pausing for a moment.

“Anyway m’am”, he continued, “You see, I don’t think I’ll ever be comin’ back ‘round here, and I just, as strange as this may sound, want you to have everything that’s in my ranch - my cattle, my tools, they are all yours. Shame if they all went to waste.” She looked bewildered before erupting into an obnoxious fit of laughter.

“Gon’ to shoot up bad outlaws? Aren’t you a little too weathered for that sort of thing?! Look I always thought that whole mad hatter thing was just a myth, but clearly you’ve gone loony.”

Her aged and wrinkled face twitched as she glanced over at the man’s hat carefully placed on the table.

The man began to regret his decision entering her abode and tried hard not to look offended. He managed a weak and polite smile that reeked of embarrassment.

“Well, Ma’am, I ain’t gon’ to shoot up nobody, maybe you could call it a pilgrimage of sorts.” He said, trying to ease the tension.

“That’s it! You’re gon’ be a monk! There ain’t no monasteries in Yosemite!” she responded before bursting into laughter again. The man lightly drummed his worn out fingers on the edge of the table, an indication that he was beginning to feel agitated. She seemed to take notice of this.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a lonely cranky old woman. It’s nice to have someone to talk to sometimes, and I suppose I just needed an outlet for my humor, without that Old Carrot around to take everythin.”

The man bit into a biscuit and smiled. “I understand ma’am. Everything is yours, as I was sayin’” he reiterated. “But I don’t understand..” she interjected. The man lifted the mug of coffee and took a big gulp, unfazed by its hotness. “There’s really not much to understand ma’am. I’m just leaving, and I don’t need them no more.”

She wanted to express gratitude but didn’t know how.

“Well, perhaps, you can sleep ‘ere for the night? I’ve got a guest room in the back hall, and then you can make your way in the morning.” She suggested.

“Na ma’am, I’ve to get goin’, thanks for the offer”

He took a last sip from the mug of coffee grabbed his crumpled hat and stood up.

“Aren’t you afraid of traversing the plains to Yosemite at this ungodly hour? It isn’t safe. There are bandits and cougars lurkin’ out there in the darkness.”

“That’s not a worry for me, not at this particular point of time in my life anyway.” he replied, not realizing how ominous what he had just said sounded.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t mean anything by it, ma’am, thanks for the coffee… and biscuits.” he looked regrettably at the huge pile of biscuits left on the plate. “Not much of an eater these days.” he mumbled as he walked out the front door. “No mister, thank you. You be careful now” she said.

“I will, ma’am. Remember – my cattle. They need feedin’. The front door to my ranch is unlocked.”

He stopped just as he was about to leave, looking like he just remembered something. He reached into his breast pocket and fumbled about, feeling the tin can of pre-rolled cigarettes, and then pulled out a piece of paper folded in half.

“Oh, and in the event of any dispute, here’s a letter signed by yours truly that transfers the rights to my possessions to you.” He said.

Her mouth fell open. She was too shocked to comprehend such generosity.

He leaned forward and placed the letter on the top of a cupboard by the front door, smiled at her, and walked out. He patted his horse waiting outside and smiled somberly. “You’ll be fine, bud.” He said quietly to his horse, and then he saddled up and rode off into the distance.

--

The only light came from an orange orb-like blur in the distance. The man had been travelling horseback for a couple of hours now. He heard the growls and purrs of cougars and mumblings and mutterings in the darkness while insects of all kinds buzzed about. “You’d hear all sorts of nonsense in the dead of the night in the darkness, but most of the time it’s all in your head.” He quietly said to himself.

He observed the orange light illuminating in the distance and approached its direction. He soon realized that the light came from a small campfire and the muttering wasn’t coming from his head – it was gradually getting louder as he approached the campfire. From a few feet away, he saw a man with a face painted white with streaks of red painted horizontally below the eyes. His hair was long and jet black and he wore a strange kind of necklace made of unidentified rocks that would present even the greatest challenge to the most skilled geologist. He had feathers in his hair and his eyes were closed. He was chanting. The man scanned the campsite but there was no one else, only the strange ghastly figure sitting before the fire chanting. The ghastly man suddenly opened his eyes and looked at the man.

“I thought I’d be the only one crazy enough to be out here in the dead of the night.” the ghastly man said.

“You speak English.” the man responded.

“Not every Indian is a savage beast who speaks only to the spirits of animals.” the strange-looking ashen faced man quipped. “I’m a medicine man for my tribe. My tribe is cursed I believe, and many of us are starving. I’m out here trying to communicate with the spirits of the world. I’m calling on them to save my people.” He continued.

The man got down from his horse. “You one of them Ahwahnechee Indians?" he asked. The medicine man nodded. "Look, it’s really dangerous out ‘ere. There are cougars and bandits, and your campfire is likely to attract undesirables to your presence.” The man said, echoing his neighbor’s earlier concerns.

The medicine man, sitting cross-legged, looked up at the man and smiled. “Ahwahnechee Indian I am. Danger? That’s not a worry for me - not at this particular point of time in my life anyway.”

The man was stunned at what he had just heard.

“What brings you out here then, mister?” the medicine man asked.

“You’re the medicine man, you can read my mind. You tell me.”

“I’m a medicine man, not God.”

“Of course you aren’t God. God wouldn’t be so dumb as to sit in the middle of the darkness and light a fire to attract crazies to his presence anyway. And well, God’s invisible anyway.” The man harshly remarked

“Is he?” the medicine man rhetorically asked. “God is visible” he continued, “He is to you what the trees are to me. He is the trees, the animals, he is the rivers, he is … the waterfalls.” the medicine man said, making direct eye contact with the man. The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was the medicine man reading his mind or was it merely coincidence? The man was bewildered and confused, but he slowly gathered his senses and cautiously moved to sit opposite the medicine man, whacking his hat against his left trouser pant to get rid of grass that had stuck to it in the process.

“Well. If you must know, I’m going to Yosemite falls. To be, one with God, you could say.” The man explained, briefly pausing. “You mentioned that your people are suffering, I don’t know anything about you Ahwahnechee people, but would some gold coins help?” The man asked, reaching into his pouch.

“That is not the Ahwahnechee way. We live off the land but the land has not been giving to us as of late.” The medicine man replied.

“See, I have a bag of gold coins that I don’t need anymore.” the man said.

“A white man with no use for money – hardly believable.” said the medicine man sardonically.

The man was impressed. This medicine man had clearly been educated in the English language, perhaps on an Indian reserve somewhere, yet he was an enigma. He mentioned living off the land, and he clearly wasn’t living on a reserve then. Who was this strange man and what his story was remained a mystery that he strangely felt he did not have the need to unravel. “Never knew you Indians had a sense of humor.” the man laughed.

Somehow, he felt an inexplicable sense of comfort sitting together with the Indian.

“You have a good heart, mister, and it will serve you well. It will see you through till the end. Go along now, you do not understand my plight and you won’t be able to help me, or perhaps you are not in the power to help me. But I will be alright.” the medicine man exclaimed.

The man stood up and tipped his hat, saddled up on his horse, and rode off into the distance.

The sun was beginning to show its colors.

He rode off for a couple of minutes before turning back only to see that the campsite had completely vanished. There was neither any trace of any white-faced man nor fire. Startled, he carried on.

--

By morning, he had reached the base of Yosemite falls and found an old man sleeping under a tree. The man, still perched on his horse, observed his features, deducing that he must probably be a few years older than him. Birds were chirping noisily and flies were buzzing about.

“Ain’t too safe to be sleeping ‘round here, sir.” he said to the old man.

The old man opened his eyes and looked up at the man.

“Well I’m lost, sir. My son left me ‘ere to die ‘cause I ‘ad become a burden to him.”

“How are you supposed to die then, sir? Starve?”

“I reckon so, mister, I reckon so.”

The man was distraught at what he heard.

He heaved a heavy sigh and wondered to himself how society was degenerating into a huge morass of immorality. Of course, he was no saint either – being a gunslinger with a long list of names whose lives he had taken - names of undesirables as the town folk would say, but God-given lives nonetheless, yet he would never have abandoned his father in the middle of nowhere.

The blistering heat was relentless and punishing.

He looked at the older man sadly, and then got off his horse.

“Well, ain’t no way to die like that, sir. Here, take my horse. I ain’t gonna be needing it.”

He handed the dumbfounded old man the reins to his horse.

“.. what..’bout you then, mister?” the old man asked, breaking the awkward momentary silence.

“I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, right up there.” the man replied pointing towards the peak of the cliffs.

The old man, confused, speechless, and too shocked to express any form of gratitude, simply got on the horse, looked at the man for a moment that seemed like ages with watery eyes, tipped his hat, and rode off.

The man smiled to himself. “That’s as dignified as it’s goin’ to get.”

He spent the rest of the day hiking up the trail to the top of the cliff, stopping every now and then to take a swig of rye whiskey from the flask he carried with him. The pain in his back was hurting badly, but he felt good knowing that it was going to be the last time he’d ever feel such agonizing pain. The suffering was finally going to end.

--

He had expected to see the sun shining over the horizon and the beautiful scenery his father often spoke of back in the day, but when he ascended - what he saw was anything but beautiful.

As he came ‘round a huge old tree, he saw three scruffy men, looking much like outlaws, brutally beating and raping a young woman of about roughly twenty years of age.

He stood there, shocked and mortified at what he was witnessing.

He turned to his right to see the edge of the cliff. He could just jump off there and then. Why would such an incident taking place have any effect on him when he was about to end his life anyway. The three outlaws obviously saw him, but ignored him and continued beating and raping the young woman viciously.

The man looked down the edge of the cliff and indeed it was beautiful as his father had mentioned, but how was he to end his life with his last moments hearing the agonizing cries of a young woman whose natural rights were being violated in the most depraved manner.

How would his soul be able to live in the tranquility that he had wished for knowing what took place and not having done a damned thing to correct it.

He had seen these types of outlaws one too many times back when he was a gunslinger in his youth. He knew what would be the aftermath. They were going to kill her after they’d been done with her.

Perhaps, he would take solace in thinking that if he had jumped there and then and she had been killed there and then, their souls would meet and live harmoniously together in the tranquility of Yosemite falls.

But no, this wasn’t how it was gonna end, he told himself.

He walked up to the three burly outlaws.

“Get off the girl now.” he snarled.

“Sir, we oughta kill you now for seein’ us, but we’re in good spirits as you can obviously see.” the first outlaw said in a thick drawl, grinning and flashing his missing teeth, and then proceeding to defile the young woman further, as his two companions burst out in laughter

“So kind sir, if you know what’s good for you, let us go about our business, if we may so call it that, and we’ll leave you alone, and we’ll continue havin’ fun with this little whore here.” The first outlaw continued. A putrid stench of alcoholic breath lingered in the air.

The outlaw paused momentarily from the violent thrusting and looked up at the man. “Hell you know what sir?! you can even join if you’d like!” he laughed.

The man stood, disgusted, trembling with indignation.

“You bunch of no-good scoundrels. What has become of the goodness of man.” he growled, quivering in anger. “Hey old man, save your sanctimonious crap for someone who’d listen or else I’m gonna shoot you.” the second outlaw, a tall man in a trapper’s outfit with a scar across his right eye yelled.

The girl’s face was pink with anguish, tears streaming down her face - a bloodied nose.

The man looked at her momentarily. He knew she was going to die, and he knew she knew it as well.

This ain’t no way to die, he thought to himself.

He took a step back.

His old and wrinkled hand hovered over his holster.

The three outlaws quickly realized what was about to transpire and ceased their acts of depravity, pulling up their trousers and spreading out in a diagonal formation to surround the man.

The man, though old and frail, whipped out the same Smith & Wesson Volcanic he had contemplated on using on himself the day before, and in rapid succession, fired at the three outlaws.

The first outlaw stumbled back and fell off the cliff into the abyss below.

The second outlaw, armed with a shotgun, instinctively shot in retaliation at the man but missed and hit a mossy rock next to him. Amidst the violent frenzy that was taking place, the young woman pulled her drawers up and ran into the wilderness screaming for help.

The third outlaw fired blindly before realizing he had been hit. He slumped back and fell onto the ground – - as did the savior of the day.

The man looked down to see blood gushing out his left side. His shirt turned crimson red. He pressed his fingers against the wound and felt around before realizing he had been shot in a vital organ.

He slowly dropped his Smith & Wesson volcanic pistol and crawled towards the same mossy rock that the second outlaw blindly fired at. A huge chunk had been blasted off. He leaned his back against the rock and whipped out his flask of rye whiskey and took a swig before reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette, his hand trembling as he pulled out and placed the cigarette between his lips.

He looked out into the beautiful afternoon sky. The birds were chirping.

Sweat dripped off his head as blood continued to ooze out of his wound. His face was pale. He struggled to light his cigarette with a small matchstick but didn’t have the strength to do so. His grip weakened.

The day’s events were certainly strange indeed, but he did not feel useless this time.

This is the end of the line. He thought to himself.

He smiled to himself as he felt the world, accurately speaking - his world, finally closing in on him. The lulling sounds of the waterfall crashing into the rivers below sang to him serenely.

“This is going to be as dignified as it’s going to get eh?” He said to himself.

The unlit cigarette fell from his lips, and he closed his eyes.

-------

And tadaa! That's the end.

My friend, Luis, from Veneuzuela had this to say:

"I'm not a big fan of Westerns but this was engaging. It felt real, and the whole story felt like one continuous stream. You could see the whole thing through the main character's eyes and that was fascinating. I also love the poetic irony of how he was seeking to end his life but his three "trials" as I have come to call his encounter with the Indian, the Old Man, and the Old Lady, all he does is to protect/try to save lives.

I see it as a sort of parallel to the 3 temptations of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, of course in an inverted manner: While the devil tried to tempt the Lord three times in the desert; in your story it feels like the main character is tempted to do good, as desperate calls to grace on his way to death, that way of looking at it makes the story truly fascinating."

Reading the comments from Luis definitely warmed my heart. I didn't see it from his perspective but I suppose that's the wonderful thing about stories in general - everyone has a different take.