Joel Anderson

The confessions of an old man

It is commonly known that age changes a man. Sometimes it mellows, sometimes it hardens. With some, it weakens, and not just physically. Their life has been emptied little by little, year after year. Strength and vigor has been slowly stolen with the passing of each loved one, leaving them tired. Tired and longing to rest. 

Yet with others, aging has brought its own kind of keenness. A new kind of strength. These men wear their many years like a badge of honor, not a burden stooping their shoulders. Joel Anderson was one such man. 

He stood straighter than most men did in their 20s, and his perfectly white hair was smoothed straight back above a clean shaven, strong jaw. But when you looked at him, you didn’t notice his posture or hair. You noticed his eyes. Clear and blue. Penetrating and yet impenetrable. Always seeing, observing, understanding, while themselves a mystery.

And yet tonight, those straight shoulders were bowed. Those clear eyes were clouded, and his open brow was troubled. It was easy to see that something weighed heavily on his mind. He sat in an old chair, head bent on his hands, elbows resting on his knees. An open window stood beside him. Like a broken dam, it permitted the moonlight to flood in around the old man, illuminating his silver head, and swishing softly around his knees. A breath of wind whispered through his hair. Possibly it disturbed his reverie, for he slowly stood and moved to his desk. Before him, he spread a blank page. Then the curious patriarch picked up his pen, and began to write. 

My name is Joel Anderson. In my youth, I did many things which have since troubled me. Many people have hated me. There was a time when I hated myself. 

I write now, in order to lay a burden on paper, so that it no longer weighs on my chest, and to organize my thoughts. So please, either throw down this page now, or prepare yourself to hear me out in full, unprejudiced. 

The words which I now form tell a story about a younger me. A version of myself with tumbled black hair and an impulsive streak. A Joel Anderson in whose eyes life was simple, and with hands that always managed to complicate it.

Yet I am wasting both ink and candle oil. Hence, I begin.

My mother was a quiet religious woman. She died giving birth to my little sister, Ida, when I was eight. I have heard some say that my father could have prevented it by having a doctor on hand. Though I have no proof, I believe them. For my father was a hard man. A man that knew no mercy. As a young child, I tried to please him. I grew older, and loathed him. Always, I feared him. 

Often, he would beat me when drunk, yet I bore it patiently.

Then one night when I was sixteen, he attempted to strike my fair-haired little Ida. That was the moment I broke. Like an enraged lion, I attacked my father in defense of my sister and, though he was much stronger than I, wine had dulled his senses and slowed his hand. It was only a moment's work to stretch him at my feet, unconscious.

Then, I ran. Ida and I packed up a few things, money and a pistol, and fled, terrified of the moment he would awake. 

We went west. To a land in which the horses smelled of sweat and the people smelled of horses. Where the sun blazed and the only law was the feared man with the fastest draw. Where the birds baked and the dust flew. Where the land was said to be rich with gold, yet the only gold I saw up close shone in an outlaw's toothy grin. 

Welcome to the wild west.

Ida and I traveled most of the way with a wagon train. Then, we separated. The wagons continued to Oregon, while we struck out to California. Ida would have rather gone with the other wagons, but I was determined to reach the famous gold mines. I was sure that if I could only start panning, I would strike it rich.

On the backs of horses that I had used the last of our money to buy, we set out. Alone.

Yet, despite the long, dangerous days, the sweat and the hunger, I was happy. I was free. I had Ida under my wing and away from our cruel tyrant. I tell you honestly, all I ever wanted was to protect her. For at her birth, my dying mother had placed her in my arms and charged me in tearful tones to keep her safe.

Oh dear God! If only I could have done it.

One afternoon we stopped to set up camp early. I had shot a rabbit, and I now worked to skin and clean it on a flat stone. Ida busied herself unsaddling the horses. As the sun began to set behind the hills, I heard an ominous sound. Hoofbeats. Two dangerous looking men appeared above the hill. I grabbed my gun.

A shot cracked in the still evening heat. Ida screamed and lept back as the dust near her feet jumped where a bullet had hit earth. I instantly dropped my weapon, hands in the air. I probably would have fought if I had been alone, but it wasn’t worth risking Ida’s life.

The outlaws dismounted and moved leisurely down the hill, pistols trained on my sister and I. As they came closer, I got a good look at them.

The first man, and the one who had fired a moment before, was compact in every sense of the word, and looked like a bristly carrot with small knotted muscles twitching beneath his sunburnt skin. He struck me as a wiry, orange rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike.

The second man was long and lanky, older with gray hair and a well kept gray beard. The only thing bright about him was his wide, persuasive smile. He seemed to me the sort of man who could convince a crowd that water was dry, and that the knife sticking out their back was an illusion due to lack of sleep and poor diet.

He was the one who spoke first, “Hello friends,” His voice was oddly refined and greased by a slight accent, “I am Stiles, and this is Rafe. We are deeply sorry for the startling method of approach, but we are pressed for sustenance and are loath to steal. Yet, just as some pan and some plow, so we also are forced to find means of livelihood.” He smiled sadly, “I must ask for your supplies, and horses.”

There was a moment of silence.

Rafe fired again, this time the bullet whizzed past my ear.

I jumped and Ida yelped.

Stiles apologetically explained, “Haste is of the utmost importance.”

I immediately began to load the supplies onto the horses. I was angry. Everything I had worked for was being stripped away by a couple of lowlives. I only restrained myself for the sake of Ida. I could only hope they would leave me my gun.

When the supplies were loaded I led the horses to the watching men. 

“Here,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Thank you, lad.” And Stiles smiled understandingly. “Now, boy, I know that you are angry. I understand. But as much as I don’t want to, I am going to have to ask you for that gun lying on the ground.”

That was the last straw. “Without my gun, we can’t eat! We can’t live! You don’t want to just rob us, you want to kill us!”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and again smiled sadly, turning his gun on Ida, “You are wrong. I have no desire to hurt you. But sometimes death is necessary.” Without flinching, without even blinking, the villain pulled the trigger. 

A single shot echoed throughout that valley of shadow. 

Death.

Rafe laughed. They mounted and rode away into the night with everything I owned in the world.

But I did not see it. I did not know what they did or what they took. I didn’t care. 

In a moment I had Ida in my arms. Blood leaked over my hands and stained the dust. In the soft moonlight, Ida smiled faintly. She smiled at me the way that her dying mother had smiled at me eight years before, as she rested her baby daughter in my arms. Just like this.

Ida’s young face clouded for an instant. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you.” A tear spilled onto her cheek, “Please don’t be lonely.” Then her blue eyes brightened, and she smiled up at me, “I’ll tell Mama ‘hi’ for you. I know that she will be so happy to see me. And then one day, you will come too, and we will all be happy together.” 

I choked on my words, “Yes, we will all be happy together.” A tear rolled down my cheek and splashed on her hand. “I love you Ida. You are my life.”

“And for every day I can remember, you gave me mine.” Her eyes gently closed. Every muscle in her small body relaxed. She sighed.

Ida was gone.

I do not remember how I spent that bleak night. I do not know what I did or what I said. What I do remember is how I felt. 

Broken. Ida was the only person in the world who was mine. She was the only person who had loved me, and she had trusted me. My whole purpose for existing was gone. I had lived for Ida and now Ida had died because of me. 

Guilt ridden. If only I had kept my mouth shut! If only I had held my tongue! Ida did not deserve to pay the ultimate price because of my foolishness. I deserved to die for what I had done to her.

Angry. Furious. In fact, I was murderous. Those demons. Ida never hurt them! She was eight! A little girl murdered by grown men. What monstrous obscenity. Abominable brutality.

And suddenly, I had a new reason to live. A new purpose for existence. I would hunt those men down and bring them to justice if it was the last thing I did. I would follow their scent like a dog and chase them down with the hammer of vengeance. I would ride in their wake until I found them. When my horse could go no further I would chase their trial on foot. When my legs gave out, I would crawl on, towards the murderers of my little sister. And if I died of thirst and heat then I would die with my arms stretched towards my enemies, and with a heart full of bitter hatred. Such was my resolve. And who can blame me?

I picked up the cursed lone revolver left on the ground and set out. After a day and a half without food or water, I arrived at a small town called Rusty Plains. I was exhausted beyond comprehension, thirsty and hungry. It didn’t take long to get what I needed. I had no money, all I had was a device of fear. So, I used it to take only what I needed. 

Can you blame me? Can you find it in your heart to condemn me? I lived as a man in a dream. I lived only to kill the men who had killed Ida. I needed ammunition and food in order to carry that out, and stealing was the only way I was going to get it.

It was not long before I set out after the outlaws in earnest. Every town I reached I gathered all the information I could about them. These men, I soon learned, were infamous. They were known everywhere as the “Devil’s Duo.” And wherever they were known, they were feared.

I also devoted every spare moment to target practicing. Over time, I perfected my skills and became quite deadly. This talent was very practical when I was short on supplies. Yet, though once or twice I was forced to immobilize an aggressive man, I never killed anyone. 

I was crazed by grief, loss and hatred. But I was still human. I only wanted to bring to justice the men that stole life and murdered happiness. 

The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. I always followed on the heels of The Devil’s Duo. Sometimes a day behind, sometimes a week. They were pretty easy to track. Just simply follow the messy trail of destruction they left behind them.

Then one day I got close enough to see them in the distance, entering a town. About an hour later, I entered it myself. Mentally, I steeled myself. There for the first time since the death of my sister, I saw Stiles and Rafe up close. 

In a bar, they sat on barstools, attended by a single bartender. A methodic, steady stream of clicks issued from his counter. For whenever he was nervous, he had a habit of studiously lining up a dozen glasses in a long row, rubbing each one down with a towel and then one by one, putting them away. And right now, he was definitely nervous. Otherwise, the Timeless Tonic was completely empty.

I stepped through the doors.

Clink, clink, clink. Now the bartender was lining up a new set. Each new glass sounded off the next as he arranged them.

Slowly, Stiles swiveled on his stool to face me.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can.” My voice was the temperature of a glacier. “Tell me who I am.”

Stiles eyebrows twitched, “Excuse me?”

“Sure. Now tell me who I am”

There was a pause. Then, in a flash, Rafe turned and fired. I slammed to the floor behind a table.

Rafe chuckled darkly. “A dead man”

My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding. I had gone down just in time. I rose, pistol poised.“ Not yet Im not.”

Stiles stared at me. Unblinking.

Clink, clink, clink.

Then, realization dawned across his dull features. “You are the kid from the valley. With the pretty little girl!” He began to laugh a grating, greasy laugh. “Oh right! She died because you couldn’t shut your face!”

I pulled the trigger and his gun jumped from his hand. Stiles’ hands went up, along with Rafe’s gun. I pointed at Stiles, Rafe aimed at me.

“I am Joel Anderson. I come bearing your fate.” I smirked, “Trust me when I tell you, it’s not a pretty one.”

Immediately, I ducked under a table again just as Rafe fired. From the ground, I flipped a table onto its side and dashed behind it. Two more bullets embedded themselves in the woodwork above my head. 

I fired around the table. Stiles and Rafe also fired from behind a table across the room. By this time, the bartender’s clicking was long gone. He crouched behind the counter.. Rafe fired twice. Glasses exploded, woodwork shattered. I fired. A window burst. This went on, until I had a single bullet left. I had been counting, and knew that Rafe was out, but Stiles had a bullet left as well. I slowly began to work my way around the room behind objects. All at once, I stood. From the corner, Rafe lept on me like a tiger. Over and over we tumbled. He clawed at my revolver. It went off into the air before it was pitched out of both our reach. Out of nowhere, there was a knife in his hand. Next thing I knew, it was stabbed through my palm, deep into the floor.

Ligaments tearing, pain screaming. I never knew how much pain my body was capable of. I went dizzy. The pressure on the rest of my body was released. Above me towered the short little man. He picked up my gun.

The gun.

The revolver that had ruined my life. I forced my eyes to focus. On the wooden handle, I could discern a stained bloody handprint. I knew what that was from. It was the blood from my hands when I picked that revolver out of the dust months ago. The scarlet on my hands had been the lifeblood of my little sister. The blood of a young life that was stolen.

I yelled. Every fiber of my being was on fire with hatred. And that fire was hottest in the palm of my right hand. I reached over and took hold of the knife’ handle pinning me to the ground. Keeping me from vengeance. With a scream of pain and rage, under the force of my hand, the knife exploded upwards, but when it left my flesh it did not stop. It hurtled, flipping, right into the center of Rafe’s cruel heart.

The gun that he was about to end my life with fell into my hands as I rose. I felt no pain now. Only heat.

Stiles had been comfortably looking on with his gun as backup should something go wrong. Something had definitely gone wrong. In an instant, he spun and trained his gun on the terrified bartender. 

“You don’t lay that gun down boy, and I won’t be the only murderer in the room.”

But I was in no mood to negotiate. My blood raged like a river at the top of the falls. Nothing could stop the crash.

I snarled and pulled the trigger.

A single shot exploded.

But it wasn’t mine. The bartender crumpled to the floor. My gun had clicked. Empty.

I went mad and sprang on the snake, ending him in a moment.

You have heard my story. Do not say I was in the wrong! On the contrary, I did the only thing any man with an ounce of feeling in his soul could have done. I was justified! Nay, It would have been wrong for me to do otherwise. For at the death of my sister, it was as if Heaven charged me to carry out justice, no matter the cost.

I will not say that that action has not troubled me. Indeed, it has haunted me! So now my tale of woe haunts this page. I tell a story of how a young man lost his way. Yet, though I lay down my pen, there is more to the story.

Perhaps someday, I will tell you the rest.

The morning sun flooded into the room. A lark near the window sang its small heart out. Our white-haired patron slowly rose from his desk. His shoulders straightened. He gazed out the window at the sparkling dew drops falling from the leaves.

Listen! He heard a sound. The patter of a little set of feet.

The door flung open, and a little fair-haired girl rushed in and threw herself into his arms.

“Good morning Grandpa!”

His aged face erupted in a beautiful smile. 

“Good morning my little Ida!”