The Tale of Jeremiah Finch

A Story by Seth Durham

Jeremiah Finch is a simple rancher who has lived a quiet life, but a sin from his past has just caught up with him.

Sometimes, good people make bad choices. I believe most folks know the difference between right and wrong, but sometimes the line gets blurry, and that's when a normally decent man can get himself in trouble.

My name is Jeremiah Finch. I'm no saint, but I consider myself a decent man. I read the good book, pay my taxes, and I ain't never hit a woman. I reckon that's more than can be said for most of the fellas in this saloon.

But, like the good book says, "be sure your sins will find you out." And though I've led a good life, the biggest sin of my past has finally caught up with me.

I walk over to the bar and nod at Stanley. He stops wiping the countertop with that crusty rag of his and pours me a glass of his best whiskey. Stanley knows my poison. I like Stanley. In all the years I've known him, the only words I've ever heard him say are, "What'll ya have?" and "Time to go home," but he and I understand each other.

I make myself comfortable on the barstool and look around. I've always liked this place, even though there's nothing particularly special about it. The w****s here look and smell the same as anywhere else, and it's got the same gunslingers, drifters, and shifty-eyed cardsharks you'd find in any other saloon. The air is thick and smells like the south-end of a northbound heifer. But I been coming here for thirty years, and I'm as much a part of this shithole as the solid-brass spittoon by the door.

I knock back my drink and motion to Stanley to refill my glass. I must seem different today, 'cause Stanley asks, "What's yer worry, Finch?"

"Nothin," I say, as I down the second glass.

Stanley shrugs and lets me be, but he and I both know I'm lying. I pull out my pocket watch and check the time... one hour to go.

I stare at the empty glass in my hand, wishing I could go back in time and change things. God! I was dumb as a sack of rocks. Just a stupid kid looking for easy money. Part of me wants to blame the whole thing on the Freeman brothers, but I have to face the truth... they didn't pull the trigger. I did.

I hear some yelling and a scuffle behind me, and turn around just in time to see some no-good cheater at the poker table get a bottle broken over his head. The cheater hits the floor, and the whole place gets quiet as a church on Monday. Then the piano player starts banging on the ivories again, and everything goes back to normal.

I turn back to the bar and try to recollect what I was thinking on. Oh yeah... the Freeman brothers. John and Tommy Freeman were never known for their smarts, and I shoulda known better than to fall in with the likes of them two. They came to me 'cause I was the fastest pistol they knew, and they reckoned I might come in handy in their little scheme.

The Freemans were cattle ranchers, and they'd done business with a wealthy banker named Virgil McElroy. Tommy said McElroy was a lying son-of-a-b***h who cheated them out of their land and money. Tommy wanted revenge. Tommy said the McElroys had chartered a stagecoach to take em out west, and if I helped him and John hold it up, they'd split the loot with me. Sounded like a good idea at the time.

We held up that stage; got ourselves a pile of money, but I got more than I bargained for. The Freeman brothers beat Virgil unconscious, and threw him out of the stagecoach. I kept an eye on him while they had their way with Mrs. McElroy. The sick animals slit her throat when they were done with her. It pains me to admit it, but at the time, I didn't care.

When Virgil came to, John and Tommy yelled at me to shoot him; said we couldn't leave any witnesses. I didn't even hesitate. As long as I live, I'll never forget the look on Virgil McElroy's face when I put a bullet between his eyes. The image has haunted my dreams every night since.

I wish I could say I did it 'cause I had no choice, or that the Freeman brothers made me do it. I wish I could say I did it 'cause McElroy was a worthless cur who had it coming. But the truth is much worse: I did it 'cause I wanted to know what it felt like to kill a man, plain and simple.

The thought makes me sick. I pester Stanley for another round.

Sometimes I wonder if Virgil McElroy ever really cheated the Freemans. Hell, maybe John and Tommy cooked that whole story up just to get me to come along. I'll never know: John and Tommy were gunned down during a bank robbery a couple years after the McElroy heist. I wonder how different my life woulda turned out if I'd never met those two, stupid b******s.

After robbing the stagecoach, I headed out west and bought a ranch with the money. That was thirty years ago. Could I have gotten my ranch some other way? I wonder. I met my wife, Maggie, out here, God rest her soul. Would our paths have crossed if I'd made different choices? It does me no good to ponder such things, but it's human nature I suppose.

I put the refilled glass of whiskey to my lips and tip it back. It burns as it goes down, and I relish the sensation. My mind starts to wander...

I ran into a ghost last week: the ghost of Virgil McElroy himself. He came to my ranch in the middle of the day and rode his horse right up to me. He looked exactly how I remember him; exactly how I see him in my dreams. Turns out, he wasn't a ghost after all... he was McElroy's son.

I have to give the kid a lot of credit. I wasn't armed, and he coulda shot me down right then and there. I certainly wouldn't have blamed him. But Virgil McElroy Jr. is an honorable man, and honorable men don't kill in cold blood.

I didn't know it at the time, but five-year-old Virgil had been hiding under the seat inside the stagecoach while his mother was raped and his father murdered. His parents had hid him there as soon as they realized they were being robbed. They'd told him to stay quiet and not come out 'til they called for him. Sheriff deputies found him days later snuggled up to his dead mother.

Virgil's thirty-five now. He's spent the last twenty years looking for me, and now he's found me. We've got a duel in... half an hour.

I'm afraid... but not for the reasons one might think. I'm not afraid that Virgil McElroy Jr. is going to kill me. By all accounts he's no better than average on the draw, and, though I'm getting on in years, I'm still the fastest pistol within a hundred miles. No, I'm not afraid that Virgil is going to kill me: I'm afraid I'm going to kill him.

No more whiskey for me. My head's starting to get that cloudy feeling, and I need to stay sharp. I pay up my bar-tab, and wander to the outhouse to take a piss.

I wish there was a way to talk him out of this, I think to myself, as I pull up my pants and refasten my holster. But that's not going to happen. The kid's hatred for me has been building for thirty years, and he's determined to try for justice. I don't want to kill him, but what choice do I have?

I pace around the front of the saloon, making a fist then releasing it, trying to warm up my cold, arthritic fingers. I think about young Virgil. How different would his life have been if I hadn't robbed that stagecoach? What life did I steal from him? I pull out my pocket watch and confirm what I know in my gut... it's time.

I walk around to the back of the saloon: the agreed upon place for our duel. Virgil is there, anxiously waiting. His expression is not what I expected. I don't see malice, nor do I see fear. Instead I see the look of a man who's reached the end of a long journey. I should say something, but what could I possibly say? There are no words for a time like this.

We stand face to face. I feel like I'm back at that stagecoach looking into the eyes of his father. Virgil nods and gives a slight smile. He knows this is a fight he can't win, but he's resigned himself to his fate. He turns his back to me and says, "ten paces... when you're ready, Finch."

I turn around and say, "I'm ready."

We count down our paces.

10, 9, 8... My spurs jingle softly with each step. My boots kick up tiny clouds of dust that are quickly swept away by the cool evening breeze.

7, 6, 5... For half a second I wonder if this kid will do the smart thing and shoot me in the back, but I know in my gut he ain't the type.

4, 3, 2... This is it, I think to myself. What's it gonna be, Finch?

1... Times up, instinct takes over. In one fluid motion I spin around, draw my gun and fire. The bullet hits Virgil between his eyes before he even has time to draw. The kid drops to the ground in a heap. My Peacemaker is back in its holster before his corpse settles.

I walk slowly down the dusty alley and stand over the body. I hold my hat over my heart and observe a moment of silence. Virgil McElroy Jr. was a good man, but like I said... Sometimes, good people make bad choices.

The End

© 2013 Seth Durham

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Reviews

Angel

Oh, my! This is a story to make one think! The setting is perfect, and you have brought your characters to life for us. Even Virgil, though he never speaks even a word...we can see how the circumstances of his life have brought him to this crisis.
Jeremiah Finch...just an ordinary guy, who let himself be talked into doing something he would regret for the rest of his life. What kind of man would he have been if...IF...he had never met the Freeman brothers? He will never know...and neither will we.
And in the end...well, instinct took over. As of course, it would if this story were real.
Beautifully done, Seth. A very skillfully executed lesson in life.