Malcolm Hawkins was calm, hand steady. He stood for a moment with the blade before him, hanging still in the air. The morning sunlight drew a shining line across the cold steel edge. Emerging from the depths of his contemplation, his eyes focused on the reflection before him, and he drew the blade across the coarseness of his neck. He dipped the razor in the basin when his work was done, setting it aside with great care. The cold water ached against the raw skin, rivulets running down his bare neck. He let it sit and bring him to full alertness. As he dressed, he continued to mull over his situation. Jeffrey Everett – fifteen years. A name he hadn’t thought to hear again. After all this time, this is what it had come to. Hawkins removed the fresh white shirt from its wooden hanger and slowly buttoned it to the neck.

Jeffery Everett was in a sorry state. A seething rage burned in him, fuelled by the cheap whiskey he had been knocking back since sundown. Its fumes sat heavy in the dark corner of the booth he had wedged himself in. He let out an occasional roar whenever his jug ran empty, and so long as his coin was good, the spirits kept flowing. If he’d had more self-awareness, he would have been angry with himself for ending up in the same town as Malcolm Hawkins. But a job was a job, and here he was. “Goddamn Malcolm Hawkins!” His face was crimson under his wild beard, spittle hanging at the corners of his mouth. His ranting was discouraging the patrons, but no one was quite eager enough to broach the subject. “God damn that man to Hell!”

Malcolm threaded his arms through the holes of his grey waistcoat as he cast his mind back through the fog of years. Those memories were still clear and sharp despite it all, undamaged by time. They had been as brothers; but while Hawkins presented a blunt earnestness, Everett had ever commanded a certain lightness of trust. Hawkins offered respect, and expected it in return. Everett had a tendency to undermine, in an offhand fashion. A solid friendship nonetheless. Though his superior, the young Captain Hawkins had looked up to Everett, found a fascination in his precarious existence. Hawkins had joined the Army to serve, Everett for food and wage. Long days in border forts had united the squad, marches through the wild where a steadfast camaraderie had formed. Those were days of conflict also, facing the raw brutality of the tribes, arrows and lead shot singing through the thick air. The acrid smell of burning black powder, the iron taste of blood. Living through those experiences united men like nothing else could.

Everett rarely thought of his time in the Army. It had been work, for a time. He’d killed his share of savages and southerners. Done what he had to do. Now it was outlaws and thieving vaqueros - Dead or Alive. Dead was easy, and Alive didn’t deduct coin for the occasional bullet wound. Enough to keep him in liquor and lousy bunks. He travelled where the bounties took him, not much caring for where his path led. Maybe things had been better in his Army days. There had been a certain comfort in knowing when the next meal would come, where he’d be sleeping for the night. It was reliable: go here, shoot this, follow orders. But Everett never had much mind for authority, and the regulations had irked him. Sure, he’d had comrades, maybe even friends. That was the longest time he’d ever spent with the same group of men. Good men, he guessed, if he could remember them. But that time was long passed. Man was alone in the end. Him against the world.

Picking his duster off the coat hook, Hawkins recalled that night on Beecher’s Hill. Cold and clear, with a crescent moon on the rise.  A day’s ride to Mason Crossing and the safety of familiar lands. Everett had been left as a rear-guard, three days behind, to watch for an Apache war band they had spotted on the plains. Standard procedure. No real threat, but Hawkins wasn’t taking any chances. Everett had argued against the necessity of sitting alone in the cold for days while the squad made for the comfort of the fort, but Captain Hawkins had been adamant.  Everett’s self-serving nature won out in the end. Half the squad were cut down on that hill without warning before they’d been able to mount a defence. The raiders made off with most of the horses, crates of rifles and ammunition, leaving the bloodied soldiers to drag their way to safety. Everett refuted blame, as was his way. Whether moonshine or greed had drawn Everett off his post, Hawkins never knew for sure, and Everett had not waited around long enough to be confronted. The Army wasn’t the same after that, and though Hawkins served for some time longer, it had become hollow. He had resigned his post and moved west.

Everett watched with detached interest as the pool of spilt whiskey creeped its way across the rough boards of the table. He lifted his holster and bandolier aside to let the liquor run into a channel and flow to the edge, drip, dripping onto the uneven floor. Everett reckoned that Hawkins had probably been a friend, despite his position of authority, but all other thought and recall had bled into a red haze over the years, until the name itself set him to anger. He could not recollect the particulars, just a general feeling of blame he laid upon his former captain. Hawkins’ orders, his adherence to procedure, had driven him from the Army and set him to this sorry existence. Still, he got by, one job at a time. Avoiding this reunion wasn’t going to get the job done any faster. Everett wasn’t going to wait ‘til noon. He was going to head over there and call Hawkins out right now. Face the tension head-on. He made to stand up, but failing on the first three attempts, decided it best to rest awhile and quench his thirst.

Hawkins had never shot a man he didn’t think deserved it. Had never given a command he didn’t stand by. The world was a chaotic place, and the only way to survive was to seek order. Everett had always lived too close to the edge. Hunting bounties had brought him to this town, but his actions here had guaranteed that the pair would reunite. Hawkins donned his wide-brimmed hat and pinned his Marshall’s badge to his left breast. He had often wondered what he would say to Everett were they ever to meet again – express the betrayal, the disappointment, the wound that the loss of friendship had left. He laid a mahogany box on the countertop and carefully opened it, removing the Colt .44 from within. Spinning the cylinder, he fed a round into each chamber. Jeffery Everett. If life had gone differently, they would have been meeting to share memories, toast fallen comrades. But the law was the law. Old animosities could be set aside, but Everett could not escape his latest indiscretions. So they would meet on the street, face-to-face. And today, Marshall Malcolm Hawkins would kill this man.