THE LAST LAUGH
Henry N. Silva
October 5th, 1899
Young Pete took in what the Wild West had to offer…
Sure, he was homeless, with barely a dime to his name, but comfort wasn’t what the West was all about. It was about freedom. No rules. The final frontier… A time coming to an end, and Pete knew it, but he didn’t care;
Enjoy it while it lasts…
He chewed on his last bits of squirrel for the morning, his twenty-year-old body sore from sleeping on rocks. He sat as close to the fire pit as he could, its warmth contrasting with the cool air of the fall. He looked around, as the sunrise kissed the endless desert. A sight that never failed to amaze him, morning after morning…
Lon Sanders soon awoke just beside him, an immediate smile on his face, “Mornin’!” He was only a few years younger, yet he looked up to Pete as an elder, of some kind.
Pete, for his part, didn’t mind. Lon was just a rookie, after all. A rookie who, until now, never slept outdoors, never broke any rules. A rookie who didn’t even own a hat…
Lon continued to smile, “Can’t believe today’s finally my first score with y’all!”
Suddenly, as if on cue, Ol’ Lemons sat up, having slept on the other side of the fire. He too bore a shit-eating grin, “If we’re lucky, today’s you’re only score with us, boy!” Adjusting the brim of his hat, he stumbled to his feet, his middle-aged body almost failing him.
Young Pete couldn’t help but laugh, “Someone didn’t get enough shuteye!” He looked up to Lemons, the same way Lon looked up to him, but he wasn’t afraid to poke fun, now and then…
Lemons cocked his head in acknowledgement, “Keep laughing, boy! Soon you’s be needing more sleep too. Someday Young Pete won’t be so young no more!” He then looked over to his right, noticing their trio of horses beginning to rise, “Let’s getta move-on.”
Each of them mounted their rides, heading north, Lemons leading the way. In time, they reached a railroad, just as a train came into view, about to pass by…
“This is it, boys!” Lemons grinned again, his decaying teeth in full view, “Last great train robbery of the century!”
“Remember,” Pete began, his tone serious, “We be lookin’ for the cart with a red stripe painted across.”
Lon turned to him, “That’s where the loot is?”
Pete nodded, “Damn right that’s where the loot is.”
The locomotive on the horizon grew with each passing second, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. In the blink of an instant, the roaring train was suddenly passing in front of them. Soon enough, the red-striped cart came into view.
“Go, go, go!” Lemons shouted at the top of his lungs.
They each commandeered their horses accordingly, all three of them now running alongside the train, the loot cart inching closer and closer… Lemons jumped off first, managing to grab hold of a pole behind the cart, his feet landing safely on the edge. He motioned his arm towards the others, “Come on!”
Pete went next. Lemons moved to the side as he jumped on, landing safely beside him. The hat on Pete’s head then blew away with the wind, never to be seen again…
Two two of them took a step further back behind the cart, protected by a rail, as Lon prepared to join them both. With a deep, nervous breath, he moved his body into position, and then jumped off his horse, reaching his arm out to grab hold of the pole… Alas, he missed! Pete, having anticipated this, reached his own arm out, managing to grab hold of the boy, as his feet landed safely on the ledge.
Young Pete pulled Lon towards him, all three of them were now together behind the loot cart. Only a door with a padlock now stood in their way. Swiftly, Lemons drew out his pistol, needing to only fire one shot to break the lock. He then kicked the door open, the three outlaws pouring into the cart. Pete’s jaw practically dropped at the sight of it all. Gold crowns, silver spoons, fine China, and so on.
Each outlaw had an empty sack tide to each of their sides. Two sacks per person. Six sacks in total. More than enough.
Lemons got to work, “Take all you can get, boys!”
Within minutes, all six sacks had been filled. The trio then left the exact way they came, exiting through the back door, and leaping off the train, using their now-filled sacks to break their fall…
They each took a moment to catch their breath, the train fading away in the distance. Then, they all scrambled to their feet, Lon smiling ear-to-ear, “We did it! We actually did it!”
Lemons nodded in return, “Indeed we did.” Suddenly, out of nowhere, he withdrew his pistol again, shooting Lon straight in the head.
Young Pete felt his heart sink to his stomach, as the boy fell backwards, “Lon!”
He ran over and knelt down before the body, looking for signs of life. Alas, Lon was dead…
Pete stood up again to face Lemons, who by now had put his gun away once more, “Dammit, you yellowbelly sonofabitch! We said we wasn’t gonna do none of this one-less-share bullshit!”
“Whadn’t that,” the old man shrugged. “Just didn’t like him much, is all.”
The youngin’ said nothing, unsure what to make of everything, still frozen in shock…
Lemons walked over to examine the body, shrugging once more, “Sure does look kinda like you… If you switched clothes with him then everyone would think you’re dead. You’s wouldn’t need to worry ‘bout anyone tryna hunt you down.” He shifted his gaze towards Pete, “No one knew this boy was out here wit us, after all…”
Pete took a few steps back, keeping his eyes fixed on his now ex-idol, “You’s insane if you thinks I’m gonna do that.”
“C’mon, boy!” Lemons pointed a scolding finger at him, “You thinks you gonna get away with this shit for the rest of your life but you isn’t! If you keep them clothes, you ain’t ever gettin’ old and gray, boy! You ain’t makin’ it to the finish!”
For a second, Pete wondered if he was right. But then, his instincts kick in, “How’d I know you just isn’t gonna shoot me too when I’m changing?”
Lemons lowered his arm, attempting to seem vulnerable, “I’ve been with you since you started, boy. Why would I do that now?”
Pete shrugged, “We just did the perfect score, didn’t we? Our last score, right?” He got into position to draw his gun for a duel.
Ol’ Lemons took note, getting into position as well, “C’mon, boy… I don’t wanna end yer story dis way.”
Young Pete stayed firm, “Cut the bull. I’m the fastest gun in the West, and you know it. I killed ten men in five years, and I wadn’t planning to make it eleven today.”
The two remained still for a few more tense seconds… And then, they both drew, and-
BANG!
Pete managed to shoot Lemons straight in the chest, before the old man could even fire… Slowly, the youngin’ walked on over to his fallen mentor, taking his final breaths. Pete stood tall over him, “I see you, Ol’ Lemons.”
With what little life he had left, the dying gunslinger laughed. A haunting laugh. The last laugh…
Young Pete waited until he could see for sure that Lemons was dead… He then did his best to grab hold of all six sacks, preparing to leave… But then, from the corner of his eye, he took another instinctive look at Lon. He couldn’t help but notice how clean and fancy the rookie’s clothes were, a far cry from the dirty, pale-blue poncho he himself was known for always wearing… He dropped the bags, walking over again to Lon’s body.
Lemons had a point. They did somewhat look alike…
With a deep inhale of regret, Pete kneeled back down, proceeding to switch his clothes with those of his friend’s… As he changed, Pete checked Lon’s pockets. All of his papers were there…
Once he was done, Pete made one final switch; the guns. Carefully, he placed his own pistol in Lon’s dead hand, before taking hold of his, checking it from the inside. Only one bullet left. The last of its kind now, just like him…
Swiftly, he closed Lon’s pistol back up, fastening it away in the clean hostler he now wore. Before leaving for good, he made one last change; he moved Lemons’ body to a different angle, to make it look like he and Lon had shot one another…
And with that, Young Pete grabbed hold of all six bags, beginning the long trek ahead of him. He took one last look back.
Two bodies, lying there in the cold…
Fifty-Five Years Later
Pete awoke from the nightmare in a cold sweat. The usual for him, at this point…
The first rays of the rising sun were creeping in through his blinds. With a heavy grunt, the man who now called himself Lon Sanders got out of bed, his knees immediately feeling sore. Slowly, he limped on over to the bathroom, taking a moment to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. Old, gray, and crusty. Bloodshot eyes, heavy with regret.
He made it to the finish. The finish wasn’t so good…
In due time, he made his way to the kitchen. He looked out the window, to look upon the world of suburban, cookie-cutter homes. A world he didn’t understand, and never will…
After coffee and eggs, he headed into the living room. A television sat there, switched off. For a brief second, Pete reached out his arm to turn it on, but then quickly changed his mind, a look of anxiety appearing in his face. He never really quite got the appeal of television, despite his many attempts to try… So instead, looked over some records he had once bought impulsively, but again, failed to see the appeal.
As a last resort, he picked up a magazine from the coffee table, beginning to flip through. Pictures of the new youth, drinking egg creams and socializing at diners and drive-ins, sitting in nice cars, clad in leather, hair greased back. But once again, Pete couldn’t connect…
With a faint sigh, he looked up, his walls decorated with comic strips and movie posters of the legendary cowboy the world knew as Young Pete. Some things painted him as a nice boy, others as a stone-cold monster…
The truth is always somewhere in the middle…
***
Pete awoke in the dead of night, to the sound of a screeching halt…
In a hurry, he limped to the window. A truck had just pulled up to his house. He watched as the driver’s door swung open. A young man in denim came pouring out, no older than twenty-five. A beige cowboy hat on his head, his left hand clutching his right bicep. He was bleeding…
The young trucker collapsed to the ground. Pete remained still, unsure what to do. For a moment, he thought about ringing up 9-1-1, something he had never wanted to do, in fear of it somehow exposing his true self. For another moment, he thought about just leaving the youngin’ there to die… But then, instantly, he thought of Lon, his cold, innocent body, still fresh in his mind…
With a heavy sigh of remorse, Pete waddled over to his drawer. From it, he pulled out the rusted pistol that once belonged to the real Lon Sanders. Still one bullet left. The last of its kind. Just like him…
He then made his way down the stairs, and then outdoors. Carefully, he approached the injured fellow, “Can you walk?”
The trucker looked up at him, “Think so. I didn’t get shot. Just grazed, is all.”
With that, the old man turned around, making his way back into his own home, “Follow me inside. Now!”
The younger man did as he said, “The name’s Artie, by the way.”
Pete didn’t turn around, “I don’t care.”
***
The youngin’ proceeded to tell his story, as Pete wrapped a bandage around his wound; “Was doin’ a delivery. Made a stop at a rest place just outta town. Two guys saw me in the parking lot. Real grizzly-lookin’ guys. Made fun of my clothes. One of them walked up and tried to force himself onto me, so I shot the sonofabitch.” He looked down, seeming rueful, “I didn’t mean to… Just didn’t know what else to do, is all.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I ran to my truck,” the injured soul went on, “and the other brother pulled out a gun and started shooting at me. As I drove away, he said he was gonna hunt me down like a dog.”
“So what’ll you do now?”
“Dunno,” Artie shrugged. “Think I’ll try headin’ out to Alaska, maybe.”
Pete finished wrapping the bandage, and then stood up, “You look ridiculous with that hat, by the way. Especially with that hat. No wonder they attacked you.”
Artie shrugged again, “I dress this way cause I’m a cowboy trucker.”
“Ugh!” Pete couldn’t help but cringe, “Don’t say that!”
The young man looked downward, as Pete suddenly felt a familiar sense of guilt wash over him.
“You can stay for the night,” the old man said with a sigh. “C’mon, I’ll show you to the couch.”
And so, the elder led the younger to the living room. Immediately, Artie took note of all the posters, newspapers cutouts and the like that covered the walls.
“What’s with all this?” He asked, “Got an obsession with Young Pete or something?”
The old man didn’t answer.
“No, wait…” Artie’s eyes suddenly lit up, an ear-to-ear grin overtaking his face, “You are him! Ha! I’d always heard rumors that you faked your own death!”
Pete rolled his eyes, “Should’ve never put any of this crap up, but I couldn’t help it.”
“You must be at least 75 years old!” Artie went on, “Do people even live that long?”
“I did.”
“When I was a kid I always used to picture you killing people and howlin’ with laughter.”
“Ain’t nuthin’ funny ‘bout killing.”
“Then again, I also used to picture you as some sorta hero.”
“Heroes don’t rob trains…”
“Hey, whatever happened to the treasure that they say you and Ol’ Lemons scored? Is it true that a bunch of Indians took it?”
“No. You’re standing in it.”
Artie proceeded to take a better look at the house around him.
Pete turned around, eyeing him critically, “No more questions!”
Curious as ever, the youngin’ suddenly turned his attention to the switched-off television there in the room, “Mind if I turn on the tube while I rest up?”
“Yeah, I do mind actually.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like watching it.”
“Then why did you buy one?”
“Wanted to try it, and then didn’t like it.”
“Aw, c’mon now!” Artie walked on over to the TV set and switched on. A sitcom instantly appeared on the screen.”
“Shut that off!”
“No, look!” The young man insisted, “It’s funny!”
With another heavy sigh and eye roll, the elder acquiesced, proceeding to sit there on the couch with his guest, watching the strange, magic box.
A few minutes went by, and then Artie spoke once more, “See? Told you it was funny.”
And then the old man did something he hadn’t done in ages; he smiled, “Yeah… Guess it is…”
Some time went by, and then, the pair heard another vehicle come to a screeching halt, just outside the house. Moments later, a menacing voice filled the air;
“Come out here, yah piece of shit! I told you I’d find your ass!”
“Fuck!” Artie placed his head on his hands, “He found my truck!”
Pete thought to himself for a few seconds, and then stood up, handing Artie his car keys, “Stay in here ‘til it’s over… Then get go the garage, get in my ride, and head on out to Alaska like you said you was gonna do.”
“What?!” Artie shook his head in confusion and disbelief, “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?!”
“You heard me. I’m goin’ out there. You stay in here ‘til it’s done.”
Artie shook his head again, “No!” He stood up too, “I’m goin’ out there! Not you!”
“No!”
“But you ain’t got nuthin’ to do with this! Why you?!”
“I ain’t the future.”
Artie paused for a few moments, and then sat back down, unsure what else to say…
And with that, Pete made his way outdoors, gun in hand… He met the grizzly-lookin’ man there in the road, and muttered under his breath;
“I see you, Ol’ Lemons.”
“Who the hell are you?!” Grizzly snarled, “Where’s that sonofabitch who killed my brother?! He in that house with you?!”
Pete said nothing, guarding his home.
“Get outta my way, old timer!” Grizzly grunted again, “I mean it!!”
Finally, the old man spoke up, “I’m the fastest gun in the West. I killed eleven men in five years, and I wadn’t planning to make it twelve tonight.”
Grizzly seemed perplexed, for a second, and then drew out his own pistol…
The two of them stared at one another for a few cold, suspenseful seconds, and then-
BANG!
…Grizzly stumbled a couple of steps forward, before collapsing to the ground, bleeding from his stomach…
Pete remained frozen still for some time… And then, suddenly, he began to giggle. And then, his giggle grew into a laugh. A roaring laugh. The last laugh…
But then, his laugh instantly morphed into a groan, as he grabbed hold of his chest… The old man then collapsed to the ground as well, allowing his sudden heart attack to consume him. Soon enough, he took his final breath, joining Grizzly in death.
Two bodies, lying there in the cold…
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