The Last Gunfighter

The coffin wagon lurched over a washboard stretch of county road, its wheels ticking like loose teeth on the hardpan. Cal Rourke rode the near rail with his knees braced against the sway, one hand on the reins and the other resting on the butt of his pistol the way a man might rest his palm on a hot stove - comfortable only because it was familiar. Behind him the coffin sat under a canvas cover, nailed down tight enough that the dust couldn’t get in and whatever waited under the lid couldn’t get out. The sun beat down through a haze that made the horizon wobble, and the air tasted of grit and old creosote from telegraph poles along the way.

He’d expected escort duty. Bitter Creek to Harrow Junction, dead marshal in the wagon, living men on either side, no heroics. He’d expected silence, maybe a prayer muttered by one of the teamsters if the mule breath came out too ragged. Instead, the road began to feel watched long before he saw anyone - small movements at the edges of his sight, riders too still to be just passing through, silhouettes on the rocks that didn’t match the angle of the land.

The marshal’s name was Eli Mercer, and Cal knew it the way you knew a scar you didn’t remember earning. Mercer had been alive when Cal last saw him, still wearing the badge like it mattered, still talking like law was something you could nail to a post and keep standing. Now Mercer’s body rolled toward town in a box that wasn’t quite a coffin yet, and Cal’s job was to make sure it arrived with his hands still clean.

That was what Cal wanted this morning: Harrow Junction. A clean handoff. A wagon master’s nod. A grave dug deep enough that the dead stayed dead. He’d told himself it would be simple - drive, guard, deliver. He kept the mule team at a steady pace, listening to the creak of leather traces and the soft thump of hooves on packed dirt. Every few minutes he checked the canvas, not by looking close, but by the weight of the wagon and the way it sat when the road dipped. Something about the dead didn’t feel like the rest of the world. It felt heavier than it ought to.

The first obstacle came dressed like company.

A man on a sorrel horse rose out of a cut in the rocks ahead, blocking the road at an angle that left just enough room for Cal to squeeze by if he was willing to risk a wheel. He wore a dust-colored hat and a vest that looked expensive only because it wasn’t patched. Another rider drifted behind him, and a third lingered farther off where the road bent, close enough to be a threat without being close enough to count as a fight. None of them carried badges. None of them looked like grieving kin. They looked like strangers who’d been paid to be there.

Cal slowed. The wagon’s pace dropped with him, wheels grinding over stones. The mule team blew out a thin, steaming breath, the kind animals made when they sensed change before men did.

The man in front tipped his hat with a careless motion, like he was greeting an acquaintance instead of stopping a convoy. “Marshal’s headed to Harrow Junction,” he said, voice carrying across the open stretch. It wasn’t a question.

Cal kept his eyes on the riders, but he spoke to the one in front. “That’s right.”

“Didn’t think Mercer would make it that far.” The man’s gaze flicked to the coffin wagon, then back to Cal’s face. “You’re his escort.”

“I’m the only one riding with it that knows how to keep it on the road.”

The second rider chuckled. “Or keep it quiet.”

Cal heard the sound more than he saw the movement - boots shifting in stirrups, hands hovering near holsters. He didn’t reach for his pistol yet. He didn’t want to make it official. Official started fights, and fights started bullets, and bullets started things he couldn’t undo.

He pulled his reins tighter and guided the mule team a few inches forward. The wagon creaked, canvas tightening with the movement. “Let us pass.”

The man in the vest smiled without showing teeth. “We don’t get paid to let folks pass.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “We get paid to make sure the dead don’t reach the living.”

Cal felt the decision come in his bones. He could try to squeeze through and hope luck kept its hands steady. He could raise his pistol and draw attention to a fight he didn’t want on a road with rocks on both sides. Or he could do something else - something that would keep the wagon rolling and keep his options open.

He chose the middle. “You picked the wrong day to rob a marshal,” he said, slow enough for the words to settle.

The man’s eyes went flat. “Marshal ain’t anything to me. Mercer’s message is.”

Cal’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t told anyone on the road who he was delivering, and he’d kept his mouth shut about the contents under the canvas. Yet the word message landed like a bullet, and Cal felt it in his teeth.

Before he could answer, a shot rang out - sharp and close - cracking the air from somewhere off to the side....