My Sweet Kathy by Reggie McCann (the rosie project TXT) 📕

Now, do you understand me?”

He could feel the hatred in my words, which I'd spat out at him.

His eyes opened even further. He knew then, Hell had come for him—that I was Hell's messenger, sent to collect him.

"It wasn't me that shot ‘em," he begged. "I tried to stop ‘em, but they went ahead and shot those people anyway."

"They ain't the ones who was riding my Pa's horses—you was."

I sent a bullet into his abdomen.

I kicked him in the head, hatred came pouring out of my heart and onto him. I never hated anybody so much as I hated this man, who was now whimpering on the ground at my feet. He was squirming in pain, holding his stomach and crying.

I knew it wasn't right to torture him like I was doing, but I couldn't seem to keep myself from doing it. I was so out of control I just couldn't stop kicking him.

Finally, my anger spent—or maybe, kicking him so much had just plumb wore me out, I put a bullet through his head; sending him further along on his road to Hell.

Chapter Three

Some weeks later, I found a Rebel army unit and joined up with them. We got into battles with Yankees almost every day, it seemed. I found an easy outlet for the hatred which had built itself up inside me. I didn't take any prisoners.

The way battles were fought by the army, seemed sorta stupid to me. I mean, we would be ordered to line up, and stand there, side by side. Then, without any cover at all, we’d be ordered to walk slowly across some extremely long distances, just to meet up with the enemy.

An enemy who, by the way, would be hiding behind lots of cover, just lying there waiting on us to get close enough to shoot. To me, it was more like murder and we were the murderees.

They'd just cut down our ranks as we marched; killing us with this new kind of thing that I'd never seen nor heard of before. That thing, which they called artillery, was simply a pure horror. Any words I might utter on it would not even come close to letting you know the sheer fear that sent shudders up and down my spine, whenever I heard one of them fire off a round.

I told my captain I wanted to kill—I needed, to kill Yankees. But, I wanted to do it another way. I wanted to be able to, at the very least, get close enough to see 'em, without getting my head blown off by an artillery shell first. He told me I had no choice. I had to do exactly what he told me to do, or, he'd have me shot as a coward.

Telling nobody of my plans, I just simply walked away from the friendly campfire that night while everybody else was asleep, and I never looked back. Now, I supposed, both sides probably wanted me dead. That didn't even matter to me, though. Hell, I figured I was gonna die in this damned war, anyhow

.

Shedding the gray uniform and cap, I pulled out my old clothes from the saddlebags and put ‘em on. My once, proudly worn uniform, I buried beneath a rotten log. My old hat felt like a long lost friend. Then, I set out, looking for stray Yankees. I had no trouble finding ’em--killing ‘em, because they were everywhere I looked. This went on for what seemed like years. Well, truth be known, it was years, in fact.

But, there'd just been a whole damn bunch of those Yankees and I never even came close to having enough bullets for all of ‘em.

I chuckled through my pain now, as I remember this extremely tiny detail. It’d taken me two years of war, before that little fact had finally sunk into my brain. Just how dumb I could be, well, that was the one thing that just never failed to amaze me.

When the war ended, my hatred had been spent as well, over the span of those years. Now, all I wanted was to stop killing and go home. Then, of course, I remembered. I no longer had a home to go back to and had to hang my head for a moment. So, I just started riding, seeing what all there was out there in this big world.

Chapter Four

During the war, I’d learned quite a lot about killing, with most of it being bad. One thing I'd purposely sought out to learn the best I could, was how to use my Colt better. I’d taken every lesson seriously and I’d learned ‘em well. More than once, the Colt saved my life through the years.

There'd been times in different towns, when men wanted to test whether they were better at drawing and killing than I was. They weren't. Each of them died. I became quite fast, when it came to the art of drawing the Colt. I'd become extremely gifted when it came to killing what I shot at. But, this constantly having to be on the lookout for people out to kill me, quickly grew tiring.

So, I just kept riding. Finally, I’d ended up here in Gonzales, Texas. I'd made Gonzales my home and I also made a new beginning for myself. Nobody knew about my past, or, the things in my past. I liked that idea and didn't have to be on the guard for someone looking for me.

I'd bought me a few acres some ten miles outside of town. There was a small, and, a very old, abandoned cabin on it. I repaired it, as best I could. I never was very good at fixing things, but I managed to fix the cabin well enough to keep the rain from coming in. At least, while not pretty, it provided me the shelter I needed to stay dry. One day, I hoped to save enough to get a real carpenter to fix it up proper.

I grew a few crops and had me a few head of beef, so there always was something to eat. Down by the creek, running through the south side of my land, I would go each day, just to practice my drawing and shooting skills. I had confidence in my ability to be able to protect myself if the time should ever come, which forced me into having to do so.

I made very few trips into town. Usually, the trip was just to do two things. First, I would pay a visit to the saloon for a couple of quiet drinks. Then, I’d take the short walk down to the store, where I'd pick up fresh supplies.

I never bothered anybody. After the drinks, I'd maybe pick up a bottle of whiskey to take home with me. I found that I liked to have myself a coupla drinks each night before I went to bed. One bottle would last me, until my next trip. Outside of those things, town held no interest for me.

There was this one time, though, when I'd been in the saloon, and I'd found trouble was right close at hand. I'd had my coupla drinks and was just sitting there nursing on the last one. A cowboy I didn't know walked up to my table.

He said, "The boys up there at the bar—they tell me you was a Reb. Well, was you boy—huh, was you a Reb?"

I lifted my eyes slowly from my drink, which was already at my lips, and stared into his. Nodding, I said, "Yep—that I was." My eyes steady on his, as I went ahead and took a sip.

That's when he told me, in this long-winded speech, filled with ugly words, how much he hated all us Rebels. Seeking no trouble, I didn't say anything.

"Did ya hear what I said, boy? I hate every one of you Rebs!"

"Yeah. Heard you the first time."

"Whatcha gonna do about it, boy?"

I didn't answer him. I could see where we were headed with this conversation. He reached down, picked my table up and threw it across the room.

Then, he turned and looked back at me. He jumped like a snake had bit him, when he saw my Colt. It was aimed right at his head.

"Bring the table back over here, boy.

" I motioned, with the gun barrel, for him to move.

Picking the table up, he brought it back. He set it almost in the position it'd been in before. He had such a hateful look on his face and I sorta figured this thing wasn't over between him and me. I'd embarrassed him. He probably wasn't of such a mindset he was apt to forget about that, anytime soon.

Walking outside, I saw him. Sure enough, there he was, just waiting out in the street for me. He stood there, legs slightly apart, right hand hanging just above the butt of the pistol at his right side. He left little doubt but that he intended to continue this matter with his gun. I'd no interest in this fight, though. It was all about nothing that was very important, at all.

I asked him, "You don't really wanna do this. Do you?"

"You're damn right I do," he growled.

His hand dropped to the pistol on his hip, as he began his play.

Before he could lift his pistol more than a couple of inches, mine was already pointed at his face. I held my fire. He just froze. He neither continued his draw, nor, did he remove his hand from the pistol.

He simply froze like a statue, still crouched over, slightly bent at the waist. His right hand was still in the act of drawing; his left hand was hanging out from his side, elbow bent, almost like he was trying to balance himself or something. He was quite a sight to behold.

"Go on.” I told him, almost whispering the words. “Draw. You’ve still got a chance. Could be, my aim will be bad. Haven't practiced much, lately. Go ahead, boy." I was hoping he wouldn't do it, though. I really didn't want to take his life—not for something stupid, like this, which had been over for me a long time ago.

Removing his hand from the pistol, he replied, "Nope—ain't no damn way in hell I'm gonna do that—I ain’t never been too damn smart, but my Ma, she never raised no damn fool, neither."

"Tell you what, though. You damn well beat me fair and square, mister. Come on back inside with me and I'll buy you a drink."

With that, he just walked right past me and back into the saloon; never even bothering to look over at me. Holstering my own pistol, shaking my head from side to side in wonder at his fast change of heart, I followed him back inside. Hell, least I'd made it all the way up to being called mister, now.

Sitting there with him, I learned he was Dave Wilson. He’d his own story to tell. Turned out, he was from Kansas. His