A Letter Home

Disclaimer: The characters herein belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy, not me.

A Letter Home

Dear Mister Larabee,

As it has been some time since my last missive, I believe it is once again time to apprise you of my recent exploits.

You may recall my speculation in my last piece of correspondence regarding this, but I did find it needful to leave Tucson in some haste, with only my saddlebags and my horse, and, thankfully, the money in my boot, which was, of course, the whole reason for such a precipitous departure. The gentlemen – and I do use the term loosely, as they hardly merit such a genteel description – who were so incensed by what they called my cheating ways that they made some rather worrisome threats against my person fortunately did not follow through on those threats. Indeed, they did not follow me very far at all. I discovered why a few hours later when the heavens opened up. The deluge was such that I was soaked to the bone within moments. No doubt they were snug in their bunkhouse or a cozy saloon back in Tucson, laughing most unpleasantly at my misfortune.

But I still had the money and they did not, so perhaps their misfortune was the greater.

In reading over that last line, I can see that the influence you exert over me is still as strong as ever, to my dismay. Don’t shake your head, Mister Larabee, you know quite well that I would rather turn as blind an eye as possible toward any situation other than my own. You have upbraided me for my so-called selfishness on many occasions. I do prefer to think of it as self-preservation instead – most necessary in these wild places, just as it was necessary I leave that dusty bowl of a town we protected.

I do apologize for any irregularity of my script – I have only the uncertain light of a single lantern, and it is quite difficult to write legibly when one does not have a properly firm surface upon which to write. Though I do have paper and pen – ink courtesy of the good sheriff, though his inkwell is nearly empty, as he shall discover in the morning – I am sadly lacking a desk.

Ah, I’m sure the mention of the sheriff caught your attention. Yes, I am currently under the watchful eye of this town’s able sheriff – not at this very moment, of course, as it is the deepest part of the night. At least the jail in this town – less worthy of that appellation than even our fair metropolis, I tell you – is marginally less terrible than some of the others of which I have made my acquaintance. I find myself glad that this town appears to be outside the current jurisdiction of the estimable Judge Travis, if only because I do not believe I am able to refute that this detention is merited.

No, Mister Larabee, I did not cheat. I was not even involved in a game at the time, thought I was, much to my chagrin, involved in an altercation in a very sorry excuse for a saloon. According to the sheriff, this is apparently cause enough for one to spend some time in jail in this backwater, particularly when the others involved are known townsfolk claiming that I was responsible.

To be excruciatingly honest – and you know how that goes against my very nature, but I know quite well you will accept nothing less – it is entirely possible that the townsfolk were correct. I do not, in fact, recall much of the evening in question – due in no small part to the amount of whiskey I imbibed, I’m sure.

Even with all the distance separating us, I cannot escape your sway. I can hear you decrying that statement even now. But be honest, Chris – from who else might I have learned to so thoroughly drown my sorrows? And when else do I set pen to paper and write you but when things appear darkest?

Since the tone of this letter appears to be taking a turn toward the maudlin, I may as well reiterate that I could not have stayed in that town we long protected, not after what happened. As difficult as it has been to split our merry band and go so far away, it would have been even more so to stay.

To return to my narrative, I’m certain you are asking yourself why I felt the need to drink myself into such a state. Continuing with that deplorable habit of honesty you worked so hard to instill in me, it was simply born of a desire to forget for a short while those memories that are far, far too painful to recall. It must have been a display worthy of you at your surly best. Even though I am now into my second night in these lovely accommodations, my head still pounds, though not nearly as badly as it did when I first awoke. It is not, however, enough to blot out that other pain, that agony of missing what I no longer have.

There are days when I must convince myself that the time we shared was real, not some fantasy or waking dream.

Now the sun dawns; golden light creeps past the bars to illuminate my surroundings in a way that puts both them and the lantern to shame. Soon the sheriff will release me from this cell and I shall put this letter with all the others I have written with no place to send them, and ride on to the next nameless town. Perhaps events will repeat themselves there. Perhaps next time I will be too slow to evade those seeking the redress of their losses at the gambling table, and one of them will hit the mark. Perhaps I am simply waiting for that to happen, marking time jail by tiny jail until I am released from my less tangible prison of life without you.

As ever, I find that I am unable to close this letter without remembering that day. One might think that memories recalled too often would become faded and brittle, like old paper, but these are still as sharp and clear as if the events they chronicle happened only moments ago. Indeed, each night before I try to sleep, my mind unfurls it in all its vivid, horrific glory – the echo of a gunshot, the bright splash of blood on your shirt as you fell, the light dimming in your eyes even as they sought mine.

Truthfully, I feel it is no wonder I choose to spend my nights insensible. In that, as in so much, you were far stronger than I.

Having stumbled my way through another letter, I must close now, and compose myself enough to find some way to summon a smile for the sheriff when he arrives. Or perhaps this time I won’t. I have come to appreciate that appearances mean nothing when you no longer care what others think of you.

Missing you,
I remain,
Ezra Standish