Summary: Foolishly, I had thought I’d have more time; there were places I wanted to see, things I wanted to do. Now, due to my stupidity, I’d never get to. A WHN for the episode The First Born.

Rated: T (only for mentions of death)

Word Count: 1,167

“They’re gonna hang me in the morning

A’fore this night is done.

They’re gonna hang me in the morning

And I’ll never see the sun.”

~ The Arizona Killer

Denver Colorado, 1868

And here I had thought the Ponderosa was a prison, I chuckled darkly as I gripped the iron bars set within the frame of the cell’s only window. They needn’t have bothered with them. The opening was so small I would have had trouble fitting my head through it let alone my entire 6’1″ body; the bars were simply unnecessary.

Or perhaps they’re there to keep things out more than they are to keep me in, now that was nasty thought. My stomach growled even though the dread pooling in it sickened me. Any minute now the sheriff would be bringing me my supper…that is if they did that sort of thing in this town for men who were not long for this world.

A man in my line of work rarely lived long, so this wasn’t unexpected…except that to me it was. Foolishly, I had thought I’d have more time; there were places I wanted to see, things I wanted to do. Now, due to my stupidity, I’d never get to.

I was an idiot when it came to cards. Always had been. I couldn’t seem to stay away from them no matter how hard I tried. It was the thrill of it, I suppose. Would I win or would I lose? Everything was left up to chance, unless a man kept a couple of aces up his sleeve—not that that was something that I ever did. No, I might not be the best poker player, but I’d always had a head for numbers. Counting cards came as naturally to me as breathing. But not everyone found that to be an acceptable practice; take, for instance, the beefy man I’d played with two day’s ago. He’d been losing money all night. His losses compounded with the five whiskeys he’d partaken of hadn’t left him in a particularly agreeable mood, so when I won again, he took exception to it. He blustered, and when that didn’t seem to faze me, he drew his shooting iron. Mine slid out of my specialized holster a hair faster than his did.

They buried him on boot hill the next day.

Unfortunately for me, he was a well-liked man, and I hadn’t taken into account his friends which was why—though I had killed him in self-defense in front of several witnesses—I was sitting here in prison. I shook my head. It was easier to condemn a total stranger than to admit the faults of a friend.

Peering through the bars, I stared up at the sky. The clouds were awash of colors: red, orange, pink, and every shade of gold a body ever did see.

“Ya’d best look real hard at that sunset, boy,” a rusty voice piped up, “’cause ya ain’t gonna see another ‘un.” My neighbor, a drunken bum with only four teeth to his name, had been saying all manner of pleasant things like that all evening. The temptation to strangle him with one of my socks was strong, but the man was sober enough to know that staying on the opposite side of his cell as far away from me as possible was better for him health-wise. He might even live to reach the ripe old age sixty, if his addiction to alcohol didn’t kill him first.

Forcing myself to release my death-grip on the metal bars, I turned and faced the table where a single sheet of paper and a pencil lay. The sheriff had brought it by when he’d delivered lunch hours earlier.

“Time to write my last confession,” I murmured under my breath. Sitting down, I picked up the writing utensil, but no words came. What could I say anyway? Nothing, that’s what.

If I could turn back time, would I do things differently? Probably not. I’d always been one to go my own way and let the chips fall where they may. To be honest, there was only one thing I truly regretted doing.

The image of hurt, green eyes surged to the forefront of my mind and I winced. Five years, had it really been five years since I last saw him? I’d been a different person then, well, somewhat. Time alters all creatures, and though I was more like the tiger who couldn’t change his stripes, I had mellowed. I was no longer one to rise to an offense, nor dole one out just to see what might happen.

“Would you get it through your head that I don’t want you to come along? I don’t need your family and I don’t need you!”* Had I really said that? I was used to being alone, and at the time I’d been too proud to admit that having somebody, anybody care whether I lived or died had made a nice change. It’s funny the things a mind holds onto; mine was more apt to retain things I’d rather forget.

What if I had done things differently? What if I had stayed? What if. What if. What if…? No; it was best to not think on things that could never be. What was done couldn’t be undone.

*BZ*

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, the watery light of predawn filled my cage. There was a shuffle of feet and the jangle of keys. Soon enough the sheriff stood outside my cell.

“Time to go, Stafford,” he said.

“I’m ready.” I replied. Thankfully the drunk was still asleep, judging by the obnoxious snores coming from somewhere to my left.

The sheriff pulled a piece of rope from his pocket and tied my hands in front of me. He led me out of the cell, through his office, and out into the fresh air of morning. It was a bit chilly and I shivered. At the far end of the street I could see the gallows that had been built just for me.

“Wait!” Without conscious thought, my bound fingers inched their way into the inner pocket of my jacket and removed the silver frame from it—the only personal item the lawman had left me with. I slid the cover off and stared down at the tintype. The serene face of the woman who had given me life stared back at me.

Will you be waiting for me, Mother?

I snapped the lid closed and held out my hands, palms turned upwards. “Would you…would make sure this gets sent to the Ponderosa, to Joseph Cartwright?”

The sheriff’s eyes softened and he took the frame, tucking it into his vest pocket. “Sure, son,” he said, then hesitated. “Is there—is there anything you’d like me to tell him?” he asked.

“Tell him…tell him…”

What was there to say? Only one thing.

“Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t bring it back to him myself.”

He nodded. I squared my shoulders and walked down the street towards my doom.

Grandmother always told me I would come to a bad end. Well, I guess she was right.

~ Finis

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Author’s Notes:

If the main character isn’t obvious, he’s Clay Stafford, Little Joe’s half-brother from their mother’s previous marriage.

I wrote this a while ago for a writing challenge on Bonanza Boomers.

*”Would you get it through your head that I don’t want you to come along? I don’t need your family and I don’t need you!” is a line taken directly from the episode The First Born.

Tags: Clay Stafford, The First Born, Tragedy