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Harrison Ash

Jamie Johnson

    Harrison Ash sat behind his desk, nervously tapping his boot against his chair. His spurs jingled with every twitch. He. Was. Not. Well. He had not been well for a while but he could feel his youth fading fast now. The years of law enforcement had taken their toll on him mentally and physically. His hair had grayed and the lines in his face had deepened like the gorge he was paid to protect. Ash opened the local paper to pass time and keep his mind occupied; reading about other’s misery always pushed his aside for the time being. He sharpened his handlebar mustache and glanced out the window; the sky was the fiery garnet it gets after a storm in the fall. He knew the sun was setting and soon it would be time. He reached for his desk drawer and noticed an unsteadiness in his hand. His stomach lurched, he closed his eyes to center himself and opened the drawer. He pulled out a small tinted bottle with a label that read “elixir” and took a drink.
    “Sherriff!” Deputy McVey burst into the Sheriff’s office, “He’s coming down from the Dunglen.”
    Ash stood up, grabbed his holster off the desk and latched it around his waist. He walked over to the coat rack and put on his favorite Stetson, emblazoned with the now faded, “Chief”. Ash looked over at the glass mirror built into a small wardrobe in the office. He slowly pulled his arm back and pretended to draw. He was quick, not as quick as he used to be but he could still get the draw on someone. He practiced that motion in the mirror several more times; the last time he unlocked his revolver and drew. After, he looked the gun over; and thought ‘This revolver had been with me longer than Mrs. Ash and perhaps had saved me more times,’ He ran his finger tips along the handgrip almost ceremoniously touching the seven notches on the bottom before re-holstering it.
    “Should I call Mary?” McVey asked reluctantly. He regretted that suggestion almost immediately.
    Ash looked down at the floor. “Well, I reckon this won’t take that long.” He pulled a very feminine handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow, which had grown a multitude of sweat beads in the last five minutes. The handkerchief had been a gift from Mary years ago as a good luck charm for her husband who seemed to have a knack for finding himself in danger at the most inopportune times. She loved him but had no idea how to protect him. Afterall Ash was the sheriff of a small mining town that would give Dodge City a run for its money for its lawlessness.
    Ash pulled out his pocket watch, double checking the hour one more time. They left the office, and quickly found themselves on the tiny railroad bridge that spanned the New River. Wilbur Slaughter had already made it to the bridge and a crowd from the inn had formed behind him. The autumn air was crisp and you could see the breath of the men watching from across the bridge.The leaves had just begun to turn the mountains surrounding the gorge a burnt orange and native corn yellow.
    Although the night had escalated quickly, this level of violence was not unusual in the towns popping up along the coal seams of the New River Gorge. Thurmond was a dry town thanks to founder, former Captain in the Confederate army W.D. Thurmond but struggled to maintain order juxtaposed to its lawless neighbor Dunglen just on the other side of the river. An inn with the same name hosted a nightly poker game which Ash increasingly found himself taking part in. His drinking and poker playing had intensified at roughly the same rate making it difficult to tell the difference between criminals and law-abiding citizens.
    Ash eased out onto the bridge as McVey stayed back and found cover. As Ash stepped over the train tracks on his way to the pedestrian walkway his spur grazed the track gage. He felt something familiar; something that he has noticed a lot in his 8 years in Thurmond. He continued to step on to the bridge’s wooden planks without missing a beat.
    “‘Bout time you showed up,” Slaughter yelled, “I was beginning to think yous yeller. Definitely not the manhunter I’ve heard about.”
    “Slaughter, this is your last chance,” Ash replied, “Turn yourself in, get right in the eyes of the law and no one has to die.”
    “I ain’t the one dying tonight, Chief.” Slaughter replied with a snicker, and there were several chuckles in the crowd cutting the tension.
    “Harrison!” Mary screamed as she ran/slid down a muddy embankment. McVey grabbed her quickly and pulled her behind some railroad ties. She buried her head on his shoulder, crying. Ash never took his eyes off Slaughter.
    The crowd fell silent and both men lowered their arms into position. Just then a train whistle blew in the distance. Slaughter looked left of Ash for just a microsecond but it was enough. When he looked back at Ash a torrent of smoke rose from the barrel of his gun. Slaughter immediately felt a sharp burning pain in his chest. ‘It felt like a bee sting’, he thought. Slaughter looked down as his blood spread across his shirt like a peony blooming. He looked back up at Ash who had turned and was walking away. Slaughter dropped his gun and fell to the ground. A few men scurry to collect the body from the bridge.
    McVey, usually annoying Ash with his chatter, was now silent. He let go of Mary and she ran to Ash. Ash walked off with Mary but stopped for a second and looked back, “You know the only difference between Hell and Thurmond, McVey?”
    “No, Chief.” McVey replied.
    Ash turned back and began walking away again, “Thurmond has a river running through it.”

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