Small Things

It was different back then, when you could just kill a man. Challenge him to pistols at whatever time of day and leave it at that. Leave it to the better draw. Conversation is hard, bullets are simple. That's just the way things are. Well, that's the way things used to be at least. Sad thing is there's no real way to know for sure. History can only tell us so much, and most of what's happened's been forgotten. Nobody remembers the small things. We don't even remember most of each day as we're living it. Maybe that's for the best.

Cartwright was pointing the gun in my face. I was almost glad. He got rid of all the nuance, made it a matter of black and white. I've never really much believed in nuance, it muddles the obvious. It's a way for people to change shape and weasel in and out of things. Cartwright and me, we'd had our differences, and it was coming to a head. He was bringing us there.

"Got any final words?" He was being awfully sweet about it.

"None that I can think of," was my reply.

"Really?" he asked. "You ain't got nothin' to say?" He seemed genuine in this wanting.

"Hell, Cartwright," I started, "what's left to say? It was either gonna be this way or the other way around, let's not kid ourselves or nothin'." In truth, I wanted to tell him that, really, I should have been given my own gun. We should have our seconds and take our paces and count and turn and go all the way. But I suppose he is the smarter man for taking out all of that. Now he knows which way it's gonna go down, and in that I find a certain respect for him. Even though that means my dying. Which, frankly, we all die don't we? Was I going to accomplish that much more in this world? Hard to say. Am I going to be missed? I might say maybe. Am I going to be remembered? No. The small things never are.

Cartwright's hand was shaking somethin' awful. I wanted to tell him it was gonna be all right, all he had to do was squeeze and it'd be over for the both of us. This is why he didn't give me a gun. See? He was the smarter man about it.

He put his arm down, the one with the gun, and walked away. We never spoke of it again. Actually, we smoothed out quite nicely after that. We didn't bring it up, not even in a slight referral. He had pointed the barrel at my eye, and that was enough for the both of us. But still I wonder, had he gone through with it, and squeezed that trigger, would it have been better?