The Diary of a Gunfighter

“That was purty good shootin' back there mister. Seems to me that those two didn't have much of a chance, you dropped both of 'em without 'em gettin' so much as a squeeze.” “They were probably only farmers. Damn sure weren't professional highwaymen. Any good holdup man would've been watching that stage. When I went around back—he would've jumped me cold—he would've made me piss my pants—while he was taking my gold.” The driver looked warily at Simon. It suddenly occurred to him the man sitting next to him was the killer called the Rhymer. At first he was a little afraid. “Seems to me you were already in a foul mood when you walked in back there, that woman givin' you a hard time?” “No. It's just that I've been suffering for a spell—I'm just getting over a cold day in hell.” The driver shot a curious look at Simon. “I thought hell was hot?” “One man's hell is hot—another man's hell is not—but hell is all the same. There's the hopelessness and agony—grief and misery—and lots of searing white pain.” “Guess I never thought of it that way.” “Take it from someone who's been to both places—the devil wears many faces.” “I'll take your word for it. Either way it's good to have you on top.” Later, after they had driven for quite a few miles, the driver had had time to think about Simon's words. “So tell me Rhymin' man, you really think pain comes in colors?” Simon just stared off in the distance. He never looked at the driver as he answered. “Oh yeah. If you had ever had any real pain you'd understand—the black and blue kind aren't so bad—but the white kind—it's the kind that kills a man.” The stagecoach driver looked at Simon. He was certainly everything he heard about, he seemed about half crazy and his looks were as sinister as hell. With that big ugly scar running from his lip to his ear, and a wearing those evil looking dark glasses, he could certainly give a man a fright. It made the driver shudder, but he sure was glad to have him riding shotgun. No other conversation was exchanged the rest of the trip. Simon just rolled with the sway of the coach and sipped from his flask of whiskey. Before they got to Santa Fe, Simon took off his right boot and rubbed his foot. It still hurt like hell and the whiskey was not dulling the pain very well. But he knew one thing, after the incident at the way station, his instincts and his gun hand were better than ever.