It was a barrier that wouldn’t easily yield to the force of his will. Like the thundering cascade forded two days ago fed by ice melt and gravity, his course was driven by elements just as basic and formidable: longings for independence, adventure, and fortune. These desires, he reckoned, harmonized pretty well with the “life, liberty, and happiness” Mister Lincoln so often talked about. Unfortunately, they often caused him to blunder against the resolve of others making progress slow, twisted, and violent. With the Rockies before him, he had hunkered down in this tiny New Mexico town where desert mesas butted fast against snowcapped peaks.

Biting hard on the stub of cigar, he squinted back sun and dirt and stepped from the decaying boardwalk to the dusty street—confident and defiant.
 

The forces that etched his face had trip-wired his nerves to trigger on “the different” and the “not quite right.” Those nerves were twitching now as they sensed threats lurking in spider holes along the crumbling Main Street facade. The Loner taunted the unseen cowards by marching forward to face his latest foe, sketching deliberate footprints in the dust like marks on a chalkboard soon to be erased.

Devil Eyes was waiting. Having issued the challenge, he loitered in the shadows—alien, scarred, ruthless. The Loner wasn’t really sure what the insult was, nor why. But he knew what duty and honor now demanded.
 

Many thought the Loner a righteous man. He figured himself fair-minded and pretty good at keeping his wits about him. Despite sins of pride and paranoia, he had dodged many bullets. Whether thanks to luck or providence, it gave him faith in the sureness of his own path.

 

As he strode on, he dimly recalled school marm, friends, pastor, and distant father from a childhood back East—questionable role models sowing seeds of survival, country, love, and honor. Survival had stuck. The others were mostly scattered by canyon winds. 
 

Ghosts of the War flitted at his brow like prairie flies—whispers laid to rest long ago. What had torn the nation apart? Powerful trail bosses corralling the herds with silver tongued whips and baying dogs, inspiring the hopeful with appeals to greater goods. “Rally round the flag, boys, rally once again—shouting the battle cry of freedom!” Did it matter if the flag had stars or cross?
 

Devil Eyes sidled from his cover into the sun—hips thrust forward, legs slowly crossing, eyes filled with hate.
 

The Loner’s mind wandered to places beyond the War, to places where he struggled with other questions that were difficult to make out, much less answer, through the blustery din of politicians, preachers, and salesmen. Where did independence end and responsibility begin? What separated ambition from greed? Who were his allies?
 

An old dog now, he had stopped fighting battles within between faith and reason. It was all reflex. Hands to holster. Palm to hammer. Finger to trigger.
 

He dreamt of retiring. Perhaps follow the Divide northwest into Idaho—find land he could call his own or fall in with some like-minded folk? Maybe head back to New Hampshire and track down family misplaced there? 
 

What of Devil Eyes? Were his scars justice for recent evils, or were they ill-gained earlier—back when a life of hate and vengeance was just one boyhood option? These thoughts stirred like the barest of breezes.
 

Their eyes locked across the narrow Main Street divide. Coats pushed slowly aside. Hands to holster. Palm to hammer. Finger to trigger.