Chapter 6
530 Words
Jackson:
As he struggled to sit up, he was again amazed that he felt no pain. He was most certain that he had been shot four to five times, yet here he was, pain free and strangely rested. He tried to shield his eyes from the blazing sun of the high noon, though it seemed the sun was not only above him but all around him.
It was at that very moment that ‘Old Jack” jumped to his feet. Something was wrong, very wrong, with his hands. Not moments ago, his hands had been soft and cream colored, with the small size and velvety feel of the eastern gentleman, which of course he was. With the exception of a little train robbing and gun slinging, he had never lost the softness of his breeding. It was how he ended up with the name ‘Old Jack’ in the first place, because it was so opposite of the soft, youthful looks he had maintained over the few years he had been here. Now, as he held his hand in front of him, something had definitely changed. Hands that had moments ago been cream colored and callus free were tanned dark brown and wrinkled like bad leather, almost as if he had aged!
For some reason he thought of Martha, the young wife he had left back in Cornish. His wanderlust proving to hold his heart more than the woman he had given his name. Old Jack looked around, the confusion settled like a boulder in the pit of his stomach. Where was he? The veil that covered his mind was black and thick. This could not be, was not, the same place he had just been. The buildings were different, the buggies were faster and missing the horses. Even the air was different. It felt like Kingman, but yet... Wait, something familiar?? The Hotel Brunswick across the road, it was still there but it too seemed out of place, out of its time. Had he died after all? What about Martha? Was this some sort of purgatory? If so, he quickly decided he would rather go straight to hell.
As he continued to look around he noticed a set of saddlebags not too far from where he stood, saddlebags that reminded him of the ones he had brought out west with him. As he reached over to pick them up, realization hit like a bolt of lightning. His knees began to buckle even before he spotted the crumbled note on top of the bags. The note held one word: “Walk.”
Jackson would feel what it meant long before he would ever accept it. He was being given a chance. A chance to make amends. Old Jack didn’t want a chance. All he wanted at the very moment was the darkness and loss of consciousness that was death. Even as he began to think these thoughts a blinding white column of light began to shine in the distance, seeming to reach from the ground straight into the heavens above. Detesting his current compulsion, he picked up the ancient saddlebags, slung them over his shoulders and began to walk.
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