God Damn My Aim

The Ballad of Abigail Lambert: Chapter 2

Night had given way to day as light pierced in through the cover of trees overhead. Abigail continued to roam in search of her next opportunity to greet Death at its door. After spending so long wandering in search of an end that would never manifest, time had become an irrelevant structure. Each day had become colored by the same shade of gray, obscuring the difference between weeks and months and ultimately making it impossible to tell whether she’d been wandering for two weeks or two years. Either way, the only constant throughout it all was an overriding sense that she’d been alive too long and there was some force refusing to let her change that.

Every moment blood continued to course through her veins presented another opportunity to dwell on mistakes made, moments of opportunity missed and memories of better times long past. She typically found herself struck by the pang of yearning for a time that no longer was as waves of inadequacy and regret washed over her. Every so often, however, a familiar voice carried by a comforting breeze would whisk her away into the embrace of a warming memory. Back to a time before the world lost so much of its color. Today, this wind shared a name with her older brother, Benjamin.

~ ◦ ~

“Here,” he whispered to her as he handed her the rifle. Abigail was all of 12 years old when her brother decided to teach her how to handle a weapon. Pa and Benji always made it look so easy, but her arms dropped as soon as she got a grip on it.

“You know what Pa’ll do when he finds out about this?” she asked him.

“Don’t you worry about Pa.” It wasn’t out of turn for Benjamin to intervene when their father got carried away with his disciplining of Abigail, a process that often amounted to a belt whipping. He could take it, and if he had to accept a few extra lashings to spare her—he’d do so without a second thought.

Benjamin directed Abigail’s attention to the deer, grazing on a bit of grass about a half a dozen yards ahead of them. “First thing’s first—you’ve gotta have proper form. You don’t want to rest that finger on the trig—“ Abigail accidentally popped off a shot, frightening the deer as it scurried away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you worry, now.” He took the lead as they picked up the trail and ventured deeper into the woods. Benjamin noticed a spider in the midst of repairing its web, and he pointed it out to her.

“Do you know what this means?”

She shook her head.

“She’s been through here.” They continued in that direction until they spotted the creature just up ahead. They stopped and, without a word, Benjamin signaled Abigail to raise her rifle. She did just that.

“You might wanna take a deep breath when lining up your shot. Try not to get too excited this time.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said with a wry smile. She raised her weapon and filled her lungs before pulling the trigger. She clipped the deer, but it staggered away.

“God damn my aim!” She shouted and she proceeded to smack herself across the head. Benjamin was quick to grab her arm and stop her.

“That ain’t no way to treat yourself.”

“Sorry.”

“Go on,” he said as he let go of her arm.

“I’ll just ruin it again.” She couldn’t look him in the eye.

“With that attitude, you certainly will.” He picked her chin up to meet her gaze. “Your only hope of getting any better rests on you keepin’ to try, you hear?”

She nodded.

“Now finish what you started.”

She took the lead and approached where the deer had just been standing. There they found splotches of blood on the dirt forming a crimson trail due east. They followed it for some time before they spotted the wounded deer once again. At least fifty yards away, it was a long shot for someone as green as Abigail but she rose her rifle to take aim regardless. Her brother lowered the rifle for her before she could line up her shot.

“What’s the probl—“ He quickly pressed a finger to her lips. With his other hand, he pointed to a bear cub to their left, much closer to them than the deer.

Photo by Degleex Ganzorig on Unsplash

And with another soft breeze, Abigail found herself whisked away from her memory to her present, where a bear cub scratched its back on the bark of a nearby tree. Momma bear couldn’t be far off which, to Abigail, meant another opportunity had presented itself. She approached the cub.

“Hey there, little one,” she whispered. The cub made eye contact with her and quickly rounded behind the tree for cover. It cried out. She crouched down to its level. “It’s okay,” she said as she inched closer. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” The cub cried out once more and the roar of its mother boomed from behind. Abigail turned around to spot Momma Bear in all her fury, staring her down. The bear huffed with enough force to shake the fallen leaves beneath her. Abigail closed her eyes and threw up her arms as if to welcome the beast with a hug.

The bear charged straight at her, the distance between them closing with incredible speed. Abigail could feel the wind shift as the animal brought its mammoth paw up to strike, but just before it could knock Abigail to the ground, a gunshot echoed through the forest and Momma Bear slid to a dead stop at Abigail’s feet. She opened her eyes, equal parts amazed and disappointed providence had once again intervened and spared her from death. The innards of the bear’s recently vacated skull coated Abigail’s boots. She looked up from the gory sight to the Good Samaritan on horseback who saved her life.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” She shook the chunks of brain off her boots.

“You have a funny way of saying thank you, Miss.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“To hell with you, then.” He packed up his rifle and continued riding on. Abigail looked down at the body of the bear, the cub whining as it nuzzled its mother’s lifeless corpse.

She wandered further south and happened upon the town of Valentine, a sleepy little outpost that was all that remained of a once boom town whose best days were firmly behind it. Just off the main street one would find a path to the silver mine that was once Valentine’s central draw. When the prospect of silver dried up however, most folk took that as a sign to move on. For those that remained, a couple of families and handful of folks that traded with the occasional passersby, Valentine was now a perfect spot for those who preferred quiet over the excitement of new folks pouring in looking to stake their claim.

Abigail traveled up the main street with its general store, undertaker and pelt trader to one side. A blacksmith kept shop across the street beside the sheriff’s station. At the end of the road, she spotted what became Valentine’s crown jewel after the silver dried up: Jackson’s Saloon.

She entered to see a handful of patrons scattered about at the tables. Most drinking by their lonesome, the laughter of a trio of rabble-rousers bounced up and down the walls of the place. Inconsistent with the sleepier quality of the rest of the patrons, their conversation which was liable to be heard all the way down the street was proof enough that they’d drifted into Valentine from elsewhere; much the same as Abigail. She paid them no mind, despite how difficult they were making such a task, and approached the bar.

“Whaddaya got?” She asked the bartender.

“Here,” he turned to the wall of bottles behind him and placed a bottle of Payne Whiskey on the bar. “We serve whiskey.” He placed an empty glass in front of her.

“You got anything that actually tastes good?”

“You’re aware this is a bar, right miss?”

“I can give you something you’ll like the taste of, honey!” The rabble-rouser who reeked of alcohol even from three yards away stood up from the table and gyrated his hips in her direction. Whatever hope of avoiding a confrontation Abigail had beforehand was now dashed. She turned toward him and he waltzed over to her, leaving his buddies behind back at the table.

“I’ll pass,” she said.

“What’s the matter? Don’t think you can handle all this?” As he leaned on the bar beside her, the combination of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath was enough to singe the hairs in Abigail’s nostrils.

“Are you sure you can handle all this?”

“What’s it take to get in with you, missy?” He furled his brow.

“You’re very persistent.”

“Momma didn’t raise no quitter!” He smacked the bar with his fist.

“Tell ya what,” she whispered to him. “Since you’re so eager to whip out that pistol of yours, just do it right here in front of everybody. I’m sure everyone could use the laugh.” Abigail’s suitor, flummoxed, looked around the bar as everyone (including his buddies) hooted and hollered. The smile melted off his face to reveal the scowl beneath.

“You think you’re funny, don’tcha bitch?”

“I have my moments.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to? Me and my boys are wanted in three different states!”

“Orville!” one of his cronies shouted from across the saloon. “Why you gotta go yelling that everywhere we go!”

“Well,” she informed Orville, “you ain’t wanted here. So beat it.” She turned her attention back to her glass.

“Someone ought to teach you some manners!”

He slammed his hand onto her shoulder, but Abigail was quick on the draw. She shot him twice in the gut and quickly whipped around toward his buddies at the other end of the saloon. They sprang to their feet and managed to grab a hold of their pistols but not before Abigail gunned them both down. The whole bar sat stunned to silence by the sight. As Abigail towered over Orville’s body, bleeding out onto the floor, she was struck by inspiration.

“Who wants to go get the sheriff?” Abigail petitioned. No one dared move an inch. She turned toward the bartender, gun still in hand. “Seems like it’s you.” She crossed over behind the bar. “Go on!” She commanded, waving him off like a dog. Jackson ran out of his business. She grabbed the whiskey she’d yet to try and took a swig straight from the bottle. “That ain’t half bad.” It wasn’t but a few moments until Sheriff Weston entered the saloon armed with his rifle, to find Abigail behind the bar.

“You must be the sheriff!” She said.

“When you told me a little lady was causing all this ruckus, I thought you was joking,” he said to the barkeep.

“Ain’t no jokers here, sheriff. Except the dead ones on the floor.” She said.

“I see,” he said, looking over the carnage. “Now, why you gotta come into my town and start trouble? Scare all these nice folk?”

“I didn’t come here to kill the first person that crossed me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I ain’t implying nothing. But mixing drifters is a recipe for disaster and I don’t take too kindly to you wandering into my town, thinking you’ve got the right to take a man’s life. Let alone three.”

“Whaddaya gonna do about it, sheriff?”

“You wanna try that again?” His grip on the rifle tightened.

“What’s it take to get hanged in this town?”

“Toss your weapon and I’ll see to it that doesn’t happen, ma’am.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Are you askin’ to be hanged?”

“Only cause I deserve it.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of someone bargaining for their own execution.”

“I want your word, sheriff.”

“On what?”

“If I surrender myself into your custody, I will be hanged.”

“Ma’am, at this point, you don’t have much a choice in the matter.”

“Can I have your word?” The air between them was thick with the silence.

“Ain’t no one gonna cheat the hangman in my town. Not if they’s earned it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Abigail holstered her gun and approached the sheriff with her wrists out, ready for what awaited her.

The Sheriff wasted no time in carting her out to the gallows out behind the sheriff’s station. The whole town had gathered to witness the hanging. As the executioner wrapped the noose around her neck, Abigail couldn’t help but smile as the rope squeezed around her neck. This time, she thought, it would work. A wave of peace washed over her as she could feel one foot in this life and another in the next. The citizens of Valentine took her look of serenity as the consequence of wanton blood lust. One woman even covered her young son’s eyes from the horror, but however the town felt would be of no mind to Abigail in a few short moments.

The executioner, one of the town’s folk eager to jump at the opportunity, approached the lever. All was quiet. He made eye contact with the Sheriff, who nodded. He pulled the lever and down a short drop Abigail went. She thrashed for no longer than a second before the rope snapped and she fell down onto the dirt. The crowd gasped! Abigail couldn’t help but laugh at her naivety for thinking that this time it would work. As her laughter grew louder and more unhinged, the crowd could barely contain themselves. The sheriff stomped over to Abigail as she continued to laugh.

“Do it, Sheriff!” She commanded. “Don’t hesitate!”

He pulled out his pistol and aimed square at her head. At this distance, there’s no way he could miss. She looked him in the eye as he did it, but when he pulled the trigger, the gun backfired—sending the chamber flying out of the gun and into the crowd, destroying the revolver.

“What in the hell?” He’d never seen anything like it. The sight inspired only more laughter from Abigail, and by now the crowd was in uproar, approaching the gallows to finish themselves what the Sheriff couldn’t.

“Get her out of here!” He shouted at the executioner. He climbed down to Abigail and dragged her out from beneath the gallows. The Sheriff climbed down to help as the crowd closed in. They picked a hysterical Abigail up off the ground and dragged her into the Sheriff’s station, shutting the door behind them.

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Continue to Chapter 3:

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