A new Short Story - The Accidental Killer

November 2, 2020

Billy high-tailed it through the old run-down house, threw open the front door, and exploded out onto the front porch. He ran down the four wood steps, wet and slippery from rain and worn smooth from age. He lost his footing, sailed down the steps on his butt, and ended in the mud. After he came to a stop, he jumped up, and without looking back, he ran to his horse, and paid no attention to the heavy rain, lightning, and thunder, all around him. It was a truly awful night for himself and the weather.

He had nothing to his name, and grabbed nothing to take for survival, and he wasn't about to go back into that cursed old house where his brother now lay in a pool of blood. The blood came from his brother, George, some from that wretched Bobby Blackmore, and some was his own.

Billy jumped onto his horse and tore off like the wind putting as much space as possible between himself and the home he was leaving behind, his home. He ran as fast as he could from the mayhem, death, and everything he owned, everything he could call his own.

Storm, Billy's horse, must have heard the noise and figured out that something had gone desperately wrong because he seemed to be in as big a hurry to get away from there as Billy was. Storm was a rescued Mustang, not a big horse but he could outrace any of the quarter horses in the area. As they fled the scene of the double killing, Storm threw mud up with every kick of his hooves, racing through the storm and away from the farm. By the time the storm had passed, any tracks left behind would surely be washed away, at least that's what Billy was hoping for. They went for the mountains stopping only once for a few supplies and a handful of bullets, and, he expected, he would never return home again.

But, his brother, George, was still there, what about him? How could he just leave him there? No, he had to. Tomorrow the others would return and find George and Bobby, both dead, and they would see a trail of blood leading out of the front of the house and they would know it could only be him, running from yet another disaster of his own creation, not willing to stay and face his own responsibilities. He and Storm ran on and on, further into the mountains.

By morning, they had made it close to the Mexican border.

"See those hills over there, Storm? That's where we're going-Mexico. Nobody'll find us there," He told his trusty horse as they rested at the top of a hill and looked south. Storm had been born in these hills so he was comfortable running through the cacti and brush.

Billy got off Storm and walked him along the trail for a while and to a very small stream, something rare in these parts. He let his friend drink until he was full, then he drank and cooled himself off in the water. That's when he realized he still had the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. He took it out and checked the cylinder and saw only four bullets, the other two had been used, one hit George (accidentally, he told himself), and the other hit Bobby (not accidentally). He paused for a moment and thought of throwing it as far away as possible into the brambles then changed his mind. After all, he's about to enter Mexico, it'd be a good idea to have a gun for his own protection. Even if he has only a handful of bullets and little money to buy more. It would be better than nothing.

While Billy and Storm were working their way across the border, back at the house his parents would have, by now, discovered the bloody mess that had been left behind.

Billy's brother, George, was the elder of the two, and stood to inherit the family ranch, and was the favorite of their father. His death would devastate the old man and their mother. What Billy didn't know was just to what extent. His Aunt Susan arrived at the house just in time to see her brother, Billy and George's father, take his own life in despair, right there in the house in front of the women. Billy didn't know these things because he disappeared south of the border.

***

"Hey, Jim, you know Karen and I have been working on our family history, right?" Michael asked his cousin Jim at dinner that night.

"I heard that you guys were starting on that, why?"

"Oh, Karen thought it would be interesting to find out what is in our family history from way back when. I wasn't so interested at the beginning, but she said it would be a good project for us to do together," Michael said between bites of steak and potatoes.

"My family history is a mess of problems, some stuff was found that they really wished they hadn't found, and they also found some interesting things that we had no idea were there. I never bothered to help with it, it was Joy's and the kids' project," Jim said, finishing his steak and grabbing another off the barbecue.

"Well, here's what we have discovered so far," and he proceeded to tell the story they had learned. "The story is about a guy named Billy. He had a run of bad luck that he just couldn't shake. We had no idea this was in our family history. It all started back in the year 1832." After telling the story he continued, "The writer of the family history supposed it to be the most likely place he would have gone-south of the border, so that is what he wrote, and that is how they tell the story to this day. Can you believe that we have a murderer in our family history? We're still looking for more. I have to wonder what's next for poor ol' Billy. Who knows? More accidental murders? Or maybe we have some ranch-land somewhere worth bazillions of dollars and it's still in our name," laughed Michael.

"Hah, that'd be a riot, but I suppose such a place would have changed into somebody else's name sometime through the years. I wonder if it's even possible that something like that could occur?"

"I have no idea, but if anything interesting pops up I'll certainly let you know."

***

Billy found his way to a sleepy little pueblo in the Chihuahua Desert and went into a dark, musty cantina.

"Tequila, por favor," he said.

"Aqui, gringo," the barkeep wasn't happy to see someone from the other side of the border in his cantina.

Billy sat at the bar with a couple of locals, and there were only three others in the place this early in the day. Billy's Spanish wasn't good and he tried to ask for a room, "Hay un cuarto para la noche?" He got some blank looks, so he tried it in English, "Can I get a room for the night?"

"There room two streets up at Margarita's," said one of the men at the bar.

"Gracias," replied Billy. He drank a second whiskey then left to find the place called Margarita's. It was two streets as the man said, and it wasn't anything to write home about, but it had a bed, so he paid and went upstairs to get some much-needed sleep.

The next morning Billy went outside only to be welcomed by a couple of hotshots thinking they would show him who's boss. They started shooting at Billy's feet making him dance, then he pulled out his 6-shooter and pointed it at one of the men, who then raised his gun up and pointed it at Billy. Billy didn't wait, he had noticed a bottle on a railing just up from where they were standing and he shot at it, right past the head of one of the two guys who were shooting at his feet. Both the guys jumped away, looked at the smashed bottle, looked at Billy, and they both pointed their guns at him again. Billy shot one in the leg and he fell on the ground writhing in pain while his friend tried to help him. That guy then stood up and again threatened Billy, but Billy wasn't going to have it, so he shot again, this time the man went down and there was no writhing, no pain, no noise.

"Shit, is he dead?" Billy asked.

"Si, senor," came the reply from the man with the shot leg. He then raised his gun in Billy's direction, and Billy shot the man, aiming for his shoulder, but hit him in the chest. He died rather quickly.

"Shit. Again? I've gotta work on my aim and stop killing people," he said to Storm as he mounted his old friend and quickly exited town.

After many months in Mexico, working whatever jobs he could, he mustered up enough money to live on, and killed no more people by accident or on purpose. Billy decided to ride north, but to where he hadn't decided. He tied his few possessions to Storm and they rode away from the small rancho he'd been working on for the past couple of weeks doing fence repairs. Eventually, they made it to the border, crossed a dry creek, and back into the mountains they crossed all those months before.

In no time, they were back in the old town and looking for a place to stay for a few days while he decided what to do next. While sitting in a tavern drinking a whiskey he heard someone say his name. He didn't recognize the voice so he turned to see who it was.

"Aren't you Billy Jenkins, one of old man George Jenkins' boys?" asked the man.

Unsure if he should reply in the positive or not, he asked, "Who's askin'?" He moved his hand towards the 6-shooter at his side. That probably wasn't the smartest thing for him to do.

The other man said, "You killed my boy, Bobby, didn't you!" It was Hank Blackmore, dead Bobby's father.

Billy drew his gun, then Hank drew his gun, two shots rang out and the Hank dropped like a bag of potatoes. As he fell, he first he hit the table he had been sitting at and the table flipped over and the poker chips and money went with it, scattering across the floor. Then old Hank fell on the floor face-first, his hands still wriggling a bit, and finally, he died.

Billy looked at Hank and said, "Shit, that's not good." He walked out of the tavern as everyone else stared at Hank. Billy climbed onto Storm and left town, this time they went north.

"Well, Storm, buddy, I just got myself into more trouble, and it wasn't my fault! Why does this keep happening? First I killed my brother by accident, I meant to shoot that bastard Bobby. I wanted to wound him, that's all, just stop him from being the fool he is, but instead I killed him. I didn't want to kill him, Storm, I just wanted to wing him, that's all. Just a shot in the shoulder or arm, but no, I had to go and shoot in the head! Shit! Why did I do that? Then those guys in Mexico, more accidents, right? I didn't mean to kill them. Damn!"

Word of Billy-turned-killer soon got around town. His mother heard these rumors and she didn't want to believe them. They made what was left of her love for her son disappear from her heart.

The Sheriff put together a posse to hunt down Billy and bring him back to answer for his three killings. The sheriff knew nothing about the two guys in Mexico.

Billy was beginning to wonder if the gun was jinxed, "Storm, is it possible this gun is the problem? Maybe somebody put a spell on it so it can only kill and not wound whoever it shoots. What do you think?" Storm didn't think much of that idea.

They continued their journey north through the dry desert mountains, being careful to keep their fires small and well out of sight.

***

A few weeks later Jim was over for another barbecue with Michael and he brought up the subject, "Hey, Michael, have you guys learned anything new about your ancestor's murder spree?" He laughed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, the accidental killer. What a kick this is turning out to be. The story now has five kills, supposedly all accidental. It's crazy to think this was in my own family! How could this have been there all these years and nobody ever told the story?"

"My guess is they all wanted to forget that poor ol' Billy even existed."

"No doubt, it's certainly nothing to take pride in, not like a family history that included finding oil, or gold, or something worth lots of money," said Michael as he cooked salmon on the grill.

"Well, here's what we know..." and he proceeded to update his cousin with all the details about Billy, now being called "The Accidental Killer" by Michael and Karen.

After dinner, and after the end of the story, Jim said, "Maybe you could sell this story to a movie producer?"

"Hmm, there's an idea," Michael said as they walked out to Jim's car.

***

Billy's mother and two sisters still lived at the farm, and his mother was heartbroken. She was crushed with the pain that her only remaining son was a killer on the run from the law. Her heart just couldn't handle the pain, the loss, and it finally gave up the ghost and she died. The two sisters now had to take care of the farm and wanting desperately for their brother to return to them. They weren't ready or able to care for a farm on their own, they didn't know anything about mending fences, smithing horseshoes, and all the rest of the work the men did.

A few months later, after spending the winter holed up in a shack in the far reaches of the Sonoran Desert, Billy ventured out again, this time determined to set things straight.

"Storm, you know, as well as I do, that I have to get all this right with the law. But how? How can I do that without the law first locking me up and throwing away the key?" Storm paid no attention to his human and just whinnied in agreement, or hunger, or just because he was a horse and that's what they do. Regardless, Billy knew the time had come.

He rode to the nearest town, bought some paper and a pen and ink, and proceeded to write his story. He explained how each killing occurred and how they were accidents. He made it clear he never intended to kill anyone. His writing ability was not very good so it was riddled with errors of both grammar and spelling, but he didn't care, as long as it was understood by the sheriff and the judge, and everybody else for that matter.

Billy made three copies of the letter. He sent them to the sheriff, the judge, and the newspaper. He figured that way he should be safe from any misunderstandings. Then he waited for a couple more weeks before he ventured back to town.

On his way, he passed by the farm, stopped in to see his family, well, what was left of his family, and explain what happened. He was devastated when he learned of his father's and mother's deaths, and he blamed himself for their deaths as well.

His sisters listened, cried, and listened and cried some more. Eventually, he got through the whole story and said he would be leaving the next day to answer for his mistakes.

One sister, Sally Ann, said, "No, Billy, you can't! They have a posse out looking for you! They want to hang you without even a trial, nothing! Just throw you up on a branch and be done with you. You can't go back into town!" She pleaded with him, but he was stubborn and determined to set things straight.

"Look, Sally, I have to do this. I can't live with myself like this! You don't know what's going on in my head! I have to set it straight."

"But, Billy..." Brenda started by Billy cut her off.

"No, Brenda, I've made up my mind. I'm going to explain everything and pay my dues, whatever that is." He turned and walked out and talked to Storm. Storm never argued with him.

In the morning, he mounted Storm and slowly rode the few miles into town. Almost immediately, word got to the sheriff of his arrival and the sheriff rode out to meet him. They stopped at the edge of town and talked. The sheriff took him into the jail and told him to wait there, which he did. But, he wasn't locked up in a cell so he was feeling pretty good about the possible outcome of this situation.

The sheriff returned with the judge and they talked with him for quite some time, eventually coming to the conclusion he was telling the truth, he was truly sorry for what had happened and especially sorry for killing his brother.

The sheriff and the judge went outside the jail to find that the street had become crowded with people wanting to bring their own justice for all the killings.

"Now listen here, people, put away your guns and other things and listen to us," the sheriff said, "We're going to send some people out to verify his stories about his killings and if what he says turns out to be true, that all the killings were accidental, then he will go free. But if any turn out to be otherwise, he will stand trial in front of the judge and a jury."

The next couple of weeks Billy sat in the jail cell awaiting word from the men who were sent out to verify his stories, and his sisters visited him every day, bringing him proper home-cooked food every day.

In the end, the stories were confirmed as true, the killings were accidental. The judge made the announcement to the town that he was free to go and the people were to leave him alone.

Hank Blackmore wasn't happy with the way it ended and decided to do something about it, himself.

After all the people had gone back to their own business, Hank stood in the middle of the street and waited for Billy to come out of the jail.

"Here," the sheriff said, "you can have your old gun back, no man should be without one. Just be careful with it."

"Of course, I hope I never have to use this damned thing again," said Billy. They shook hands and they both walked out of the jail.

Hank was ready, "Billy! Billy! You're gonna pay for killin' my boy!" and Hank took a shot at Billy. The bullet grazed Billy's right arm and he wasn't able to draw his gun. The sheriff drew his gun and shot Hank. Hank went down with a bullet in his leg.

"Shit! Damn!" Hank yelled, then he pointed his gun at Billy again, but the sheriff got off another shot and this time Hank's pistol went flying away from him, and the bullet went through Hank's hand.

"Wow, that's some fine shootin'!" Billy said.

"Billy, that's how you shoot, shoot to injure, not kill," said the sheriff.

After Billy saw the doctor and got his wound taken care of, he took the jinxed gun and gave it to the blacksmith to be melted down. It would never again fire another bullet or be used for anything other than a doorstop.

***

After Michael told the last part of the story to Jim, they sat in silence and contemplated the plight of the unlucky accidental killer.