~~~~~~
An unseen rooster crowed as Jacob walked his charcoal-grey horse slowly through the dense fog. The fog, blotting out all vision beyond a few yards, was the thickest Jacob could ever remember, and it grew colder and thicker with every step. He shivered and pulled his coat more tightly around him, but the cold mist was not all that chilled him.
The graveyard lay only a few hundred yards outside of town, but the distance seemed like miles. Following the meandering Jabbok Creek was the only way of navigating through the enshrouding gloom. At last the stream curved around a low hill with a dozen tombstones jutting above the dew-covered prairie grass. Jacob's ghost stepped out of the swirling mist into the middle of the stones.
Jacob swallowed hard. "Are you going to kill me now?"
"Of course not. I want you to live as you were meant to live."
"Why did I have to meet you here?"
"Because I've a tale to tell, and cemeteries provide the best atmosphere for ghost stories."
"Tell me then. What does that alternate future stuff mean?"
"I'll start by telling you your destiny as it exists at this very moment in time. I wouldn't need any supernatural knowledge to predict it. As a gunfighter you live by your wits and your speed, but eventually your reflexes slow and you meet someone faster. Gunslingers don't grow old."
"You're old."
"I put up my gun when I was your age in my timeline. I've come back to make sure you do the same."
"Why?"
"Because time is not stone. Our choices make a difference. You are at a critical junction. Yesterday that widow and son hurt you deep down inside. This is your final opportunity to repent, to turn around. If you harden yourself and kill again, nothing will ever change you and you will be damned."
"I'm hardly the first person to damn himself. Why go to all this trouble for me?"
"There's more at stake than just you. Time amplifies small events. If you continue to kill, you will kill three more men. If you put up your gun, those men will live. Some of their descendants will be crucial to history. One, a diplomat, will prevent a third world-wide war. Another, a researcher, will discover a cure for a lethal disease called AIDS. Other descendants will not be so memorable, but they will still be precious human lives. But if you kill the three men, generations throughout the centuries will also be doomed."
"That's...not my problem."
"You will have a problem. The fourth man you call out will be a little quicker than you. Take a look." Jacob's ghost moved to one side. Jacob saw a tombstone that read, "Jacob Remington, July 15, 1890."
"That's two months from now."
"Yes, unless you turn away from the killing, you will die, and your children and their children will never be born. I know your seared conscience is still alive--just barely--but still alive. I know the faces of those you've killed haunt your dreams. You use whiskey to forget them, but it doesn't last. You're in bondage to your gun. Hang up your gun. Walk away from the killing."
"But being a gunslinger is what I am. I've killed men for revenge, sport, and money. I once vowed never to walk away from a fight. It's too late for me to change."
"No, it's not too late. Not yet. Though your past shaped you, you have the power to stop the downward spiral of violence. You can stop it now."
"If I give up my gun, then what do I do?"
"You will have to discover that on your own."
"If I keep my gun and die in two months, what happens to you? You lived much longer."
"I'm just a ghost, so it doesn't matter. What matters is how you live out the rest of your life--however long that may be." There was a moment of silence between them--silent except for the songs of the waking birds. The fog was beginning to lighten as the sun crept over the horizon. "I must leave. I've said all I can. The correct choice is obvious, but you must decide for yourself."
The ghost started to walk away into the mist. Jacob yelled, "Wait!" He stared at his tombstone and his hand wavered near his gun. Finally, he sighed deeply--and broke his vow.
"You win," Jacob moaned. He slowly unhooked his gunbelt and held it out. "Here, take it."
"No. You keep it--but keep it hanging on a wall." The ghost patted the ivory-handled gun at his own side and then, just before vanishing, said, "You'll need it one final time."
Jacob gazed at his own tombstone for another long moment and then put his gunbelt into his saddlebag. Nudging his steed, he crossed the shallow creek and began his journey to the next town. As he rode toward the sunrise, his tombstone dissolved into mist, and the risen sun burned away the fog.
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