Drifter's Rout

Notes: US history events referenced, comments made are from a character's perspective, and thus are subjective. Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt, 'The Route'

Tuesday, February 12th, 1884

Left town today. Sun was breaking the horizon as Chauncey walked. Don't like just leaving, but what's a man to do when everywhere he looks, he finds men that need killing? 'Specially when I left that life behind me, didn't I? Left Jim alone on that mountain three months ago now, I reckon, but it seems that I didn't leave myself there.

Else that dumb kid wouldn't be bleeding out behind the saloon. He just had to press me on who I am; couldn't leave it as 'just a drifter, not worth knowing.' And now he's dead, or dying, I don't know. Don't think he'd have survived where my knife found purchase; no one else has. Here's hoping I'm far enough away that the law won't come looking. Snowfall helps.

So, running again. What the hell do I mean again? I been running since the river in '63. 21 years, and I've not returned home. Bless the West, eh? Been lost and wandering, finding and losing everything from friends to work to money and even what honour a deserter might claim. Still here, still breathing, still running. Still have no idea where to. 37 years, half without a home I didn't have to steal or feed. All on account of some stupid fight I didn't have a need to be in.

Maybe Dad had a point. Maybe I should have stayed out of it. Don't think I could've. Not without lying. It was a good thing though, wasn't it? If it was a good thing why'd the river go how it did? Why'd I run if that was good? If I was doing good, why am I ashamed?