Oh, carry me back to the lone prairie
Where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free
And when I die you can bury me
'Neath the western skies on the lone prairie.
Cracked wood beneath his hands splintered further as fingers closed on the door ridges, tightening in nervous contemplation. His breath was coming in short gasps. Scrabbling on the other side of the door made him sigh in despair; poor Rufus. A shot from the army outside lay the hound down with a startled yelp, and he wished that the faithful dog had been less loyal. Perhaps then, it would have been spared.
His wife and son had already escaped. The only thing left to do was to face down the murderous dogs that were circling his farm like vultures. Blood was slowly pooling under the barn door, and he allowed his feet to automatically leap away as if it was diseased. Perhaps it was diseased. He never paid attention to Rufus much, belying the little mutt's unceasing love.
"Come on out, Mr. Marston! We need to have a little talk!"
John stared at the barn door, as if his eyes could make the entire army explode with invisible dynamite. There was no other way. By god, there was no other way. Even by doing this, he was only lengthening the time it would take Abigail to die. He knew their love would drag her to hell with him. Poor Jack, having a bastard father before he could take to the plains as the cowboy he knew the boy would make.
He could feel his legs shaking beneath him. Time was rushing like the waterfall he'd nearly dropped to his death from, a week or so ago. It was inevitable, and perhaps that was why he wanted to fight it so badly. A revolver hung in his limp hand, ammo depleted to a single round of bullets. Even if he did drink the last of the snake oil that old Dickens had made him pay for, he could only take a few lawmen with him.
"You can't stay in there forever, John! Why don't you just surrender?" crowed the cur Ross from outside. Damn, he wished he could take that man with him. But that would take away a foe for Jack to hate his whole young life. There was a chance that the boy mightn't want to go on after his fathers' and mothers' death, so he needed a few reasons to keep battling like the outlaw he was at heart. But that didn't mean he couldn't get Fordham. That bastard, forcing him into acting like some cowardly tamed bear, dancing for their amusement.
"We'll just have to smoke you out," Ross finally remarked. John could hear them approaching, and the scent of alcohol and fire made him tense. No! The barn was possibly the only structure on the farm that would be impossible to repair or replace with just two people. He didn't allow himself to think for any longer.
"I'm taking you with me!" he snarled, bowling aside the big barn door with a revolver aimed directly at Ross's head. The man's eyes went cross-eyed; terror plain on his face, and John grimaced. Then he whirled around and quickly dispatched Fordham, two horsemen and the two nearest soldiers. All of the remaining soldiers panicked and fired at him with their superior rifles, slamming into a barrier of mere flesh.
His vision faded into red clouds. Moving black shapes were all he could see of the infantry. He could feel his breath wheezing, not just from a torn throat but also from holes imbedded in his chest. The strength in his limbs completely left, and John fell to his knees, dropping the bloodied revolver from slackened fingers.
He felt the warm sun on his face. The sound of grass whirring in a light breeze, and the snort of horses in the corral. Against his better judgement, the cowboy held on to these sensations, trying desperately to live for a few more seconds. Ross appeared above him, his face almost guilty as his revolver was held to John's head.
"Goodbye, Mr. Marston."
BANG!
I'm a roving cowboy far away from home
Far from the prairie where I used to roam
Where the doggies wander and the wind blows free
Thought my heart is yonder on the lone prairie.
He opened his eyes and stared. A freshly made grave was below, adorned lovingly with a wooden cross. He squinted at the writing; 'John Marston, 1873-1911. Blessed are the Peacemakers.'
The sun shone down in all its fiery power, but he couldn't feel it. Grass brushed his ankles, but it made no sound against him. John stared ahead, empty-eyed, and clenched his fists.
He could feel the open prairie behind him, dry grass waving and perhaps a lone buffalo that escaped the hunters lowing in despair. Two graves lay beside his own, one belonging to his dear Abigail and that crazy old fool Uncle. A skeleton lay against the tree, empty eye-sockets gazing straight at John.
"It looks like I've got one last job to do," John murmured. His eyes unfocused as he gazed down at his farm; it seemed to have aged by at least a hundred years, falling to pieces and empty as a dried-up river bed. As he faded under the direct sunlight, John closed his eyes and hummed a tune that he'd been taught by Van der Linde during his youth.
Oh, carry me back to the lone prairie
Where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free
And when I die you can bury me
'Neath the western skies on the lone prairie...