The door of the small house opened, and Luke Canfield looked up from the medical journal he was perusing, flashing a quick smile at his father as the older man entered the kitchen. "Hi, Pa. Glad to see you're back. Did you have a good trip?" Asa's only response was a perfunctory nod, and Luke tilted his head, eyeing his father inquisitively. "You alright, old man?" His father managed a tight smile, before removing a rolled up newspaper from under his arm and passing it to his son.

"Yes, I'm alright. I picked this up in Tuscon, though; something in there I thought might interest you." He sat down across from his son, resting his elbows on the tabletop and cupping his chin in his hands. The doctor cast his father a curious look and picked up the paper, unfurling it with an efficient flick.
The headline, standing out in bold, black print, caught his eye immediately:

JOHN GANT DEAD AT LAST!
NOTORIOUS GUNSLINGER FINALLY OUTMATCHED

Luke's stomach dropped, and a wave of cold disbelief swept over him. He scanned the rest of the article, the sense of unreality growing with every neat, matter-of-fact word that he read. According to the newspaper, Gant, while passing through a small town in northern Arizona, stopped into a saloon, and was sitting alone when an angry young ranch hand - one Jeb Tanner - confronted him, calling him outside to answer for the killing of his father the year before. Gant dismissed the young man, initially refusing to meet him on the street, but fired a warning shot that blew the boy's hat off. No further drama unfolded in the saloon, but Tanner was waiting for him on the street near the livery stable, and after a brief exchange - during which, the article noted, Gant seemed to be goading Tanner, according to an eyewitness - the two young men drew on each other. Tanner was quicker, and Gant was mortally wounded, passing away but an hour after the shootout. The news story concluded with the assertion that Tanner was currently in custody of the law, and awaiting trial for murder.

Luke finished reading and slowly lowered the paper, his eyes staring unseeingly over the top of it. Though the story was presented more or less straightforwardly, the article carried an undercurrent of condemnation towards Gant, and the author wrote as though they thought that Jeb Tanner did the world a favor by killing the infamous assassin, and should be acquitted of all charges.

Asa watched his son, noting the look of blank shock on his face as he processed the news. "Luke?" he said gently. "Are you alright, son?" The doctor blinked, giving his head a quick shake.

"I- I don't know." He stood and went to the kitchen window, pushing aside the curtain and staring unseeingly out at the street. He saw him, in his minds eye: The man in the black hat, calmly walking down the dusty street as though he hadn't a care in the world, while the town went to pieces around him. He could hear the husky voice in his head, could see the ice-blue eyes that seemed to look straight through a person, coolly regarding him.

He saw him sitting in the saloon, calmly drinking his weight in coffee, refusing to kill Lou Fraden.

He saw Buck Hastings draw on him, and heard the crack of Gant's gun as he shot the pistol out of the sheriff's hand, rather than killing him, as he could have.

Whatever John Gant had done, however warped his philosophy was concerning his profession, Luke had liked the man. That he was dead seemed...impossible.

"It's all my fault," he said quietly. His father glanced at him, his brow creasing slightly.

"Son?"

"It's all my fault," Luke repeated, more loudly this time. Asa stood and crossed the room, putting a hand on his son's arm.

"Of course it's not your fault, Luke," he said, but the Luke shook him off, turning from the window to face the blacksmith.

"It is," he responded forcefully. "It is my fault." An expression of pain was displayed on his face; his eyes looked almost haunted. "Nobody in the world could outdraw John Gant; not 'til I got to him." The gunslinger's husky voice echoed, almost tauntingly, in his mind.

"There's a lot of people that would like to kill John Gant. But it took a healer with a hammer to make it easy for them."

Luke squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head again, as if he could rid himself of the memory with the simple motion. His father placed a hand on his shoulder again.

"Luke, listen to me," he said. "Gant chose his own path, and a path like that only has one ending. He would have gotten his sooner or later; perhaps it came a little earlier than expected, but it was as sure as anything. Any way you slice it, it's not your fault." The doctor expelled a frustrated breath, moving away from his father and pacing across the floor, before turning to face him once more.

"But don't you see, Pa? I took a vow. I swore an oath, to never harm another human being; and I broke that oath! I broke it - just like I broke Gant's arm." He sank back into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Asa crossed his arms. He longed to comfort his son, but knew that any attempt would be shaken off again; better to keep his physical comfort to himself.

"I think it's a little more pardonable considering he had just shot you. Surely even doctors are permitted to defend themselves if someone tries to kill them." Luke ran an agitated hand through his hair.

"A question that has been hotly debated for some time now, but irrelevant where I am concerned in any case. Gant wasn't trying to kill me. He knew exactly where he put that bullet; it didn't even strike bone. All he was doing was trying to stop me." He raised his head, and his father saw the haunted look in his eyes. "But I didn't stop. I threw the hammer anyway. I maimed him...and now he's dead."

Unable to stand the way his son was torturing himself, Asa crossed the room and sat down beside Luke. "He still shot you," he said, though the argument sounded weak, even to his ears. "Whatever part you had in it, remember that Gant wasn't innocent either." The doctor shook his head.

"You're wrong, Pa," he rejoined. "By technicality of the law, he was entirely innocent. He shot me in self-defense, and he could have killed me; he chose not to. He chose not to shoot Judge Benson, though he easily could have, and legally, too, if the judge's shotgun was anything to go by. He didn't kill Whit Pierce, either, whatever I may have said at the time." He rubbed a weary hand over his face, looking so much older than he had a mere ten minutes ago. "Face it, Pa - you and I excepted, John Gant might have been the only innocent person in town when he came through. To this day, there's no material evidence that he came to kill anyone; perhaps he really was just passing through." He dropped his hands to his lap, staring towards the window again. "After all, what did he do while he was here? Drank the town's supply of coffee, played some chess... Sure, he went to talk to the judge, but who really knows what was said? Ultimately, he didn't kill him." Luke rubbed his face again, before raising his eyes to meet his father's gaze. "Maybe he really didn't come here for a purpose. Maybe he really had no name on his bullet."

Asa looked down at his own hands, sighing inwardly. Though he couldn't say he personally liked John Gant, he held no rancor towards him, and had never joined the people of Lordsville in reviling the gunslinger. Perhaps it was because the blacksmith was one of only a few people in town that had a clear conscience when Gant passed through, but he had never feared the man, nor wished him ill, and he found the news of his death no cause for celebration.

Luke was clearly devastated, however, and Asa knew he had to deflect his son's guilt before it consumed him.

Leaning forward, he placed a firm hand on the doctor's arm, gazing into his distraught face. "Listen to me, son, and listen well. Gant came here for the judge, plain and certain. Why he didn't shoot him, I don't know - perhaps when he saw that Edgar was dying anyway, he thought it was unnecessary. But he came for him nonetheless, that much is certain - else, why would he tear Ann's dress and take a scrap to her father? He was trying to provoke him to draw, same as with all the other men he killed; and it worked, too, only Edgar fainted before he could kill him. But make no mistake - he came for him."

Luke propped his elbows on his knees, cradling his forehead in his hands and shutting his eyes, as if he could block out the truth of what his father was saying. "I just don't think I can believe that. If, as you say, he went to the trouble of provoking him, why didn't he finish the job?" Asa sat back in his chair, his shoulders very straight and his face stern.

"Whether or not you believe it is immaterial. In fact, the truth of the matter itself is immaterial at this point. Regardless of whether or not he personally killed anyone in Lordsville, or if he even came to do so, the man was not innocent. He did kill people in the past, many people, and from what you told me, he did it without hesitation or remorse. Just because he was without guilt for a particular crime does not afford him the label of 'innocent'." He reached for his son again, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder, and his voice softened. "Luke, I know I am not the doctor here, but it appears to me that you're suffering from something that looks a lot like survivor's guilt. You injured a dangerous man. Six months later he is killed - in the manner of most of his kind - and now you are trying to erase the fact that he was dangerous, and are assigning to yourself the responsibility of his death." Asa placed two fingers under Luke's chin, and gently raised his head 'til the doctor met his eyes. "The responsibility is not yours, son," he said quietly. "John Gant could have, at any point, walked away from his chosen path. It may have stuck with him for the rest of his life; Jeb Tanner may still have called him out and ultimately killed him; but he still could have walked away. He didn't. Therefore, the responsibility lies squarely on his own shoulders, and those of that young man who pulled the trigger of the gun that took his life. Not with you, Luke. Never with you." Luke's eyes flickered, an expression of uncertainty crossing his features.

"But the oath I took-"

"Tell me this," his father interrupted. "In the six months between Gant's departure and today, how many nights have you lost sleep over that vow?" His son smiled ruefully, an acknowledgement of a point scored.

"Only a few," he admitted. "I thought he had killed the judge, and I was thinking only of stopping him before he killed anyone else." He paused, quiet for a moment, before adding, "And I may have been rather put out that he shot me." Asa chuckled.

"Indeed." His eyes crinkled sympathetically as he looked at his son. "You see? It is only because he was killed in his turn that you are feeling this way. And there is no cause for it." The blacksmith squeezed the younger man's shoulder briefly. "Remember Luke, a man can only do what he thinks is right at the time. No one can ask any more of him than that - including himself."

Luke was silent for a moment, mulling it over; then he straightened up, giving his father a wan smile. "You're right, old man. As usual." He grinned tiredly, though Asa detected a trace of lingering sadness behind the gesture, and stood up. "I guess I'd best just stop thinking about it." His father nodded, rising as well.

"A man's thoughts can be his worst enemy," he agreed. He hesitated, then embraced Luke briefly, resting his forehead against his son's. "I love you, son, and I'm proud of you. Remember that. Don't dwell on what's past." Luke swallowed once or twice, then nodded, and Asa clapped him on the back. "I'd better be getting to the smithy now, I've been gone long enough." The blacksmith headed for the door, pausing to give his son one more encouraging smile before exiting the small house, quietly closing the door behind him.

Luke stood for a moment without moving, gazing into space with unfocused eyes. Despite his father's reassurances, and his own admissions in accordance with them, he knew, deep down, that he would always carry some small portion of blame for John Gant's death. The man was simply unbeatable, and there was no way on God's green earth that an angry, inexperienced boy could have beat him to the draw...unless his shooting arm was crippled.

A deep sigh, issued from the depths of his anguished soul, escaped the doctor's mouth. He couldn't even have said exactly why Gant's death had rattled him so deeply; he hadn't exactly been friends with the man, and certainly never close. The only fathomable reason - and it was reason enough, he thought - was the voice of the deceased gunslinger, echoing endlessly in his head.

"It took a healer with a hammer to make it easy for them."