Mateo hated the name.
Abigail loved how much he hated it.
“You rescued half the people who came here.”
“So did you.”
“Nobody wants to call it Hart Crossing.”
“I do.”
“You don’t count.”
“I live here.”
“Exactly.”
They argued about the name for twenty years.
The travelers kept calling it Begay Crossing anyway.
By the time Arizona approached statehood, Mateo’s hair had begun turning gray at the temples.
Abigail wore spectacles for reading.
The rifle that had cut the gallows rope rested above their fireplace.
Visitors occasionally asked whether it was really the rifle.
Mateo always answered, “It’s a rifle.”
Abigail would add, “Yes, it is.”
Then Mateo would glare at her.
“You enjoy this too much.”
“Because you enjoy pretending you don’t.”
Children loved the story.
Adults changed it.
Every year, the distance of Mateo’s shot grew longer.
Two hundred yards became three hundred.
Three hundred became five hundred.
Eventually, someone claimed he fired from the top of a mountain.
Mateo heard that version from a cattle driver and nearly choked on his coffee.
“I’d need the hand of God.”
Abigail smiled.
“They’re giving you one.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You’re difficult to please.”
“I want accuracy.”
“You married the wrong woman.”
They laughed.
But some nights, when laughter faded, the old memories returned.
Abigail sometimes dreamed of the trapdoor.
Mateo sometimes woke hearing the rifle shot.
Trauma did not disappear because life became good.
It simply stopped owning every room.
One evening, almost thirty years after Red Hollow, Abigail found Mateo sitting by the river.
His old Winchester rested across his knees.
She sat beside him slowly.
“Thinking?”
“Unfortunately.”
“About what?”
“The rope.”
Abigail looked toward the water.
“You still do?”
“Sometimes.”
He rubbed one thumb along the wooden stock.
“I remember aiming.”
She waited.
“I remember thinking that if I moved even the width of your finger, I might hit you.”
Abigail placed her hand over his.
“You didn’t.”
“What if I had?”