Cowboy Games

Originally published March 20, 2014. Revised February 2026.

The Cedarwood Home for the Elderly stood at the end of a dead-end street in a rotting borough of a dying town, an apt image not lost on the staff and residents. Well, some of them anyway. The arrivals came in minivans full of harried and frenzied families. The departures left in black station-wagons where the back seats were always quiet. The visitors’ lots grew weeds from disuse.

Eileen taught grade school for forty years before retiring and within two years her son, David, dropped her off with a peck on her cheek. He visited often at first, then rare phone calls, and finally silence.

The last time he came, he sat with his coat on. His phone stayed face-up on the table between them. She talked. He answered. When he stood to leave, his hug was the kind you give a stranger. One arm. Brief. No weight behind it. He said he’d call. She stood in the lobby and watched the automatic door close. Then she went back to her room.

She wished him a happy life, but loneliness crept into her days. She slept those away and enjoyed the nights instead.

Mister Jameson lived three doors down. No one knew his life before Cedarwood. His tenure there was longer than anyone’s, staff included. He wandered the halls in the wee hours, sometimes clothed strangely and sometimes not at all.

He dressed before midnight most nights. Boots laced, hat on. He moved through the corridor with his hands loose, not touching the walls. Unhurried. A man who had learned to move through dark spaces without waking anyone. At the window at the end of the hall he’d stand a moment, look out at the parking lot. Then he’d keep walking.

Eileen’s mood wasn’t the best that night. She conned one of the orderlies into fetching her some brandy, an easy enough task for a woman not afraid to peddle her charms. The liquor burned her throat but made the time more tolerable.

She considered the length of the tie on her house coat and wondered if the wall sconce light would hold her weight, assuming her courage held. A noisy hooting and hollering from the hallway interrupted her pondering. When there was a loud knock on her door, she startled and shoved it under the mattress without looking at it.

“You in there, Eileen?” said the familiar voice through the door, this time drawling like a cowboy from a bad western movie.

She yelled at the door. “Go back to bed, Mister Jameson. It’s three in the morning.”

“I have a six shooter pointed at your door. You best come out, little lady. I hear you got a bit of booze to lubricate the joints.”

Eileen smiled to herself. The wall sconce would be there tomorrow. Tonight, there waited another lonely soul.

She walked to the door. Her hand found the knob. Cold brass, same as every night. The sconce was still on behind her. She stood with her fingers closed around the metal and the whole weight of the room at her back. Then she turned it.

She opened the door.

“Greetings, Marshall Dillon.”

“Howdy, ma’am. Might I come in for a spell?”

Mister Jameson wore cowboy boots and a felt brimmed hat. He wore no holster, but his pistol looked loaded with lead and ready to fire.