Chapter Text
1861
“Joshua.”
His narrow bed dips as his mother sits beside him. Her fingers stroke through his hair, greasy and due for a wash. Joshua doesn’t open his eyes, not fully awake; he snuffles and curls tighter, hums a weak protestation.
A golden light flickers behind his eyes and he finally blinks them open to find his mother has lit the oil lamp on the wall.
“Get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs.” She smiles and leaves the room, her boots clacking on the planked floor.
The sun has not risen, its gray light only just beginning to bleed through the cracks in the window shutters. Rubbing his eyes, Joshua stands and shuffles to the table by the foot of his bed; his clothes are folded there from the previous day. He pulls on his little trousers and his little shirt but does not bother with his boots or suspenders: he knows he was not woken to work.
Downstairs, his mother has fixed grits and eggs and Joshua sits at the table where his feet just touch the floor. He does not have to ask why Mama has made his father’s favorite.
He feels his mother’s hands in his hair again, this time taking to it with a wetted comb.
“Mama,” he whines and pulls away from her. Normally, she might keep at it, but today she gives in easily.
“You will be taking a bath tonight, child,” she says, but Joshua has already stuffed his mouth full of grits and doesn’t reply.
Papa comes into the kitchen from the front room, adjusting the belt of his uniform. Mama had sewn it for him. Joshua had sat watching them, his father standing stock-still as Mama measured his arms and legs, carefully avoiding sticking him with pins.
“I’m due at post in one hour.” They all know this but Papa says it anyway. He fixes himself a plate and eats quickly, making a mess as he does so. Once he’s cleaned his face, he kisses Mama and leads everyone to the front porch. Outside, he kneels in front of Joshua and takes him by the arms.
He says, “You stay with your mother, alright?”
“Yes, sir.” Joshua can’t look him in the eye, so he looks at the buttons of his jacket instead.
“Boy, you look at me. I need you to understand,” Joshua pulls his gaze up, even though it hurts. “You will stay here and both of you will take care of each other. You look after your mother and I’ll be back before you know it.”
Joshua is only seven years old, but he knows this is a lie.
Papa kisses his head, then stands and kisses Mama, too.
“I love you.”
“I’ll see you again.” Mama says.
With only a nod, Papa mounts his horse, clicks his tongue, and rides away.
1879
The next-day sun is beginning to pour dark blue light into the jailhouse through the little, barred window of Ray’s cell. The Sheriff sleeps with his feet crossed on top of his desk, his chin tucked into his chest; Ray watched him fight it for the better part of the night. His cellmate sleeps on his back with his gambler pulled on top of his face, his fingers laced perfectly over his chest. And the man in the neighboring cell hasn’t so much as moved since Ray was locked inside his own, earlier in the evening. Ray thinks he might be dead.
The silence of the room is like a cloud, an empty space filled up with just damp breath and sweat. The concrete floor makes Ray shiver, but the cold is a refreshing change from back alleys, open pastures, forest floors; he’s half-certain the last time he slept under a roof was the bordello in Austin and he certainly can’t remember the last time he stayed in one town for more than a single night. It hardly matters now, anyway. Stuck. Between the soft breathing of stranger-hicks in this tumbleweed town, waiting for dawn and for his friends to bail him out. So, Ray lies belly-up on the floor and watches the even rise-and-fall of his cellmate’s chest.
Between two ticks of the Sheriff’s watch, a knock sounds against the wooden door and a muffled voice comes, calling, “Sheriff?”
The Sheriff snorts and starts from his sleep, his feet coming off the desk. “Wha’s’it?”
The jailhouse door creaks open and a man enters; tall and thin, he wears a blue handkerchief around his neck and two six-shooters on his waist. As he takes off his hat, he says, “I’m here to retrieve my, uh, compatriot.”
The Sheriff smiles small toward his chest, “Fick,” he says and stands, “I thought this one belonged to you.” Taking the ring of keys from his belt, he unlocks the cell beside Ray’s and swings the door open wide. “You can take him, but you’re going to have to get him up.”
The man called Fick nods and replies, “Thanks for letting him sleep it off, Mike.”
Fick takes the couple of paces into the cell and squats by his friend where he leans motionless against the wall. “Colbert,” he half-whispers, smacking at his leg lightly, “come on, wake up.”
Ray hears a groan before Colbert stirs, rolling his head but not lifting it from the wall. When he catches sight of Fick to his left, he pauses, and then smiles.
“You all there?” Fick asks. Taking Colbert’s cheek in his hand, he turns his face an inch, examining him with a medical-like distance.
But Colbert still smiles warmly, openly, and he grasps Fick’s wrist, long fingers wrapping around and meeting at the blue-tinted underside. His voice is rough from disuse as he says, “Nate. Is it morning?”
“Nearly dawn.” He confirms, and pats Colbert’s cheek with a kind of dismissive nonchalance, “c’mon, up and at ‘em.” He stands again.
Letting his head fall back with a thud, Colbert closes his eyes and swallows hard and dry. He complains, “I’m still drunk.”
“You’re not.” Now Fick kicks at Colbert’s boot. Louder this time, he repeats, “Up and at ‘em. Let’s go.” He offers his hand and Colbert takes it blindly, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet and then wobbling there for a second. Fick finds his Stetson, upturned on the floor, and replaces it on Colbert’s head. “Good morning, dear.”
Colbert grunts, but Fick looks him up and down in his sorry state and laughs, gentle and quiet, like there’s something to be appreciated in it. They step out of the cell together, long shadows laying over Ray.
“How much to hold him?” Fick asks, but before he can reach into his pocket the Sheriff waves away his offer.
He tells him, “I don’t mind looking after you both once in a while, just... be careful,” he shakes his head and turns directly to Colbert, “you know the danger, drinking before the drive.” But Colbert waves his cautions back at him and mumbles something sloppy that Ray can’t understand. So, the Sheriff continues to Fick, “Before you leave, there’s something I wanted to ask you while you were still in town. And your partner here may be interested as well.” He leans onto his desk and crosses his arms over his chest and his feet at the ankles, “there’s a young woman staying in town these three days who goes by Clementine Godfrey. Her father was a friend of mine once. She came to me asking a favor,” he pauses and rubs his hand over the blond whiskers under his chin, “but my place as Sheriff prevents me from helping.”
“Am I to assume this favor is outside the confines of the law?” Fick asks, hands making their way ‘round the brim of his hat and folding it back.
Rather than answer, the Sheriff responds, “She has $500 she’s willing to pay.”
The Sheriff’s watch ticks twice.
And Colbert seems to have found his sobriety when he repeats, “Five hundred fucking dollars?”
The largest hit from recent weeks barely cracked $100 to split between the four of Ray’s gang, and the largest he can remember came nowhere near $500. To speak to Ray’s current well of resources would be a waste of breath. Hardly more than pocket change for whiskey. Ray wonders if $500 would’ve been enough to ransom his old man, or if he could’ve used it for his mother—fuck, he knows $500 would buy her medicine fifty times over, could’ve probably bought the whole town she died in. Only the poor die in disgrace like that.
From beside him, Ray’s cellmate makes a soft noise, his hat falling from his face as he begins to toss and roll toward Ray. Ray is on him in a moment, forearm pinning him across the chest and a dirty palm slapping over his mouth. His cellmate looks furious and wild for a moment, his eyes fiery, and Ray doesn’t know if he could hold him down if he were to try and fight him, but Ray grips him tighter and mouths, “shut up, shut up!” until his cellmate stills and looks at Ray with little else than vague annoyance, to which Ray has personally grown accustomed. But he keeps himself there on top of him, afraid if he moves now, he’ll draw the attention of the Sheriff and his friends.
“...call that more than a favor, Mike.” Fick is saying.
“Ewell…” the Sheriff sighs, “he’s the scum of the earth.” And then, “It’s all she has.”
For a few seconds there is silence and Ray cranes his neck over his shoulder. Colbert stands behind Fick, just off his shoulder, and he reaches out in the inches of space between them, briefly touching his wrist. When Fick looks back to him, Colbert nods once, terse.
Fick sighs and scratches at his brow, but nods, nonetheless.
Colbert says, “We’re taking the herd to Crystal City, that’s on the way. We could make the trip and help Ms. Godfrey. If she doesn’t mind the pace.”
The Sheriff tells the pair, “She’s staying at the Del Sue boardinghouse. You can meet her there today, discuss the particulars.”
“What time would she expect us?” asks Fick.
“Noon. I’ll let her know directly.”
Looking back to the man he has pinned down, Ray finds his eyes steadily locked on him. There is a long moment, during which Ray listens to the tell-tale sounds of crowded footsteps as they retreat toward the door, when Ray stares back at him, studies the way his own shadow colors his eyes, and then—inexplicably—decides to trust him, rolling off onto his side. His cellmate is still, cold like winter air, but they watch each other. Neither willing to move himself while Ray’s heart pounds like a fish above water.
As the Sheriff closes the door, Ray’s cellmate nods and closes his eyes. Curling toward him, Ray follows suit and feigns sleep.
With only the growing daylight to keep time, it’s impossible for Ray to know exactly how long he lies there on his side, practically twitching with the urge to leave. But he holds himself like that until the black behind his eyes lightens to a stormy gray, then makes a show of waking up. He yawns and stretches, savoring the feeling of several spots in his spine popping. Outside, the sky is white-blue and its light leaks into the cell, drawing lines across Ray’s face.
“Morning,” the Sheriff greets him, “how’d you sleep?”
“Like shit.” Ray didn’t sleep at all. “You haven’t seen my merry band of misfits, have you?”
The Sheriff snorts, “You mean the sorry collection of rats I found you with?” he asks, “No, I haven’t seen them come by.”
Ray nods, now leaning back on the heels of his palms, and he shrugs. Clicking his tongue, he says, “They’ll come for me. They’re hopeless without me.”
To his credit, by mid-morning, the three pieces of Ray’s rapscallion gang shuffle their way into the jailhouse. Randy, a dumb hillbilly with just enough connections to call useful, Boy Nick, who was named such on account of there once being a Grown Nick, and Pleasant, the only one worth her spit, as far as Ray is concerned. She takes off her hat as she ducks into the room and extends her hand for the Sheriff to shake. Hesitating for a moment–the same way Ray has seen every man consider a handshake from a colored woman–the Sheriff grunts, then stands and shakes her hand curtly.
Hands on his hips, he asks, “Do either of these men belong to you?”
Pleasant grins at Ray and says, “The little one.”
“Fuck you, Pleasant.”
“Fuck you, too.” She snaps back, but when the Sheriff opens the door to Ray's cell, just a foot or so to let him squeeze out, she claps a hug to his back and rests her chin on his head briefly.
“How much to spring ‘im?” Boy Nick asks. His hand is on his weapon and if Ray had thought the Sheriff had noticed, he would’ve smacked him. Could get them all killed, walking into a place like that.
The Sheriff locks the door again with Ray’s poor cellmate still inside and he replies, “$15.”
“Shit,” Boy Nick complains, “we’d be better to leave you in here, Person.”
“Boy Nick,” Pleasant hushes, “shut the fuck up and pay this gentleman, please.”
“$15,” he grumbles, taking his pack from his shoulders and blindly digging through it.
“$30,” corrects Ray.
“What?”
Ray looks to his cellmate, dirty and greasy, alone, and the only other soul to know about Ms. Clementine Godfrey. “You heard me. We’re bailing him out, too,” he gestures to the cell where his cellmate stares up at him from his place on the floor.
“Why?” Boy Nick asks, his hand tightening around his gun.
“Because I said so.” Ray waits a moment, but when Boy Nick doesn’t move, Ray demands, “You stupid bastard, get me the $30 or I’ll have Pleasant take a piece outta your ear.”
All but whining, Boy Nick asks, “Why should I have to give up my money for him?”
The cellmate is standing now, his hands wrapped around two iron bars. He looks skeptically from Ray to Boy Nick to the Sheriff as this continues.
Ray gives in to his earlier instinct and slaps away Boy Nick’s hand from his weapon as he corrects him a second time, “It isn’t your money, it’s our money—more accurately, it’s my money. So hand it over or I’ll leave you here in this shithole town.”
Boy Nick is pink in the face and he stubbornly stares Ray down as he searches through his pack, but nonetheless produces the $30, slapping the greenbacks in Rays hand. Ray kindly hands the money to the Sheriff.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.” He says and nods to the cell door.
The Sheriff chuckles and shakes his head. He unlocks the door and lets Ray’s cellmate stumble slowly out, still wearing a skeptical face. Ray can’t blame him for it. He collects his things from the Sheriff, a satchel with a fraying strap and six-shooter, as the Sheriff speaks.
“You fellas–and ma’am–have a nice day.” The Sheriff tells them, “I hope I won’t have to hear from you again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ray holds his hat over his chest and nods with solemnity, then whistles and pivots on one heel; to his gang and their newfound friend, he says, “alright, let’s go. Out the door with you.”
On the jailhouse porch, Ray steps into the sunlight, which has turned a cold yellow. The desert town isn’t abandoned, but it is quiet; Ray can see a gaggle of children playing in the street, churning up dust while their mothers stand aside chatting, men hang over the railings of saloons and the town’s one brothel, the train station is empty, and directly ahead, on the far side of town, a church stands upright, but crooked on it’s foundation, like a white skeleton—bleached, bare bones—until the bell in its tower rings the hour. Nine times.
Pleasant wordlessly hands Ray his six-shooters, which he refastens to his waist. Black gambler on his head again, he lights himself a new cigarette and breathes in the fresh, clean smoke. He stands out in the sun and lets it warm his body for a long moment, then, swinging back over his shoulder he pins his cellmate with a hard stare and says, “Ain’t you ought’ta be thanking me?”
His cellmate squints at him under the sun and bites his lip. He replies, “No,” and a laugh bursts from Ray, “I don’t trust you. Why’d you help me out?”
In daylight, Ray examines him. Taller than Ray but not a large man by any stretch. His skin is tanned around his hands and wrists and neck, and his fingers are covered in dirt, nearly black with it. His hair would be blond, Ray thinks, if it were washed and cut properly, but as it stands it’s darkened by grime and chopped unevenly at the ears, probably done himself. Ray’s sure he must’ve ridden a horse to get anywhere near here, but the get-up is all wrong. His shirt and trousers are too thin—cotton, made soft and limp by wear, not leather—and the boots on his feet aren’t tall enough in the heel, just thick and flat and useless.
Stepping closer, Ray asks him, “You got family ‘round here? Anybody to come bail you out?”
“No,” he replies, “but"—
“Right. Tell me your name?”
His cellmate looks away, checking along the near-empty streets and down the main strip. He swallows, glances to the dust swirling between their feet, and replies, “Walt Hasser.”
Ray smiles something wicked and claps his new companion on the shoulder, saying, “Well, Walt, you and I are gonna be fast friends.”
“Are we?” he asks, that disbelieving squint coming onto his face again.
“Y’ain’t got a choice.” Ray explains to him evenly, “Aside from our lawman friend inside there, you and I are the only ones who know about Ms. Godfrey. And not to be cruel to you, Walt,” Ray minutely nods his head to Pleasant—who pulls back the hammer of her revolver, “but I don’t trust you all that much, either. So you can help me or stay out of my way. And in either case, you’re sticking with us.”
Walt gulps as if there’s sand in his mouth and holds his jaw shut tight. Glancing from Ray to Pleasant to her revolver, he comes to the sanest conclusion. “Fine.” He says, “I won’t make a fuss about it.”
“‘At’a boy.” Ray claps his arm and sets off down the main strip, his friends left to follow behind him.
Pleasant catches up with him easily, holstering her weapon. She asks, “Ms. Godfrey? She our new target?”
“Might be.” Ray looks sideways at her smile. Pleasant is always with him, always willing to enter the fight if he asks her. And with the two men he met this morning, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna need every tooth and nail they got. “Let’s go to the stables first.”
The stables—which are not stables but instead a series of posts to which they have tied their horses—are housed in the shade of plum trees, the only green things for miles. Ray takes his pack from Randy, who has held it for him overnight, and takes out one of two apples hidden inside. Treats he keeps on hand for his mare, Valentine. She’s been his longest-held and closest companion, and Ray loves her dearly.
As she eats, Ray pets her face and neck; her black coat is still shiny. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the layer of dust that has settled over everything.
“So,” he turns back to the rest, his hand still brushing along Valentine’s mane, “today, through what seems to be the grace of God, I learned about one Clementine Godfrey.” Pleasant, Randy, and Boy Nick all tend to their horses, but look on as they listen. “She is staying in the Del Sue and she has $500 she’s willing to pay for some help—illegal dealings or some such.” He waves a hand.
“You want us to help her and collect the money?” Randy inquires.
“No,” Ray tuts his tongue, “I want to steal the money and do no work.”
Pleasant’s brow is pinched in some sort of disbelief. She reminds him, “We don’t lay hands on women.”
“Pleasant, for $500 I would sell out my own sister.”
“You don’t have a sister.”
Ray’s face breaks into a grin and he giggles. He doesn’t remember telling Pleasant about his family and wonders if he did so while drunk. Hardly matters now, anyway. “I knew I trusted you too well.” He claps his hands and collects himself again, “In any case, one woman, fifteen minutes, in and out, we’re $500 richer.”
A hum comes from beside one of the posts, drawing the attention of the group. Walt is standing there with his arms crossed low over his chest. “You forget about the two men she has employed.”
Pleasant turns to Ray with a raised brow. “Two men, huh?"
“Has yet to employ, Walter.” He easily corrects, “If you remember, our friend the Sheriff told them to meet her at noon. We get in and out before then, we’re in apple pie order.”
“You’re going to kill a woman for $500.” Walt concludes.
“Who said anything about killing her?” Ray throws up his hands, “we’re going to point a gun at her and politely request that she gives us the money. No blood shed.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then she’s a genuine moron and we may have to shoot her.”
Walt sighs and scratches at his brow with the back of his thumbnail. He spits into the dirt, not at Ray, just aimlessly, and concedes with the question: “How much is my cut?”
Ray’s got him. “$100. Even.”
Before the church bell rings eleven times for the hour, Ray, Walt, Randy, and Boy Nick have gathered themselves behind the Del Sue, atop their horses, to wait for a signal from Pleasant, who has made her way inside. The air is so hot, it’s a weight on Ray’s shoulders and no breeze comes to bring relief from the beating sun on his back. Flies buzz around Valentine’s mane as she shakes to ward them off and Ray smacks at the mosquitos that land on his neck.
Restless, Ray dismounts Valentine and retrieves a second cigarette and his matchbox from his pocket. He strolls toward the Del Sue’s back wall, where he plucks a match from the box and strikes it against the dirt bricks of the exposed foundation, shouldering the flame as it catches. Puffing out a lungful of smoke, he idly examines the cover of his matchbox, one he’d picked up somewhere in Arkansas, he thinks, and scratches away a scuff mark with his thumbnail. It’s printed with the image of a sleepy-looking eye encircled by the sun on a blue background; Eclipse Matches, it reads in serif font along its bottom edge.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Ray finds Walt watching him from his saddle. The edges of him are silhouetted, but the sun lights up the fine, blonde hair about his neck and ears. Ray can just make out his eyes. They watch his hands as Ray raises them to his lips for a second drag. His cheeks go hollow as he inhales and blows the smoke toward Walt’s face.
“That’s her,” Randy says as a pair of second-story shutters are pushed open and smack against the exterior wall.
“Okay,” Ray snaps his fingers, “Randy, you stay here. Walt,” he beckons him with a hand, “you’re with me. Boy Nick, give us a boost.”
All give their affirmation and Walt dismounts quickly. With Boy Nick braced back against the wall, Ray and Walt jump up to the open window, one after the other, and wiggle their way through it. Inside the room, there is a wardrobe against the right-hand wall, a bed against the left-hand wall, and directly across, the only door is closed.
“Empty.” Walt says from beside him.
Ray strides across the floor to the wardrobe and yanks open its doors, “Look in the bed,” he tells Walt, “see if the money is in there, or if you can find a bag or something.” He pushes aside the hanging clothes and feels along the back and sides of the wardrobe, but nothing appears, and the bottom drawers reveal little but lint and the remnants of moth-eaten stockings. “Damn.”
“Here, this is it!” Ray turns back to Walt, who kneels beside the bed, pulling open a leather, drawstring bag.
Ray sprints to get his hands on it. From inside, he pulls out a fistful of silver and copper colored coins, and several one and five dollar notes. Money scrounged from old savings, under floorboards, and in upturned pockets.
“What’s this? Who are you?”
At the door, a woman, red-headed and tall, stands gawking at Ray and Walt, both with hands still on the bag. She steps back a pace and begins to turn toward the hallway, but Ray grins as Pleasant comes up behind her, the click of a hammer telling of the six-shooter no doubt pressing into her back.
“You be quiet now,” Pleasant says with a warmth that spreads no ease, “You don’t got nowhere to go.”
Ray takes the bag of money from Walt and pulls it closed. As he ties the strings tight, he asks the woman, “Are you Clementine Godfrey?”
“Please,” she answers, “don’t do this.”
“You have a fine day, Ms. Godfrey. And please, don’t look so down. There wasn’t a thing you could do to stop us, so don’t blame yourself.” Even with the growing horror on Ms. Godfrey’s face, Ray’s smile stretches wider, so pleased that such a short-lived plan could go so well. “So, go on, into the wardrobe.” He waves her on and takes another small piece of glee at the perplexed expression she wears. She doesn’t move, just as Ray knew she wouldn’t, so he gestures toward her with his revolver, “Pleasant, assist her.”
With Pleasant’s hands on her shoulders, pushing her away, Clementine finally resists, opening her mouth to shout, “This is wrong! You’ll regret this! I will find you!”
“Ah, I’m sure you’ll try, Ms. Godfrey.” Ray placates, wolfish grin still sitting on his face, “the money is sure to be long gone by the time you catch up to us in the next town over, or on the other side of the Grande, or in the Caribbean on some no-man’s-island full of sugar and tobacco and pussy and all other manner of god-given gifts to mankind. But in the meantime,” Ray’s voice lowers as he leans in close, “shut your damn mouth. And get into the wardrobe. Quit fussing.”
Finally, she obeys, and once she’s fit snug inside, Ray asks her, “You done all your learning? Your letters and numbers?” At her dumbfounded nod, he says, “You seem the type. You count all the way up to 100 Mississippi. You can come out when you’re done, but rest assured, we will be gone. You decide to make a racket, it’ll be the last noise you ever make. Clear?”
Clementine nods again.
“Good.” Ray tosses the bag of money to Walt and tips his gambler, “You have a fine day, Ms. Godfrey.” He closes the wardrobe doors and walks to the window. Below, Randy and Boy Nick wait on their horses; Randy holds Valentine’s reins, Boy Nick holds onto Walt’s horse. Ray whistles sharp, and their gazes snap up and they pull at their horses and click their tongues, ready to come around to the front of the Del Sue.
Ducking back inside, Ray says nothing as he leads Pleasant and Walt out of Ms. Godfrey’s room and down the main staircase to the ground floor. The Del Sue seems a nice establishment. The parlor is decorated with candles and plants and hanging banners, clumps of different people stand around talking low, smiling and laughing among themselves. The murmur they create is enough to hide Pleasant, Ray, and Walt, the latter two of which have taken off their hats in the presence of more polite company.
With his head bowed, Ray glances about the room for signs of trouble, that some patron may suspect their plot, and the three make their way through the room, within five paces of the door, before Ray notices him.
Fick stands with his back to one of the half-dozen scattered, round tables, Stetson held in his right hand, his left hand settled on Colbert’s shoulder, who sits tucked into the table. Ray meets his eyes and the recognition in his face sends a wave of terrifying heat rolling down his neck. Ray grips Pleasant’s arm just above the elbow and says in her ear, “We need to run.”
The moment his foot touches the planked porch in front of the Del Sue, Ray is sprinting down the main strip toward Randy and Boy Nick, who wait for them. Pleasant ducks into an alley, with no horse she has no chance in a real chase, and Walt keeps up with Ray, stride for stride. Fick and Colbert nip at their heels; Ray can hear the crunch and slide of loose desert dirt beneath their boots.
Two gunshots ring out, just before Ray reaches Valentine, dust kicking up at the corners of his vision; Randy and Boy Nick pull hard on the reins of their horses as they spook and rear up, before squeezing hard with their heels and whipping them on. The clouds of dust and debris left in their wake blind Ray and he hides his eyes in the crook of an elbow.
“Cowards!” he shouts after them, spit flying from his mouth, gambler toppling off his head as he skids to a halt. Valentine is out of sight, now, and the heavy sound of pounding hooves is already beginning to fade away. Another gunshot sounds, this time closer, and Ray squints from behind his arm to see Walt lunging for the ground—the bag! It lies half-open in the middle of the street. Ray runs forward and makes his own leap for the money but is yanked backward in a nauseating lurch, an iron bar across his stomach.
Pulled up straight, Ray finds himself in the grasp of that iron bar–that is, Fick’s arm, holding him tight to his chest. Fick is taller than him by nearly a head, and he holds Ray so close to his face, Ray must balance on the very toes of his boots to gain an ounce of leverage. And struggle though he might, no amount of wriggling or clawing or kicking will free him from Fick’s soldered grip.
Arm extended sideways, Fick pulls the hammer on his six-shooter, then brings the weapon to sit beside Ray’s cheek and fires once.
Ray screams as a flame licks across the side of his face and his ear sings in agony, a floating, buzzing whine dousing the other sounds of the scene: Walt as Colbert kicks him square in the gut and lands him on his ass, the cusses spewing from Colbert’s mouth as he snatches up the bag of money and holds stiff his bleeding left arm, Pleasant as she rises from her hiding spot and makes toward Ray.
Fick’s lips touch Ray's good ear as he speaks to him low and liquid-like, “Tell your friends to stop fighting.” He says, “Or would you like to see what I can do to your unfucked ear?” It sends a real shiver down Ray’s spine. He knows better than to bet on Fick’s bluff.
“Stop!” Ray shouts, though he can’t quite hear himself, only distantly, as if in an echo, “Stand yourselves down, Walt! Pleasant!” His chest heaves with each breath, realizing now that Fick is holding nearly all his weight, but he sighs as his companions obey him and Fick eases him down.
His knees don’t see fit to hold him up, and the moment Fick lets him go, Ray crumples to the ground. His ear still rings, and picking up his head to find his bearings proves enough to make him vomit into the dirt. Some sets of hands pick him up by the arms—neither Fick nor Colbert, he collects—and drive him forward, nearly dragging him bodily as Ray begins to find his feet again. There are shouted commands flying above his head and Ray can see the swish of Pleasant’s skirt to his right; they are escorted together, down the strip and into the waiting arms of the jailhouse.
Some unnamed body shoves Ray into the cell inhabited by Colbert earlier that same day, while another puts Walt into the one they shared. Leaning against the iron bars, Ray feels the locks clatter shut behind him and he watches the swatch of sunlight that paints the wall of his cell drip away as the jailhouse door closes. He turns himself around, still mostly deaf, and watches as their friend, the Sheriff, ties together Pleasant’s hands and fastens the bindings to his desk.
“Lawman, don’t you hurt her!” He shouts, pulling himself as close to them as he can manage, “I’ll chew my way through these bars to get to you!”
“Quiet, runt,” Pleasant spits, though she sounds far off, as if she’s speaking through glass, “I can manage myself fine.” And in truth, even as Ray threatens his life, the Sheriff provides Pleasant with his own chair to sit in.
The sun is nearing its highest place in the sky and its heat rolls in Ray’s stomach. He leans his forehead on the bars in front of him, praying for some piece of relief, and blessedly, they are cooler than the stifling air that surrounds them. His clothes have begun to stick to his skin at the crooks of his elbows and knees, soaking through in striped patches with the creases of his shirt and trousers, and beads of perspiration collect in his hair to roll down the back of his neck and the sides of his face. Colbert looks in much the same condition; his shirt is dark where it’s been soaked through at the small of his back. And Walt has taken off his hat to comb his sweat-limp hair from his face with his fingers. The Lawman, however, seems unaffected.
He says, “Well, boys, we find ourselves here again in less than, what? Three hours?” With one hand on his hip, the other holding his weapon, he continues, “How well do you think this speaks to the nature of our future relationship?”
“Sheriff,” Ray begins, half-deaf, half-delirious, “I swear on our good and merciful Lord, that if you let my companions and I go you won’t never hear from us again”—
“Quiet.” commands the Sheriff, pointing a finger at Ray, “I see your mouth move again, I’ll put a sock in it.” When Ray makes no other attempt to speak, he sighs and sags against the front edge of his desk. After a moment, he asks the room at large, “Where is Clementine’s money?”
“I have it here,” replies Colbert, who now lamely leans onto the far wall. He reaches forward with the knapsack in hand but before his arm is fully straightened he flinches and would have dropped it, were it not for Fick quickly taking it from him.
The Sheriff takes the bag and stalks around his desk where he upends the thing, and spreads the paper and coin out near evenly. “We’re gonna count this, and any missing amount you’d better have at the ready.”
“It’s all there,” Ray protests, “I didn’t take any out.”
It comes as no surprise that the Sheriff deems Ray’s point unsatisfactory. He, Fick, and Clementine take to counting the money silently for the next few minutes and the Sheriff faces Clementine and asks her something, but Ray can’t hear what it is. At the end of it all, she nods and Ray can read her lips easily enough, when she says, “Yes, sir.”
Leaning back heavy in his stance, the Sheriff says, loudly but still as if from miles away, “Well boys, you’re in luck! No fines today, just time with me in this comfortable abode.”
“What for?” demands Ray.
“What for?” The Sheriff parrots like some broke player-piano, “You? A week is the least you deserve for attempted robbery and disturbing the peace. Be thankful you’re not your friend, here.” He glances to Walt, “seems fit to keep him here at least two weeks.”
Both Ray and Walt pipe up their protests at that.
“The citizens of shit town oughtta be grateful someone like me comes ‘round once in awhile to disturb your peace, keep you from killin’ each other from lack of fuck all to do!”
“The fuck I gotta be here two weeks for?”
Ignoring Ray, the Sheriff points a finger at Walt. “An additional week for assaulting one of my deputies.”
“Bullshit! What deputy?”
The Sheriff raises his brow and turns to Colbert, who still stands against the far wall, holding the elbow of his left arm in his right hand. He addresses him, “Brad Colbert, do you hereby accept all the duties and responsibilities of Sheriff’s Deputy of Goldwater, Texas, Caroline County?”
Colbert grins. “Sure thing, Mike, I do.”
“There,” The Sheriff swings back to Walt, “you have officially assaulted one of my deputies.” And when Walt kicks up a protest, he continues, “And you’re on my last nerve, so you better shut yourself the fuck up before I decide to keep you here for three!”
Ray’s head is beginning to pound, and though he wants to argue with the Sheriff, any movement sends him tilting into a wave of dizzying nausea that threatens to pour out his mouth and onto the floor. Leaning forward onto the iron bars, neck bent back, mouth hanging open like a dead man, Ray instead watches Clementine as she paces in front of the two cells. She’s thin and long, and all limbs as if she hasn’t quite grown into herself yet. But even as she worries her way through the floor, she looks proud with her shoulders squared and her head held up high. Her red hair hangs in one long, flat braid that swings with her stride, with several loose pieces curling about her face.
“Clementine,” the Sheriff grabs her shoulder gingerly and she settles a bit at the touch, “This is the man I told you about earlier. Nate Fick, and his partner, Brad Colbert.”
“Ms. Godfrey,” Fick takes her offered hand and nods his head; Colbert nods minutely from his place at the wall.
“They’ve agreed to help you,” the Sheriff tells her.
“Have you?” Clementine asks with undisguised hope.
“Yes,” Fick assures her, “but we have to drive the cattle to Crystal City and we won’t sacrifice the pace for you. If you need somebody faster, you’ll have to go looking for them.”
“No, no, that’s fine, that’s perfect,” she insists, asking again, “but you will continue with me to Rosecreek?”
“Yes.”
“How soon can we leave?”
“Wynn!” a sudden knocking comes to the door, startling Ray as it vibrates up the iron bars and through his bones.
The Sheriff cusses and calls, “Come in!”
A man enters the jailhouse, square in his shoulders, face, and hands, and carries with him a gray carpetbag. “Heard y’all was int’a some business down here. Figured you might need help cleanin’ up,” he says with a crease in his brow and a frown around the cigar that’s between his teeth. He clears a spot on the Sheriff’s desk and opens his bag, revealing a set of shiny and sharp-looking tools, not one of which does Ray recognize, and sets on Colbert and his bleeding arm.
The Sheriff begins to gripe, “If you’re gonna volunteer, don’t expect any payment from me."
“If I expected payment, I would’ve waited for you to come knocking on my door,” the doctor replies, “but these foundlings seem to mean something to you, and I’m not entirely without compassion.” He examines Colbert over the bridge of his nose and takes his arm in hand, twisting it to get a better look.
“Ah!” Colbert hisses his pain out through his teeth.
“A bit old to still be foundlings.”
Ignoring the Sheriff’s comment, the doctor smacks Colbert’s shoulder and commands Fick, “C’mon, help get ‘im outta this.”
Fick steps in to shuck Colbert of his shirt, the left arm of which is sticky with half-dried blood and peels away to make a pattern of the threads that were plastered there on his skin. Colbert tries to lean back into the wall but Fick props him up as the doctor grabs ahold of the arm again, this time prodding and pulling none-too-gently at the hole that’s dug in there.
Colbert hisses again and yelps, but catches the sound halfway out his mouth and grinds his teeth together. “Are you gonna fix it or just fuck with it?”
“Keep your dander down, boy.” The doctor chastises, “this’n ain’t so bad.” He steps away and takes a needle and a spool of thread from his bag, then sets directly to piecing Colbert back together. It’s a short procedure, but Colbert’s face screws up tight in pain and he grasps at Fick’s arm so hard it and Colbert’s fingertips blanch.
“Will he still be able to make the drive?” Fick asks, and Ray suspects it might be to help hide Colbert’s quiet whimpering.
The doctor pulls up on the thread and hums pensively, “Most likely. S’long as he don’t treat it too rough.” Ray watches as he pushes against Colbert’s skin with the needle before it altogether gives and he can pull it through to complete another stitch, all while Colbert makes pitiful, little noises and bites at the side of his own hand.
As he finishes pulling the last stitch tight, the doctor has Fick cut away the extra thread and he finally allows Colbert to sit on the floor, his shoulders slack with his hand cradled lamely in his lap and his head held up by the wooden wall. The doctor wraps Colbert’s arm in a white bandage which is bled through in small dots where the stitches trickle blood down his bicep. Colbert heaves his breath; a sweat has broken across his brow and his face has gone gray.
But still, he thanks the doctor and states, “Doesn’t matter what sort of way I’m in. We have six weeks to get to the railheads. If we don’t deliver the herd, then we don’t eat.” He sucks in another heavy breath, “Can’t say much else matters.”
Fick sits on the floor beside him with his arms propped up on his knees. He nods across the room toward Ray and tells the doctor, “Check on him. His face is burned.”
The Sheriff questions Ray, “You gonna run if I open this door?”
Ray shakes his head, banging his brain around inside his skull, “Don’t think I could.”
The Sheriff comes around his desk to unlock the cell and allows the doctor to enter, but shuts the door behind both of them, locking the doctor inside.
“Lemme take a look’at’cha here,” the doctor groans as he kneels beside Ray and takes his face in his two rough hands. He turns his head to the left and tuts, “He’s right, gotcha’ self a good burn, here. Second degree, looks like—Mike, hand me that brown bottle and the bandages.” His voice is delayed, like Ray is listening from around a corner, as the sound travels over the dead ear to land inside the other.
Uncorking the bottle with his mouth, the doctor keeps Ray’s face turned away, though Ray keeps his eyes on him; he’s never had much luck with medicine men and he doesn’t expect this experience to be any different. The doctor spits the cork onto the floor and asks, “Don’t trust me? That’s alright, I imagine it takes a lot for someone like you to trust anyone. Keep your head still.”
Plunging one finger into the bottle, the doctor takes a scoop of some clear gel and begins to apply it to the spot on Ray’s cheek earlier burned by Fick’s gun. It stings like hell and Ray twitches away. “Christ.”
“I said hold still, boy.”
The gel smears on thick and sticky, and though Ray complains, it does somewhat lessen the pain of the burn. The doctor is so close, Ray can feel his breath on his skin and can nearly count the hairs of his beard. The smoke from his cigar swims in front of Ray’s eyes and he feels sort of swept away, like he can’t get a solid hold on anything but the pain and the hands he wishes he could push away.
“He really got'cha here, didn’t he, boy?” he asks, and Ray only grunts in reply as he tries distantly to listen to Fick, Colbert, and Ms. Godfrey, as they speak amongst each other.
“So, you’ll take me back to Rosecreek and we’ll take down Ewell.”
“By which you mean kill him?” Fick clarifies.
Clementine is steadfast in her answer: “Yes.”
The doctor wraps bandages around Ray’s head to set the gel; they lay across the bridge of his nose and secure tightly behind his ear. Ashes from the doctor’s cigar crumble into the small space between them as he asks, “Ewell? You mean Shannon Ewell?” he twists over his shoulder to look at them, “Y’all got some kind of death wish?”
“That man killed my husband in front of me.” Clementine whips toward him, her arms crossed over her chest, “He owns the land, he owns the mines, the food, the water. The people of Rosecreek would rather die than live the way we do now. We want a better life.”
The doctor gestures to Fick and Colbert, sitting against the wall, both missing their hats, and tuts,“Miss, if you think two cowboys is enough to take down that man, you’re sorely mistaken. He’s got men from here to Bismarck. You don’t need them, you need an army.”
“Then I intend to build one.” The determination that pours off her is matched only by her desperation. And Ray is feeling much the same.
“Then why not take us?” he asks.
“What?”
“You need an army? With us you got five men–four, and Pleasant.”
Colbert scoffs, smiling wry, and asks, “You expect us to trust you? After what you just did?”
Ray shakes his head, “I’m not asking you to trust my goodwill, only my good judgement. I already tried to steal that money, if I try again, I know you’ll shoot me right off my horse.” Both Fick and Colbert open their mouths to speak but Ray springs forward and clutches the bars of his cell, “If you think I’m bluffing, then put a bounty on us.”
Here, Pleasant and Walt protest fervidly:
“Runt, if you fuck me over, I will have you killed before you can beg for my forgiveness!”
“What? Fuck, no! What are you doing?”
But Ray ploughs over their voices, “If we run with the money—fuck, if we run without it, we’ll be targets of the state. I give you my word that we’ll stay on until the job’s done. The Sheriff gets rid of us, I get out of this cell, and you get your homestead back. Look”— Ray thrusts his arm through two iron bars, “shake on it. You have my word.”
Clementine looks from Ray, to her two new hires, to the Sheriff, and back. She sighs and squats down in front of him, looking at his eyes for a long moment; and while she looks him over, Ray studies her back. Her eyebrows are just as red as her hair, but so fine he could hardly see them if he stood just a few paces away, freckles are densely dotted along her nose, and there are lines around her mouth that must deepen when she smiles, but now they are downturned in thought.
“We’re the same,” Ray tells her, “just two desperados taking whatever it is we can get.”
Clementine hums and eyes his hand, only taking a moment to come to her decision. She takes his hand with a clap, and before she lets go, she pulls in close and asks him, “Do you understand what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Whatever it is can’t be any worse than where I’ve already been.”
Ray lies sideways across a double bed, smoking a cigarette, with his legs slung over the side so his feet can soak in a bowl of hot water. Lord, what a gift that is, hot water. He’ll bathe—really bathe, with real soap, not rinsing naked in a river somewhere—later tonight, for the first time in weeks. But for now he lies without his shirt, trousers rolled up to his calves, arms outstretched above his head, and feet stinging with the pain of proper care. The skin of them is mottled and blistered badly enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he breathes in sharp through his nose and forces himself to stay as he is.
“Jesus,” Walt declares as he enters the room, “something stinks. You kill something?”
Ray twists to see him as he hangs his hat on the door, revealing the back of his neck and a clean line of newly shorn hair at his nape. “Only my boots,” he replies and lays himself back down with his hands beneath his head, “shame for the poor beast that was made into them. I wonder what he would’ve thought of bein’ brought to such a lowly state.”
“What a blessing to him that he isn’t here to smell it.”
Ray chuckles and closes his eyes, content for a moment. He listens to the sound of Walt walking across the weak floorboards, to the softer sounds just outside the shuttered window: birds, snakes, and mice, the rumble and croak of a frog that tells of a stream nearby.
Normally, he wouldn’t pay for a luxury like this room, with a washtub and a clean bed and drapes along the windows, but he doesn’t mind the exception and he’s sure the road ahead will more than make up for any extravagance he indulges tonight.
“Shit, your feet...”
Ray hums and lifts his head and finds Walt standing a few paces away, glancing from Ray’s face to the bowl on the floor. Coming up to his elbows, Ray lifts his feet to see that the skin has opened up and bled. “Aw, shit,” he sits up completely and sees that the water of the bowl has been dyed red.
“Here,” says Walt as he turns to his satchel, slumped against the wall. From it he produces a nightshirt, white and clean, maybe the only clean thing he has on his person. But he holds it level to his eyes and tears it in two, and then tears it again, making strips of the thin fabric.
“What are you doing?” Ray protests, “don’t ruin your clothes!”
“I can’t remember the last time I got proper use of this anyway.” Walt shrugs and comes to the side of the bed, pushing on Ray’s bare shoulder to sit him back. He kneels in front of Ray with his head bowed, and from Ray’s spot above him, it looks as if he’s praying.
And suddenly, Ray is visited by a vision of Mama in her only Sunday dress, sitting on a wooden pew, and pinching Ray’s arm as he fidgets beside her. The air inside the church is heavy and dead still, and Ray’s trousers stick to his skin at the knees and ankles, the cuffs of his sleeves trap the heat around him like a soap bubble. He tries to listen to what the Preacher says, but his words float over his head, leaving Ray to pick up just the cadence of it, the swells and dips of a voice he can’t understand.
Walt’s hand wraps around Ray’s ankle, melting away the memory, and Ray starts, “You don’t have to…” but as little streams of water drip from Walt’s fingers down Ray’s heel, he finds himself at a loss for words.
“It’s fine,” Walt assures him, looking up to meet his eyes and smiling, “I owe you still for this morning.”
Walt’s hands are gentle and warm as he washes away the blood and filth of Ray’s feet. The broken skin stings something terrible but Walt carries on easily without note to the occasional flinch or weak whine from Ray. His palm curls over the delicate bones that make up the top of Ray’s foot, his thumbs pull along the arch underneath, and Ray watches him silent and still, and feels like the air around him has been made into glass, in danger of shattering if he dares do anything but breathe. He watches as the dirt and blood sluice away into the bowl and ruin the water, even as Walt’s hands remain clean.
Ray remembers Mary of Bethany and imagines the sweet smell of her long, loose hair, of the oil she anointed Jesus with mere days before his death. And when Walt looks up to him again, he imagines she was just as beautiful as he is right now. Painted in oil lamp-light and burning like a flame from the middle out.
Walt wraps Ray’s cleaned feet in the strips made of his nightshirt. His blood soaks through in red blotches, tacky like glue, and Ray’s sure that will be a bitch to peel off later, but now he can’t be bothered to mind. Standing up, Walt takes the bowl with him and sets it away, somewhere near the washtub and out of Ray’s sight.
Ray watches Walt as he removes the handkerchief around his neck and unbuttons the front of his shirt. Shrugging out of it reveals the tanned skin of his back, hard and unkindly knotted muscle, and several scars old enough to have blanched. When Walt turns back to him, Ray swallows and turns his attention back to his feet.
“I...” Ray begins, his ever-clever tongue failing him for a second time that night, “thank you,” seems appropriate, “that was—kind.”
“You’re welcome.” Walt nods in an easy and earnest way. He looks for a moment as if he might say more, but nothing comes, and he continues in his undressing until he stands in nothing but his cotton trousers, looking lost at the center of the floor.
“I’ve had enough of the bed for the night,” Ray offers him, “floor’s comfortable enough.”
At dawn the sky is an absolute red. Colbert, Fick, and Clementine are silhouetted against it, all long, black figures in the field below him. Beside Ray, Pleasant lets her horse eat as she stacks her provisions on its saddle; she has her revolver on her right hip, a shotgun slung over her back, and an Arkansas Toothpick strapped to her left side. As she mounts up, Valentine begins to whinny and paw at the sparse grass below her, shaking something from her mane. For such a calm beast, she’s restless today. With her reins pulled tight, she takes Ray in circles, however much Ray tries to click and coo and soothe her.
As she takes him around a second time, Ray notices Walt with his horse, gray and speckled, some few paces behind him. He pulls and adjusts his hat, hiding his eyes, but below he’s painted a pink that glows from the breaking sunlight that’s begun to cascade across the grass. Ray thinks of the feet inside his boots, still wrapped in Walt’s nightshirt, and doesn’t blame himself for gazing at him, even as Valentine takes him around again. After all, who but Pleasant could be a witness to his sin?
Walt is half-covered in shadows; one cuts the fine line of his jaw, another just below a sallow cheek. With no handkerchief tied around his neck, his shirt is pulled open below the dip of a collarbone, one red shadow pooling there like water, like sweat, collected in the hollow. He mounts his own horse, pulling himself up and over, displaying the ease of his thighs, an upper arm that flexes beneath its sleeve. Ray takes his green handkerchief from his neck and ties it around his face.
“You suppose this will go well?” Pleasant asks him as she brings her horse beside his.
Ray looks across the herd, if it really can be called that, all lowing and bawling. In the still-cool desert air, breath rises from their nostrils like steam, same as the horses that snuff and pace with their riders. He asks Pleasant, “It’s what? Six weeks to Crystal City, another two to Rosecreek? Seems one long opportunity for something to fuck us.”
“Or someone.”
Ray glances to her. She’s pulled her hair back behind her head where it lays in tight curls at the base of her neck, and closed the buttons of her vest. She sits straight and tall as she scrutinizes the scene in front of her with a line between her brow.
“You don’t trust them, do you?” Ray predicts.
“Not yet.”
Colbert and Fick lean close together, now on their horses, sharing a word and a match for a cigar. Fick had been clear once the deal was struck. A drive has rules. There is no drinking, no dope, no gambling, or women. They watch the herd in shifts and take turns cooking. Any violations of these laws and they will be turned out, abandoned on the trail. No cut, no horse, no weapon.
Ray assures Pleasant, “I’ve got you. Same as I always have.”
He catches her smirk as she looks to him, laughing, because the opposite has so often been true. Pleasant is Ray’s own patron saint, covering his ass for every instance of trouble he’s gotten into on his own. But she still nods, and returns the same oath. “I always got you.”