For justprompts
 

I know all about ghosts. The old dead Indians still hanging around in their war bands ready t’scalp any man fool enough to come across the trails they hunt. Or every now and then, when you’re out in the desert, you pass the remains of some other brave soul been picked clean by buzzards. Most likely they run outta water or somethin’, and just collapse right there. Him and his horse, ain’t nothing but bones now. And you pass somethin’ like that, and you just can’t help but feel like maybe he’s still hangin’ around there, and will be hangin’ around there til judgment day.

Aw, hell. Who’m I kidding. I don’t believe in that shit. I know plenty a men who do, mind, and these little fears of theirs make ‘em easy targets. That’s the problem with believing in stuff like that, see. It’s a weakness. One more soft spot your enemy can make into a gaping wound, if he had a mind to.

But you know, I think I may be a ghost now. Or a memory, or somethin’… Maybe I’m just damned lucky. ‘Cause I got a couple holes in my jacket and a few ugly scars on my chest say I shouldn’t be here walkin’ around. But here I am. Here’s what I figure: if only the good die young, I’m damn near immortal.

At the moment, I’m lookin’ to have words with my boss. Maybe that's haunting. I don't know. But me and him. I need to… need to talk. I don’t bear him no ill will for it. Not yet, anyways. I don’t feel particularly malicious or angry. No more’n usual. I don’t feel regretful or sad. I don’t feel nothin’ at all.

I just need him to tell me why.

"Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" Marcel Marceau.

Beauty ain’t a thing hard to come by out in the desert. One could argue that there’s beauty all around; a stark, striking sort of beauty. Beauty of bare bones, picked clean and white, and purely in the barren expanse of nothingness that’s around you constantly. Problem is, when your water's low or your horses are hungry or there ain’t another town for miles and miles and the sun’s so goddamn hot, you got other things to worry about ‘sides how pretty your surroundings are.

It was dawn. Not hot, not yet. ‘Course, the desert is always hot, but it wasn’t the flesh-searing, blood-boiling hot that came at the zenith of the day. Comparatively, it was downright cool.

Charlie was often one of the first ones up. But not this time. His boss was sitting on the ledge on which they’d made their camp, facing east. Charlie thought he might’ve laid eyes on something important; otherwise what else could hold the attention of a man so long if he were just looking at nothing?

“Boss? You see something?” He asked tentatively. Wade’s gaze was fixed ahead, and stayed that way a moment longer before turning.

“Nothing important, Charlie. Just the sunrise. Man’s gotta be appreciative of every one he gets to see. And today – well, ain’t that something?” His head tilted slightly toward the horizon.

Charlie, curiously, looked out. He knew that the sunrise was there; had always been aware of a point in time during which the sun first shone. He was certain he’d witnessed a good many of them. But this is the first time he’d really looked. The sky was hung with low clouds, dark and streaked with red. You didn’t usually get sunrises like that.

This wasn’t no blushing, pink and orange sunrise. Bruise-colored clouds shot with deep red. There was a blaze of fire on the horizon; the end of the world in flames. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed before – how he would’ve gone on not noticing probably til the day he died, had Ben Wade not pointed it out to him.

Is this how his boss saw things all the time?

“Now ain’t that pretty,” his boss murmured. Had Charlie been looking, he might’ve found Ben Wade’s eyes turned on him, glinting blue, watching with interest the reaction that had come of this.

Charlie, who stood transfixed by the blaze, said nothing at all.

“Don’t even bother mentioning mercy, the boy is mad.”

It’s hot outside; the unmerciful heat of a raging sun. Nothing new here, really. Outside, the heat ripples on the horizon, twisting toward heaven is brilliant ripples and whorls. There is no wind, and the whole world feels strangely stagnant – a dammed up river. Nothing new.

“Mad in what sense? Angry mad or lunatic mad?”

The bar, for the record, isn’t all that much cooler. The drinks, however, are relatively cool, and that’s certainly enough to draw in a crowd. The press of bodies makes the place even hotter. Two gentlemen are sitting at the bar. Well, one is a gentleman, anyway, decked out in fine clothes and with the gleam of silver here and there. He has a pocket watch in his breast pocket. The other man is rough-worn, grizzled and toughened as only a life spent in the desert can make you. He’s old, sure, but you can tell immediately that he’s the sort that just gets harder as they age, like oak.

“Both.” The old man drinks, downs a shot of whiskey and sighs. “Mad as sandstorms. Mad as empty deserts that ain’t got nothin’ but ill will harbored towards a man.” What could he say? Perhaps somewhere beneath the scars and skin like old leather, he had a poet’s soul.

The other, however, was not nearly so appreciative. “Excuse me?”

The old man just grinned, the whiskey having made his disposition considerably kinder toward his companion, who otherwise would have had his face ground into the dirt somewhere around their third drink. There was something especially slimy about his demeanor that made his teeth itch.

“Don’t try nothin’ with this kid. I reckon after he’s dead, there’ll still be enough life in him to have him pullin’ the trigger on the unsuspecting. Like a goddamn rattlesnake,” the old man said, in a tone that indicated one who was experienced with both. “Dunno know where the fuck he came from. Nobody’s got any idea, but that don’t mean a thing. Nobody knows where half these bastards come from, and the ones people do know – well, it’s all a packa shit, ain’t it?” He shook his head.

“I know you wanna commission a bounty hunter here. Frankly, my days of doin’ that kind of thing are long over. At least when it comes to that kind of bounty. Now if you’ll excuse me,” He placed a few coins on the table and slid off his chair, wobbling ever so slightly – perhaps from the drink, or perhaps from the limp he had in his left leg. “I’ll be goin’. And good luck, buddy. Ain’t gonna be the first to tell you you’re gonna need it.”

I swear I didn't put those bullets in your man's head. At least, not for no reason. And it weren't me anyway - not strictly speaking.

Hey, listen, ain't my fault, is it, if one of your guys happens to tussel with me? Ain't my fault, is it, if he don't know what it is he's getting himself into.

I told him. I did tell him. I told him, gave him fair warning and everything; said, don't even say it or I swear on God's eyeteeth you'll fucking regret it.

What d'you mean that's vague? Perfectly clear, me. Crystal clear. Clear as an unclouded Montana sky, friend.

Well look, partner. Can't expect anybody to say a foul word against Ben Wade and not come out of it a little worse for ware, can you? In front of me, especially. Listen - how would you like it if somebody went talking nasty 'bout your old man?

I -- no. No. I know people heard me given a few unkind words about my old man, but it's the principle of the thing, ain't it? Now Ben Wade I hold in respect like he was my daddy - closer, really, considering I hate my daddy's goddamn guts.

Oh, no. Sorry, yeah, didn't mean to quite get off track like that. But I ain't sorry and no, I don't care if he was your own brother. Ben Wade's Ben Wade, and I can promise you that if I hadn't got him then, then my boss woulda later. Neither of us is much one for vulgarity like that - not in regards to who he was talking about, anyway, and your boy done went and swore the air blue, didn't he?

Now you look here. Don't try nothing you'll be sorry about later. Wouldn't like to go seein' your brother before you're due, would y--

Why yes, I s'pose that is a threat. Now listen: boss ain't here, but you still got a Mexican sharpshooter with his gun on you and a whole packa boys with itchy trigger fingers and me so I say you best just get back on your horse and turn right around, or I might just end things between us real fast-like.

Hell, do I look like I'm joking?

Everybody knows that frontier justice ain’t quite like your regular justice – that is, the kind you find in cities and more civilized parts of the world. Say what you want about Indians; about the scalping and the thieving and their blasphemous ways, but out in the desert, every man’s a savage.

Every man to his own law. And law in the Wade gang was distinctly harsher than that enforced by good Mr. Grant and his ilk in Washington. Most people who ended up abiding that law wasn’t much inclined to breaking it; your judge and executioner (there wasn’t no place for jury out here, and it was generally thought that it would be best to just skip it altogether) would either be Ben Wade himself or Charlie Prince. There were often continuous arguments among the men (out of the earshot of their leader and his eager lieutenant, of course) as to which would be worse.

Frank Dawcey had the misfortune to be saddled with the latter. Who Frank is don’t matter a lick. It don’t matter that he was born in Virginia, and taken out west by his father, who was seeking the chance for a life away from crumbled cities and the thronging masses. It don’t matter that he lost a brother in the war fighting for the Confederacy, purely out of being in the wrong place and the wrong time. It don’t matter that he’s got a wife in Missouri. Frankly, in the view of Ben Wade, he don’t matter at all.

For the record, Frank was caught skimping on the shares of his brothers-in-arms, keeping just a little too much of the prize (whatever it may be at the time) for hisself. He was good with numbers, and therefore trusted to make sure everything was doled out fair. Just goes to show. Can’t trust some people far as you can throw ‘em.

Which is why, charged with this offense and found guilty by His Honor Ben Wade, he found himself out in the Nevada desert, alone, with Charlie Prince. There was a rope around his neck and another around his ankles. Both were tied to the saddles of two horses, facing opposite directions. Charlie was fingering the trigger of his gun nonchalantly.

“Hot as hell out here, Frank. And you don’t look so good. Drink?” He sloshed a water skin in Frank’s direction and allowed the man a sip. “Now, see, what I woula done was to find a branch or somethin’ and just hang you there, but I’m afraid there wasn’t a one to be found. So you’ll forgive a man for having to make due.” It was a well known fact that Charlie Prince was rarely ever as amiable as when he was about to kill you.

“You’ll burn in hell. Alla you. Every damn one. And on that march down to meet the devil, you’ll be at the head.” There was sweat pouring down his face. His voice was shaking, and so was he.

“That’s where you’re wrong. See, even on that trip, it’ll be the boss at the front, ‘cause I still got to follow him, don’t I? And who knows? Never mind marching. We’ll dance all the way down.”

Frank’s eyes were squeezed tight. “Can you – can you… I got a letter for my wife. Can you give it to her?”

Charlie laughed. “Oh, man, Don’t your wife still think you’re in San Francisco? Nobody told her husband’s gone and done become a famous outlaw. What a story this’ll make, huh?”

Frank nodded and mumbled some sort of agreement. But Charlie, in response, pulled a folded piece of paper out of Frank’s breast pocket, and he nodded.

There was a choking noise coming from Frank that might have been one drawn out breath or a sob. Charlie rolled his eyes. “Dogs. You’re all dogs. And you’re the worst; you’re the most rabid and crazy out of all of ‘em.”

Charlie raised the gun above his head, pointed directly at the sky. “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll all be going to hell. But you know, I reckon at least you’ll be there to meet us.” He fired.

The horses, startled at the bang, attempted to run. One facing east and one facing west with poor Frank strung between them. There was a hideous cracking sound and a strangled yelp.

Charlie cut his own horse free and allowed the other, Frank’s, to drag what was left of its former owner out into the vast nothing expanse of Nevada.

Out of curiosity, he examined the letter Frank had given him.

        My dearest Annabelle…

He let out one last laugh, harsh and sharp, and balled it up. He tossed it over his shoulder, into the dust. Frank Dawcey's last words would be swallowed by the desert.

Charlie Prince made a regular habit of buying magic potions. For himself, for other men, whenever the need arose. It was common enough stuff, but there weren’t many who’d think of it as magic of any kind. Far as Charlie was concerned, they just didn’t know how to use it right.

It could cow men just as much as it could bring them up; tear them down or have them tearing down empires. It was a thing that could bring truths spilling out from between men’s lips or as well as lies. A stunner, a sedative, a sucker-punch; it was courage and cowardice and calamity all in one and readily available. Could take its affect like a kick in the head or as subtle as the rising sun, and could bring out the demons in a man just as well as his angels. It turned every poor bastard who ran across its path into poets and gods and madmen – often all or some combination of the three in the same night. Most people were just too shit stupid to see what it could do. But not Charlie.

The distribution of it to the right people stirred a little with the a few words; ultimatums and challenges, ego-stroking praise and poisonous compliments.

He wasn’t never a man who would hesitate to shoot another, and would have been perfectly content to put a bullet in your brain before you had even so much time to take off your hat. But this night, he was feeling tired and wanted to ease off doing the work himself; getting his hands dirty, like. But there were other ways.

Another couple whiskeys. Pass ‘em along to the right people – people he was instructed to kill his ownself, but decided against. After all, he was a man of practically, and knew an economical method when he saw it.

The whole place stank of bad booze and brewing fights. The two men he’d been working on all night were giving each other the stink eye. Charlie knew the procedure. He quietly lowered his hat and paid decidedly no mind when it came to insults. A few blows. Everything in the bar had gone mostly quiet. The policy, technically, was no fighting, but Charlie had made sure that a few dollars into the right hands would make sure that they were all let well enough alone.

He didn’t even look up when guns were drawn. There was a click, and two gunshots were fired and there was a thud as two bodies dropped dead to the ground. Blood spatters on the wall, he could picture it already, but his eyes were fixed on the amber liquid on the bottom of the glass.

Among other things this magic potion could be, this sin and virtue that was both damned and lauded by men in equal parts, besides king-maker and cur-raiser, was killer.

One awful moment more of silence. A woman screamed. The whole place roared, erupted into panic.

Charlie, for his part, quietly sipped his drink.

My momma, bless her poor departed soul and the by-now worm-eaten, gone-rotten bosom that housed it. She told me a lot of things about my daddy. Near as I can figure it, most of 'em were the truth. Some of 'em weren't, but I don't hold her no ill will for it. Most of the lies was probably more for her than me anyway. And, since I was just a kid, too young and stupid to think different, I believed her.

She said: I loved your daddy so much. And: he was a man who done so much for me, you got a lot to be thankful for. 'Cause of him you're here, ain't it? Both you and your brother. And 'cause of him, we've got this wonderful house. She said: I won't have you sayin' nothing against him. And she said: one day you'll grow up to be just like him.

That's all the truth.

She said: He was such a good man. He loved me much as I loved him, make no mistake. In fact, it was only on account of him loving me so much he had to go away. Before he left - you was just a little tiny babe, so you couldn't remember - he said don't worry, I'll make everything better.

That's lies, even if my momma believed them herself.

Let me tell you about my daddy. I found out bits and pieces from all over. It's a good thing I'm good at recognizing shit; God knows I spin enough of it my own self to be able to identify it properly by now.

My daddy was a sonofabtich. Left my momma all on her lonesome after he dumped me and my brother on her. Don't know what he must've thought of us, my brother and me. Maybe he really did love us. Maybe he thought we was nothing but two unwanted chains coulda tied him to my momma. I wouldn't have stayed myself. Little shitkicking nothing town like where I was born - who'd want to be stuck there for the rest of his life? So he left with barely a word goodbye. Maybe a kiss. Maybe a promise. But I got enougha him in me to know that he didn't never intend on coming back.

Here's what else I know about him: he was tall. Solid as a steam engine. He had rough hands, I could remember that much. Later I found out why: my daddy used to be a prospector in California. He had a limp, and brown hair, gone mostly white. I know how old he was - how old he'd be about now.

And I hate him. 'Course I do. And that ain't nothing rare. Plenty of men hate their daddies. It's harder for me, though. Can't even remember his face all that good. But still. I say, if I ever run across him, I'll pay him what I owe.

So now, whenever I see some tough old prospector with brown hair gone mostly white with a limp, who's got rough hands mighta held me when I was a kid... well, I put a bullet in his brain, and I think of my momma. Maybe it's him, maybe it ain't. I only had one, so even if I done shot him already, there's an awful lotta men out there lost their lives on account of being unfortunate enough to look like my daddy. And I don't care. He ain't never gonna be properly dead to me, even though every time, it's me killing that fucker again. I ain't sorry.

My daddy: the cowardly, flea-ridden sonofabitch. And when my momma said I'd grow up to be just like him, I reckon she was right.