All That's Left

Chapter 2 All That’s Left

The sun had at last exhausted Hoss. He swiped above his brows, the sweat was digging into his eyes, and it burned. He could make out the town, the edifices buried in a wave of heat, and the hanging post with two grey figures moving in the dry wind.

Hoss stared at the two dead boys hanging from the post. Red ingrained the dirt beneath them, and their bodies were draped in shredded rags. An old wound had bled to the tip of the boy’s heel, and the blood had become crust in the sun. He was branded above his ankle, initialing, “S P” and a heart above it. A sign hung from their necks, and the wooden board fell on their wrinkled chests. It read, “nigger thieves.”

He tugged on the reins, and the horse stalled by the children. Hoss pulled out a pipe from his front pocket. He bit into the stem, and found a match to light. He struck it, and covered the wind-swirled flame. The blend charred beneath the flame, and smoke rose.

The town of Common was barer than a sandbox, and without the sweet charm you’d find from seeing one. The great open spaces between the stores and stops were as if the town had rolled away to dust. The first store lacked in stock, and the proprietor stood bored on the veranda. All That’s Left, the sign over the store read. The proprietor nodded as he passed. Hoss greeted the man and the proprietor drifted off into his endless thought. He dismounted and hitched the horse to a post before stepping into the saloon. There were no doors, and he walked right through.

The saloon had little light, and the heat smothered him before he took three steps. It was an open room with stairs of red oak to a second floor, and a low hanging chandelier that needed a good dusting. Outside of Hoss there was no one of particular interest drinking there. A man by the bar had his hand on a glass but sat still and with eyes of contemplation. A whore in the corner kept busy with a fan on her face, and a pair of gentleman off from work maintained a dying conversation.

Hoss picked a seat by the window, as was his custom, and Kane. Kane was late, as was his custom, Hoss grumbled. He had a big job in the afternoon, and he needed Kane. Hoss had sent word for Kane, but his old friend replied in short parables. On my way home, East. Will bring a friend.

Hoss couldn’t make sense of it. Home? Surely to Mary, he abandoned her years ago with child. He’d be mad if he went back there. And there was some business about a friend. His stomach growled and he eyed the bartender behind the counter. A man much older than himself, and who also looked too tired for the time of day. His neck craned to the left as if he felt Hoss’s staring eyes. “Can I fix something up for you?” He said through a frown. His brows hung over his eyes, and the evergreen irises peeked out from underneath.

“Is there food?”

“Biscuits,” he licked his lips. “Biscuits and whiskey. Might be a piece of bacon from yesterday. If you’d like that.”

The bacon tasted more like old jerky, and the whiskey had lost most of its flavor. The biscuits although hard still tasted of corn, and Hoss enjoyed that at least.

The man at the bar slammed his glass on the counter. “Fourteen,” the stranger said. “Another,” he dragged the cup across the wood grain. It scraped a faint line, and the bartender’s frown sank even deeper. He filled the glass to the brim, and left the bottle by the stranger’s cup.

Hoss tugged at his nose, and sniffed. The stranger had a thick wet mop of hair, which covered his eyes and reached almost his shoulders. Light brown skin from being out in the sun, and he was heavy from over indulging. He detested the stranger not for his drunken outbursts but the feral gaze twisting in the blackness of his eyes. The stranger moved like a living thing but Hoss knew different, and he was not.

“Fourteen!” He shouted again, and slammed the empty glass onto the counter.

“Quiet!” One of the men at the tables said.

He turned around and spit. The saliva clung to his lip and dripped down his chin. “Ffffff—”

“What number is he on Maverick?”

The bartender peeked out from his closed eyelids. “It ain’t fourteen,” he said, and he closed them again.

“Fffff—” He pulled out his pistol from his belt and he pressed into his gut. “Fourteen,” the man said in a low grunt. The gunshot rattled the walls, and the whore shrieked. The gun slipped out of his hands and thumped on the chestnut floorboards. He limped toward a near table, but missed the ledge and landed on his back. He shook, his eyes swelled and blood gargled in the back of his throat. “Ohh sweet Jesus,”he rocked around on his back. His hands ran across the blooming red from his white shirt. His boots banged against the floorboards. “Ohh, my goodness I’m home.”

Hoss stood up, the legs of the chair scraped against the floorboards. He walked over to him. The man cried when he looked up and saw him.

“I am shot,” he said. Then the thumping of his boots slowed, and his eyes fixed into white, going out, receding and frozen with fear.

The bartender leaned over the counter and it creaked. His eyes passed over the drunk. He pulled out his rag, and ran it over the bloodied counter, wiping the red away with a tighter frown.

The sheriff came in, and walked to where the body was. Hoss moved out the way, and he looked down. “Who shot him?” He looked at the bartender.

The bartender nodded. “I did not kill that man,” he said and the wisp in his voice cracked with anger. “That man shot hisself.” He turned to mumble under his breath.

“Who shot him?” The sheriff asked again.

“He shot hisself damnit,” the bartender nodded with discontent.

“In the gut?”

“He took out his gun and shot himself,” Hoss said.

“That man was wanted for questioning.”

“What did you want to know,” the whore asked and she crossed her leg over the other.

The sheriff put his hands on his hips, and he ground his teeth. He looked at the bartender. “Clean it up.”

“He shot hisself.”

“I don’t give a damn if it were you, or him, or Jesus fucking Christ. Someone fetch the minister, he ought to say some words over him.” His boots drummed on the floorboards, and he stepped out from the saloon.

“I won’t be touching him,” the bartender said closing his eyes, and going back to his chair against the wine racks.

Hoss damned the town, and he hated coming there. If it wasn’t boys swinging from the hanging post. It was drunks doing themselves as he ate, and the latter always proved to be more upsetting, and he wouldn’t eat again until the hunger returned. And he was always hungry.

He left the saloon, and found the proprietor at the All That’s Left convenient store still standing in the same place. He saw Hoss, and flicked his cigarette into the thoroughfare. Hoss followed him inside. He walked with a sway the proprietor, and he crouched underneath the doorframe. His place was small, and the shelves were empty but for dust.

“I need a shovel,” Hoss said.

“Shovel?” He said surprised.

“Yes.”

“What you need that for?”

“Do you have a shovel?”

“We have picks, rope, buckles, pelts and we sell wood.”

“No, I don’t need any of that. I just need a shovel,” Hoss sighed. “That’s fine I’ll check elsewhere.”

“Wait mister, we got a shovel too. It’s not for sell.”

“Well let me borrow it then.”

“Equipment for rent is five dollars,” he held up five fingers. “Should I fetch it for you?”

Hoss snickered, “no, don’t bother. I’ll be at the other stores.”

“Wait mister,” he walked to the back of the store, and yanked open a door. He pulled out the shovel, and handed the rusty handle to Hoss. “There isn’t much money now. Not since the sheriff’s settled in. You understand?”

“You should leave if there ain’t money,” he yanked the end of the shovel. The proprietor shrugged. “Get the clergy. Tell him to bring a wagon.”

“What you need the clergy for?” He asked and Hoss pulled the door close behind him.

He walked over to the hanging post. A rider had paused there. Sullen and young, the rider’s eyes reddened a little. The cold blue of his irises rose and fell like gentle waves on a shore. The young man turned away when he saw Hoss, and the somberness in his eyes faded in an instance. “Sir,” he tipped his hat. His horse snorted, and he steadied himself on the saddle. “Are you cutting them down?”

“I am. Do you take issue with that?”

“No sir. I do not,” the rider said.

“Good.” Hoss pulled out his knife from his scabbard. “Take this knife and cut them down will you.” He handed it to him.

The young man pulled off the sign, and tossed the board. Then he raked against the hemp braids until the blade ripped through, and the body lurched to the floor. He cut them both down, and the wagon made its journey from the other side of town.

It creaked as the wheels turned, and hobbled upward when it found the bumps on the road. The minister wore black, and the white of his clerical collar stuck out against his clothes. He wacked the reins twice the minster, and the horses picked up speed. “Minister,” Hoss said. “We have two bodies for burial.”

The minister glanced at the children, and looked back to Hoss. He frowned then. “It appears we do.” They loaded them into the truck. Hoss took the smaller boy and placed him in the wagon. The rider had the bigger of the two, and the limbs dangled off his burly arms. He laid him next to the other and wiped his palms across his thick vest, the dark red marks smudged the brown stitching.

“Will you join us, son?” The minister looked to the rider.

“I’ve got a prior engagement, father. In the saloon.”

It could be a strange coincidence, Hoss thought. “Come help us bury the boys,” he said. “Whatever engagements you may have ought to be there when we’ve finished.”

The rider look puzzled, and he grabbed the reins of his horse. “I suppose I could help dig.”

“The Lord will surely look favorably upon you, son.”

The huge puffs of dirt splashed onto the wooden coffin. The rider whipped up his arms, throwing a pile of dirt each time from the shovel. The dirt clunked when it hit the boards. “How’d this happen, minister?” Hoss asked.

“What do you mean?” He said with a brow raised.

“How many days were those boys left on that post?”

“There was no next of kin to claim the bodies. The sheriff thought it was right to leave them hanging. Naturally, no one spoke against it.”

“Why should they? This town is cheap, and the people more so but you minister, why did you not choose to say anything?”

“I didn’t have a say. They didn’t care to hear. There is a man who claims the boys stole from his stock. He doesn’t own a store mind you. He’s a drunken named Daniel. He said they robbed from his cart. Well, you didn’t have to repeat it twice, everyone heard, and before the end of the day the sheriff had his way with them.”

“Where’s this, Daniel fella?”

“You wouldn’t do anything foolish, son. Like going after that man, no one would care mind you, but there are laws now. Besides I heard the sheriff intended on taking him in for questioning. There’s a girl missing since yesterday. There’s good word come in from Wolfcreek, sheriff over there found out who done it.”

“Hmph,” Hoss took out his pipe. The smoke rose and enveloped Hoss in a tiny cloud. He waved a hand through the puffy smoke. “He died this morning in the saloon.”

“Pity. Though the sheriff had two names for the rope, Daniel and Kane Darling.”

The rider rubbed his forehead with his sweaty sleeve. “Well that’s it,” he said tossing the shovel aside. “Will you say a prayer?”

The minister nodded, and stepped up to the foot of the graves. “Happy from now on are those who die in the name of the Lord. So it is, says the spirit, for they rest from their labors. Keep them your children, Lord, from damnation, and let them lay in eternal rest. In Jesus name we pray.”

“Amen,” they said in unison.

“Did they have names?” The rider asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It feels wrong to leave them unmarked.”

“The Lord knows their names,” the minister said.

Hoss left with the rider. They trudged down the slope toward the saloon. “What’s your name mister,” the rider asked.

“It isn’t wise to hand out names as if it were the coins in your pocket,” Hoss said. “Company is always better without such trivial details.”

“Pardon me sir, for making any assumptions on your part but you must be Hoss Bartlett.”

“So you are Kane’s acquaintance.”

“Carly Hite.”

“You saved his life, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Hmph,” Hoss gave him his hand. “You’re not nearly as old as he had me believe.”

Carly took his hand and shook it. “Well sir, with all do respect you aren’t as young as I’d hoped.”

Hoss sniggered, and walked through the doorframe to the saloon. The puddle of blood embossed the body. Carly stood over it, and picked up the gun. He put the gun into the bare holster on his belt.

“Shot himself him with that gun your holding.” Hoss looked at the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said, and the bartender nodded.

They sat by the window, opposite from each other. The bartender came at his natural unhurried pace. He set down two glasses, and left the bottle on the table. “So where is he?”

“Kane is on his way, we ran into trouble by Kidge.” “That’s one of them there,” he pointed to the man lying dead in the saloon.

“Do you think he’ll make it?”

“I can’t say for sure but he said he’d meet us here.”

“Do you know of his plans to go east?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well sir, he plans on going east to meet his wife and daughter in Encantada.”

Hoss chuckled. “Is that the plan? I always imagined Kane had more sense than that.”

“You don’t agree?”

“Even if Mary was still there. Even if his daughter still remembered who he was. It’s too late.”

“Well sir, you might be right about that but I truly hope not.”

Hoss took a sip from his whiskey. “I know you got your head wrapped around this already but if I didn’t ask I think it would be a mistake,” he puffed on his pipe. “Are you sure you want to enter this line of work?”

“No, but I’m not sure I have another option.”

“There’s always another option, whether it be not making money farming, or not making money ranching. That’s something of an option.”

“There’s no option left a person would take,” Carly said. Hoss frowned. “Sir, I came because there’s money to be made robbing banks.”

“There is but it isn’t easy. Things just get worse. Probably, because we lose the nerve that kept us restrained. Then one day all hell breaks loose, and you forget that’s supposed to happen, and you wonder why you ever agreed to it.”

“This is all that’s left to do. After this, there ain’t anything left.”

“All right,” Hoss nodded and finished the remaining whiskey in his glass. “Bartender.” Hoss shouted and he snapped up, his long eyes passed over their table and he stood at his sluggish pace.

Carly stepped toward the body in the center of the saloon. “Should I get him for you, mister?”

The bartender swatted his hands toward the door. Carly smiled, he gripped the dead man from under his arms, and dragged his body out.

He left the body in the middle of the thoroughfare, lying on his shoulder with its back to them. People stepped over it as they walked across the street. The mud dripped off their shoes, and covered him. Hoss leaned on the banister and took out his pipe. He lit the blend, blowing small puffs each time, and the orange embers brightened with life as he did. The smoke cleared away in the wind, and the little white hair on his scalp moved with it. He stared at the foundations of the buildings. The brown withered wood under the steps of the stores were cracked, and scattered. And the wooden stores groaned from the gentle knocking of the wind.

“It’s going to rain,” Carly said.

“I see the storm clouds on their way. The rain would put a halt to everything.”

“What is that exactly. Kane never said.”

“It’s a train,” Hoss said.

Carly looked at him.

“I expect it before dark unless the weather catches up. The train is heading in from the north, we’re to intercept it before it reaches Bullock station.”

Carly sighed.

“Normally I would not be so trusting to someone as young as you but Kane spoke of you confidently, and I have no choice.”

“I’m very grateful for this, sir.”

Hoss frowned, “get your mount. We’re leaving.”

“Don’t you expect Kane to come?”

“No I do not. But even if he did, he’s made up his mind.” They mounted their horses and left the town of Common. Dirt rolled off the edge of the horses hooves and buried the town in a large haze, and the faint outlines blurred into the long hot glaze of the sun.