It was unclear how it began. Usually things of this nature start little by little, until they snowball to a size of epic proportions. And with each infinitesimal amount added to it, it grew in chaos, losing all order and application, until it was about to burst at the seams. The very fabric of its being was threatened from the beginning, as all things of evil are. Then, like an electric circuit, as the board couldn’t take any further power, the only remaining barrier being the morals and values of one man, the resistor explodes creating an exponential expenditure of untamed energy. Consistently he asked himself why he did what he did. Where were the characteristics of an honest man he was taught to be all those years on the range with the legendary ranchers of old? Where had he gone wrong from the day he laid his right hand on the holy word of God swearing to protect and uphold the law, stand as a safeguard for the innocent lives he was granted to defend? He blamed it on his apathy. Eventually he was faced with the lack of concern for not only the souls of those around him, but more importantly and most dangerously, his own.
The lawman wiped his brow in the gleaming sun of noonday. Dust flew from the baked earth as he dug, reaching beneath him for solace, as he found it no where else. Nothing on high cared for his wounded soul, or so it seemed to him. He felt unworthy even to speak the name of his God to try and ask a blessing on the child that lay next to him. In his own way, as he struggled with the earth, unwilling to release its soil, he prayed for the soul of the child that it would find peace and rest wherever it may reside after this life. His emotions flashed like the lightning would over the ridge of mountains in the east. In one instant he would be in the deepest sorrow, mourning for his friend. The next he would be wallowing in self pity, finding no peace for his soul, nor any soon promise of it. Suddenly, marked with his increased and heated rhythm of his digging, he would find himself hot with inexplicable rage and fury, at himself, at the earth, at those who committed this atrocity. He could hear the wood of the beaten shovel creak as he dug endlessly, and he wondered when it would finally crack. He would be willing to continue digging on his hands and
knees with only the blade in his hands, knowing full well the bloodied state of his hands would be in if he did so, and again, cared not. He then mused and wondered at what point when he himself would crack. It was a little while longer before he hit a rather large stone, jarring his arms and shoulders from the force of his blow. It caught him off guard and he staggered a bit in the hole before he regained his balance and ultimately his senses. He leaned back against the wall of his hole, and sat, gasping for air in the arid heat, not knowing or caring if it was sweat or tears that ran down the sides of his face. Gaining his composure, he dusted himself off absentmindedly and hefted himself out of the ground. You have to dig deep out here, he thought to himself, as he picked up the 10 year old body from the ground next to the hole. He laid the boy in the ground and stood for a moment, not knowing if he should say something or if he should just continue. Making up his mind, he picked up his shovel and began restoring the loose dirt to where it came. It took much less time to refill the hole, all signs of the little body gone. He secretly wished he could have had time to fashion a proper coffin for the boy, but things had to be made right, and time wasn’t waiting. The damned soul took the tiny cross of two sticks lashed together and set it at the head of the grave. He dusted himself off once again, from his white shirt and to his black trousers, cursing the earth that wouldn’t leave him be. But it was an attempt to not have to move from this point, to forget that he was missing something. Hefting the shovel on his shoulder and touching the silver Deputy’s star pinned to his black best, he again had the inkling that he should say something, something to reverence this moment of solemnity in a day where reverence was far from anyone’s mind but his. Looking strained he tried to find the right words, then deciding on them he turned and walked determinably back to town.
“I’m sorry kid.”
“Where the hell have you been?” The grizzled red-faced man leaned forward from reclining with a thump of his boots hitting the floor as the other walked in.
“Digging,” replied the other, dust still caked on his knees and seat of his pants. His face showed no sign of any emotion now, just endless features etched in the tanned hide of his skin. The man at the desk slammed his fist on the table jarring loose some of the papers and rattling his mug.
“I can see that Parker. That wagonload was supposed to leave at high noon today, with you at the reins protecting it, so I’ll ask you again. Where, the hell, were you?” the grizzled man demanded. His shaggy beard covered his face which was plump with years of low labor and living off the benefit of others. He wore a red shirt and a brown leather vest with a tarnished, but still gleaming at some points, silver Sheriff’s star hanging from the top right of it. His breath smelled of a large use of expensive whiskey, yet it was clear he held it well from years of practice. His brown eyes glared threateningly without concern if Parker’s excuse was legitimate or not. He had been crossed and he was used to getting his way. As Lee Parker set the shovel against the wall in its place, he paused, motionless.
“You worthless son of a whore, answer me!” Lee turned with a wretched look on his face, eyes full of venom.
“The Sanderson boy is dead. One of your boys shot the whole house to pieces looking for Jeff and they killed him.”
“And you come in here looking like you are, expecting me to give a damn? Is my boy dead?”
“In the worst way.”
“Who was it?”
“Alan.” The sheriff leaned back again, grabbing his mug as he went, taking a sip.
“Didn’t like that worthless dog anyway. Still not solving my problem about this wagon needing to be in the next town. Take care of it now.” Lee slammed his palms on the edge of the desk, his green eyes in tattered confusion not knowing whether to be enraged or sorrowful. The sheriff jumped in surprise but held himself as he stared back, daring Lee to make a move.
“I ain’t your hand anymore. I done things I’m not proud of and I’ve watched countless innocent folk die at my hands and yours. It’s over.” The sheriff leaned in setting his mug on the desk and rose from his chair to level with Lee. “You picked to wrong day for a confession, Lee Parker. I had the church man killed early this morning while you were dumping that kid in a hole. Them damn Natives have confused your mind. What, you’ve got values now? Morals? I’ve half a mind to kill you where you stand you gutless stack of cow-heap. Turn around right now and get out of my office before I riddle you with holes boy.” The Sheriff’s beard quivered with blind fury as he heaved threateningly. Lee just glared and counted down the seconds. With deliberate emphasis he pushed himself slowly from the edge of the desk, escaping the engulfing stench of the crooked sheriff’s malice laced breath, and continued counting. One, two, three. He stood straight, and as he counted he became fixated on every passing moment, slowing time down in his own sight. Focused and stable, mind clear of anything but one thought, he stepped back. Four, five. Lee could feel his weight shift as he began turning his step, his boot catching his balance. Six, seven, eight, nine. He began making steps towards the door and settled on thirteen, that thirteen would be it. He could hear the soft glide metal made on leather as he sensed his sheriff pulling his cold pistol from it’s holster. Sloppy and slow, Lee thought, as he realized it took the sheriff a good part of ten, eleven, and twelve to draw and aim to shoot. In the first quarter of thirteen, Lee shifted his weight to turn back on the sheriff, hand on his gleaming ivory-handled six shooter. In the second quarter he had it drawn, hate bearing down its long silver barrel towards the sheriff. In the latter half of thirteen, he had pulled the trigger, holstered the gun, and turned around again resuming his solemn walk out of the office. The sheriff lay dead in his wooden chair at fourteen. Lee continued counting to keep his focus, but with his task done, and now with the hot sun blinding him as he stood in the doorway, he couldn’t hold it for long. Too many distractions. He did note, however, that at twenty-two, he heard the
sheriff’s pistol hit the floor. He forced the sounds and all those following to be etched in his memory as the beginning of his penance. He would begin with finishing the rest of the sheriff’s boys. The quick draw of his gun popped the blisters on his hands, and as they stung from the flying dust and wind he looked at them. Finally his own blood instead of others. He took his right index and second finger and pressed them against his left hand, then swiped horizontally against his cheek. He then took his index finger and marked the turtle clan, symbolic of the traveling medicine man he met and saved his life those years ago, and then marked the lines of his face with the lightning bolt. Setting his hat he walked to the edge of town, barely noticing that three men already lay dead in the streets. His speed at encouraging their deaths made it seem to him that it was as natural as breathing. He decided to change his name, a name the whole county, perhaps the state would know, as the man he swore to be, the man he was when he fought in those wars years ago. He would be Man at Arms.
The lawman wiped his brow in the gleaming sun of noonday. Dust flew from the baked earth as he dug, reaching beneath him for solace, as he found it no where else. Nothing on high cared for his wounded soul, or so it seemed to him. He felt unworthy even to speak the name of his God to try and ask a blessing on the child that lay next to him. In his own way, as he struggled with the earth, unwilling to release its soil, he prayed for the soul of the child that it would find peace and rest wherever it may reside after this life. His emotions flashed like the lightning would over the ridge of mountains in the east. In one instant he would be in the deepest sorrow, mourning for his friend. The next he would be wallowing in self pity, finding no peace for his soul, nor any soon promise of it. Suddenly, marked with his increased and heated rhythm of his digging, he would find himself hot with inexplicable rage and fury, at himself, at the earth, at those who committed this atrocity. He could hear the wood of the beaten shovel creak as he dug endlessly, and he wondered when it would finally crack. He would be willing to continue digging on his hands and
knees with only the blade in his hands, knowing full well the bloodied state of his hands would be in if he did so, and again, cared not. He then mused and wondered at what point when he himself would crack. It was a little while longer before he hit a rather large stone, jarring his arms and shoulders from the force of his blow. It caught him off guard and he staggered a bit in the hole before he regained his balance and ultimately his senses. He leaned back against the wall of his hole, and sat, gasping for air in the arid heat, not knowing or caring if it was sweat or tears that ran down the sides of his face. Gaining his composure, he dusted himself off absentmindedly and hefted himself out of the ground. You have to dig deep out here, he thought to himself, as he picked up the 10 year old body from the ground next to the hole. He laid the boy in the ground and stood for a moment, not knowing if he should say something or if he should just continue. Making up his mind, he picked up his shovel and began restoring the loose dirt to where it came. It took much less time to refill the hole, all signs of the little body gone. He secretly wished he could have had time to fashion a proper coffin for the boy, but things had to be made right, and time wasn’t waiting. The damned soul took the tiny cross of two sticks lashed together and set it at the head of the grave. He dusted himself off once again, from his white shirt and to his black trousers, cursing the earth that wouldn’t leave him be. But it was an attempt to not have to move from this point, to forget that he was missing something. Hefting the shovel on his shoulder and touching the silver Deputy’s star pinned to his black best, he again had the inkling that he should say something, something to reverence this moment of solemnity in a day where reverence was far from anyone’s mind but his. Looking strained he tried to find the right words, then deciding on them he turned and walked determinably back to town.“I’m sorry kid.”
“Where the hell have you been?” The grizzled red-faced man leaned forward from reclining with a thump of his boots hitting the floor as the other walked in.
“Digging,” replied the other, dust still caked on his knees and seat of his pants. His face showed no sign of any emotion now, just endless features etched in the tanned hide of his skin. The man at the desk slammed his fist on the table jarring loose some of the papers and rattling his mug.
“I can see that Parker. That wagonload was supposed to leave at high noon today, with you at the reins protecting it, so I’ll ask you again. Where, the hell, were you?” the grizzled man demanded. His shaggy beard covered his face which was plump with years of low labor and living off the benefit of others. He wore a red shirt and a brown leather vest with a tarnished, but still gleaming at some points, silver Sheriff’s star hanging from the top right of it. His breath smelled of a large use of expensive whiskey, yet it was clear he held it well from years of practice. His brown eyes glared threateningly without concern if Parker’s excuse was legitimate or not. He had been crossed and he was used to getting his way. As Lee Parker set the shovel against the wall in its place, he paused, motionless.
“You worthless son of a whore, answer me!” Lee turned with a wretched look on his face, eyes full of venom.
“The Sanderson boy is dead. One of your boys shot the whole house to pieces looking for Jeff and they killed him.”
“And you come in here looking like you are, expecting me to give a damn? Is my boy dead?”
“In the worst way.”
“Who was it?”
“Alan.” The sheriff leaned back again, grabbing his mug as he went, taking a sip.
“Didn’t like that worthless dog anyway. Still not solving my problem about this wagon needing to be in the next town. Take care of it now.” Lee slammed his palms on the edge of the desk, his green eyes in tattered confusion not knowing whether to be enraged or sorrowful. The sheriff jumped in surprise but held himself as he stared back, daring Lee to make a move.
“I ain’t your hand anymore. I done things I’m not proud of and I’ve watched countless innocent folk die at my hands and yours. It’s over.” The sheriff leaned in setting his mug on the desk and rose from his chair to level with Lee. “You picked to wrong day for a confession, Lee Parker. I had the church man killed early this morning while you were dumping that kid in a hole. Them damn Natives have confused your mind. What, you’ve got values now? Morals? I’ve half a mind to kill you where you stand you gutless stack of cow-heap. Turn around right now and get out of my office before I riddle you with holes boy.” The Sheriff’s beard quivered with blind fury as he heaved threateningly. Lee just glared and counted down the seconds. With deliberate emphasis he pushed himself slowly from the edge of the desk, escaping the engulfing stench of the crooked sheriff’s malice laced breath, and continued counting. One, two, three. He stood straight, and as he counted he became fixated on every passing moment, slowing time down in his own sight. Focused and stable, mind clear of anything but one thought, he stepped back. Four, five. Lee could feel his weight shift as he began turning his step, his boot catching his balance. Six, seven, eight, nine. He began making steps towards the door and settled on thirteen, that thirteen would be it. He could hear the soft glide metal made on leather as he sensed his sheriff pulling his cold pistol from it’s holster. Sloppy and slow, Lee thought, as he realized it took the sheriff a good part of ten, eleven, and twelve to draw and aim to shoot. In the first quarter of thirteen, Lee shifted his weight to turn back on the sheriff, hand on his gleaming ivory-handled six shooter. In the second quarter he had it drawn, hate bearing down its long silver barrel towards the sheriff. In the latter half of thirteen, he had pulled the trigger, holstered the gun, and turned around again resuming his solemn walk out of the office. The sheriff lay dead in his wooden chair at fourteen. Lee continued counting to keep his focus, but with his task done, and now with the hot sun blinding him as he stood in the doorway, he couldn’t hold it for long. Too many distractions. He did note, however, that at twenty-two, he heard the
sheriff’s pistol hit the floor. He forced the sounds and all those following to be etched in his memory as the beginning of his penance. He would begin with finishing the rest of the sheriff’s boys. The quick draw of his gun popped the blisters on his hands, and as they stung from the flying dust and wind he looked at them. Finally his own blood instead of others. He took his right index and second finger and pressed them against his left hand, then swiped horizontally against his cheek. He then took his index finger and marked the turtle clan, symbolic of the traveling medicine man he met and saved his life those years ago, and then marked the lines of his face with the lightning bolt. Setting his hat he walked to the edge of town, barely noticing that three men already lay dead in the streets. His speed at encouraging their deaths made it seem to him that it was as natural as breathing. He decided to change his name, a name the whole county, perhaps the state would know, as the man he swore to be, the man he was when he fought in those wars years ago. He would be Man at Arms.
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