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Entry tags:
conversations with dead people
"Advices from sources say that the kid, a left-hander, is tall...handsome and unequaled in the elements...that appeal to the holier emotions. Jesus Christ, this country needs a hero."
They're sitting around a campfire, and that's the first thing that Doc realizes is wrong with the situation. They hadn't been sitting around a campfire when he'd been reading this paper to the boys.
The boys.
They are sitting around a campfire.
Richard. Charlie. Steve. Tommy.
McKloskey's there too, but he's standing off to the side, by a boulder, picking at the felt on his bowler hat, the firelight not quite reaching his eyes and face.
It's Richard who speaks.
"Go on, Doc."
He feels the newsprint crinkle in his hands, and he glances down at the paper again, and clears his throat to continue reading. "However, Murphy of Lincoln has hired none other than John Kinney...and his Dona Ana Bunch to help hunt down Billy the Kid and his gang."
"John Kinney," Charlie says. "I knew I was gonna hate that sonofabitch. Just wasn't sure how much."
"Ya'll had it hard, didn't ya," comes the voice from the shadows, and Doc glances up at McKloskey. "After I was gone. After ya'll left, I reckon I should say."
"Billy told me you was a traitor," Tommy pipes up, and he looks up at the same time from the pot of liquid he's stirring over the heat from the flames. Something drips from the end of the ladle and hits the hot coals, popping with a sickening crack that echoes in the dark.
"Yeah, well Billy told ya'll lots of things that weren't true," McKloskey replies, still not moving. "Ain't that right, Doc?"
They all look at him.
"There never was a trail, was there. Was there. You lied to us. You promised us. You're startin' to believe what they're writin' about you in the papers."
"Suppose he's right, Doc," Charlie admits. "Then again, we weren't 'round long enough to find out."
"Uh-huh."
Doc glances at Steve. There's dirt on his face, mud caked in his hair. He glances at Charlie, and the dried blood on his lips. His eyes go quick to Richard, and the dark stain he can see, shimmering in the orange glow from the flames. It makes his stomach turn into icy knots to look at Tommy, and the red blotch on his chest, pale color to his skin.
He was just a boy.
They were all just boys...
"Let me tell you what you really are."
"It's alright, Doc," McKloskey continues, as he settles that hat of his on the rock near his shoulder. "You did what you had to do, of course. You was gettin' justice for John, only way you knew how."
Richard's eyes finally break from the ground to stare up at him. "Cept you didn't do it right."
"I don't..." Doc feels his voice quake a little before he swallows. "Richard, I don't understand."
Dark eyes continue to stare at him, unflinching. "You'd been workin' for Tunstall nearly as long as I had been, Doc, you honestly think y'can sit there and tell me you don't understand what the hell you did wrong?"
"You got me killed," McKloskey tells Dick. "Doc just had to deal with the whiplash, remember," he laughs and mimes putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, but the gunshot that echoes through the silence is real, and McKloskey drops to the ground like a sack of musty potatoes.
The blood runs down to the firepit and crackles a little as it dries.
Doc can't stop staring at the body and the blood and the back of his head's gone and it's just like that day by the river and they had all left him.
"Doc."
"We had to," he says, panicked. "We had to leave him, Dick, you know that jus' as well as I do."
But Richard's busy staring at Charlie, who's facedown on the ground next to him. "Just like you left him, Doc. You had to."
Steve looks at him. "And me."
"Steve, I--"
His voice trails off at the sound of a hammer cocking behind his left ear, and it's enough to make his blood run colder than it already feels. "Get up, Regulator. You gotta run now."
He doesn't recognize the voice, but he doesn't comply with the order. Doc turns around but there's nobody there, and he glances back to the firepit in the center. The air's colder than it was awhile ago. Tommy pours him a cup of something and passes it over.
Doc shakes his head.
"Suit yourself," the boy says, as he shrugs. Steve doesn't move. Neither does Richard. Charlie's slumped over in a heap and McKloskey's still bleeding, or at least losing blood, rivulets snaking through the dirt.
"You know where you messed up, Doc."
Richard looks at him.
"No I don't, I don't know--"
Another shot rings out and Steve jerks his head back, awkwardly, before he falls to the ground and writhes with the pain. Invisible bullets strike his skin and coat and he stills eventually. Tommy and Richard both turn their attention back to Doc.
"You ran," Tommy offers.
"I had to run. We had to run, there was too many of them, when you was with us you saw," he protests.
The boy looks down at his shirt front, at the spreading stain. "Yeah. I know," he mutters, before he leans back and cringes, the tin cup hitting the earth with a plink sound. The liquid spills out. It's oddly clear.
"You know where--"
"Damn it, Richard! Just tell me!"
The older (not by much) man has his Colt out in a half second and the weapon's muzzle leveled straight at Doc's gut.
"Get up."
This time, Doc listens, and he stands obediently and backs a few steps away from the fire, but Richard keeps close.
"I'm going to show you somethin', Doc. And y'best remember this feelin' for the rest of your life, you hear me? Because you," he punctuates the word with a nudge of the cold steel into Doc's ribcage. "Got yourself a second chance. None of us," Richard waves his hand at the other boys lying in the dirt. Dead. Abandoned. "Got that chance. But you did. 'Cept you don't quite understand where you went wrong."
"I left," he says, praying that's the answer. "I left, I shouldn't have left you there..."
Richard shakes his head. "No, Doc. I was already a goner. You couldn't have done nothin' to save me."
Doc feels confused and cold. "Then what did I do wrong?"
"Like I said," Richard replies. "Let me show you."
Then he turns the gun on himself.
"Richard, no!"
The bullet strikes him in the heart and he falls to the earth, and Doc's left standing in the middle of a dusty courtyard. There's no campfire. There's no dark, night sky. Just a body in the dirt and the rest of the boys, not quite sure what to do.
Doc looks down. Blood's running from the bullet wound on his hand - that goddamn scar split wide open - and he feels the sick taste in his mouth of wanting to be sick and fear deep in his belly.
Richard is dead.
"Let me tell you what you really are."
And Billy...
"Regulators!"
No.
No.
It never should have been Billy, it should have been him, it should have been --
"You rode a fifteen year old boy straight into his grave. And the rest of us, straight to Hell. Straight. To. Hell."
Doc feels the weight of his rifle in his hands and he doesn't even flinch as he brings it up to level, pulls the trigger, and shoots William H. Bonney straight off his goddamn horse. The sound Billy makes when he falls off the buckskin and hits the earth is enough to make his skin crawl.
He looks at the boys - Charlie, Steve, Chavez - and then nods, once.
"Start diggin'."
It's an order.
Doc snaps awake from the dream and sits up in his bed, heart hammering hard in his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. His nostrils are full of the scent of black powder and dust, and the words he uttered are still ringing in his skull.
Start diggin'.
He curls up tighter, pulling the blankets around him, and lies awake until dawn comes.
They're sitting around a campfire, and that's the first thing that Doc realizes is wrong with the situation. They hadn't been sitting around a campfire when he'd been reading this paper to the boys.
The boys.
They are sitting around a campfire.
Richard. Charlie. Steve. Tommy.
McKloskey's there too, but he's standing off to the side, by a boulder, picking at the felt on his bowler hat, the firelight not quite reaching his eyes and face.
It's Richard who speaks.
"Go on, Doc."
He feels the newsprint crinkle in his hands, and he glances down at the paper again, and clears his throat to continue reading. "However, Murphy of Lincoln has hired none other than John Kinney...and his Dona Ana Bunch to help hunt down Billy the Kid and his gang."
"John Kinney," Charlie says. "I knew I was gonna hate that sonofabitch. Just wasn't sure how much."
"Ya'll had it hard, didn't ya," comes the voice from the shadows, and Doc glances up at McKloskey. "After I was gone. After ya'll left, I reckon I should say."
"Billy told me you was a traitor," Tommy pipes up, and he looks up at the same time from the pot of liquid he's stirring over the heat from the flames. Something drips from the end of the ladle and hits the hot coals, popping with a sickening crack that echoes in the dark.
"Yeah, well Billy told ya'll lots of things that weren't true," McKloskey replies, still not moving. "Ain't that right, Doc?"
They all look at him.
"There never was a trail, was there. Was there. You lied to us. You promised us. You're startin' to believe what they're writin' about you in the papers."
"Suppose he's right, Doc," Charlie admits. "Then again, we weren't 'round long enough to find out."
"Uh-huh."
Doc glances at Steve. There's dirt on his face, mud caked in his hair. He glances at Charlie, and the dried blood on his lips. His eyes go quick to Richard, and the dark stain he can see, shimmering in the orange glow from the flames. It makes his stomach turn into icy knots to look at Tommy, and the red blotch on his chest, pale color to his skin.
He was just a boy.
They were all just boys...
"Let me tell you what you really are."
"It's alright, Doc," McKloskey continues, as he settles that hat of his on the rock near his shoulder. "You did what you had to do, of course. You was gettin' justice for John, only way you knew how."
Richard's eyes finally break from the ground to stare up at him. "Cept you didn't do it right."
"I don't..." Doc feels his voice quake a little before he swallows. "Richard, I don't understand."
Dark eyes continue to stare at him, unflinching. "You'd been workin' for Tunstall nearly as long as I had been, Doc, you honestly think y'can sit there and tell me you don't understand what the hell you did wrong?"
"You got me killed," McKloskey tells Dick. "Doc just had to deal with the whiplash, remember," he laughs and mimes putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, but the gunshot that echoes through the silence is real, and McKloskey drops to the ground like a sack of musty potatoes.
The blood runs down to the firepit and crackles a little as it dries.
Doc can't stop staring at the body and the blood and the back of his head's gone and it's just like that day by the river and they had all left him.
"Doc."
"We had to," he says, panicked. "We had to leave him, Dick, you know that jus' as well as I do."
But Richard's busy staring at Charlie, who's facedown on the ground next to him. "Just like you left him, Doc. You had to."
Steve looks at him. "And me."
"Steve, I--"
His voice trails off at the sound of a hammer cocking behind his left ear, and it's enough to make his blood run colder than it already feels. "Get up, Regulator. You gotta run now."
He doesn't recognize the voice, but he doesn't comply with the order. Doc turns around but there's nobody there, and he glances back to the firepit in the center. The air's colder than it was awhile ago. Tommy pours him a cup of something and passes it over.
Doc shakes his head.
"Suit yourself," the boy says, as he shrugs. Steve doesn't move. Neither does Richard. Charlie's slumped over in a heap and McKloskey's still bleeding, or at least losing blood, rivulets snaking through the dirt.
"You know where you messed up, Doc."
Richard looks at him.
"No I don't, I don't know--"
Another shot rings out and Steve jerks his head back, awkwardly, before he falls to the ground and writhes with the pain. Invisible bullets strike his skin and coat and he stills eventually. Tommy and Richard both turn their attention back to Doc.
"You ran," Tommy offers.
"I had to run. We had to run, there was too many of them, when you was with us you saw," he protests.
The boy looks down at his shirt front, at the spreading stain. "Yeah. I know," he mutters, before he leans back and cringes, the tin cup hitting the earth with a plink sound. The liquid spills out. It's oddly clear.
"You know where--"
"Damn it, Richard! Just tell me!"
The older (not by much) man has his Colt out in a half second and the weapon's muzzle leveled straight at Doc's gut.
"Get up."
This time, Doc listens, and he stands obediently and backs a few steps away from the fire, but Richard keeps close.
"I'm going to show you somethin', Doc. And y'best remember this feelin' for the rest of your life, you hear me? Because you," he punctuates the word with a nudge of the cold steel into Doc's ribcage. "Got yourself a second chance. None of us," Richard waves his hand at the other boys lying in the dirt. Dead. Abandoned. "Got that chance. But you did. 'Cept you don't quite understand where you went wrong."
"I left," he says, praying that's the answer. "I left, I shouldn't have left you there..."
Richard shakes his head. "No, Doc. I was already a goner. You couldn't have done nothin' to save me."
Doc feels confused and cold. "Then what did I do wrong?"
"Like I said," Richard replies. "Let me show you."
Then he turns the gun on himself.
"Richard, no!"
The bullet strikes him in the heart and he falls to the earth, and Doc's left standing in the middle of a dusty courtyard. There's no campfire. There's no dark, night sky. Just a body in the dirt and the rest of the boys, not quite sure what to do.
Doc looks down. Blood's running from the bullet wound on his hand - that goddamn scar split wide open - and he feels the sick taste in his mouth of wanting to be sick and fear deep in his belly.
Richard is dead.
"Let me tell you what you really are."
And Billy...
"Regulators!"
No.
No.
It never should have been Billy, it should have been him, it should have been --
"You rode a fifteen year old boy straight into his grave. And the rest of us, straight to Hell. Straight. To. Hell."
Doc feels the weight of his rifle in his hands and he doesn't even flinch as he brings it up to level, pulls the trigger, and shoots William H. Bonney straight off his goddamn horse. The sound Billy makes when he falls off the buckskin and hits the earth is enough to make his skin crawl.
He looks at the boys - Charlie, Steve, Chavez - and then nods, once.
"Start diggin'."
It's an order.
Doc snaps awake from the dream and sits up in his bed, heart hammering hard in his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. His nostrils are full of the scent of black powder and dust, and the words he uttered are still ringing in his skull.
Start diggin'.
He curls up tighter, pulling the blankets around him, and lies awake until dawn comes.