scurlock | oom: barlow estate (2)

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oom: barlow estate (2)

He sleeps well enough, curled on his side (after he manages to fall asleep, of course, nerves in his belly twisting at him for a while after the drink and conversation) and wakes with the first sounds of someone moving around the bunkhouse.

It's Jim.

Doc gives the older hand a few minutes of head start before he hauls himself out of bed and begins getting ready for the day. He notices that Jim, and the rest of the boys, all wear their guns, so once he's dressed himself, he settles his at his hip.

It's not dawn, yet, not by a longshot, when he makes his way over to the stables and barn in order to check on his horse - and see if Jim wants a hand in getting things taken care of. Might as well offer, after all.

"Hey, Jim...don't forget t'mind your hat," he mentions, quietly, as he enters the barn. His own is hanging around his neck by the cord, where he'll keep it out of reach of the horse as best he can. "You need a hand with anything?"

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Jay does more than growl.

That's it, you little sons of bitches.

He advances one step forward (the boys manage not to step back, but he sees one of them nearly retreat when he does) and then turns his attention, pointing at a tree some distance away. "You see that knot on that there tree, boys? 'Bout midway up the trunk, where the branch is gone?"

He'll wait for them to acknowledge before he continues.

It takes a moment or two for them to direct their attention to where he indicates, given the level of anxiety on their features and the tremble in their hands.

His eyes are cold. Oh-so-cold.

One swallows hard, and turns his head. The other follows suit. When they turn back, the first one nods once.

"Yes, sir?"

Samuel, too, glances to the tree, before exchanging looks with John.

Jay takes one glance over at the tree, and then pulls in a steady breath and glances back at the boys, before he turns the gun and pulls the trigger.

The knot explodes in a shower of splinters, the smoke from the Colt acidic in the air between them.

The entire time, save for that first glance, his eyes have never left those boys.

"You see that?" He questions. "You see that. That's about as far as that fence-line. If you want to to come 'round here and mess with Mr. Barlow's property and give him a 'taste of his own medicine', feel free. But I want you boys to remember that, and don't say I didn't warn you none, you understand?"

The boys duck on instinct, hitting the deck as that bullet scores the tree behind them. John lets loose with an appreciative curse, hooting in amazement.

Jay has their undivided attention, now.

"Y-yes sir! W-we are sorry!"

There's a smirk on Samuel's face.

"Now, you be good boys and tell me: is there anything else you took from me that I should be made privy to?"

"N-no, sir! We jus... we just bagged a couple-a geese and one squirrel, honest!"

There's a heavy pause between them.

"Good boys. I believe you."

They don't have much time to relax, before Samuel is kindly requesting that they get the hell off his property. Which they do, in short order.

And Jay watches them to ensure that they don't get any ideas with those rifles of theirs as they hightail it off of Samuel's land and back onto their own.

Once they're gone, he looks down at the gun and then half-cocks it again, to open the loading gate so that he can replace the spent bullet.

(Always reload after the shooting stops, because you'll never know when it'll start again.)

That done, he reholsters the pistol at his hip.

"Thank God I was never that stupid," he mutters.

Edited 2009-01-16 11:29 (UTC)

"What the hell kinda sap-suckin' peckerwoods... You ain't done diddly-squat to ole Bill Crocker, but I tell you what, I'm-a fixin' to go on down myself and remedy that one part'c'lar oversight!" John hollers, waving his pistol about before holstering it again.

"They're just scared because they know I don't like the way their daddy treats his workers," Samuel says, checking the cartridges in his rifle before snapping the loading gate on the right side of the receiver shut again.

"Gotta be frank with you, boss. I don't think lettin' 'em pass back and forth through your land helps much, in that regard."

"You know my dinner table is open to whomever comes to call, John."

"Yeah, but I'm just sayin', sir." His eyes skate across to where Jay is still standing, and he shakes his head, chuckling. "Hoo-wee, that was some fancy shootin', son!"

Jay pulls his hat off and nods slightly, before he wipes the sweat off his brow and combs his hair back with a hand. Despite the heat in the air, he's still cold. The feeling will probably linger awhile yet.

But the look in his eyes fades quick enough, and he cracks a bare hint of a smile.

"Gotta have quick hands," he says.

"God dang. I don't know 'bout them boys, but I sure as hell think I need to change my britches after that!" John hoots.

Samuel can't help but laugh, sharp and lilting, then. He lifts his hat momentarily to scratch at his brow.

"Shoot, John, you couldn't scare a suckling," he snorts.

He laughs, honestly, along with him.

"Should've warned you, but I was goin' for the surprise an' all," he admits. "Teach 'em to be sneakin' 'round like that. You came clean up on 'em 'fore they even noticed you were there," he comments, to Samuel, pulling off his gloves momentarily to brush his hands clean against his pants, before he tugs the leather back on.

"You learn a thing or two, during a war," he comments offhandedly, leading the men back to the busted fence. He glances over at Jay as they go.

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, sir," he agrees.

(There's a knowing look that passes between the two of them, in that glance.)

Walking back to the fence is easier, given that they're not trying to sneak among the tall grass the entire way.

It takes an hour or so for the three to finish up the fence to Samuel's liking. In the meantime, Tom came riding down, spooked by the gunfire and checking to make sure the boss was okay. John recounted, in no small detail, the entire account to him.

That earned Jay a modicum of respect.

When the fence was done, Tom returned to his work, and the three continued on their circuit.

"You a fan of Beethoven, Jay?" Samuel asks idly, as their horses walk side-by-side. He's chewing on a piece of jerky he pulled from his pack, after having offered the other two a piece.

He considers the question thoughtfully. "I'd say so, sir. I don't know all that much of his work, what with not gettin' a chance t'hear it all too often, but yeah. He's done some stuff for strings that m'more familiar with, compared t'his piano work."

Cortez is content to slowly walk along, given the heat of the day, and so is Jay. He's in no hurry, especially after having to piece that fence back together.

"You ever hear his Violin Sonata in A? 'Kreutzer', is what they call it," he asks, reproducing the French name with some skill.

"Honestly couldn't tell y'if I had, it's...been awhile. 'Kreutzer'," he echoes, quietly, trying to think on the subject. It's obvious that he's not as good with the French as Mr. Barlow is.

It's idle conversation as they ride along.

He shakes his head. "Adagio sostenuto," he murmurs, tipping his chin into a brief, welcome breeze. "Magnificent piece. Saw it performed once, in an opera house called the 'Tremont,' over on Galveston Island. Thought maybe you'd heard of it."

"Boss fiddles awful smart," John fills in, from Jay's other side.

"The big place on the island?" That gets an impressed whistle, out of him. "That must've been nice. I seen it 'fore, but never been in there, myself. Must've been a real fine show, place like that."

A glance at John, when he remarks.

"That so?" A small smile, before he looks back over at her father.

There's a ghost of a smile on Samuel's lips.

"My father bought me a violin when I was nine. I remember standin' in the window of our apartment, tryin' to figure out 'Baltimore Belle.' Momma did love it when I'd play."

"Mrs. Barlow used to love it, too," John says, quietly.

The smile on Samuel's face turns soft and sad.

"Yes, she did."

Jay ducks his head a little, eyes focused on the mane of his horse to give the older gentleman a bit of 'space'.

"Wish I'd learned t'play somethin'," he says. "Timin' jus'didn't work out all that well, probably why I kept t'books."

A beat.

"Where'd you grow up?"

"I was born in Lancashire, England," he says, keeping his eyes on the fence as he speaks. "But I lived in New York for most of my boyhood. We moved to Georgia when I was fifteen."

He chews thoughtfully on the last bit of his jerky, squinting through the late afternoon sun at his wheat as they ride alongside.

"Wasn't too long after that when things went to hell, so to say. War and famine."

"Yeah," he agrees. He knows very damn well about war and very damn well about famine. The blockades, the bread riots, trying to make things work with what little they had. Then Jacob had gotten killed, and he remembered them bringing the body home - he'd been close enough. Pa had been away with his regiment, but he'd come home for the funeral and they couldn't get him to eat for days...

Jay swallows down the sudden block in his throat and blinks a few times, nodding. "Yeah, it did," he repeats, ignoring the slight rasp to his voice before he clears his throat and swallows once more.

"So then y'came out here after the war," he adds, confirming the earlier story he'd been told.

He nods.

"Took a lead ball to the thigh, winter of '64. I was with the Willette troop up in Middle Boggy Depot, Oklahoma. Katie's mom, she was a nurse. Took me in for more'n a week."

Pause.

"Her momma and daddy had already been killed. See, her father married himself a Cheyenne Indian. ...She saw some things... well, bless her heart. Can't say I didn't fall in love with that girl the moment I saw them sad eyes of hers. Black as coal."

Dusty snorts in agitation when a small grouping of field mice dart from the wheat stalks to the fence on the other side of the lane, and Samuel hushes him calmly, stroking his long neck.

"Came back for her after I was discharged. My father wouldn't join the fight, for either side. Lynch mob took care of him, early on in the war. Mum got sick, and I was away... hell, I still regret that..."

A moment to collect himself.

"Was hard, marryin' a half-Indian, but we found a way. Brought her down here, showed her the land... it was the ugliest spit of property you ever did see, but she loved it instantly. It's been home, ever since."

His stomach twists a little and he reaches up to rest his free hand on his neck, rubbing softly at his skin. The leather touch of the glove is a welcome change from the phantom prickle of rough, twisted rope that's raking over his flesh.

He can still feel that rope around his neck.

"I hate lynch mobs."

He mutters it low, voice dark and quiet.

Then he shakes his head and lifts his eyes to the horizon, sweeping over the wheat field.

"I think when you're lookin' for a place to settle, don't matter so much to what it looks like when you get there, but what you know y'can make it into with hard work and some patience. As long as y'can see the finished product, ain't no harm in workin' to get it there."

It's low, but the muggy air catches his words and holds them, just long enough for Samuel and John both to sneak a glance at the boy from the corner of their eyes.

Neither say a word.

Samuel nods after a time, a small smile on his face. "She always did have eyes turned for the future. Saw flowers and fruit trees, when there was nothin' but weeds and dust."

And now, as they ride on through, thriving fields of corn and wheat and barley, pecan trees and apple, rabbit holes and bird's nests and all manner of life flourishing throughout every acre of the property. Some is fertile, tilled and worked with blood and sweat to get that way. Some is wild and ragged. But everything sings with a purely southern grace.

"She woulda loved to see this."

He's putting it all to memory, racking away details as they continue on along the fence-line.

There aren't many more spots that need fixing, which gives him the opportunity to notice the color of the leaves against the sky, sun filtering through. The way the corn cuts neat rows of green, solid and strong even in the hot Texas afternoon's heat. Catch a glimpse of a rabbit as it ducks down into a burrow - Cortez sidesteps hesitantly, a bit wary until he's calmed down with a quiet word - and feel the thick air against his chest.

The wheat ripples a little another hint of a breeze, that sky clear of clouds, and deeper than the ocean.

(It reminds him of her eyes.)

Once they've turned again, and are heading down the next section of fence, he speaks up.

"M'sure she's watchin', sir."

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