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lesson plans - five
[previous: four]
"M'surprised y'still got it in you, Doc."
Doc lifts his gaze from the fencepost he's crouched in front of, focusing on the backlit figure standing above him, eyes narrowing to protect against the hot glare of the sun's rays. "Just because I spent the last few years livin' on the run don't mean I've forgotten how t'mend a fence, Frank."
"Based on those nickel books, y'done more than been livin' on the run."
"Don't remind me of those…hand me the snips, will you? Books are full of nothin' but shit, anyways. This country needs a goddamn hero, but let me tell you, I ain't it. I don't want to be it, and neither does the Kid."
Did the Kid, his brain corrects. Since he's dead, now.
Frank drops into a crouch, reaching into the bag of tools and handing the pair over. "M'just teasin'."
"I know you are. It still don't change nothin'."
The two men work in silence for a moment to secure the errant strand of barbed wire -- once they're finished, Doc sits back on his heels and wipes his arm across his forehead, clearing the sweat from his eyes. "Y'couldn't have moved up north, got yourself a ranch someplace cooler?"
"Never had it in me to leave New Mexico. Some of the others headed out…but I'm far 'nough away from Lincoln, here…"
"Far enough away that you're not getting chased by ghosts, you mean." A beat. "Except me."
"Except you. Then again, I ain't sure if I consider you a ghost, Scurlock."
"Rather be considered a ghost than a dead man," Doc looks down as he spits into the dust at his feet, reaching into his pocket for his tin cigarette case. "Ghosts don't rot in the dust. They've done their time in Hell." His gloves rest on his knee as he lights a smoke, before offering the case over, in the event the other man is interested.
"Don't know how you can smoke in this weather, s'hot as blazes out here," Frank responds, shaking his head. "And y'think so?"
"Might as well make the fire in my lungs while I'm at it," Doc retorts, lips curled around the end of the lit cigarette. "And yeah, I do." A thin stream of smoke snakes upward, blending into the blue sky overhead before it disappears. "How much more fence line y'want to work today?"
"I'd think havin' t'haunt old friends all the time was it's own sorta Hell." Frank shakes his head. "Not much. We head out too much further, we'll miss supper."
"You'll miss supper, you mean," Doc comments. "Because I won't have time t'cook."
"I ain't lettin' you cook, Scurlock," he laughs. "I want t'actually be able to eat tonight."
"Bastard."
"Fuck you."
"No thanks," Doc exhales a stream of smoke -- straight into his friend's eyes, with a smirk firmly affixed to his features. "I like my women blonde, these days. You ain't my type."
McNab grins, shaking his head. "Nah, I ain't. Then again, never did understand what y'saw in women, what with how you was always wrapped up in words and praise, quotin' at 'em."
"Prose, dumbass." He corrects. "S'called prose."
He pauses.
"Though I suppose there was some praisin' in there too."
"Try a lot of praisin'," Frank replies. "You never could keep yer damn voice down when you was gettin' some."
Doc doesn't even dignify that with a response -- simply hauls back and smacks the other man in the shoulder, hard.
They're sitting at the dining table, a bottle of whiskey between them, two glasses reflecting the light from the single lantern at the far end.
"So you never told me how y'made it out after they caught the Kid."
"Like I said…it was a real long ride."
"Men don't recover from gettin' shot up like that. They said you was in the middle of all the bullets goin' back and forth."
"They also said that we were up there with a group of twenty of us, and that we'd ambushed the posse."
"True."
"Newspapers never get anything right," Doc comments, tilting his head back to allow a measure of liquor to slide past his lips, the burn running down his throat. The trail of heat down to his stomach helps to fight the chill in his chest, the memory of those bullets impacting the Kevlar vest fading with the growth of the warmth under his skin. "Can't believe a fuckin' word they print these days, issa hell of a shame. This country deserves better."
"It's all them politician types, bein' in power and control."
"And the money."
"And the money," Frank agrees. "I don't got much of it, and I ain't gotta problem bein' corrupt," he points out.
"No, you don't," Doc agrees. Once his glass is finally empty, he reaches for the bottle and pours another inch of amber liquid into the tumbler, but pauses without putting the bottle on the table.
The other man is also paused, his own glass hovering near his mouth.
(Listening.)
Ever so slowly, the bottle and glass find their way back to the table, and both men stand without making a sound.
Doc tips his head towards the back door, and Frank nods, making his way towards the front.
(Waiting.)
His fingers are curled around the stock and barrel of a shotgun, the wood and metal cool against his palms. There's no wind, and the moon is low in the evening sky, casting odd shadows across the dust and scrub. Both hammers are already cocked back and his finger is clear of the trigger -- for now.
He's calm, though he can feel his heart pounding against the back of his teeth, blood running through his veins.
"You don't get many visitors out in these parts, do you?"
"Not really, no. The ranch is far 'nough out of town that as long as I got supplies, I can go quite awhile without needin' to stop in."
"You got any hands workin' for you?"
"Not right now…why, you looking for a job, Scurlock?"
"I suppose I could use t'earn a bit, give my horse a rest."
"Well then, you're hired. Least I can trust your skills."
The figure steps out from behind the barn, and it's only a heartbeat before Doc has that shotgun pointed up towards the man's -- it's definitely a man -- head.
"Don't you move."
"Easy," the voice replies, low and ragged. "I ain't gonna hurt nobody."
Frank steps around the side of the house, rifle pointed at the man in the shadows. "You're gonna tell me what you're doin' in my barn."
"I was looking' for you, Frank."
Doc glances over at McNab, but his focus remains on the shadow -- eyes widening slightly when the man steps into the moonlight, revealing his face.
The end of the rifle drops almost instantly. "Tim?"
"One and only."
"Jesus Christ…I have a front door, y'know?!"
The man shrugs slightly as he approaches, casting a nervous glance towards Doc and that shotgun -- which still hasn't been lowered completely towards the earth.
"Hunter."
"…Scurlock?!"
Doc nods, still not lowering the weapon. "Y'had an answer for Frank, 'bout why you were sneakin' 'round in his barn?"
Tim Hunter -- a sympathizer of the Regulators during the war, and a man who had a bad habit of robbing banks after it -- was a familiar face that Doc hadn't seen in quite some time.
"I just got out of jail, and I'm makin' my way out of the territory…heard McNab here had a place, and I was hopin' t'get a good night's rest."
"You got out of jail…or you broke out, Tim?"
Hunter shuffles his feet against the dirt. "Could say that they're looking' to get me back t'finish my stay."
Doc sighs, and Frank shakes his head. "Figured…c'mon, get your ass inside before I kick it."
"S'good to see you, Scurlock…I thought you was dead."
"And I'd like it if you continued to think that way, Hunter…s'good to see you too."
Frank leads the way inside the house, Tim following behind, with Doc bringing up the rear.
This time, he looks over his shoulder before closing the front door, making sure to lock it behind him.
Hunter's sitting on the chair closest to the hearth, flames casting shadows over his face as he speaks, voice animated. "…And then the son of a bitch turns on me, tells 'em he's never worked with me before in his life."
"So he got off without a scratch and y'ended up in jail," Frank leans closer and scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. "How many they got after you?"
"Last I checked, it weren't too many."
Doc refrains from correcting the man's bad grammar -- he's been in no position to do so, especially lately. Instead, he focuses on the important matter at hand. "How many would that be?"
"Not as many as y'used t'run from, Doc."
"How far behind are they," Frank asks. "You got a few days on 'em, they have any idea of where you're headed?"
Tim shakes his head "No. They didn't have no clue which way I left town."
"Well, that's a blessin'," Doc quips, reaching for his cigarettes.
"I figured I'd hang 'round a few days, lay low until I got myself a plan 'bout where to head next."
Frank glances over at Doc, then looks at Hunter. "Y'could do that, so long as I don't git the sheriff knocking' on the door. I ain't interested in that kind of company comin' 'round to call."
"It'll only be a few days," he promises. "It won't be more'n a week."
No more than a week.
"M'surprised y'still got it in you, Doc."
Doc lifts his gaze from the fencepost he's crouched in front of, focusing on the backlit figure standing above him, eyes narrowing to protect against the hot glare of the sun's rays. "Just because I spent the last few years livin' on the run don't mean I've forgotten how t'mend a fence, Frank."
"Based on those nickel books, y'done more than been livin' on the run."
"Don't remind me of those…hand me the snips, will you? Books are full of nothin' but shit, anyways. This country needs a goddamn hero, but let me tell you, I ain't it. I don't want to be it, and neither does the Kid."
Did the Kid, his brain corrects. Since he's dead, now.
Frank drops into a crouch, reaching into the bag of tools and handing the pair over. "M'just teasin'."
"I know you are. It still don't change nothin'."
The two men work in silence for a moment to secure the errant strand of barbed wire -- once they're finished, Doc sits back on his heels and wipes his arm across his forehead, clearing the sweat from his eyes. "Y'couldn't have moved up north, got yourself a ranch someplace cooler?"
"Never had it in me to leave New Mexico. Some of the others headed out…but I'm far 'nough away from Lincoln, here…"
"Far enough away that you're not getting chased by ghosts, you mean." A beat. "Except me."
"Except you. Then again, I ain't sure if I consider you a ghost, Scurlock."
"Rather be considered a ghost than a dead man," Doc looks down as he spits into the dust at his feet, reaching into his pocket for his tin cigarette case. "Ghosts don't rot in the dust. They've done their time in Hell." His gloves rest on his knee as he lights a smoke, before offering the case over, in the event the other man is interested.
"Don't know how you can smoke in this weather, s'hot as blazes out here," Frank responds, shaking his head. "And y'think so?"
"Might as well make the fire in my lungs while I'm at it," Doc retorts, lips curled around the end of the lit cigarette. "And yeah, I do." A thin stream of smoke snakes upward, blending into the blue sky overhead before it disappears. "How much more fence line y'want to work today?"
"I'd think havin' t'haunt old friends all the time was it's own sorta Hell." Frank shakes his head. "Not much. We head out too much further, we'll miss supper."
"You'll miss supper, you mean," Doc comments. "Because I won't have time t'cook."
"I ain't lettin' you cook, Scurlock," he laughs. "I want t'actually be able to eat tonight."
"Bastard."
"Fuck you."
"No thanks," Doc exhales a stream of smoke -- straight into his friend's eyes, with a smirk firmly affixed to his features. "I like my women blonde, these days. You ain't my type."
McNab grins, shaking his head. "Nah, I ain't. Then again, never did understand what y'saw in women, what with how you was always wrapped up in words and praise, quotin' at 'em."
"Prose, dumbass." He corrects. "S'called prose."
He pauses.
"Though I suppose there was some praisin' in there too."
"Try a lot of praisin'," Frank replies. "You never could keep yer damn voice down when you was gettin' some."
Doc doesn't even dignify that with a response -- simply hauls back and smacks the other man in the shoulder, hard.
They're sitting at the dining table, a bottle of whiskey between them, two glasses reflecting the light from the single lantern at the far end.
"So you never told me how y'made it out after they caught the Kid."
"Like I said…it was a real long ride."
"Men don't recover from gettin' shot up like that. They said you was in the middle of all the bullets goin' back and forth."
"They also said that we were up there with a group of twenty of us, and that we'd ambushed the posse."
"True."
"Newspapers never get anything right," Doc comments, tilting his head back to allow a measure of liquor to slide past his lips, the burn running down his throat. The trail of heat down to his stomach helps to fight the chill in his chest, the memory of those bullets impacting the Kevlar vest fading with the growth of the warmth under his skin. "Can't believe a fuckin' word they print these days, issa hell of a shame. This country deserves better."
"It's all them politician types, bein' in power and control."
"And the money."
"And the money," Frank agrees. "I don't got much of it, and I ain't gotta problem bein' corrupt," he points out.
"No, you don't," Doc agrees. Once his glass is finally empty, he reaches for the bottle and pours another inch of amber liquid into the tumbler, but pauses without putting the bottle on the table.
The other man is also paused, his own glass hovering near his mouth.
(Listening.)
Ever so slowly, the bottle and glass find their way back to the table, and both men stand without making a sound.
Doc tips his head towards the back door, and Frank nods, making his way towards the front.
(Waiting.)
His fingers are curled around the stock and barrel of a shotgun, the wood and metal cool against his palms. There's no wind, and the moon is low in the evening sky, casting odd shadows across the dust and scrub. Both hammers are already cocked back and his finger is clear of the trigger -- for now.
He's calm, though he can feel his heart pounding against the back of his teeth, blood running through his veins.
"You don't get many visitors out in these parts, do you?"
"Not really, no. The ranch is far 'nough out of town that as long as I got supplies, I can go quite awhile without needin' to stop in."
"You got any hands workin' for you?"
"Not right now…why, you looking for a job, Scurlock?"
"I suppose I could use t'earn a bit, give my horse a rest."
"Well then, you're hired. Least I can trust your skills."
The figure steps out from behind the barn, and it's only a heartbeat before Doc has that shotgun pointed up towards the man's -- it's definitely a man -- head.
"Don't you move."
"Easy," the voice replies, low and ragged. "I ain't gonna hurt nobody."
Frank steps around the side of the house, rifle pointed at the man in the shadows. "You're gonna tell me what you're doin' in my barn."
"I was looking' for you, Frank."
Doc glances over at McNab, but his focus remains on the shadow -- eyes widening slightly when the man steps into the moonlight, revealing his face.
The end of the rifle drops almost instantly. "Tim?"
"One and only."
"Jesus Christ…I have a front door, y'know?!"
The man shrugs slightly as he approaches, casting a nervous glance towards Doc and that shotgun -- which still hasn't been lowered completely towards the earth.
"Hunter."
"…Scurlock?!"
Doc nods, still not lowering the weapon. "Y'had an answer for Frank, 'bout why you were sneakin' 'round in his barn?"
Tim Hunter -- a sympathizer of the Regulators during the war, and a man who had a bad habit of robbing banks after it -- was a familiar face that Doc hadn't seen in quite some time.
"I just got out of jail, and I'm makin' my way out of the territory…heard McNab here had a place, and I was hopin' t'get a good night's rest."
"You got out of jail…or you broke out, Tim?"
Hunter shuffles his feet against the dirt. "Could say that they're looking' to get me back t'finish my stay."
Doc sighs, and Frank shakes his head. "Figured…c'mon, get your ass inside before I kick it."
"S'good to see you, Scurlock…I thought you was dead."
"And I'd like it if you continued to think that way, Hunter…s'good to see you too."
Frank leads the way inside the house, Tim following behind, with Doc bringing up the rear.
This time, he looks over his shoulder before closing the front door, making sure to lock it behind him.
Hunter's sitting on the chair closest to the hearth, flames casting shadows over his face as he speaks, voice animated. "…And then the son of a bitch turns on me, tells 'em he's never worked with me before in his life."
"So he got off without a scratch and y'ended up in jail," Frank leans closer and scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. "How many they got after you?"
"Last I checked, it weren't too many."
Doc refrains from correcting the man's bad grammar -- he's been in no position to do so, especially lately. Instead, he focuses on the important matter at hand. "How many would that be?"
"Not as many as y'used t'run from, Doc."
"How far behind are they," Frank asks. "You got a few days on 'em, they have any idea of where you're headed?"
Tim shakes his head "No. They didn't have no clue which way I left town."
"Well, that's a blessin'," Doc quips, reaching for his cigarettes.
"I figured I'd hang 'round a few days, lay low until I got myself a plan 'bout where to head next."
Frank glances over at Doc, then looks at Hunter. "Y'could do that, so long as I don't git the sheriff knocking' on the door. I ain't interested in that kind of company comin' 'round to call."
"It'll only be a few days," he promises. "It won't be more'n a week."
No more than a week.