The Weight of Wealth.

Money is the root of all evil. At least that’s what my pop always told me growing up.

“For outlaws there ain’t nothin’ more important than money. Everything they do: Lootin, killin, extortion, all just to serve their pockets no matter the cost to anyone else. That’s why outlaws always die in the end.”

“Is being rich bad, pop?”

The old man chuckled, his graying whiskers twitching with his exhale.

“Depends who you ask, boy. Treat people right with it and you’re good in my eyes. Whatever you did to get that money is between you and God.”

I didn’t really know what to say to him after that, I was only nine at the time. I remember he sent me to fetch a bottle from his office. He sat in that old wicker chair he kept by the fireplace and I sat by his feet while he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

“Promise me you’ll grow up to be a good man, son.” He said before taking a long sip of his drink. “ That’s all you gotta be in this world, because hurting good folk is bad for the soul, so promise me.”

“I promise.” 

He smiled and handed me the glass, a puddle of the liquor sat in the bottom. He gave me a shallow nod and I had my first sip of drink that day. I remember it fondly cause it wasn’t more than three years later that my ol’ pop passed away. Took his life while I was at the schoolhouse, sat right in that wicker chair with the same bottle of hooch next to him that I had sipped from.

My father’s affinity for religion never took with me, see I never much believed in superstition, until a particular story caught my ear.

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There was a town in Kentucky by the name of “Buckwheat” that was on its way to the grave. The installation of the railroad made it so their stopgap town was an afterthought, a place more people went than came, with business drying up most of the people figured they’d have to move. Entire generations uprooted by rich men from the cities. They weren’t the only people suffering, the Natives in the area were in constant conflict with Railway enforcers surveying land and had received word from the US Army that they were to be relocated to the West. In Buckwheat rumors and news spread like a bad rash, everyone got it whether you wanted it or not, and some of the men who heard this news were the town outlaws. The “Buckwheat Boys” they called themselves, children who fancied themselves grown on account of the iron on their hips. They took to petty theft and the occasional bout of rustling cattle but nobody in town said a word, every dollar they robbed or fenced was fed into the saloon which then fed into the town, a drip feed that just barely kept the town limping onwards. The rumor was that the Natives had gathered up all their belongings in preparation for their journey and a few people even whispered that they held gems and Spanish gold from the earliest days. The bounty was also said to be cursed, either by native spirits or the Spaniard’s god. The Buckwheat Boys heard this whisper and concocted themselves a plan.

They plotted for two days and in the dark stifling heat of a shed they: drew maps of the area from memory, they cleaned and polished their guns, and more importantly they studied. They studied when US Army patrols edged close to the Native camps and recorded the times each day. They were boys playing at being men and their cowardice showed it. Not wanting to risk involvement from the Army they planned to ride in during the night and take everything they could, if anyone got in the way the answer was simple:

“Shoot 'em dead, who’s gonna care about a couple of Indians? Long as we avoid the Army we’ll be fine.” Their leader, Clay, said flippantly.

“What if they shoot back?” Logan asked, his white hat tipped far back on his greasy long hair.

“With what? Bows and arrows?” Mitch snorted and slapped his knee. “Clay’s right, what we need to be on the lookout for is the damn Army. We pick a fight with soldier boys and we all end up with posters and ropes. No, we make 'em hand over the loot and then we take the long way back to town.”

“What about the curse?” A meek voice called out from the back. “The priest said that money they had was cursed.”

“The priest also says that if you spend your whole life rapin’ and killin’ that as long as you apologize for it in the end you’ll get to go to heaven. Does that sound right to you, Leroy?” Mitch teased.

“I don’t know.”

“Well now you’ve said something that makes sense.” Logan guffaws, letting loose a glob of yellow spit into a dented pot.

Leroy’s face went a funny shade of pink as the other two laughed at him, but then Clay spoke up.

“Y’all think it’s funny? Speaking down on God and on Leroy?”

He slowly walked across the shack, his thick soled boots clunking against the old wooden floor before dropping a heavy hand onto his shoulder. 

“Leroy here is our little brother.” He said, rattling Leroy around. “Which gives him the right to ask silly questions every now and again. Understood?”

“Uh-huh.” Logan mumbled. Mitch simply grunted.

“Good, now then Leroy. To answer your question; ain’t no such thing as curses. Ain’t no Spanish god that’s gonna hurt us. You got my word. This money will be good for us and the town, once it’s ours we can get to spending it. The saloon, the tailor, hell even the church can get a little in the sunday basket. It’ll keep this place going. Can you abide by that?”

Leroy simply nodded while avoiding the probing stare of Clay. A clap to his shoulder let him know it was safe to raise his eyes as Clay walked away and rolled up the paper on the table.

“Get your things together, tell your families that you’ll be out tonight. I don’t care what lie you feed em, long as it’s believable.

Clay left the shed with the plans tucked in his pocket and all the others followed, just as they always had, just as they did later that night when they rode into Native land to raid whatever valuables they could get. The raid went off without a hitch, initially, only women and children stood between them and their fortune. Logan and Mitch hollered, bullied, and beat anyone who got between them and their prize but the whole time Leroy felt uneasy; not just in his actions but in the situation as a whole. Why were there no men of fighting age? Why did they seem to call out in their strange language not at the gang but into the darkness of the night? As Clay caught bags from the two and stuffed whatever he could into the saddlebags, Leroy nervously peered into the darkness, until the slightest glint caught his eye. Directly behind the two men rummaging through the central tent.

“MITCH, LOGAN, BEHIND-” Leroy called out as his sweaty hand fumbled with the rough grip of his revolver.

His warning was cut short however, as a pillar of white smoke rose from a bright flash of light in the darkness. Logan screamed like a man possessed and clutched his side which gushed dark thick liquid in pulses. Mitch raised his revolver and fired into the dark, flinging spit and curses along with lead. His taunts were met with another flash and plume of smoke, as a tall muscled native man stepped from the darkness holding a long rifle, putting a lead ball through the base of his neck. The guns were old, probably leftovers from the Civil War, but they were leagues beyond the promised ‘Bows and Arrows’ that Clay had mentioned. Leroy turned his head to Clay who was finishing a tight knot, securing a thick bag to the hind of his horse. Mitch and Logan lay screaming in the dark while Clay muttered beneath his breath. Another volley of shots as more men stepped from the darkness bearing similar rifles, thankfully what they had in numbers they lost in accuracy. Leroy ducked low and covered his head as the horses reared and let out shrill cries of terror.

“Clay!?” Leroy screamed over the cacophony, all while the eyes of a reloading native man pierced him.

A grunt of exertion and a smack on the shoulder drew Leroy’s attention. A grimy hand was extended in the darkness.

“Get on the horse, Leroy!” Clay called, another explosion made him double over and press his cheek to the neck of his mount. “Shit. Get on, goddamnit before I leave you!”

Leroy didn’t need to hear anything else, he flung his hand out and was yanked to the rear of the horse, Clay’s spurs collided with solid muscle and the beast took off for the fields. The scent of gunpowder, blood, and sweat left far behind as the warm Kentucky air blew past in a rush.

“I told you it was cursed! I told you dammit!” Leroy shouted with tears in his eyes, his head was tucked and pressed firmly against Clay’s back.

“It ain’t no fuckin curse, Leroy.”

“Mitch and Logan are-”

“I know what the hell happened to them.” He growled. A snap of the reins pushed his horse to move even faster. “What’s important now is we make distance, if any of the horses are unwounded then they could mount up and come after us.”

“Will they?”

“I would.” He said grimly.

“Will they find us, though?”

“Their people know how to track, been doing it longer than we’ve been around.” Clay said thoughtfully. “But I may got something that can help with that.”

The two rode on in relative silence for the next two hours, Clay coughed and groaned at times writhing in his saddle while Leroy clutched onto his back with eyes squeezed tight to suppress the burning tears trying to force their way through. Eventually the horse began to slow and Clay with labored breath eased the animal as it fidgeted.

“Easy now.” He whispered to it as he worked on deconstructing the knot around one of the bags Logan had tossed him.

“What’re you doing, Clay? Why are we stopped?”

“Getting what we came here for and making sure they don’t know where we’re headin.” His pale fingers struggled with the knot until it eventually fell away and the crimped edges of the bag opened.

“Goddamn.” He mumbled staring into it. Leroy peered over his shoulder and his mouth fell open. Gold coins layered in thick piles stared back, glittering even with only the moon and starlight to illuminate them. The sight was quickly cut off by a hacking cough from Clay, the bag’s opening was clenched shut in his fist as he hacked. In the distance a faint clattering came followed by a lonely horn echoing across the hills.

“They really had gold..” Leroy muttered to himself.

“Leroy..” Clay whispered, turning in his saddle. “Leroy, we’re gonna take that train.”

Leroy gasped, thin splotches of blood encrusted the corners of Clay’s mouth and his hand was firmly pressed against a dark patch of blood soaked shirt.

“Holy shit, Clay. They shot you!”

“No shit? It’s just a scratch, when we get back to town I can pay the Doc to fix me up.” He groaned. The clattering grew louder as the light of the train shone from around a hill. “We just gotta get aboard, come on.”

The reins snap again and his horse starts a slow amble forward as he slips his foot from a stirrup and sits sideways, his injured side leaning against the thick neck of his mount. The train drew closer.

“Clay? This is a bad idea..” Leroy moaned.

The train drew closer.

“Shut up, Leroy. My plans always work out in the end.”

A spur sends the horse into a light gallop.

“We can’t do it..”

The sound of the train began to drown out their conversation.

“That’s why you’re going first..” Clay mumbled.

A slap to its hind sent his horse into a full gallop.

“What!? I can’t hear you.” 

The front of the train passed them, the cars behind it passed as well with each one slower than the last as Clay’s steed tried its best to match speed.

“I said.” Clay repeated loudly as he pressed a hand to the back of Leroy. “That you go first!”

He screamed in a mixture of pain and exertion as he shoved with all of his might against Leroy’s back, dismounting him from the Horse. Leroy screamed and wailed but instinctively kicked off from the saddle and sent himself chest first into the rough iron bars of the caboose.

“You…you…you asshole!” Leroy screamed back after he finished scrambling over the railing and onto the small platform that hung off the back.

“Yer alive, ain’t cha!? I’m throwing the bag next.” He called back. His hand went to his lap and grasped the bag before chucking it underhand to Leroy and positioning himself to take the leap. “I told you my plans always work, now scoot over.”

Leroy scuttled backwards, his back pressed to the caboose to stay steady, he watched as Clay pushed off his horse and lunged forward. He watched as Clay slammed into the railing, directly on top of his wound, and sent the whole thing rattling. Leroy watched as Clay’s face contorted in pain and his eyes rolled into his head, he watched as his body limply dropped and fell towards the tracks. And Leroy watched as Clay’s unconscious body ragdolled against the stone, steel, and wood of the tracks. His still form grew more and more distant as Leroy watched with an open mouth but a frozen voice. He slid to the floor and drew his knees close, he rocked himself on the floor of that caboose until the sun began to peek over and let the smallest rays of light across the landscape. He whispered prayers for forgiveness, for mercy, for the men he watched die not hours before. But he wasn’t convinced anyone was listening as all he could hear was the jingle of the gold coins in the closed sack. It was infuriating.

“This is your fault..” He said to the bag. “You and your damn curse...they can have you back.”

He extended a foot violently and sent the bag sliding over the edge, he watched as the bag hit the ground and exploded into a shower of glittering light. He let loose a sigh and closed his eyes. Was it a mistake to throw away the only reason any of this had happened? He didn’t care anymore, his thoughts were of his home and his family. Until he heard the jingling. His eyes shot open and looked to his side, where a familiar bag leaned lovingly on his thigh. He scrambled up from his seated position and once again kicked the bag between the rail posts and watched it scatter along the tracks, reflecting the new morning light. He watched the faint glinting pile of coins until he couldn’t any longer but the moment it was out of his view he heard it again. That jingle.

He tried throwing the bag, but it returned. He dumped the coins from the sack only for it to refill itself once he looked away. He did anything he could think of but the moment he wasn’t looking those coins came right back to him. He was cursed and he knew it, he had done folk wrong and this was his punishment. A final, grim, thought came to his mind. His hand inched down to the rough handle of his revolver. He swallowed harshly and drew from his holster.

“Merciful Father, I come before you with a repentant heart, I recognize my sins. I confess my need for your forgiveness and mercy. Wash me clean, O Lord, and create in me a pure heart.” He spoke with a wavering voice as he pulled back the hammer. “ I trust in your unfailing love and rely on your grace to restore and renew me. Jesus Christ. In His name, I pray.” He pressed the cool barrel to his chin. “Amen.”

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I sip the last of my whiskey and slide the glass forward. The bald face of the boy before me balks.

“You can’t stop the story there, old timer. What happened to the gold?” He whispers, pretending to sweep a stray bit of dirt.

I laugh and shake my head.

“Well death didn’t stick to young Leroy. He woke up back in Buckwheat by the tracks, he spent the rest of his life trying to get rid of the curse.”

“Did he ever get away from it?”

“Almost.”

The boy's eyes glitter. 

“How?”

I lean forward and whisper with whiskey scented breath.

“Following the plan.”

The boy opens his mouth to speak but a sharp voice cuts him off.

“Bill! Goddamnit, I told you to stop getting friendly with the customers, if you got time to chat you got time for cleaning.”

I hold up a hand and speak gently.

“Easy now, I was just telling the boy a story. You get to my age and you have loads of em. I’ll pay my tab and get out of your hair.”

The bartender gives me a sour face but shrugs.

“What’s the name for your tab, sir.”

“It’s Lee.” I tell him. The boy’s eyebrows raise and he gives me a glance. I just smile and fish in my pocket until I feel it. A single gold coin.

“Will this cover it?” I ask.