Bullets and Gold

Bullets and Gold

***

Graverobber. He still remembers the first time he was called that. It was only a couple days ago but it felt like months. Then it kept happening. Thief. He could deal with that. He’d been called that a hundred times over. Not to mention, it was true. But graverobber implied something deeper. Sharp snaps shook Silas from his thousand-yard stare. Donovan waved his hand in front of Silas’ face.

“You can’t have your head off in the clouds today,” Donovan said. Silas shook away his fuzzy vision. He was still in the small marshal's office. He was hoping he blanked out long enough the day would be over. He started scratching the same part of his arm over and over. A bad habit of his to distract from hunger pains. He didn't used to feel this way about going through the rounds, but if you drive enough nails through a board, it'll split eventually.

“Hey,” Donovan patted Silas on the shoulder. “Do you remember what Graham told you when you met?”

“Yeah, hard to forget,” Silas’ hoarse voice clicked in his throat. “‘Not all bullets are made of lead.’”

“You got it,” Donovan smiled. That jaw of his was punched so many times his smile had gone crooked, but nevertheless it still worked for him. Despite everything, Donovan was able to see the best in him. Rather, Marshal Graham did, and Donovan trusted Graham.

“But what did he mean by that?” Silas tried to cough away his weak voice.

“He never told me. Knowing Graham, it was either profound or another one of his stupid jokes,” Donovan returned to his seat behind the one desk, sifting through the pile of letters.

“Maybe both, but nothing in between,” Donovan finished. Silas' hands still shook. Getting the jitters out now was better. Donovan was quick to forgive, the rest of the town was a different story.

“You’ll be fine. At least you’re not collecting the taxes,” Donovan chuckled. Silas’ couldn't join him. Donovan noticed and his laugh faded.

Donovan threw something towards him. “Here.”

Silas caught it. His hands started shaking. He held a large white cowboy hat in his hands.

“It looks like his,” Silas said. This hat once held as a shining beacon of this town’s pride, and it now lay in his hands. It had seen better days. Time had worn away its white tone and a dark smudge on the rim that just wouldn't quite go away. Bloodstains were hard to wash out.

“It is his,” Donovan nodded. “It's a scorcher today.” Silas was stunned. He had thrown it so casually. Like it was just any old hat for him to wear.

“Are you sure?” Silas asked.

“Sure I'm sure,” Donovan nodded. Silas frowned. He was looking for some way out, some chink in his armor. Donovan would make a terrible thief, he was too earnest for his own good and a terrible liar to boot. Not wearing it would almost seem like an insult to Donovan. He was even nice enough to share his food earnings with him. There was barely enough for Donovan in the first place. Silas’ felt stupid. Of course there wasn't a budget for spare hats. Silas placed it on his head. It flopped over his ears, resting on his neck. He adjusted it a few times but it never fit quite right.

“You’ll grow into it,” Donovan said. It didn’t fit but something about it felt comforting. Silas reached for the door handle.

“Remember the badge,” Donovan said.

“Right,” Silas muttered. He pinned the six pronged deputy badge to his shirt. It hung off of his shirt, as if it too didn't feel right being pinned up on him.

“Good luck,” Donovan ushered him out the door. Silas stepped out into the main street. Not much ever happened in Ashlaw’s Pass. To many it was nothing more than a pitstop for the trainline, but it was still theirs. Everyone knew everyone, a fate Silas wished wasn't true for him.

Harley, the cart-pusher-for-hire, did his usual pushing of his cart up the main road. Ashlaw’s people had aged and weathered down;having ample opportunity to mindlessly push heavy things was perfect for Harley. Silas tipped his hat to signal a ‘good morning’. Harley noticed Silas and did a triple take. The second take was noticing Silas, the third was a pointed look towards his white hat.

Chestnut, the office’s one horse was tied up out front for the day. She reared away from him as he approached. That was understandable at least. She was there that day. Silas walked through the town on foot.

It was still early in the day but that never stopped anybody around here. Passing by, he’d flash a friendly smile and tip of his hat. The best he hoped for in return was them pretending they didn’t see him. At worst, they spoke up. Rancher Riley sat bent over at the steps of the chapel, bent over with a bottle who-knows-what cradled in his hands. Silas did his usual smile and hat tip.

“That hat ain’t yours, boy,” Riley grumbled. He rubbed his crooked neck as Silas walked past him.

“Have a good day, Mr. Riley,” Silas said and continued on his way.

“God waits for us all,” Riley said. “Not for you.”

Silas didn’t take the time to unpack that. He continued his patrol. Midday arrived far slower than he hoped. Whatever Donovan’s plan was with the hat, it wasn’t working. It only amplified what he felt before.

“Thief,” one woman called out. He was getting uncomfortable. Even the hot sun’s rays felt like the gaze of God’s judgement. The extra large hat kept some of that off of his neck, but heat was still heat.

“Murderer,” another man called. That one stung a bit more, but he kept his composure. He returned a tip of the hat to him without a smile

“Graverobber!”

Silas’ jerked towards that comment. That was Peter, the owner of the corner store. His thick handlebar moustache encased his proud smile. That sinister snake hadn't had to work a day in his life and yet his pocket spilled with gold. Silas glared.

He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn't have let him know how much it got to him. That nail split his board wide open. He turned back to his pace. He didn’t have to look to know the types of self-assured sneers. He shouldn’t have done that. That got to him, and now they know.

He’d been called ‘thief’ so many times throughout his life. He would brush those off like sand off his jacket. He could never dust off ‘graverobber’. His last robbery went south and devolved to gunfire. Graham was chasing after them out of the town. Their rope trap worked well and he had the marshal at gunpoint. He never wanted to fire. Graham surrendered and would let him and his other buddies go. He just scared a young Silas with that damn loud cough.

He had shot him through the stomach, but Graham wasn’t even mad. Even as he bled out before him, Graham took the time to reassure him, his killer. Silas remembered the feeling of the blood on his hands as he comforted him. Graham believed him when he said it was an accident. It was. He was just so hungry back then. He was still hungry, but less so, because of Graham. Silas could never return home after that. Jail or worse, he couldn't just live with that unresolved, but Donovan seemed keen to give him a job. Well, at first he was violently mad, but after he told him Graham’s final words, his tune changed. ‘Not all bullets are made of lead’ What did that mean? Still, he would never disrespect Graham with graverobbing. He became very aware of the hat he wore, how it rocked back and forth on his head with its excess room.

“Thieves,” a man’s voice called out. Silas ignored the insult and marched forward.

“Robbers” the voice called out again.

Robbers. Plural. Not him. He turned to the voice behind him.

“You’re the deputy, aren’t you,” Hunter the coroner ran down the main street, tripping over his own robes. “Do your damn job!”

“Where?” Silas said urgently.

“The saloon, they have hostages,” Hunter pointed down the road. Silas ran in that direction. The marshal’s office was on the way. Silas swung the door open. Donovan wasn't in there. The deputy wasn’t supposed to go on to a shootout without the marshal present.

Silas slammed the door shut. He reached for Chestnut’s reins. She reared high away from him.

“Come on you,” Silas complained. Chestnut whinnied in protest. He threw the reins to the side and ran towards the town. He’d always been good at running. Not as good as a horse was, but he still made it there. He was out of breath when he reached the saloon. He slinked up to the side of the building. Silas kicked the doors in, flapping them about and stepped back behind safety. Gunshots fired into the wood. At least they hadn’t left.

“No need to respond so violently,” Silas said. “I’m here to talk.”

One short laugh responded, “That’s rich.”

“Money? Booze? Whatever you want, it’s not worth this,” Silas said. “We can reach an agreement.”

“You killed our boy, you expect us to believe you’re here to talk?” the voice said. “I know that white hat from anywhere.”

That voice. He’d heard it before. From a previous life. Why did it have to be them? And why today? Galloping down the main road, Donovan rode Chestnut. He dismounted and joined Silas against the wall.

“Go around,” Silas whispered to him.

“What?” Donovan whispered back. “No, you go around. I’m the Marshal here.”

“You got your backup now,” The voice growled. “You want an agreement? How about this? We take everything, you come in here and we shoot you. How's that?”

“We can work out something better, Carson,” Silas called out.

The voice faltered, “How do you know my name?” the voice called out.

Silas gestured for Donovan to go around the building. Donovan shrugged and walked behind the building. Crawling under the windows was hard for a large man, but he did the best he could.

“I'm coming in, Carson, and I want those weapons lowered,” Silas yelled. Silas took his gun out of his pocket and kicked it out into the saloon. He walked through the doors, hands up and turned forward. The saloon was in shambles. Tables overturned, bottles smashed and the wall littered with a new array of bullet holes to add to the collection. A gaggle of customers lay on the ground, Peter, the store owner, was closest to the assailants, the barrel of a long rifle pointed up to his fear-filled face. Only three people stood among the rubble. Even behind their bandana, hiding their identities, but Silas recognized each one of them.

“Silas,” Carson said with awe.

“Carson,” Silas said. “You’ve been busy.”

Carson’s open jaw slowly closed into that familiar snaggletoothed grimace, “You weren’t dead, you just left us.”

“Jason, Turner,” Silas nodded to the others. They didn’t respond, only holding their hand over the holster. They were never the talkative type anyways. Turner was distracted by this revelation and his rifle's aim on Peter drifted. Peter tried to crawl away, but Turner shoved that rifle back under his chin.

“You crawl up from the grave and this is how you greet us,” Carson said. “I have half a mind to shoot you just for that.”

Donovan peeked his head up through a side window.

“No need for that, you know me,” Silas quickly spoke. Donovan dipped back down. He couldn't afford to signal to him, if they saw his eyes flit over that would start. As long as he kept talking, maybe that would stall Donovan enough to work out an alternative solution.

“You, these are your kind, Graverobber,” Peter said. “This is your fault.”

“Quiet you,” Turner pushed the gun into his large cheek, the barrel making a deep impression in his flesh.

“Turner, we can talk,” Silas held his hand out. Carson was digesting that last comment.

“Graverobber.” Carson looked at the hat Silas wore.

“That old marshal, you did kill him,” Carson said. Silas felt a lump in his throat. He didn't trust his voice so he only nodded.

“Why didn't you come back?” Carson said. “Did you just abandon us to go play hero? You were one of us. You've been eating here pretty, while the rest of us starve? What else have you been up to?” He could see the gears turning in Carson's head but nothing was clicking. Carson's anger was getting the better of his patience, as his hand inched towards the gun on his waist.

Silas, however, came to his own idea. One that was crazy, but it was better than nothing. “What else? Earning their trust, slowly. I saw an opportunity.”

“I knew it,” Peter growled “You grave-”

“Shut up,” Turner kicked Peter across the face. Peter sprawled across the floor, clutching his cheek, wailing in dramatic pain.

“But it turns out, I was wrong,” Silas said.

“Go on,” Carson frowned.

“You can as well, join this town. We don’t have to live from heist to heist anymore,” Silas pleaded.

Carson frowned, “There ain't enough for all of us and you know it, there ain't enough for the people here and you know it. You may wear that hat, but it ain't yours.”

“But we can work forwards on that, we can work out-” Silas’ stomach growled. Shit.

Carson’s expression flattened. He reached back for his weapon. Donovan popped out of the window and fired his revolver. Carson yelled as he was shot through the arm. All four of them took a dive behind the nearest overturned table. Turner took the gun off of Peter’s cheek and fired twice into the window where Donovan’s head appeared. Donovan popped back in the window’s view and fired a bullet straight through Turner’s chest. Donovan dipped back down. He tumbled back against the floor. Peter lay on the ground, holding his hands above his head.

Carson and Jason took turns firing towards Donovan’s window. Silas ran back for his gun. Jason noticed. Bullets fired into the wood as Silas ran towards his gun. Donovan shot Jason through the chest. Jason stumbled and collapsed, gripping his chest. Silas grabbed the gun off the floor, behind Carson’s cover. Carson and Silas’ locked eyes. They each fired. Silas’ hat blew off of his face. Carson yelled in pain and reached for his chest, blood gushing into his grip. Carson shakily raised his pistol up. Silas fired once again. Carson jerked back from the impact, and after that he no longer moved.

Silence fell over the saloon. The three of them lay across the floor, laying in their own personal pool of blood. Donovan walked across the floor, glass crunching underneath his boots.

Silas approached, “He just wouldn't see it my way. I tried.”

“I don't think you could have done anything,” Donovan pointed down to Carson's body. “I just think he was a lead bullet.” Silas looked over Carson, the blood staining the dark floor. Maybe because it was the second time he didn't feel as nauseous. His hands didn't even shake.

“Come on, let's find Harley, we have a job for him,” Donovan beckoned him back to the station.

“Graverobber,” Peter said. Silas turned to him. His face had a bruise slowly forming across his cheek. Peter held Graham’s hat in his hand, the front with a bullet hole stuck through it. He held it out to Silas. Silas took it from him and placed it on his head, slipping down over his ears.

The vendor stroked his moustache, “You’ll grow into it.”

Silas tipped his hat and followed Donovan up main street.