Honor Among Thieves

People often say there’s no honor among thieves, but I know, firsthand, that ain’t true. Hell, one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known was a thief, and an outlaw. But he was a good man at his core, and the best friend I’ve ever had. He had a conscience, and a heart. I could see that from the moment I met him.

He’d gone by a lotta different names since goin’ on the run. The few I can remember included Jim Dalton, Casey Monroe, Bob Calloway, and Pete Jackson, and there were many others. The folks down in Louisiana had names for him as well. Some called him the Black Horse of the Bayou, and others, the Southern Slasher. He never did nothin’ so bad as to deserve those names, of course, but nobody cared ‘bout that. Most people down there only knew him by one of his aliases, which made the honor all the greater when he introduced himself to me by his real name.

I first met him on the banks of the Mississippi near the northern border of Louisiana. I was an outlaw then too, on the run from the police in Oklahoma after a train robbery didn’t go according to plan. I’d been ridin’ hard for two days, and finally stopped to rest when I reached the river. As I neared the bank, I noticed a man sittin’ by a fire a little ways upriver who, by the look of his ragged and dusty clothes, seemed like he mighta been a fellow ne’er-do-well. I decided to take a chance, so I dismounted and approached him cautiously.

“Uh, hey! You there!” I called out to him. The man looked up. “Mind if I join ya for a bit? I’ve been ridin’ nonstop for two days and I need to rest up.”

The fella peered at me from under the brim of his hat, then after a few seconds, he nodded and patted the ground next to him. “Sure,” he said in a deep, somewhat gravelly voice. “I don’t see no harm in lettin’ you stay a while.” 

“Much obliged, partner.” I walked my horse over to his, which was standing a ways back from the shore, and sat by the fire near him.

“So,” my new acquaintance said at length, after givin’ me a few moments to catch my breath. “Ridin’ nonstop for two days? Yer runnin’ from the law, ain’t ya?”

I glanced over at him, not exactly willin’ to reveal myself to this total stranger, but I didn’t have to; he could tell. “Me too,” he said, confirmin’ my suspicions. “Don’t worry,” he reassured me. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smiled slightly.

For the first time, I looked at this fella more closely. He was young, in his late twenties or early thirties, but no older. His brown hair was long and scraggly, but he had a handsome face, with well-defined cheekbones, an elegant nose, and a strong chin, hidden though it was by a tangled brown beard. His tanned features were hardened by years of thievin’ and struggle, but his deep brown eyes were soft and kind, betrayin’ a kind of naivety, and perhaps a lack of complete disillusionment with the world. At any rate, though he may have been a thief, he was definitely no monster, of that I was certain. 

“What’cha on the run for?” he asked after a pause, tossing a piece of kindling from a nearby pile into the fire.

“Train robbery out in Tulsa,” I answered. “The train was late, I ran outta time and had to bail. Had the law on my tail for hours. I finally managed to shake ‘em once I crossed the border, but they’ll be getting’ after me soon. Can’t stick around too long. What ‘bout you?”

“Bank job down in New Orleans,” he replied, pokin’ absentmindedly at the fire with another piece of kindling. “It was supposed to be quick, in and out in five minutes, but it took me too long to crack the safes. By the time I got ‘em all open and got outta there, the law had showed up. I wasn’t even able to hold on to most of what I’d taken. I escaped, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they’d find me. So that night, I gathered up what little I had and headed towards Baton Rouge. They were on top of me almost immediately, but I managed to outrun ‘em, and then I went north from there. I’ve been runnin’ a few weeks now, tryin’ to stay ahead of ‘em. I was gonna spend the night here and move on in the mornin’.”

“Well, then, I won’t keep ya,” I said, gettin’ to my feet. “Thanks for the hospitality, partner, and good luck to ya.”

“Wait, hold on now,” he stood up and called after me as I turned to leave. “How’s about you and I run together for a while, watch each other’s’ backs? We’d have much more of a chance of survivin’ out here if it’s the two of us. And besides, bein’ an outlaw gets awful lonely. If I’m bein’ honest, I’d welcome the company.”

He eyed me expectantly as I thought his proposition over. “Sure, why not?” I said after a few moments. “Ridin’ with you’s gotta be better than tryin’ to outrun those crazy lawmen on my own.”

He smiled. “Well then, I look forward to gettin’ to know ya, Mr… say, what’s yer name, friend?”

“Baker,” I replied. “Charles Baker. And yers?”

“Marsden,” he responded, extendin’ his hand to me. “John Marsden.”

“Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mr. Marsden,” I smiled and grasped his outstretched hand, shakin’ it firmly. “I reckon you and I’ll get along just fine.”

I rode with John for nearly five years. After we met, we rode west through Texas and New Mexico. We managed to scrape together enough money to pay the bounties on our heads and get the law off our backs, but even after that, we stuck together. We rode from state to state, playin’ cards and pullin’ off small scores for money, huntin’ for food, and runnin’ from the law, and we became not just friends, but brothers.

As I got to know John, I began to see that my initial impression of him had been correct: he may have been an outlaw, but at his core, he was a good man. He told me how he’d first started pickin’ pockets and robbin’ stores when he was a boy growin’ up in New Orleans, to help support his sickly mother after his father abandoned ‘em. He took care of her until she died, when he was thirteen, and at that point, he found he couldn’t do nothin’ else, except thievin’. But he wasn’t a monster, not at all: he stole only what he needed to survive, and he never killed in cold blood – only in self-defense. John told me all these stories of how he’d gotten where he was, and it didn’t take a genius to see that he was no ruthless, bloodthirsty bastard like some criminals were. But even if, after hearin’ all those stories, I’d still somehow doubted, in the back of my mind, that John had an innately good heart, one story surely laid all those doubts to rest – one that he told me when we’d known each other almost four years.

“Did I ever tell ya about Lizzie?” John asked me one night, when we were sittin’ by a fire, just like the one we met by, in a large, grassy plain in the middle of a California forest.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, pokin’ a stick into a piece of venison from a deer we’d killed earlier that day, and holdin’ it over the fire. “Lizzie who?”

“Elizabeth Renaud,” John sighed, absentmindedly spearin’ himself another piece of venison. “My girl, back in New Orleans.”

Now, this was news to me. “You had a girl?” I stared at John, wide-eyed.

“Yeah…” he held the meat over the fire, at the same time both there in the forest, and lost inside his own head. “We were sweethearts since we were sixteen years old.” He smiled and gazed off into the distance. “Oh, she was beautiful, Charlie. Fair skin, long golden hair down to her waist, and the biggest, brightest blue eyes ya ever did see.” John paused, took a large bite of the cooked venison, and chewed it slowly, lost in thought. “I loved her,” he continued after he’d swallowed. “I was gonna marry her, ya know.”

“Why didn’t ya?” I asked. “What happened?”

“I had to leave, that’s what happened. I mean, back in New Orleans, I was already on the wrong side of the law. She knew that, and she accepted it. But when that bank job I tried to pull went south, and I had to go on the run, well… I couldn’t drag her into all that. So, I left her, hard as it was, and I ain’t seen her since.”

“Ya didn’t even say goodbye?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“I wrote her a note,” John mumbled, lookin’ ashamed. “I was too much of a goddamn coward to even say goodbye to her in person.” He stared at the meat he was holdin’ for a few seconds, then spoke again. “Ya know what the funny thing is, too?” he remarked, lookin’ over at me. “I think she woulda come with me, if I’d asked her.”

“Well, why didn’t ya?” I asked again.

“Are you kiddin’?” John stared at me like I was the stupidest man he’d ever seen. “Askin’ her to throw her life away, to run off to who-knows-where with a wanted criminal, to spend her days runnin’ from place to place, never able to feel safe again, always afraid of bein’ caught or killed? Even if she’d agreed, she wouldn’t’ve known what she was gettin’ herself into. As soon as we’d’ve left, she’d’ve realized her mistake, but it would’ve been too late, and she’d’ve regretted it for the rest of her days.” John looked at the ground and shook his head. “No, I couldn’t’ve done that to her. I loved her too much.”

“Do ya still love her?” I asked, lookin’ at John expectantly.

“Oh, come on, Charlie,” John looked away.

“What?” I pressed. “It’s a simple question, John. Do ya still love her?”

There was a long pause, until finally, John turned to me and sighed. “Yeah, I still love her. I’m always gonna love her.”

“Then don’t give up on her,” I encouraged him. “Maybe she still loves you, too.”

“Are you crazy?” John snorted. “There ain’t no chance of that, none at all. Hell, it’s been four years since we’ve seen each other! Four years! And besides,” he added, pokin’ at the fire with his roastin’ stick, “after the way I left, with nothin’ more than a tiny note, not even a real goodbye? She’ll never wanna see me again as long as she lives. I reckon as soon as she read that note, she realized what a mistake she’d made ever carin’ for a good-fer-nothin’ fella like me, went and married some rich, law-abidin’ man, and is now perfectly happy livin’ her calm and quiet life, and thankin’ the stars every day for her lucky escape from the likes of me.”

“You don’t know that, John,” I remarked. “Not for sure. Listen to me,” I turned to face him, and looked him square in the eye. “Yer a good man, an honorable man. Ya did what you thought was the right thing to do to protect the woman you loved, and no one could ever blame ya for that. But that was then, John; this is now. Yer right, it’s been four years. A lot could’ve changed. Maybe Lizzie doesn’t love ya anymore. Maybe she did marry someone else. But what if she didn’t? Don’t ya wanna know for sure? Look, ya don’t have to keep runnin’ from the law forever. Ya haven’t been to New Orleans in years. Things have quieted down by now, and yer no longer at the top of their “Wanted” list, so you could easily go there without worryin’ about bein’ captured, if you keep a low profile. You’ve got the opportunity, so if there’s even a chance, just a chance, that Lizzie’s been waitin’ for ya all these years, and that the two of you could still be happy together, don’t ya wanna take that leap of faith?”

John was quiet for a long time. Finally, he spoke. “Of course, I’d wanna know, but…well, I feel like it’s too late, ya know? I mean, Lizzie was one in a million. She knew who I was – what I was – and she loved me anyway. I don’t feel like I ever truly deserved her to begin with, and after I up and left her, I feel like I’ve lost her forever…like she’ll never trust me again. And rightly so. Even if, somehow, she still ain’t married, I think if I showed up on her doorstep, she’d slam the door in my face, and I wouldn’t blame her.”

“But what if she wouldn’t?” I insisted. “Look, John, I ain’t gonna try and force you to do anything you ain’t comfortable with, but… just think ‘bout it. Okay?”

“Okay,” John nodded slowly. “I will, Charlie. I’ll think about it.”

And he did. He thought about it for another year, while we continued to ride together, and neither of us mentioned it again. And then, one day, just a few weeks shy of the day that marked the fifth anniversary of the day we met, John told me he’d finally made up his mind to return to New Orleans and see Lizzie. I rode with him all the way back to the northern border of Louisiana, back to the very spot on the bank of the Mississippi where we’d met all those years ago, and that was where we parted ways.

“We had a good run, didn’t we, Charlie?” John said solemnly as we stood facin’ each other on the riverbank.

“We sure did, John,” I replied, smilin’ sadly.

“Thank you,” John responded, “for yer friendship, yer advice… for everythin’.”

“Thank you, John,” I said back, “for showin’ me that there can indeed be honor among thieves, however rare it may be.” John smiled. “Well, goodbye, John,” I said, holdin’ my arm out to him. “Best of luck to ya.”

“And to you, Charlie,” John clasped my arm in his, then wrapped his other arm around me. “I’ll miss ya, brother.”

“I’ll miss ya too,” I replied, huggin’ him back. And after we let go, he mounted his horse, tipped his hat to me, and rode off towards New Orleans.

That was the last time I ever saw John Marsden. But he’d given me hope. He’d taught me to believe that I could change – that I could move on from my life of crime and become a better man. After we separated, I rode north to Chicago to try and make an honest livin’ in a leather workin’ factory. Once I’d learned enough and made enough money, I opened my own store, where I make and sell leather goods to this day. A few years ago, I decided to write to John and ask how things had gone for him. As it turned out, Lizzie had indeed waited for him all those years. When he’d come back to New Orleans, he’d found her and explained everythin’. She’d told him that although the way he’d left had hurt her deeply, she’d never stopped lovin’ him, or believin’ that he’d come back to her when he could, and at length she’d forgiven him. They’d gotten married and moved to a farm in northern Louisiana with their son, Charles.

Now and again, I’ll hear people mention the notorious Jim Dalton, or the infamous Pete Jackson, and wonder where he’d gotten off to. “What a horrible criminal that Black Horse of the Bayou was,” they’ll say, or “Thank goodness that vicious Southern Slasher seems to have disappeared.” And it’s all I can do to smile to myself and fondly remember who the man behind all those names really is, the man whom only I knew – my friend and brother, John Marsden, the honorable thief.