A Quiet Time

The sun dips behind the snowy mountain peaks of a wild, untamed America. Great plains go dim, and the forest becomes a shapeless mass of silent trees. As the sun leaves this landscape, a bright moon and thousands of stars takes it’s place. Crickets and coyotes fill the soundscape with their songs. A lone campfire flickers and cracks on a plateau overlooking the train track; one of humankind’s greatest new technological achievements. Theo, the old cowboy, scratches his grey beard and kindles the fire with twigs and dry leaves. He fiddles with a pocket watch, clicking the face open and shutting it closed again all while staring into the nearby forest lining nervously. Those boys should have been back hours ago, he thinks.

After a few moments, Theo sighs a stream of light white fog and begins to stand. On a cold night like this Theo’s joints ache and his lungs burn. Every step is a small battle with his saddle-worn knees. Theo shoves the silver pocket watch into one of his dirty vest pockets and straps his rifle across the back of his horse. Just as his foot finds the stirrup, he hears three sharp whistles emerge from the forest lining. Theo breathes a warm sigh of relief and responds with a toothy whistle of his own. Theo sits back down in front of the fire awaiting his boys, and hopefully, that buck Art had been tracking.

Art was out in front, as steady as can be, atop his beloved Bronco, Beast. Young Davey and his pony, Finn were trotting a few feet back. Finn and Davey were still getting used to each other and, considering how shaky Davey’s hands are at the reigns, they were much less stable than Art and Beast. As they approached camp it became obvious there was no buck to be seen. “Hot coffee for dinner again, it seems,” Theo says as the boys dismount.

Art shoots Theo a sour look. He tosses two thin squirrels at Theo’s feet without a word. A light flickers in Theo’s eyes, excited by the possibilities even this small amount of meat brings to his supper. “Well, would you look at that!” Exclaims Theo, “Might not be venison steak, but it sure is a hell of a lot better than nothing.”

“Might as well be nothing,” mumbles Art. His brooding, beard-covered face illumined by the fire, “you promised the boys a buck. You think they’ll be pleased with a handful of rodent bones when they ride in tomorrow morning?”

Art squats down and begins tossing a few errant twigs into the fire. He scratches his cheek and gestures to Davey who is still standing by Finn looking down at his feet. “Have him explain why we don’t have meat to share with ‘em. He’s the one that lost us the game anyhow.”

“I-.”

“You what, boy?” Art interjects.

Davey says nothing more. He just kicks the dirt at his feet, his face pinched in frustration.

“Thought so.”

“That’s the way it goes, Arty. Sometimes you lose bucks. Ain’t no reason to get all twisted up about it. Either of you,” Theo waves Davey over, “come here, young man! Get out of that cold, and I’ll show you how to cook a squirrel stew that’ll make an eagle fly backward. Might even cheer that old bastard up,” Theo chuckles.

Davey does as he’s told and sits by Theo. The old man gives Davey a few reassuring pats on the back, and Davey hovers his hands near the fire. Art spits and shakes his head. “I didn’t lose no buck, Theo. That twitchy little idiot did.”

“It was about to charge you!” Davey yells, “I just got scared is all…”

“Oh! You was scared was you?” Howls Art, “I lost out on a proper meal ‘cause you was scared? Well, that just makes it all better now don’t it?”

“You got those squirrels though, and I even helped find ‘em!”

“After ten hours freezin’ my ass off, listenin’ to you whine, and lookin’ for a buck that might as well be on the goddamn moon! All-day huntin’ and you muck it all up in two seconds ‘cause you was scared. Jesus!”

“That buck was about to charge at you!” Davey clenches his fists as he fights back tears of anger, “besides I said I was sorry! Said it a hundred times now. I ain’t sayin’ it no more!”

“Good! I got a headache from all your yappin’.”

Art turns heads for his tent, but Theo speaks up and stops him. “Boys! It breaks my heart to hear you both talk to each other like this. Both of you just look around! We got open country, we got a warm fire, we’re gunna have a hot meal in our bellies soon. Sure, that might be all we got, but we got it! Arty. Son. Be grateful for what’s sittin’ right in front of you! For you’re brother Davey here, still learnin’ the ways of this life just like you were when you were his age. Can’t this be enough? Be content for old Theo just for tonight.” 

Art turns his head toward Theo. A twinge of anger flashes across his face as he coldly states: “That boy ain’t my brother,” Art leans in, “and I ain’t your son neither.”

He disappears behind the flaps of his tent and leaves Davey and Theo in silence. They sit there for a moment, Davey stares at the ground ashamed of his weakness. He wishes he wasn’t so useless like Art says. Theo chuckles and breaks Davey out of his spiral. “That boy…” Theo shakes his head and puts a hand on Davey’s shoulder, “don’t pay him no mind, young man. He’s just grumpy and dramatic for that matter!” Theo raises his voice loud enough for Art to hear but receives no response from Art’s tent.

“He’s so mean all the time, Theo,” Davey begins to cry, “I try to help him and make myself useful and all that, but he still just hates me.”

“He don’t hate you, son.”

“Yes he does!” blurts Davey through a stream of tears, “He’s made all up of hate! And he hates me the most! He says I’m useless, that I always mess him up cause I get so nervous. If I could stop bein’ scared I would!”

“Wipe your eyes, son. Just take a few breaths.”

Theo waits as Davey dries his eyes on his sleeve. Davey takes a few deep, shaky breaths in and out and begins to return to a calm state. He stares ahead into the fire. “Feel better?” asks Theo, his hand still resting on Davey’s shoulder.

Davey nods slowly. 

“Good. Alright. What were we - Yes! Arty does hate most people. Hates most things too. Situations for that matter, most days, and temperatures…” Theo trails off. The old man isn’t usually awake this late, and he’s fighting a losing battle to sleep. “Theo!” Davey shouts.

“Yes!” Theo slaps his cheeks lightly, “the boy has a lot of hate in his heart, but he don’t hate you and he don’t hate me. It’s just like you and your pony Finn. The more you ride together, the more you’ll get to know each other. He just needs a little more time to come around than most people. Trust me, son.”

Theo rustles Davey’s matted hair and begins to stand.

“Was Art always so sour?” Davey asks.

Theo wheezes out a laugh and sits back down.

“Yes. Ever since I picked him up, he’s been sour as a lemon. He was just a little older than you. Scowling little bastard even at knee height,” Theo’s tone becomes serious, “but after what that boy went through, I don’t blame him.”

“Why not?” 

“Don’t know the whole story. Art don’t talk about it much. Besides, it ain’t my business and it sure ain’t yours.”

“Was it something bad?” Davey looks up at Theo.

Theo sighs and tosses another log on the fire. Embers disperse around the kindling. Flames engulfed the log charring the bark black. 

“About thirteen years ago now – Jesus… thirteen years… Anyhow, when I met Arty I was staying in a town for a few days on -,” Theo clears his throat, “business. Some fishin’ town by the coast called Crikton. There was set to be a hangin’, so the streets were full of folks. Folks sure do love a hangin'… Anyhow, the lawmen brought those miserable souls up to the gallows, and that’s when a felt somethin’ push past me. A hard push. Solid. Even then. That was young Arthur pointin' a six-shooter up at one of the hangmen. Boy! His hand was even shakier than yours, Davey!” Theo laughs and slaps his leg and coughs.

He coughs for a few moments and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Davey hits Theo on the back a few times, but Theo waves him off. He takes a few strained breaths and continues. 

“I stopped him, of course. Grabbed the gun out of his hands and restrained him. Don’t waste good bullets on them, they hangin’ anyhow!’ I said.”

“Why’d he wanna shot the hangmen, Theo?” Davey asks.

“I asked him. He didn’t say. We just stood there and watched ‘em swing. He had no family. No friends. Not a kind word did this boy hear. Not one. I looked into this boy’s eyes, and you know what I saw?”

“Hate?”

“No, son,” Theo said softly, “I saw pain. Enough for ten lifetimes. Sometimes when all someone knows is pain that’s all they expect from the world. Pain. Hurt. They grow a shell. They see a flower and don’t see its beauty. They can’t. All they can think about is how it’ll die someday. Sunsets are grey. The ocean is black and boiling. Joy is just something someone else takes from you, so they don’t bother,” Theo pauses. 

A cold breeze blows past them sending a chill up Davey’s spine. 

“However, after all that pain and hate he went through, Arty still puts a blanket over his bronco when it’s cold out. He still takes you out huntin’ because he knows it’ll be good for you. He still – well you get what I’m sayin’, son. Just give him time,” Theo smiles at Davey, and Davey smiles back. He gives Davey one final pat on the shoulder and reaches for the squirrels.

“Now you must be hungry! Let’s whip up some stew, huh?”

Theo prepares the squirrels as Davey clumsily cuts what few potatoes and carrots they had on hand. They were meant for the horses, but Theo said they wouldn’t mind sharing. Once the stew was prepared, Theo ladled it into three wooden bowls. Steam rose from the bowls and the smell of meaty broth filled Davey’s nose. He didn’t realize until now just how famished he was. Theo handed a bowl to Davey and gestured to Art’s tent; “Go on,” he says.

Davey groaned but does as he’s told. He crawls past the entrance flap with the hot stew in hand and finds Art laying on his side away from Davey. “Soup’s ready,” he sets it down next to Art’s cot. 

“I know you’d probably rather have deer, but it smells pretty good. It don’t look too watery neither.”

Art says nothing, just lays still.

“Well… night, Art.” Davey turns to leave.

“Come here a minute,” Art turns around and sits on the edge of his cot facing Davey. 

At first, Art’s face is as cold as a mountain’s side staring down at Davey, but then his expression softens just a bit; ever so slightly. “When you’re huntin’ you stay focused, you hear me?”

“I-.”

“Don’t matter,” Art cuts him off, “whatever you got to say just keep it to yourself and listen to me. Livin’ the kinda way we do there ain’t no time to be scared. You gotta make a choice, stand your ground, and stick to it. If you hold up a gun you better be ready to shoot. If you fumble for a second thinkin’ about how scared you are, you’re dead. Dead. You know what we do, boy. You know the kind of people me and Theo are. You ain’t stupid. When those boys ride in tomorrow, and that train makes its way down here there ain't no bein’ scared about it. There’s do and there’s don’t. And if we wanna eat, bathe, feed our horses, we gotta do. Theo’s not gonna be around forever, and when he’s gone it’ll just be you and me out here in this cruel world. You gotta make sure you’ve got some sense in you before that happens. You hear me, boy?”

Davey nods his head slightly. He tries once again to hold back tears as he turns to exit Art’s tent. Art sighs. “Maybe that buck was about to charge me,” he says, “and maybe you stopped that from happening.”

Art picks up the stew Davey left for him and lays back down on his side. Davey leaves the tent to find Theo asleep by the fire. Davey wraps Theo in a blanket and guides him to his tent. Theo mumbles and snorts and finally lays himself down on his cot. Young Davey Gilroy sits alone by the fire, eats his stew, and watches the flames die. I gotta be ready. Davey glances behind him, over the plateau where the train tracks lay. Fear wells in his stomach and sweat begins to form on his brow. Gotta be ready. Just like Art says. 

Davey pictures himself riding Finn alongside the speeding train, the wind ripping past his face, firing bullets into the air. Beside him is Art with so much cash stuffed in Beast’s saddlebags, bills are pouring out into the air. Lawmen shoot at them from atop the train cars but always miss. Davey takes deadly aim, and they all fall one by one into the dirt left behind. He then pictures his face on a wanted poster like Art and Theo’s. It reads: “Five Thousand dollars to be awarded to the person/persons who bring in Davey Gilroy. Alive -.”

Embers fade to ash as the fire wanes and darkness envelopes the small campsite and young Davey Gilroy. “Or dead,” he whispers