Varnacular

THE WESTERN SUN blazed-a-glory. Heatwaves cast against the parched brown grass rose from the caramel sea spanning across Desierto de Chihuahua. The land inhaled and exhaled torrents of brown dust, lifted like twisters reaching for the heavens, forever remaining unsuccessful. The soft wind which whisked against the silence was deafening. Patches of tumbleweed flew in tandem with the floating dirt. Engulfed in these congested clouds were three silhouettes, each stiff and still like a spooked fox confronting a lion.

Ain’t he something. One of them spat. A tall lanky fellow with the hunch of a fish hook, his own shirt hanging from his boney shoulders by a few loose threads.

What. A respectably dressed man in an earth-ridden black and white suit stood just as tall, straight as the barrel of a shotgun. His forehead fulgurated from the trickling sweat.

His rags. Musta been a fancyer feller.

Ain’t rags. They’s proper clothes. Clothes the likes of ya’ll ain’t never worn before. The third spoke up. This one sported a top hat which still hadn’t stretched him as high as the others. His round and stout figure planted him firmly wherever he stood.

You sure’n got quite the vocabulary for a business man. The suit said.

Watch yer tone. The stubby man squinted, his bright blue eyes glinting against the streaming orange sunlight. I’s the one that brought ye here, lawyer, I’s the one that can bring ye out.

They each perched over a rectangular hole in the ground. A grave they’d been digging since the sun hung above their heads. The lanky one crouched beside the body that lie near the edge of the hole. He began to unbutton the shirt.

Now what is it yer doin’? Stub said.

I’s like’n to try on these here “proper” clothing you’s says I’s knowin nothing about. Asides, not like’n he gonna need ‘em no longer.

They don’t belong to you. The lawyer drew a deep breath, peering up at the rustic sky, leaning on the neck of the single shovel they had. It had dings and dents across the spine and the spear head.

His life ain’t belong’n to us no how. Hardon there still took it, now ain’t he?

Looky here, Garter. The Lawyer commanded, pointing his finger eastward. You walk back into that town there with these here clothes, you gonna raise some brows now won’t ye? You a poor man and a poor man dress like a poor man, don’t he? If a poor man dress like Mr. Carino here, people start talking. That’s when they trace the footprints back to you.

Stub nodded slowly as if he had conceived the very same thought on his own.

Mr. Jack P. Hardon here agrees. He’s a business man, and a business man dress like? The Lawyer’s brows arched as he awaited Garter to answer.

A biznissman.

Now this gold we took, it makes sense. We say it was Hardon’s and he compensated us for private business we helped him with.

Comp— insation? Garter stuttered.

Means he’s-a-payin’ us. That’s when ye bring yerself to a shop and show them yer hard earned money and buy yerself a new set of chaps. But ye ain’t wearin’ this here getup. The Lawyer shook his head slowly.

Hardon unsteadily looked away from the other two and drew his attention to his opera gloves which shined almost as white as alpine snow. He wiped them clean, as if there was a speck of dirt on them to begin with.

And if I’s says I work a new job outa town?

Ain’t nobody gonna believe that, not one second. Hardon snapped his attention back to them.

Garter finally scoffed in agreement, rising from the body and steadying himself securely next to the dirt mound piled from the innards of the grave. He patted and brushed his dusty overalls at the knees.

Your turn. The Lawyer handed Garter the shovel. We need it at least two feet deeper if we gonna hide ‘im for good. He clapped his hands together where dirt shot from the palms before wiping his forehead.

Why ain’t ya take off yer jacket for this? Hardon’s face was as puzzled as a jigsaw.

Well, I oughta look like a lawyer. Suppose’n someone catches us here. How ya walk and how ya talk tells a man ‘bout yer character, don’t it? Sometimes it’s all anyone needs to gauge who ye are.

I see. Hardon removed his cap and glided his covered hand across his hairless head, condensation clinging to the pure fabric before replacing the jet black cap. 

The faint striking from the shovel flooded their ears as the other two stood watching the horizon with the sinking sun as if to be pulled by a lasso tethered to a strapping young lad carried by his steed. 

Let’s just say someone did find us here. Hardon proposed. What is it yer sayin’ to get us outta’ this rut?

Nobody coming. The Lawyer assured Hardon.

But if someone did.

Won’t happen.

Garter struck a rock. Shit!

Keep it quiet ye idiot, someone might hear. The Lawyer hissed.

Hardon’s dead blue eyes stood watching the lawyer like an owl enveloped by darkness.

Alright alright. 

Garter mumbled from the sinking grave. We’ll croak ‘im then throw his body in with ol’ Carino here. Still’a bullet in the revolver ain’t there?

Hardon’s eyes trickled down to the pocket of his vest. His gloved hand slipped in and pulled out a flashy silver pistol, nearly blinding the lawyer from the reflection of the dying sunlight. Hardon clicked it open and the sound of the reel came whirling. Garter was right, one single bullet left in the chamber. How’s you know’n I got a single bullet left?

I’s may not be learned. But I’s knowin’.

Now what the hell’s that mean? Hardon snapped the moon clip back into the housing of the pistol.

My own two paira’ eyes workin’ jus as they should. A man’s not needin’ to know how ta read to see clearly.

Hardon’s brows furrowed, his visage contorted and flashed a skeptic look towards the fish-hooked man.

The Lawyer drew in his breath once again. We’re all the Marshall brothers, alright? The trick is to git the attention away from ourselves and towards someone else. Classic law tactic I used before. If anyone suspects anything, when they leave, we’ll be all finished with our here business and nowhere near the body no more. We might even enjoy hearing our little… rewrite of the story of the Marshall brothers next drink at the saloon. Just don’t show yer faces. And this is only if someone happens upon us, ya’ll hear?

Hardon fell silent to this. His breathing slipped into a steady pace as if to be carried by the wind. His pearly white gloves pulled from his other vest pocket a monocle tethered to a gold chain which he placed securely within the crescent of his left eye. 

What’s the story again? Garter asked. They’s not tell us over at the ranch yonder. Says because we cain’t read we’s won’t understand. 

Hardon?

I cain’t remember it well enough. Hardon spat as his single opened eye behind the round glass aimed at the dirt flying out of the grave.

A pause broke their voices. Silence fell for what seemed to be hours.

Alright, guess I’ll tell it then. The Lawyer continued striking the dirt. Three brothers, they was handed down a hefty sum of money from their dead daddy, shot by a cartel after a deal gon’ sour. They says that’s how he got the money in the first place. Crooked family, the way I see it. They ain’t work a day in their lives and able to enjoy all the tequila their bodies could swallow.

Hardon stepped in. A lawyer done crooked too.

Difference is we work hard. Get learned. The Lawyer’s forehead crinkled as he peered up from the ever sinking grave, the rustic sky bleeding into a deep milky-way purple and blue. Then we get our tequila.

Work hard for a license to kill. Hardon corrected. I’s meaning symbolic and such. He waved his hands casually as if to appear as though he’s spoken on the subject plenty, perching his lips and tilting his head downward.

I suppose. The Lawyer struck again, lower and lower he descended in correlation to the heavy setting sun. Well, the brothers. They ain’t know what work is, bet if you checked their hands they’d be clean as a baby’s ass. No calluses, no nothing. But they still got everything. Fair game for them because their daddy paid for it. Story says they like to keep quiet because people aren’t too fond of their fortune. Maybe people’d like a taste of it. Or maybe they’s scared of the very same people that shot down their daddy.

Ain’t nobody scared! Hardon’s sweat sprung from his head as his veins protruded like mountains amid flatland. His face flushed as his monocle dangled from it’s chain and he choked up. Jus’ git it done so we can all git outta here. The other two paused and looked at him.

All I’m sayin’ is we could send someone off by tellin’em we’re the brothers and this is strict business. The Lawyer stated. They’d dash quicker than a roadrunner spooked by a coyote. Din’t mean nothin’ by it. He stopped digging and speared the shovel into the mound next to the grave. She’s ready.

Hardon knelt next to Carino’s lifeless body. He began patting him down. From within the velvet vest he pulled a piece of parchment riddled with bloodstains and dirt. Hardon lifted it to neck level without unfolding it and nodded at the other two, still beside Carino. He noticed a red smudge on his glove. He exhaled forcefully, flaring his nostrils.

Best I take hold’a the gun. The Lawyer’s cool voice contrasted the hot air.

Now why is it I’d give ye the gun? Hardon’s voice dropped an octave.

Think about it, Hardon. We cain’t just stroll into a bank with a dirty letter and a gun bulging from yer vest pocket. I’ll keep it nice’n hidden. Anyone suspects us, I say a lawman always carries a gun.

Then where is yer gun? Hardon asked.

Jus’ so happens to be in yer pocket. His convincing tone seemed to draw Hardon into a pensive state. Whether good thoughts or bad, the other two couldn’t tell.

Hardon stood up tall as he could. Alrighty. Take it. I carry the letter in.

I wouldn’t suspect no less.

Ya’ll done jabberin’? I do need an extra hand with this body here. Garter had to clear his throat amid his sentence, paying no attention to what they were talking about. His right hand slipped from Carino’s broad shoulder and his fingers glided across his neck as the body slouched downward. They got caught on something, something tugging like a fish in the water as a shiny chain slithered out from underneath his coffee-colored tidy buttoned shirt. What the hell?

What is it?

I jus’ done got caught on this here necklace of his. Garter shook his head. A cross. Figures he was a man ‘a god.

Ain’t nobody care’n bout that god fella. What we’s after is the gold, ‘member? Hardon reassured as he swayed to and fro, a nervous giddy twitch it seemed to be.

Well looky here. Garter cackled. Heavy piece from the feel of it. Might’a gotten ourselves a little taste of the treasure after all! His lips thinned as he inspected the looped chain dangling from the lifeless neck. He unclipped the necklace and held it up to the dying sun, gold seemed to glitter across the sky in winking rays of God as if he’d been speaking to the three from a single trace of valuable dangling now from the poorman’s blackened fingers with soot contrasting the infinite heavens. The pearlescent purple streams hugged the golden horizon like a shake of the hands upon agreement between the sun and the moon, exchanging day for night. The sigh of the breeze supplied ample cool wind to caress each of their faces, flicking the sweat from their brows and carrying them in the arms of the softened caramel torrents. They’d finally get a taste of it, what they’d been working for, the gold came to them like a ghost in a graveyard.

I’s thinkin that be belongin to me. Hardon held out his open hand as his fingers splayed across the silky backdrop like thunder clapping where it didn’t belong.

Oh come on!

What’d he say ‘bout shut’n up. Hardon’s light eyes palpitated. You’ll get yer share when that damn body’s where it belongin.

Garter drew in a breath and lowered to Carino’s body. Let’s see that letter.

No need for a man that cain’t read to see it.

What I say before about seein’ and readin’?

The Lawyer stepped in. I agree.

Very strange for a lawyer to take on a side of a poorman since he cain’t pay ‘em to do so. A shake barked from Hardon’s voice. ‘Less he on’a somethin’.

I’ll be his eyes for the paper. The Lawyer flashed the revolver from his waste line.

I knew doin’ business with the likes’a’yall would leave me here.

Just open it.

So he did, as he unraveled the piece of sand-colored paper, almost invisible when held just in front of the desert backdrop save the blood and dirt, the letters weren’t in print, but in cursive. Hardon proffered the letter over to the lawyer. Read it for yerself.

So I shall.

To my love, my only gold. I write with the strokes not of the hand, but of my heart in which you stole. It was the finest heist one could pull. I wish you well and cannot bare another moment without you. May we reunite soon as I have words to share that need be said in person, well I may as well tell it here,

The crimson red bled across the rest of the words, washing away the ink like a river in sand and eroded rocks moving along the stream in compliance to the flow, slithering away what was once words from the mind of a sufferer and now a lost meaning communicated in the minds of three irrelevant men. Each stood as stiff as before, Hardon’s eyes tethered to the gun, the lawyer’s to the paper, and Garter’s to the body, or the clothing which hugged it and harbored safety where it was no longer needed.

You wasn’t lying mister Hardon. Garter said.

What you on about now? Hardon quipped like a fox chattering to another.

His varnacular’n tellin’ me all’s I need to know.

I don’t think you much know what that word means. The Lawyer broke a smile, barring his coffee stained teeth hung by what looked like black washed porphyry.

He a well dressed man, and from the sound of it, has a lady of his own. That much I’s understanding, and is all I’s need to to know him well enough, even if he cain’t speak to me.

Had. The Lawyer folded the paper neatly and stored it in the breast pocket of his jacket. I guess yer right.

What you doin’ with that letter? Hardon said asquint.

What you care for? Not useful to you now is it? From my understanding, you don’t much care fer this feller, seein’ as ya took his life for yer own. Now what I cain’t seem to wrap my head around, is why ye went ahead and done it, if he ain’t got the gold after all. Only gold we see here is his chain and letter. A chain for God, and a letter from a girly here. He raised the gun once again. Now either he knew something ‘bout yerself that ye ain’t know yerself, and you didn’t like it. Perhaps yer name that ye seemed to have run away from, Mr. Marshall.

Hardon’s eyes opened full like the moon that now hung above them, light reflecting from the blue. I got gold. I have it. I can give it to ye if ye shoot him, not me. He began to tremble. Him, not me. He pointed to Garter.

Now to have the power over life. The Lawyer whispered. It’s more than if I shoot ye dead here, it’s what I do after. He crept closer. Like yer choices here tonight, Marshall, ye run away from what ye did by buryin’ Carino.

I have it, all ye want, just spare me. A stream ran from just below the tucked white shirt of Marshall’s linen pants.

The Lawyer looked to Garter, whose eyes were just as wide and with them, the notion that he had nothing to offer, or so it seemed. The Lawyer sat pensive under the silky white light of the giant moon dangling from the black backdrop of space with freckles of snowflakes surrounding it. Garter raised his hands as if to be repenting all his past faults, as if to be calling to the God above, not made of gold but made of faith. His prayers he silently murmured were accompanied by a bang. A single sound which rang through the heavens and back, or so it seemed. A flash flooded the desert and smoke once again, enveloped the three, one face down in the sand and the others towering over it with a grave dug for two. A mutual understanding amid the living and the dead, a vernacular not spoken but seen and the ringing that subsided, a cool silence following and the lights from the near town contrasting the snowflakes in the sky. A shake of the hand between the mouth and the eyes, between gold and God, between language and understanding.