Dutch picked up the discarded canteen and replaced it in his saddlebag before mounting his own horse. He caught up to Lazarus, and as they rode he whistled out of tune in time to the plodding of the horses’ hooves.
They found a suitable campsite amongst some sagebrush just as the sun was beginning to set. The fire going and their bellies filled, Dutch pulled out his tobacco pouch and a battered stack of yellowed papers. He held one up so that Lazarus could see the poorly drawn portrait that vaguely resembled himself. It promised a $250 reward for the depicted man’s capture.
“Don’t need this one no more.” Dutch grinned as he tore the wanted poster into squares and tucked a pinch of tobacco into two of them. He handed one of the hand-rolled cigarettes to Lazarus who lit it off the campfire.
“So where we off to now?” Lazarus asked, lying back on his saddlebag and taking a long drag from his smoke. Dutch began to sort through the stack of papers.
“Let’s see. You’re wanted in Deadhorse for bank robbery; they’re offering five hundred for you alive. Tick’s Creek don’t care whether you’re living or dead but they’ll only give us a hundred.”
“Not really worth the trip for a hundred,” contemplated Lazarus. “Don’t we have one for a town that doesn’t have such a god-awful depressing name?”
Dutch frowned and started shuffling through the papers again.
“There’s one for Recompense; that ain’t too far. It’s been about a year since you swindled that farmer out of his horses, the reward might not be good much longer.” He handed the poster to Lazarus who looked it up and down. It promised three hundred dollars if he was brought in alive. He handed it back to Dutch.
“Good enough for me.” Lazarus sighed, slumping further down his bedroll and pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes.
Lazarus pretended to doze as Dutch pulled out his harmonica and played a lonely tune. One by one the stars began to appear in the evening sky. By the time the song ended, the humble musician was gazing sleepily into the dying embers and the heavens twinkled with infinite possibility.
~~~~~
They rode into Recompense late the next day, Dutch leading with Lazarus bound on the horse behind him. The jailhouse sat at the end of the main street, flanked on either side by flat fronted buildings whose wood siding had been bleached to a dismal grey by the unrelenting sun.
From the shadows of doorways and from windows above, Dutch saw drawn faces looking down at them with curiosity and suspicion as they passed. But no one came further than the edge of the elevated wood-planked sidewalk, not even the children who peered around the skirts of their gaunt and sterile mothers.
It made Dutch uneasy not to see an ounce of cheer from anyone. He had been in hard-up places before, but even then someone would eventually crack a smile. The town had an uneasy edge, as if it were expecting a storm. But the sky was clear, the wind mild, and winter was still a long way off.
Dutch turned in his saddle to look at Lazarus and see if he sensed the same peculiar atmosphere. But the look on Lazarus’s face was blank, his attention turned inward, and Dutch doubted he was aware at all of his surroundings.
He had seen Lazarus like that before, and usually he did not mind; it made the con more believable, a captured man was supposed to look down-hearted. But Lazarus got that look more and more often when they were on the road between jobs now, and that was disconcerting. Dutch had begun to wonder if the constant executions were getting to his partner.
It wasn't that Dutch doubted Lazarus wouldn't actually die — he'd seen the miracle enough now that it had become peculiarly mundane — but he worried about the man's mindset.
The constant march to the gallows, the still moments as the firing squad prepared their rifles; Lazarus seemed to brush it off. But they had been traveling together long enough that Dutch noticed the slow changes in the man's mood. He barely cracked a grin or laughed at one of Dutch's dirty jokes these days. It wasn't a good sign. If Lazarus suddenly refused to play his part, Dutch wasn't sure what they would do for money.
They came at last to the end of the road, to the only building in the town constructed of brick. Dutch gave a sharp whistle, which sounded too loud in the otherwise silent town. The wood door cracked open, and a dark form stooped as it made its way outside.
The sheriff of Recompense had a grim look about him. Dressed head-to-toe in black except for his snake-skin boots, per Dutch’s reckoning, he looked more like a pious man of God than a lawman. Deep in the pits of his black eyes something seemed to be burning, a fire that Dutch had seen before in the eyes of men who played by their own rules.
Dutch tipped his hat as he put on a mask of congeniality. “Sheriff,” he said, “I think I got a man here you’ve been looking for.” He hooked a thumb back at Lazarus who sat motionless in the saddle.
The sheriff eyed them for a moment as he leaned against the door jamb, then reached into the inside pocket of his worn and dusty jacket and pulled out a black cigarette. The flare of the match was the only sound as Dutch waited for the lawman to respond. He said nothing as he took a long drag from the foul-smelling cigarette and craned his neck to take a closer look at Lazarus.
“Don’t reckon I am.” The sheriff exhaled the smoke in two long streams from his nostrils. Dutch caught a hint of a twinkle in his eye.
“You sure about that?” Dutch fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out the wanted poster. He held it out to the sheriff. “Says here you are.”
Lazy curls of smoke wafted from the end of the cigarette as the sheriff took the poster and looked at it.
“The man whose horses he stole died a month ago,” the sheriff said, pulling back the flaps of his jacket to place his hands on his hips. Sunlight caught the newly exposed mother-of-pearl handles on a pair of revolvers set in their holsters.
“Don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Dutch felt a flush rise up his neck, the sheriff was playing with him. “You advertised three hundred for this man, and I brought him to you. Now fair’s fair.”
The sheriff dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “Look, I’ll give you one twenty-five, but that’s it.”
“That ain’t even worth what it cost me to catch him,” Dutch balked, “two-fifty, I’m sure this ain’t the only place he’s wanted.”
The sheriff eyed Lazarus again. The tip of a pink tongue slipped from between his chapped lips then disappeared. “I tell you what, friend,” the sheriff gave Dutch a snide smile, “I’ll give you two twenty-five, but you got to put him in the cell yourself.” He tossed Dutch a set of iron keys. “Deal?”
Dutch bit the side of his cheek as he snatched the keys out of the air with one hand. “Fine,” he said, dismounting.
The sheriff slipped back inside the jailhouse as Dutch helped Lazarus down from the saddle. He led Lazarus inside to what he thought looked like the nicest jail cell. It wasn't much better than any of the others, but it looked slightly larger.
Lazarus shuffled in without a word — turning around only after the door banged shut, placing his bound hands through the bars so Dutch could cut them loose. Dutch looked over his shoulder as he kneeled down to remove the bone-handled knife from his boot. The sheriff was busy behind his desk, counting out a stack of paper bills.
“You hang in there, buddy,” he whispered as he slid the knife under the ropes. “I’ll be back for you real soon, I promise.”
But Lazarus had reverted to his inward gaze, and he didn’t acknowledge Dutch as he turned his back and let out a hefty sigh.
“Here’s your money.” The sheriff thrust a wad of bills into Dutch’s palm. “I recommend you spend it elsewhere,” he added with a stern look and a tight grip on Dutch’s arm.
“Pleasure, doing business,” Dutch said, forcing a smile. He tried to act casual as he made his way to the door, resisting the urge to take one last look at his partner before he left.
The moment he stepped outside and saw the two horses tied to the hitching post, Dutch felt
Lazarus’s absence like a dull ache in his middle. He undid their leads and began the lonesome walk back down the main road on his own. With each step he wondered if he had made the right decision. His gut was telling him that this con was a big mistake.
It was too late to turn back now, and even if he had thought to bail on their plan earlier it would have been impossible. Lazarus did all the heavy lifting in their con, and if he didn't flinch Dutch couldn't very well do so. But Dutch wasn't certain Lazarus was thinking clearly these days. What he did know, was Lazarus could find a new partner anytime, and then where would Dutch be? He didn't have Lazarus's talent, he didn't have much talent at all.
But Dutch thought he did offer something: he took care of Lazarus, made sure he wasn't left high and dry. He also kept Lazarus company on the road. Some folks, Dutch knew, might not sleep too easy knowing they were traveling with a man God had cursed with eternal existence.
When Dutch stopped at the last watering trough in town to allow the horses to drink, he realized it wasn’t just Lazarus he was worrying about. The time to himself, camped out on the outskirts of town as he awaited the execution, didn’t have the appeal it once held. He hated to admit it, but he needed the company too.
A cackling laugh derailed his thoughts, and Dutch looked up to find an old man sitting in a rocking chair in the only sliver of shade cast by the flat-fronted buildings.
“What’s so funny?” he snapped, his mood had turned sour in the short walk from the jailhouse.
The man swayed back-and-forth in his chair, as if he didn’t mind the outburst. Taking a closer look, Dutch could see that he was half blind, the color of his eyes muted by cataracts. But the lack of clear vision didn’t stop the man from grinning widely, exposing white gums with only a handful of good teeth still set in them.
“I bet the sheriff was sure happy to finally get a body to put in his jail,” the man chuckled. “I could hear him pacing all the way down here for over a week now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dutch could smell alcohol on the man’s breath, and another, more foul, odor, like the man had soiled himself and had been sitting a while in his own filth.
The man tilted his head up and squinted his eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “how much further do you think the sun’s got to travel before it starts heading back this way?”
Nonsense, Dutch thought, the old coot was just having him on. “Look, mister, I don’t know what you’re getting on about. I’m just going to be headed on my way now.” He took hold of the reins of the horses and tugged.
The old man’s laughter died as Dutch turned his back. Walking away, he heard the man shout after him, “You take care out there, young fella! There be devils in these lands, devils you hear! Beware the full moon!”
Dutch shook his head — there was only so much he could put up with in a single day. He was glad to be getting out of the town of Recompense.
~~~~~
Lazarus tried to pass the time in the Recompense jail in relative peace and solitude. But every minute stretched itself out like the single beam of sunlight that peeked through the jailhouse door each morning and traced a steady path across the rough-sawn floorboards.
Even though he no longer aged, time still worked on his psyche. With no window in his cell, no bed even, he itched for the moment he would be free again. Constant movement was the only distraction he found that could free his mind from thoughts of his damned eternity on Earth.
As the days passed the cramping of his mind surpassed that of his limbs. His thoughts became congested with memories of lives long passed, a million mistakes he could never undo, and of dark speculations of what was still to come.
All he could do was wait. He had found that these towns, on the outskirts of civilization, practiced varying degrees of civil justice. He once waited two-weeks for a judge to arrive in a backwater that didn't even have enough men to fill a jury box. All that time wasted just so they could go through the motions of a trial.
So he sat, biding his time, until the moment when once again he would have to face the fact that he would never die.
On the third day he awoke to a ruckus coming from outside the jailhouse. At first, the unfamiliar clamor was a godsend to his ears, a change in the monotony of the previous days. It stirred Lazarus from the low-level drowsiness to which he had succumbed.
His surroundings came back into sharp focus as he rose from the hard floor and pressed his face against the cold iron bars of his cell. Turning his head he could just make out the open door of the jailhouse and the shadow of the wagons whose creaking boards and jangling tack had stirred him from his mid-day slumbers.
"Hey," he called out, "what's going on?"
There was no answer, and Lazarus realized he was alone. He looked down and saw that the tin plate the sheriff used to feed him his meals of gruel and stale bread was untouched from the night before. What more, the sticky sweet fragrance of the sheriff's black-papered cigarettes, which normally wafted in on the hot air from outside, was absent.
Centuries of experience told him something was afoot. He cried out again, in short barks at first then longer screams. Still no one came for him, and his empty stomach began to pitch and yaw with an increased uneasiness.
Exhausted, his throat raw and parched, Lazarus slumped against the hard brick wall. Memories of similar instances of being trapped whispered through his mind like the shadows of ghosts. Why, he thought, was it his fate to always end up in these circumstances? What wrong had he done that he should be plagued so?
For hours he sat, not looking up, his head cradled in his hands. Silence once again descended, but it carried with it an ominous flavor, almost palpable as not even the caw of a crow could be heard. It wasn't until the track of light, cast from the door, stretched to its terminus at the end of the jailhouse that Lazarus heard the scrape of boots coming his way.
The sheriff stood before him, the head of an iron nail poking out from the corner of his downturned mouth. Lazarus stared into the black pits of the sheriff's eyes. In them he saw the time for his execution had come, and that it wouldn't be carried out in the ordinary fashion.
"So this is it?" he said, slowly getting to his feet.
The sheriff considered him for a moment, the square head of the nail bobbing up-and-down as he chewed his thoughts. Instead of responding he reached for his pocket, withdrawing a ring of keys. With his free hand he reached for his holster as he slid a key into the lock. The click from the lock bolt echoed the cocking of the hammer from the sheriff’s revolver.
"I prefer you keep your mouth shut," the sheriff said, leveling the gun to Lazarus's head. "But if you have something to say, say it now."
Lazarus took a step back and swallowed. Raising his hands in the air, he knew he didn’t have much of a choice. He had no weapon, and he wouldn't get far on foot. But what scared Lazarus more was that he was curious about what the sheriff had in store for him. A surging pulse of excitement raced through his veins. He hadn’t felt that flavor of fear in a long time, and, in a bittersweet way, it tasted good.
"No,” he said, “I’ve got nothing to say. Just that if we’re going to do this, that I’d prefer it be in the open.”
The sheriff nodded and pushed open the door to the cell.
“All right then, just keep your hands where I can see them.”
They rode fast through the gloaming, the last of the setting sun gilding the undersides of the few remaining clouds with a vibrant orange hue. The terrain was rough going, scattered with outcroppings of rock and gnarled bushes. Lazarus, his hands tied to the pommel, squeezed his thighs tight against the flanks of the galloping nag he was riding.
Even in the growing darkness, Lazarus didn't let his eyes leave the back of the sheriff, who led Lazarus’s horse by a long lead. Everything about the man was rigid, and he sat in the saddle as if staked to the seat.
As they crested a hill, the pounding sound of the horses' hooves took on a different tone, the earth becoming suddenly soft
beneath them. The sheriff pulled up sharply on the reins and the neck of his stallion angled backwards so that Lazarus could see the white of the creature's eyes.
"Whoa," the sheriff called out, then more softly, "whoa."
The daylight had at last faded completely, and the only light that remained was a silver glow coming from the rising full moon. Lazarus squinted in the darkness as the sheriff climbed down from his horse and searched the ground. For what, Lazarus couldn't tell; he didn't see anything but a scattering of rocks.
The sheriff kicked at the loose dirt, turned over a stone with his foot. After examining it he knelt down and touched the ground, bringing two of his fingers to his lips to taste the dirt on them. His face contorted as he spat on the ground.
"All right," he said, drawing his gun and untying Lazarus's hands. "Now you dig."
~~~~~
Dutch lay flat on his belly at the steep edge of a bluff that overlooked the town. He watched in bewilderment, through a pair of field glasses, as the entire population packed up their wagons and headed out along the dusty trail that led into the badlands.
“What in the hell?” he asked himself, scratching his cheek.
Something wasn’t right. He had misgivings about this con from the moment he locked Lazarus in the jail cell. But this was something else all together.
As he looked out over the horizon he saw that the sun was settling itself between the two largest peaks of the distant mountain chain. His conversation with the old man in town flickered through his mind. When he had made camp three days prior the sun had not been so far north. He remembered distinctly the shadow the southernmost peak had cast across the valley. The memory of the conversation prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, something about there being devils in the desert. It could all be hooey, but the townsfolk were certainly fleeing something.
Dutch tried to distract himself by cleaning up the campsite. But after everything was put in its place, he still had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. He returned to the bluff and lifted the field glasses back to his eyes. He trained the lens towards the jailhouse. The sheriff was leading Lazarus out now, binding him to an old mare that had seen better days.
Fiction Vortex - June 2014 Page 4