Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  He started a mine and found the black stuff, coal. Coal is what attracted the rail road, or so he thought. When Dunston returned, he pulls the power base and respect from under him, so he spends most of his time at Keystone mine. But now he had to go crawling back to Dunston to get a bank loan, to keep on mining, living. Which galled him to the quick, he knew the railroad was just months away. The railroad would turn that coal, into gold.

  Tyler snatches his father’s arm. He wants to know what transpired. Robert is at boiling pot, blowing off steam.

  “I’ve worked hard at everything, we’re just about to strike a new vein, and Dunston won’t entertain a loan, to Keystone mine, to me.”

  Tyler attempts to gee up his dad.

  “But Pa, we’re Devons.”

  "The Colonel has decided that the name of Devon means diddly-shit in these parts."

  “Pa you built these parts!” Tyler responds.

  Robert is in motion again, to ease his boiling blood. Tyler scurries behind.

  From Dunston municipal bank, the second-floor office window frames a watching figure.

  It’s the Colonel himself, chomping on a cigar, with a shit-kicker grin struck across his face. He plans on owning the mine, and bring it under the umbrella of his growing empire.

  10

  THE RAGGED DOOR of the hut is barged open, emerging from the stench and shadow, a leviathan from the deep; Jensen, yawning and cussing the day. With eyes behind lids, he gropes about as he pats his body for his tobacco. He finds his smoking pouch; his eyes peel open. The pouch’s draw-string hangs from his clenching teeth; he stops in the middle of making his hand rolled.

  “Grace.”

  Stood in front of him, clean, well dressed and beaming; William Grace. He hoists a brand new bucket into the air.

  “Morning Mister Hills… I agree I'm not taking advice off of some old man.”

  SPLOSH – the new bucket scoops its first mouthful from the river. Jensen has britches rolled, and his sleeves tucked up. He’s knee deep in drink, it laps and nips at his legs. William is on the river bank, chewing on a thin of grass. He’s pleased with the new bucket.

  “See, no hole.”

  “I can see, Grace, I can see.”

  William kicks back. “What if there was gold in this river? Pops said the yellow fever’s the sickness of the devil himself. Do you read the Bible?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Can you read Mister Hills?”

  Jensen slants a sideways at William, which lets the boy now he’s on dangerous ground.

  William apologises.

  “I meant it as no criticism, just, you don’t strike me as the reading type.”

  “Well, just cause I don’t read, don’t mean I can’t.”

  That sits with William for a moment, and he nods in agreement. Jensen continues.

  “When we finished our chores for this morn, we’re going to give this fine pail here, back to Pa Grace.”

  William jolts up. “No, no, sir. I bought it with my savings, fair and true.” Jensen is struck to silence. "Mister Hills, you should read the Bible. I'd hate to think your salvation weren't at hand."

  “You… you bought this?” Jensen sploshes with full buckets to the river bank.

  "Yes. I have an allowance I've accrued through menial tasks." William is innocently concerned. “Is the bucket not to your liking?”

  Jensen slips on his threadbare socks and boots.

  “Grace, it’s a fine, fine pail… But-“

  William stands and offers a hand to help Jensen up, Jensen scrambles to his own feet.

  “Mister Hills, friends need no acquainting with please or thank you’se, acceptance is thanks enough.”

  Jensen stares as William as he marches up the track, back to the hut.

  Jensen’s silence and confusion is interrupted by his involuntary mutter

  “F-f-friends?”

  William dusts his hands against each other, whatever work he’s just done he’s satisfied it’s been done well.

  "Right then Mister Hills," William is about to leave.

  “Jensen, call me Jensen, Grace.”

  “Oh, I’m not inclined to be-“

  “Grace.”

  William rubs his hand against the buttock of his trousers; he holds it out for Jensen, Jensen looks to the open palm.

  “In the olden era, men would shake hands as a gesture of peace.”

  “Grace, I’d be knowing what a handshake is. It’s just my hand is covered in pig’s remains.”

  Jensen shows his hand covered in shit.

  “It makes a generous of vegetables.”

  William’s disappointment flashes across his face.

  “Mister Hills, I must be going.” William waves as he runs off.

  Jensen speaks to no one.

  “It’s Jensen… …crazy kid.” Jensen looks about his land, the tattered structures, vegetables, and animals. It's quiet, he glances back to William down-the-way and getting smaller. Then looks to the brand new bucket. He slugs another shot of drink.

  That night Jensen slept deeper than he has in an age.

  11

  WILLIAM LOOKS TO THE SKY, a herd of clouds are being harassed and harried by the morning wind. He looks straight ahead and chews his lip, rubs his hands in expectancy. There’s the familiar guttural groan of a beast waking from its slumber, heavy footfalls on wood, and a stuck door’s resistance breaking, to crash open. William's bursting with excitement. He swings two tattered boxing gloves aloft in one hand, and a worn Bible in the other.

  Jensen adopts his usual scooping water stance; britches rolled, boots and socks on the bank. Jensen seems clearer somehow, less hazed, less craggy, more with-it.

  “Mister Hills.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “I noticed you’re not been drinking this morning.”

  Jensen stops, looks over to the bank, there's no liquor there. He scratches his head, as he tumbles backward into the unraveling hours of that morning. The kid distracted him from his breakfast drink.

  "Don't worry Grace; we'll soon remedy that."

  William's caught in another realm; he watches the river rolling ever forward.

  “If we built a raft, a boat, you kn- of course.” William continues in his fantasy. “If we built that raft, I wonder where this river would take us. Would we drift out to sea? Land on a treasure island. With Pirates!?”

  William is beside himself with a unique kind of joy. Jensen rolls himself a smoke and peers downstream, to the lip of the world. Jensen is a loner; he doesn't acquaint well with others and growls a mumble in a ways of a welcome. Jensen doesn't seem to have grasped it yet; he is enjoying William Grace's company.

  "Nope… That river, Grace, heads into the Savage Lands. Well, that’s the name men of little understanding give it. It’s the last remnant of In’jun tribes, carving outta a home for ‘emselves. I call it, The Prides: The Nation… so if you were to traverse this there imagining raft, and depending on the tribe you met, you would either be embraced and fed or scalp your Wasi’ chu head… which ain’t nice.”

  William holds a moment of silence, as his brain scrambles to wrap around the awe.

  “Scalped … Excellent!”

  Jensen places the two full buckets on the bank. William and he share a smile.

  “Hungry?”

  William nods.

  “I’ve got something to show you”. Jensen quips.

  Jensen places stones in the river, building a small harbour of peace. He straddles over it and waits. The boy becomes deeply intrigued, as the man stands stock still, waiting.

  As William is about to ask, Jensen snatches a fish from the water and flings it on the bank, where it flips and twists.

  “Excellent!” screams William.

  Jensen with britches still rolled to the knees sits by a small fire, both he and William are smacking their lips on small, warm chunks of flesh. The boy and man glance to each other in silence.

  Jensen asks, “yo
u want another?” William nods yes, in response.

  Jensen adopts his fishing position, in the middle of the water. His mind is silent, ready, receptive. That’s when he senses another’s breathing. As William goes to move, Jensen thrusts his open hand in a gesture, while he places a chunky finger over his lips – Husssshh. William freezes into position, Jensen points to the opposite river bank, the old man’s bush-whacking senses have kicked in, it takes William a moment to hear anything, and there it is… The gentle steps of someone treading lightly in the long grass, as if attempting not to be heard. Jensen senses William’s anxiety and motions for calm.

  The ruffling grass parts as the muzzle of a pure white-wolf emerges. The wolf instantly spots the two quiet and stationary animals in and by the river, one laying down, the large one like a bear, stood stock still in the middle of the drink.

  Jensen and William quickly side-eye each other and then fix on the wolf, it glides from the grass cautiously to the bank’s edge, never breaking eye contact.

  The moments breathe themselves to life, born of the sacred, untouched, to carry through the lives of perhaps all three. The wolf partakes in the river, the same as Jensen and the boy. It has the same jade-green eyes as Jensen; there's a connection between them, the raw recognition of the untamed, a trust born of kindred, of no expectation.

  Jensen, William, and the Wolf, of freshly laid snow, share the same breath, the same pulse, the same moment. The wolf lifts its head; its look is proud, regal, there’s an acceptance of these two on his land.

  “Is… is it… real?” William stammers.

  “More than anything lad.” Jensen is serene.

  The wolf's supple silver white sinew springs back into the long grass, and races through the brush.

  “More than anything.” Part of Jensen has left with the wolf.

  Jensen and William’s breath and beat become their own, separate once more. William’s eyes well up, as Jensen strides out of the river and pats his young charge’s shoulder.

  12

  THOUGH HOURS PAST, the mirage of the white wolf still lingers in William’s mind. The fresh taste of fried fish still coats his tongue. He throws grain in the animal pen. The pig gently nudges William as she eats. Jensen, by the front of his shack, is bathing in a shallow tub of water, more for the laundering of wears than a grown man. He’s in worn red long-johns. In his hand a bottle of drink, that he doesn’t hit with so much gusto.

  William calls over.

  “Polly is very friendly. Will you eat her one day?”

  Jensen stares off confused – Polly? He understands Grace has named the Pig.

  “Somebody has to Grace, that’s what pigs be fer.”

  William seems disappointed.

  Jensen glances to the sun’s downward voyage.

  "Don't you have some other people, like… Friends… You can be seeing to?"

  William walks over, combing back his hair, adjusting his glasses.

  "Not really Mister Hills." He pauses "I don't … blend."

  “Eh… Figures… I could tell.”

  Jensen’s wet fingers start to hand roll a cigarette. It gets ruined, Jensen is almost hurt by the proceedings. William takes the tobacco and a paper and rolls one for Jensen.

  “You see, I could see that you were requiring a friend too… …see” He pops the smoke in Jensen’s mouth and lights it.

  Jensen smiles.

  "Well, friend." William's beam nearly breaks his face. "What can this old-timer be doing for you?"

  Without declaration or preparation, William begins to have an imaginary fight, flinging punches, stamping feet, springing, bouncing. He looks like he’s tangling with an octopus. He shouts out.

  "Pugilism... the gentleman's art. Jab… Hook… cross." William's own feet turn against him, and he trips spins like a dog in pursuit of its tail and crashes to the dust.

  “And he’s down.”… At William’s joke, they both laugh.

  The Sun slowly bakes Jensen’s red undergarment; he gently steams as he ties the tattered boxing gloves on William. Jensen is serious, he’s taken this young lad under his wing and he's taking responsibility. He tests the gloves; they're on tight. Jensen taps William's face as if to say Listen. William looks up to his hulking friend.

  “Listen to me William. Fighting ain’t never got me nothing, but no-good. Or if it were, it never stayed good for long.”

  William nods, he’s taking it all on board. Mouthing some words and nodding.

  “Remember fighting ain’t what’s on the outside, it ain’t how quick you is, or strong. It’s what’s on the inside, the quickness of the spirit, the strength of your resolve. I seen men, chest like an open range, turn tail at their own shadow.”

  Jensen fumbles with actions, to impart the import of the meaning. William is nodding eagerly.

  “Yet a little man, like you… there ain’t nothing that can stop you if you don't want it to." Jensen takes one hit of the bottle and points to the boxing gloves; cushioned leather hanging from William’s arms.

  “How do they feel kid?”

  The boy is nervous. “They feel good.”

  Jensen speaks from the pit of his belly, his lip twitches in a snarl.

  “If it ever happens, you go for it. All the way. You let go, Grace, you let go. Never turn from your own thunder.” Jensen taps his belly. “You’se get the feeling, raw, deep inside, there's nothing but that moment, no fear… It's like… like… freedom."

  William focuses on the words; he's thoughtful.

  “No fear… Like when we saw the wolf?”

  “You go it, kid. You ready?”

  William energetically nods.

  Jensen leads the dance, William follows. Jensen glides across the dirt, shifting and moving, plumes of dust-dervishes chase them. Jensen's arms thrust out into the air, with his knuckles twisting into the snap. Jensen guides William, the twitch of a foot, leads to a twist of the hip, leads to the torque of a shoulder and a snap of a hand. They’ve built up patches of damp, and Jensen’s throat is raw from instructing.

  Jensen then encourages William to start pummelling his girth, Jensen bends over to make it easier to strike him. William flails his fists, they thud, and club on the fat of Jensen.

  “Move, move, don’t let me get ya!” William moves out the way and comes back in again.

  “From the hip, from the hip!” Jensen screams, with that William lands a punch clean on Jensen’s face.

  The moment, the fun, the actions, stops. The boy waits to see what the man will do… The man, with eyes closed, simply tilts forward and allows his mass to crash into the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust as his body impacts like a fleshy meteor.

  William glances to his hand. He then glances to Jensen.

  "Mister Hills… Mister Hills… Sir?”

  Jensen discreetly peeps through his lids; he's spotted. William joins in the fun and places his foot on Jensen. He thrusts a hand in the air as if he were in the ring.

  “The champeeonnn of the World. Champi…" The boy falls quiet; his world moves like molasses in the lick of winter. There’s an undercurrent of horror.

  “Holy, your neck.” From under the beard, running up behind his ear to delve behind his hairline, a red line, with skin folded on skin like melted candle wax.

  Jensen sits up, he kinda forgot about his life. He glances to William as he rubs his bearded neck. Nostalgia pours through him, some good, some bad.

  He starts slow. "It's a scar… Someone had a grievance against me neck. He wanted it for himself.”

  William stares on amazed; he'd read about hanging, in his Kit Carson dime novel.

  The boy whispers. “A hanging?”

  Jensen nods.

  “You survived a hanging?”

  Jensen nods again.

  “I hunged ‘im instead.”

  “You was hanged? How did you no-“

  “I believe it is called…” Jensen looks to the heavens as his tongue laps for the word. “Canker rot… the branched submitted
under my weight." Vivid recollections snap back to Jensen; he was young, angry. He can hear the creaking and snapping of a branch, and the thud of colliding with the earth.

  “Was you a robber, or assassin?” Jensen’s little friend is getting animated.

  “Assassin, where you’se go ‘bout bagging a word like that?” William’s expectant face is pressed quite close to Jensen’s.

  Jensen confesses. “Some folks may have said that I was guilty of killin’ their brother and s’ch.”

  ‘Were you?”… “Did you?”

  “Hell, he drawed his irons first.” Jensen starts to get up. “So yea I killed ‘im.” Jensen attempt to justify the murder. “He broke my God-darn hat… …sorry about the cussing.”

  William waves his hand, oh that’s okay.

  Jensen is unrepentant. “Took three months to track the rest of ‘em.”

  “But Mister Hills weren't they justified, you did, after all, kill their brother."

  “Eh, you sound like Judge Farley from West Texas.” Jensen is put out.

  The boy starts to see his large often oafish friend in a differing light. He spots something on Jensen’s hand, mottled scarring on the ridge of his thumb. He extends his finger and touches it. Jensen knows what’s coming, he answers.

  “Musket misfire, hell o’ a noise.”

  William eagerly rolls up a trouser leg; he points to a scar, dashed across his knee.

  "Fell on my knee." He says proudly. "While hoop rolling… Bit my lip to dissuade the pain didn’t cry.”

  Jensen tapers his eyes and nods. Jensen rolls up his red sleeve as if accepting a challenge laid down by the boy. With his naked arm brandished, Jensen almost gleefully shows a deep ravine scar along his forearm.