“Pretty much.” The two of them walked toward the rear of the house. Several faded tables were scattered around the yard behind the house. A few of the men were already eating while the rest waited in a line that stretched out the back of the house.
“Not me. I thought it’d be better than this.”
“Work is work. We should be thankful we got this job.”
“Thankful? For what? The honor of being worked to death doing shit labor?”
“We’re not known in these parts. We need to get some experience, show these folks we can work hard.”
“Like that’s going to happen shoveling shit and cutting weeds.”
“Just stay patient. It’ll work out.” The pair reached the back of the house and fell in behind the other men waiting in line for supper.
The line moved slowly and no one looked at either Paul or John. From behind them came sarcastic laughter. Paul turned around, but all faces pointed away from him. He knew they were laughing at him, mocking him because he was doing nigger work, because they thought he was a worthless piece of shit. Fuck them.
The line moved forward and Paul looked at his brother. John always took what came along, never got worked up when things went wrong, always had the faith and confidence that things would somehow work out on their own. Paul knew that that was a load of horseshit. Nothing worked out on its own. A good life of wealth and security wasn’t going to walk up to you, introduce itself, and then lead you by the hand off to the promised land. No, sir. Things didn’t work that way. You had to take what you could when the opportunity presented itself. And if you needed to take matters in your own hands and create that opportunity, so be it. There were no second chances in life.
Paul reached the food table, picked up a plate, and scooped out a spoonful of runny mashed potatoes. He grimaced with disgust. He was so tired of this shit.
#
The door to the bunkhouse flew open and crashed against a wall. John opened his eyes and looked around; a lantern loomed in the doorway but the rest of the bunkhouse was dark. Several shapes stood behind the lantern. A slight breeze fluttered into the bunkhouse and stirred up the smells of sweat, old leather, and dirt.
“Turn that light off,” a voice in the darkness said.
“Where’s Paul Smith?” The figure holding the lantern stepped into the bunkhouse and now John could see who it was--Darren Gladstone, the owner of the ranch. This wasn’t good, not good at all.
John turned over and shook his brother. “Wake up. The chief is looking for you.”
“Leave me the hell alone.”
The lantern moved closer to John’s face. He turned his eyes away from it and looked toward the door. Three men stood in the doorway and John saw the outlines of their rifles. They were in deep shit for sure.
“Get your ass out of my bunkhouse,” Gladstone said. He looked at John. “Both of you.”
“What the hell is this about?” Paul asked. He sat up slowly, his mind groggy from sleep.
“I don’t tolerate thieves or liars. I want you two to grab your belongings and get the hell out of here.”
“We didn’t do anything,” John said.
“Shut your mouth. You’re damn lucky I’m a God-fearing man or I’d kick the piss out of both of you right here and now.” Gladstone stepped away from the bunk. “Grab your gear and get out.”
John sat up, pulled on his boots, grabbed his saddlebag, and stepped down to the bunkhouse’s dirt floor. He turned to Paul. “You better get your stuff.”
“You never said what we did,” Paul said. He moved closer to the edge of the bunk, his feet dangling over the side. He pulled on his shirt in a slow and deliberate manner.
“Get the hell off that bunk and I’ll show you.” Gladstone pushed Paul to one side, set the lantern on the edge of the bunk, and pulled up the mattress. By now the other men in the bunkhouse were awake and watching the proceedings silently from their bunks. They knew better than to say anything at a time like this.
“What’s he looking for?” John asked his brother.
“Nothing.”
Gladstone dug into the depths of the bunk and pulled out a new boot. A moment later it was joined by its mate. Gladstone turned to the brothers and even in the semi-darkness of the bunkhouse his angry face was visible. “Martha told me she saw you take these boots out of the storage room. You make me sick.”
“I didn’t steal those,” Paul said.
“Shut your damn mouth and get off my property.” Gladstone picked up the lantern. “Now.”
“What about our pay?”
“Pay? You got some damn balls on you, boy. Get out of here.”
“This is just great,” John said. He walked toward the door, making sure that he stayed clear of Gladstone. The men at the door moved aside as he went outside. A moment later Paul was next to him, Gladstone holding him by one arm. He pushed Paul away from him.
“Your weapons are laying down the road, next to the old almond tree. If I so much as see either one of you anywhere near this place I’ll have you shot. Is that understood?”
“Yeah,” John said.
“Good. Your horses are up front. Now get out of here.” The three men moved closer to Gladstone, their rifles at the ready.
“Let’s go,” John said. He grabbed Paul by the arm and started toward the front of the ranch. Paul pulled his arm away from his brother and followed him to their horses. Three more armed men waited for them at the front of the ranch. John strapped on his saddlebag and climbed onto his horse.
Paul climbed onto his horse and rode past John without saying anything.
“Sorry about this,” John said to the three armed men as he rode past. They spread out so that the entire road was covered and watched the brothers ride into the night.
“That fucking asshole,” Paul said as John pulled up alongside him.
“You screwed us pretty good this time.”
“That bastard set me up.”
“No one around here will hire us now. You realize that? All over a stupid pair of boots. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I was tired of having my damn feet bleeding from blisters, that’s what.”
“That’s no reason to steal them boots.”
“How much of a reason do you need? When are you going to learn? We’re poor and we’re going to stay that way. Look what hard work has gotten us. Look what shoveling pig shit has gotten us. Not a damn thing. I’m tired of living this way.”
“So am I, but you don’t see me stealin’ no boots.”
“This isn’t about the boots. This is about us staking out a better life for ourselves. We came out here because we thought we’d be able to make something of ourselves. Has that happened yet?”
“No. But that still doesn’t--”
“And you know what? It’s never going to happen. We’re not going to get anywhere like this.”
“We’ve been out here for barely a week. We need to give it more time.”
“More time? Pa had his whole damn life and look what happened to him.”
“Don’t talk about him like that. It wasn’t his fault.”
“Doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” Paul spurred his horse and pulled away from John.
John looked at his brother’s dark shape with sadness. For awhile he honestly thought that Paul would change, that once they got out here things would be different, that Paul would settle down. Sadly, it was becoming more and more obvious that that wasn’t going to happen. If only they hadn’t lost the farm, things might be different. If only.
Still, Paul was the only thing that got John through the death of their father. John still refused to think about it, about the way he had found his father hanging from the old elm tree, slowly turning in a half circle. Part of him hated his father for killing himself, but part of him also understood. Living in shame was no way for a man to live out his days, having the taint of failure hanging around him all the time. Knowing that everyone viewed you as a fa
ilure. It would be more than a man could stand.
CHAPTER TWO
The bar smelt of liquor, dirt, and piss. The adobe walls were washed with filth and a hot breeze drifted in through the uncovered windows. Along one wall ran a long and dirty bar and the rest of the space was filled with tables. From outside came the sounds of horses and wagons and the cursing of the men working across the street.
John looked at his cards again and glanced across the table at Paul. Paul stared intently at his own hand, his face a blank mask. John had played poker many times with his brother and had never been able to figure him out, identify his tics and secret signals. John ran one hand across his sweaty forehead and then dragged his fingers through his blond hair, slicking it back. He turned to the old man who sat to his left. They were the only customers in the bar.
“Your bet,” John said.
“Don’t push me, boy.” The old man was short and skinny and his head was bald except for a few errant strands of hair. Sweat ran freely down his face and created clean rivers in a landscape of dirt and other filth. The old man stunk of sweat and old mud.
“Take your time, then.” The middle of the table was filled with coins and bills of varying denominations. Word had spread quickly that the two of them couldn’t be trusted, and after spending two days looking for new work, Paul convinced John to take the last of their money and find a poker game in the hope of winning enough so they could get up to San Francisco. They had been playing cards most of the afternoon, with the stakes steadily getting higher and higher.
Early on there had been six of them playing, and Paul’s luck had been strong. So strong that he’d won over a hundred dollars. The other three men left in disgust after losing a large hand, and John really wanted to stop as well, but Paul kept pushing for more. If they left right now they’d have more than enough money to get to San Francisco, but John couldn’t convince Paul to quit. He was never satisfied.
Paul looked up from his cards. He was holding three kings, a jack, and a two of spades. He knew that John didn’t have shit--not that it mattered anyway--but he was worried about the old man. He had taken only one card, which meant he was looking to improve an already good hand.
Paul looked at the old man, who was staring at his cards and muttering silently to himself. It was now or never. Paul slowly slipped one hand under the table and pulled out the king of hearts he had placed there seven hands ago. Moving slowly and smoothly, he pulled it up so that it was just under the lip of the table. He leaned back as an added deception, and then, after looking at the old man again, leaned forward and quickly swapped the king with the jack. A second later the jack was under the table, the card pressed tightly into a crack.
The old man threw in a large stack of gold coins and looked at Paul. “I’m raising you by ten.”
Paul stared at the old man and without looking at his cards, matched the old man’s bet and added ten more.
“What the hell you doing?” John asked.
“Shut up.”
“We’re not going to have any money left.”
“I said shut the hell up.”
“Damn.”
“You in or out?” Paul stared at his brother.
John tossed his cards down in disgust. “Unlike some people, I know when to quit.”
The old man looked at the stack of money then looked back at his cards. C’mon, Paul thought. Keep on betting.
The old man coughed up a wad of snot and spit it out onto the floor. “This is getting mighty interesting.”
“It looks that way,” Paul said. “You got the balls for it?”
“I got balls the size of your head.”
“That a fact?”
“That’s a fact,” the old man said as he threw twenty pieces of gold out onto the table.
Paul responded by throwing in forty pieces.
“We’re in it now,” John said.
“Shut up.”
“You’d better win this or we’re screwed.”
“I said shut the hell up.” Paul glared at his brother. Why couldn’t he just keep his damn mouth shut? This whole situation was easy money just waiting to be taken.
The old man reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He flipped through them and set the money in the middle of the table. “There’s your twenty and five more.”
Paul threw out fifty gold pieces, the absolute last bit of his money. “There’s an even fifty.”
The old man cursed and glared at Paul.
“Well, you in or what?”
“I’ll be damned if I let you buy this here pot.” The old man dug through another pocket and brought out two gold pieces. “I’m all in,” he said as he threw them onto the table.
“You’d better win or you’re going to owe me a good chunk of change.”
“Fuck you,” the old man said.
“So whatcha got?”
The old man smiled and gently laid down his cards. He had three queens and two sevens. A full house.
“That’s mighty impressive,” Paul said.
“I reckon so.”
“Not as impressive as this, though.” Paul set his four kings down on the table, the two hanging off of one end like an abandoned child.
The old man’s face dropped and his cheeks flushed red.
Paul reached out across the table and slid the winnings his way. “John, come help me get this organized, would ya?” John got up and walked over to his brother. Without looking at the old man he began to straighten the money.
“You cheating motherfucker. I had you dead to rights!”
“I believe you own me forty-eight dollars.”
“I ain’t paying you shit.”
“That a fact?” Paul stood. He wasn’t as tall as his brother, but he was solidly built and his body rippled with muscles built through years of back-breaking labor. “I’m getting that money, one way or another.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” John said. He had a sinking suspicion that his brother had cheated and he wanted to get out of there before things got any worse. They had more than enough money now. Enough for a couple of months, in fact.
“I ain’t going anywhere until this asshole gives me my money.”
The old man started to laugh, a throaty laugh filled with phlegm. “You’re a damn pussy, ain’t ya?”
“What did you say?” Paul dropped the money back onto the table and started to walk toward the old man.
“Leave him be,” John said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What’s your hurry?” The old man glared at John. “Sounds to me like you got something to hide, like a cheating card player.”
“I ain’t got nothing to hide,” Paul said. “My brother there is just trying to keep our asses out of jail. You see, when you kick the piss out of someone, the law usually tosses you into a cell for a week or so.”
“Leave him alone.” Paul and John turned toward the voice; it was the bartender, a huge, shirtless man. The bartender’s body was greased with sweat and he held a shotgun, the barrels trimmed nearly all the way up to the trigger.
“Stay out of this,” Paul said. “This ain’t your concern.”
“This is my bar, asshole. You talk to me like that again and I’ll snap you in half.” The bartender turned toward the old man. “Get on out of here, Jacob.”
Jacob looked at Paul and John, smiled a semi-toothless smile, and slowly walked out the front door. John watched his brother as Jacob left. He could tell that Paul wanted to go after him, but the bartender was too much of a threat, even for a hothead like Paul.
“Okay,” the bartender said, “get on out of here.”
Paul glared at the bartender but said nothing. Instead he bent over and filled his pockets with the money and turned toward the door.
“Ain’t you forgettin’ something?” the bartender asked.
“What are you talking about?” Paul said.
“That card you stuck under the table.”
“You callin’ me a
cheat?”
“I ain’t calling you shit. You want to cheat, that’s your business. But I’ll be damned if I allow a card to be left under one of my tables. If someone else finds it, my bar might get a reputation as a place that harbors cheating assholes, and that I can’t tolerate. This is a respected establishment.”
Paul’s face turned red and he clenched his right hand into a tight fist. He reached underneath the table and pulled out the jack.
“On second thought, I do believe that I’ll also help myself to some of your winnings. We’ll just call it an asshole tax. How’s that sound?”
“You ain’t getting one red cent of this money,” Paul said.
The bartender cocked the shotgun. “Bessie here says otherwise. How much money you got on you?”
“Didn’t count it.”
“Well I did. By my count you got around one hundred and thirty dollars. I think an even hundred and twenty bucks sounds like a fair asshole tax.”
“Fuck you.”
“Are you that stupid? I’ll gun you down right here.”
“Just do it,” John said. Why couldn’t his brother stay out of trouble for one minute? Now they were completely broke and without jobs. Things were definitely taking a turn for the worse.
“Shut up!” Paul was so damn tired of his brother’s constant whining. When would he learn to stand up for himself?
“You leave that money on the table and that’ll ensure that I don’t tell Jacob or any of his friends about your cheating ways.”
“Asshole.” Paul dug all the money out of his pockets and dumped it onto the table. He looked at John. “Give him all the money you got. I’ll keep what’s left.”
John emptied his pockets, setting the money on the middle of the table. John looked back at the bartender, who winked at John, and followed his brother outside.
“Can you believe that asshole?” Paul said. “I oughta teach him a lesson.”
“You’re determined to stir up shit, ain’t ya?”
“What are you saying?”
“You just need to watch yourself.”
“That a fact? Since when are you telling me how to live my life?”
“As long as we’re together and your actions can land my ass in the slammer, I got a say. What if that bartender tells the sheriff?”
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