There's always a place for the angry young man
With his working class ties and his radical plans
He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl,
And He's always at home with his back to the wall.
And he's proud of his scars and the battles he's lost,
And he struggles to bleed as he hangs on his cross-
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.
- excerpt from lyrics to "Angry Young Man" by Billy Joel
Summary - My own ending to the movie 3:10 to Yuma- and a take on Charlie Prince's past.
A/N- This may be different than what I usually write, if anyone looks at my author page… but I just rented 3:10 to Yuma last week and the movie, though I found it very enjoyable, ended very strangely for me. I always had a sort of sympathy for Charlie Prince, and an interest in what fueled his devotion to Ben so. I worked this story off of the idea that Ben and Charlie's relationship was a father/son one. Of course, if you believe otherwise, that's fine too. I just hope you understand what I was getting at, and I also hope I wasn't TOO blatant in the voicing of my opinion.
Also, I apologize if you find this story deficient in any respects. But only constructive criticism and compliments welcome- no bashing, please.
Angry Young Man
The shots rang out into the ever so cliché silence- once, twice, and again and again… until all of Ben Wade's infamous gang lay bleeding and dead in the dust. But for one. Charlie Prince staggered, but moved not a muscle to clasp the bloody wound now blossoming crimson across his chest. His eyes were wide, and he seemed held up as if by strings- some force, either supernatural or just sheer surprise, kept him upright on his weakening feet.
The stupefied man did nothing as Ben Wade stalked slowly, purposefully to face him. Their faces were bare inches apart, their eyes meeting. The very world died in that instant, as Charlie struggled in those last few seconds to understand what had gone wrong… The very hero whom he had fought for, bled for, and devoted his entire existence to was now gazing at him with the purest hatred a man could feel.
If the man had had strength to speak, as his very lifeblood drained from him, he would have asked one question, "Why?" But his eyes said enough.
Ben Wade cocked his gun, pointed it straight into Charlie's heart, and… hesitated…
So far gone was he that Charlie felt nothing when the gun crashed into the side of his skull and reality went dark.
Ben Wade contemplated the body of Charlie Prince, now caught in his arms, as a wayward boy would contemplate the broken body of a bug he had stepped on- more disgust than regret was held in that gaze. The very soft breaths and the slight movement of the man's chest indicated he was alive. If only Charlie could have ceased to be so, Ben's choice could have been made clear. But as it was, Wade let out a deep sigh, made up his mind, and slung him over one shoulder as a soldier would a wounded comrade.
Turning to face the train once more, Ben was met with the barrel of a gun. It stared him right between the eyes, held obstinately by the trembling Evans boy- his breathing was fast and ragged, and it was quite clear from his face that thoughts were racing through him a mile a minute.
"You ain't gonna kill him?" Will questioned harshly, motioning with his gun towards Charlie's limp form. He, too, was seething with hatred for the murderer of his father. His eyes burned with determination.
Ben raised an eyebrow, unconcerned. "You want to do the deed?" He asked coolly. He seemed to have no qualms with such a conclusion; his eyes were now flickering to Dan's body, and whether Charlie lived or died seemed the furthest thing from his mind.
Will twisted his stare to his father' corpse as well, and his anger seemed to deflate. The flames in his eyes diminished. He lowered the gun, turned his back, and spoke not a word as Ben moved away, exiting himself from the Evans' life for forever.
The 3:10 still stood waiting as Ben Wade rode away from Contention, with Charlie Prince barely alive, the gang massacred, twenty townspeople wounded or being buried, and Dan Evans dead.
The ease with which Ben made his getaway was laughable, and he was miles away, setting up camp and wrapping up Charlie's wound, before anyone even attempted to think about tracking him down.
Charlie Prince came back to life believing himself to be in hell. He screamed as he gazed into the flames of the campfire, which to his feverish mind seemed to be burning him alive. An insistent, throbbing pain in his shoulder left him gasping from agony; his skull pulsed with an ache so fierce that he could barely think, and his face stung every time he scraped it against the ground to get away from the flames. He lay there, twitching and writhing, for what felt like eternity.
"God! Oh God! Ben!" He yelled hoarsely, reaching and grasping for some form of human contact, anything. "Mama! MAMA!" Tears etched lines of pain down his cracked, raw face.
Suddenly, a huge, burly form slammed itself on top of him, knocking his skull sharply back onto the ground. Charlie nearly lost consciousness for a second time as blackness hedged his vision. The man gripped his arms and pressed down on his thrashing body, restraining him roughly.
"Shut the goddamn up." The voice commanded, hissing in a familiar tone that brought Charlie semi-back to reality. He quieted, at the least.
"Boss…"
Hell seemed to fade, for a moment, into nothingness.
Ben leaned back against the wall of the canyon where he had made camp, sighing heavily. He studied the now sleeping Charlie Prince with a sick feeling in his stomach… in his minds eye, Dan Evans' sudden, meaningless death replayed over and over with morbid insistence. And Dan's murderer was Charlie- Charlie, who had treated the rancher's demise as one among the many, many others which had occurred in those past days.
But Prince had been wrong- Dan was not like any other man. Ben should have punished him for such a tragic misconception, as he had punished the rest of his gang. Charlie should now be rotting in a beggar's grave as Dan was.
What had stayed his trigger?
It was two days before Charlie fully regained his senses. He had drifted in and out of delirium, and at times Ben had to tie him down so as to keep him from injuring himself further.
More often than once it crossed Ben's mind that it would be easier to just kill Charlie, who was only slowing him down. Wade had to stay on the move, before the law could pick up his trail from Contention, and Charlie was just an added burden. But still some unseen force kept this violent impulse from manifesting.
So Charlie awoke from his fever on the back of Ben's horse, with the man himself seated right behind him, a steadying arm around his waist. Charlie, who had been sagging forward till his head was almost touching the horse's mane, suddenly straightened in surprise. He cried out at the pain such abrupt movement caused him, and nearly fainted again.
But he blinked away the darkness. More slowly this time, with customarily singe-minded determination, he raised his head till his body was straightened. He then paused, allowing his headache to subside, before opening his mouth to speak.
"G- good…" Charlie winced at a sudden pain in his shoulder caused by the jolting of the horse. "G'day, b-boss…" The side to side movement of the riding was pounding throughout his whole body. Everything was starting to ache. He felt nauseous. "Are you… okay…?" Concern threaded his every word, and it was clear that he was remembering the ventures of the previous days, as his words echoed the very same question he had shouted up to his leader from outside the hotel room in Contention.
Ben Wade stared at the back of Prince's head for a moment, and then started to chuckle appreciatively. "Holy hell, Charlie!" He murmured in amusement, more to himself than the man in front of him.
Charlie grinned halfheartedly- before abruptly sliding off the horse and landing on the ground in convulsions. Without hesitation, he started to retch, lying almost face-down in the dirt.
Ben reared in his horse from its canter, leaping down to where Charlie lay dry-heaving. He gripped the other's shoulders, but could do little else and instead glanced skyward. The clouds hung heavy and gray- it would rain, without a doubt.
"Damn." Ben swore. "Damn, Charlie, stop screwing around and get back on that horse!"
Charlie struggled to sit up, but fell back and continued to retch. He was trembling all over.
"Charlie Prince, you get up now or I'll shoot you where you lie!" Ben growled, roughly pulling the man to his feet. Charlie stood there, wavering, and his face seemed stupefied into an expression of supreme concentration. He was in his right mind- but his body was far from such.
They found a small cave just before the storm broke out, Ben gripping the convulsing Charlie the whole ride. Rain pounded the outside of their shelter, a lullaby to Charlie's ears, who fell asleep as soon he was placed on the ground.
Charlie awoke to the sound of Ben Wade's voice.
"It is the custom of almost all outlaws who've ever run a gang to get rid of their outfit as soon as they get too smart- or just plain too good. There's always been the threat that some day, one of your men is gonna wise up and mutiny, and that's just the damn truth. Any leader that doesn't learn that law quick gets stabbed in the back." Ben was speaking, it seemed, to no one at all- just lecturing to the wall. He was thinking aloud quite literally, and Charlie only lay back and listened with consternation.
"So back there at the train, it was only natural for me to start over- there was a sense of closure, I guess. And there was anger, too. I acted upon impulse, as I have often done. And I've gotten rid of two gangs before, and have never felt any qualms at their passing. It's been all for the better, as far as I can see."
There was a long pause.
"But I didn't finish the deed." Ben's voice had grown soft, like the rustling of a snake against grass. Charlie shivered, and the awe and fear only grew within him at his Boss's words. He waited intently for Wade to continue… But he was met with only silence.
"Do you want to finish the deed now?" Charlie spoke up quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse. The older man darted his eyes to glance at the younger, and their gazes met- Charlie's open and questioning, Ben's calculating and judging.
Then the contact was broken, and Charlie looked away. He licked dry, cracked lips in irritation, and fidgeted under Ben's continuing stare. His fingers twitched, itching for his good old pistols, now resting by Ben's feet. Charlie longed for their cool, hard handle and the security and confidence they granted him. With his guns in his hands, he was one of the deadliest, most feared men in the whole West; without them, he was nothing but a worthless, scruffy youngster who was more useful dead than alive.
Letting out a grunt, Ben closed his eyes and fell back on his pallet, turning away from Charlie and falling asleep without another word. And though Charlie ached all over and was keen for rest, he could not bring himself to do likewise.
He stared up at the stars, anger and pain warring with loyalty and confusion. Every part of him longed for the remnant of pride he once had- before Ben Wade turned on him and blew away any sense of dignity. Charlie tried to recall what he could have done to have angered his boss so… The question haunted him the whole night through:
Why had Ben pulled the trigger?
Five years earlier…
Ben Wade was used to this usual brand of outlaw. The bloodthirsty, status climbing son-of-a-guns who'd fought under, against, and with him in his long, fruitful career were just a dime a dozen to the domineering maniac. So when time came for him to get rid of them, he did it easily- abandoning his gang in the middle of Apache country with hardly a gun or knife for their defense.
True, it wasn't generally his way to be so deceiving and treacherous- even an outlaw has his principles. But these men had earned his wrath through a betrayal of their own… They had left Ben to die in the prison at Yuma. But Ben had escaped, and now, three days later, Ben did the same to his men what they had done him, and their scalps were now most likely hanging in some Indian warrior's tipi in the middle of nowhere.
He couldn't help smiling as he rode smugly away, congratulating himself on his daring escape and clever dealing of justice. "By his own iniquities the wicked man will be caught, in the meshes of his own sin he will be held fast; He will die from lack of discipline, through the greatness of his folly he will be lost." Ben quoted Proverbs with ease and a righteous pride, his voice soft and husky over the brisk trotting of his steed. He reached out his hand to his waist, gripping the flask of whiskey kept there, and raising it to his lips for a celebratory drink
Suddenly, a shot rang out. "Holy shit!" Ben cursed, snatching back his now bleeding hand and dropping the bottle to the ground. His horse reared, and he was only just able to catch a glimpse of a young, wild-eyed Confederate soldier crouching at the top of a hill nearly fifty yards from him, before kicking into a run and galloping away.
When he finally managed to slow his horse down to a canter, Ben stopped to examine his now blood-soaked hand. He'd been lucky, as the bullet had only just grazed him, so he wrapped a strip of cloth around the wound without further worries. But he kept an eye out in case the shooter was following him- or had friends.
The seasoned outlaw couldn't help but marvel at the aim of that one young man, however. He had hit him from a huge distance- nearly fifty yards! But what confused Ben even more was the nature of his attire- a Confederate soldier this long after the war? And the man had not looked old in any way…
'Must be a very eccentric fellow.' Wade mused.
By the time night had fallen, Ben was set up in a secure camp far from where the other man had shot at him- on the side of a cliff, with a good view of all the surrounding land. He settled down with his sketching pad in hand, held carefully due to his still aching wound. Lounging back against his pallet, he studied a small desert flower illuminated by the faint light of the fire. Ben Wade's small stick of charcoal moved deftly across the once blank page; the deadly killer became consumed with the task of recording the flower's every line, shade, and contour.
So engrossed was he with his art that he barely blinked an eye when he felt cold metal rest against the back of his skull. He continued to sketch, despite the audible click of the gun in his ear.
"Don't move." A trembling, broadly southern accent squeaked from behind him, nervousness lacing every word.
Ben grunted and shifted his position slightly, blatantly ignoring the young man. The gun shoved harder against his head.
"I said don't move!" The voice yelped.
Ben turned his head to face the other man, allowing the gun's barrel to slide over his skin till it was aimed straight into his temple. A knowing smirk plastered itself to his face, his eye twitching slightly in amusement.
"D'ya know who I am, boy?" he questioned, staring the other up and down with criticism evident in his gaze. The man was younger than he had supposed, with wild blond hair, and a scruffy little beard that seemed to be a poor attempt to hide his true age. "And what are you… fifteen?" Ben added, raising an eyebrow.
The boy looked offended, and his face hardened into a snarl. "I know who you are, Ben Wade. And I know your reputation as the deadliest killer in the West."
There was a pause.
"And I'm nineteen, for your information." The blonde man's words had a sharp edge to them, like metal against metal.
Ben didn't look impressed. "Get on home to your mama, child, I ain't got time for you."
The man stepped forward, though he didn't lower his pistol. A smart move, as Ben could have killed him in a second. "My name is Charlie Prince." He declared boldly. "And I came to join your gang."
Ben Wade just sat there, with the pistol still quivering on his forehead, and laughed.
"What have you got that I'd want in my outfit…?" Ben chuckled. "You're nothing but a wild-eyed young'n with more bravery than brains."
"I got brains 'nuff to track you down." Charlie Prince retorted.
Ben grinned. "Mr. Prince, the only reason you ain't dead where you stand is because you entertain me… I've always liked a man with a good sense of humor."
'Mr. Prince' merely stood there, jaw set in determination. Anger and frustration was evident in his taut pose.
Suddenly, "I bet you I can hit that rock over there." He motioned with his head to a small stone sitting out in the open sixty feet away, barely visible in the dim light. Ben merely nodded encouragingly, still grinning.
Then, in one fluid motion, the young man turned and fired into the darkness. There was a movement as the rock was sent careening backwards, and Charlie turned back to Ben with a self-satisfactory smirk on his face- which quickly disappeared at the sight of Ben Wade brandishing his infamous Hand of God.
"Wha-"Charlie's mouth opened in an exclamation of surprise, suddenly cut off by the gun crashing into the side of his head…
When Charlie awoke, it was morning, and Ben Wade had disappeared.
"Damn!" He cursed. His plans to join up with the outlaw weren't exactly working as he had hoped.
The man rolled over onto his elbows, hoisting himself up from his prone position on the ground. He rubbed his blond head, tenderly fingering the bump now protruding from his skull. It ached something terrible- but in the end, he had been lucky. The deadly Wade could have killed him just as easily…
Charlie, suddenly remembering, reached to his waist for his two pistols, desperately praying they were still there.
They were.
Ben Wade was an honest man- well, as honest as a thieving, murdering, damned-to-hell outlaw could be, anyway. He was honest with those he encountered, with those he worked with, and those he killed… But most of all, he was honest with himself.
He knew himself better than anyone, and understood why he did what he did. Ben did not entertain any false ideals of righteousness, or any principles for the "betterment of society". What he did was bad, and Ben knew this. He knew why he did these bad things, and didn't fool himself by believing otherwise than the truth- he was in it all for himself, and nobody else. That was the truth, pure and simple.
But now, as he lay gazing up at the stars, Ben couldn't figure out anymore exactly what was the truth in the first place.
He reflected upon Dan and Will- father and son. Dan's dedication to his son, Will's thirst to prove himself to his father, and the trust and respect they ultimately had shared with each other, before… Dan died.
And damn! As much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, Ben did care about Dan's death. And why? Images flashed through Wade's head as he remembered first the way Dan spoke to his son, with stern love and desperate dedication… Than he remembered the way Will had waited obediently nearby to see his father return to him… He saw Will's anguish as he realized that the father whom he had come to admire was never going to return.
And then, Ben saw with a painful clarity- himself, what felt like a thousand years ago, sitting at a train station as a young boy waiting, waiting, for a mother that will never come and father that was never there in the first place.
Holy hell. 'Does little Benny want a papa?' He mocked himself, sneering at his own idiocy.
Nearby, Charlie shifted in his sleep, moaning slightly when he bumped his wound.
And that was another vexing problem… why the HELL should he care if Charlie Prince lived or died?
He tried to recall the way Charlie had looked at him, just before he was about to blast his heart out. It was strange- he hadn't been able to find any hate in that gaze, which was an especially strange phenomena considering that Charlie was easily driven to hate.
Ben cantered leisurely into the town, alone- but not for long. This was Las Cruces, and a prime spot for gathering new members of his gang. The men here were greedy, desperate, and talented; often they were bloodthirsty veterans of some rival gang, and had gained respect and fear of the great Ben Wade long before he even met them.
Las Cruces was not naturally a quiet town, so Ben could not help but notice and grow uneasy at the silence that permeated the humid air. He moved his hand closer to his belt, where hung his trusty gun.
Entering a familiar door, he was greeted with uncommon emptiness. The bar, empty? Ben approached the barkeep, a wisp of a gentleman with fidgety hands and darting eyes.
"Well, howdy, Joe." Ben drawled in mock politeness.
The man busily attempted to ignore Wade, picking up a glass and running a wash cloth over it in frantic motions.
But Ben persisted, "I said howdy, Joe." He studied the barkeep with a predatory grin.
"My-my name i-isn't J-J-Joe." 'Joe' squeaked, still not looking Ben in the eye. He scrubbed the glass even harder, trying to edge away discreetly.
"I've been meaning to ask you a question, Joey boy." He leaned conspiratorially against the counter, still scrutinizing the man, with laughing eyes. "Where the hell is everyone?"
Joe just kept scrubbing, and he gripped the glass so hard Ben could have sworn it was about to break.
"Well…?"
There was no answer.
"I ain't asking a question anymore, Joey boy." Ben persisted.
Suddenly, Joe looked up. And his formerly darting, nervous eyes were now hard- like steel. "The Law's gotten much stricter 'round here, Mr. Wade, sir."
Ben started. Something wasn't right…
There was a chorus of CLICKS right behind his ear, and slowly, putting his hands up as he did so, Wade turned to be met with the guns of what looked like every sheriff, deputy, and lawman in all of Texas.
"Good job, Mr. Stanley." The man who appeared to be in charge nodded his head towards the barkeep. Mr. Stanley grinned, and went back to washing his glass. It was the cleanest glass in the bar by now.
Ben went quietly, with chains around his wrists and ankles and three guns pointed straight into his skull, as if he could have escaped even then, with ten men forming a circle round him. As he was led outside the gaze of every townsperson was on him; it looked like everyone- man, woman, and child- had turned out to witness the arrest of the infamous Ben Wade.
And Ben Wade merely smiled.
Charlie Prince wasn't smiling. He shook his blond head, angrily twisting away from the scene playing out before him- Wade being marched into the sheriff's office, where he was sure to be locked up in a cell and put under heavy guard before being hung in the morning. Somehow, a trial didn't seem likely. Not by the way the lawmen's faces had gleamed with triumph and utter hatred as they manhandled the most feared outlaw in the west.
No, Ben Wade was doomed to a date with the noose- but not if Charlie had anything to say about it.
It may come as a surprise to some that Charlie could care so much about the life of a man who had mocked and ridiculed his hopes and dreams, before overpowering and leaving him to die. But those that question are the ones that don't know Charlie.
Ever since he had learned to hold a gun- at the impressionable age of ten- Charlie Prince had idolized the up and coming Ben Wade. The "Wanted" posters hung on just about every post office wall were tucked under a ragged pillow in his bed room, where the boy would gaze at the pictures and fantasize about his own adventures as an outlaw.
Charlie's father, a minister, would probably have thrashed his son raw if he had known of the boy's dreams- Reverend Prince had always taken Proverbs: "Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and deliver his soul from hell." to heart.
But Charlie's father died when Charlie was just fourteen, and his mother not long after. The details remained hazy in Charlie's memory- all he knew was that both husband and wife became very, very sick right before the end, and after that it didn't matter.
The only souvenirs Charlie had bothered to take with him before leaving his then empty home were the posters, two pistols, and his father's old Confederate uniform (a coveted treasure that was now, finally, Charlie's by right).
And after years of wandering, stealing, and fighting to survive in the unforgiving West, Charlie Prince had finally come upon an opportunity to impress and perhaps gain the trust of the only man he had ever respected.
Much was at stake, but Charlie thrived on danger- he relished a chance to prove himself, and release the rage that often collected itself within him.
'Ah well…' He mused to himself, checking his pistols to make sure they were cocked and loaded. 'This should be interesting…'
Ben rested his head against the wall of the sparse cell- eyes closed, with his whole body relaxed despite the dire situation at hand. His wrists were still shackled, now behind his back. His ankles were still constrained, and his boots removed (as were his hat). The sheriff here in Las Cruces seemed to be taking no chances; after all, Ben Wade was infamous for his escapes.
The cell had three walls, the third being merely an ever so cliché set of bars, through which two guards kept their eyes intently upon him. But Ben didn't even grace their gazes with a response, instead falling asleep in the most mocking fashion and snoring as loud and as annoyingly as possible.
After just a short time of this, "You gonna shut your face?" One of the guards growled. He was tall and muscular, with a patch over his left eye- a menacing figure, if there ever was one.
Ben didn't say anything; however, he did persist in snoring and gurgling and yawning very widely.
"You ain't asleep." Patch-eye stated. He looked over to his partner, "He ain't asleep."
"He's just poking fun, the little son of a bitch." The other said. Compared to Patch-eye, he was short and rather scrawny looking. But his twisted, permanently snarling face and twitching hands promised a visciousness to make up for any such physical deficiencies.
In his 'sleep', Ben grinned. His eyes remained smugly closed.
Till suddenly, a heavy knock across the face sent his skull rearing back into the wall, and a grunt of surprise as his bound hands were pulled up behind his back- twisting his arms into an unnatural angle- forced Ben to acknowledge his captors' presence.
If Ben Wade were an ordinary man, the pain would have reduced him to squealing. But he wasn't, and he didn't.
"You gonna show us some respect?" Shortie snarled into his ear, "Or d'ya wanna have us dislocate yer arm?"
Patch-eye pulled his hands up even higher and harder, till he was sure he could hear the sockets popping.
But Ben, as always, kept calm. "You'll do no such thing."
"Oh, why is that?"
"If you do, you'll die." His voice was ominously matter of fact sounding- this was a statement, not a threat.
The two guards laughed, Patch-eye dropping Ben's arms as he did so. Then they both- Patch-eye and Shortie- fell face down on the ground...
...Dead.
Where they had formerly stood was now a maniacally grinning Charlie Prince, two dripping, bloody knives in hand. He stepped through the previously opened cell doors, bending to rip away the set of keys now hanging loosely on the late Shortie's belt. It was indeed a marvel of good timing that Charlie arrived when he did.
It was Ben Wade's turn to laugh, as Charlie undid the shackles. "You're the guardian angel from hell, kid."
Charlie's grin stayed in place, his eyes dancing with fire. "So can I join your outfit?" he questioned eagerly, face looking young and excited beneath the wild beard, the same way it had back on the mountainside the night before.
"You telling me you just waltzed right in here, what with the whole town on guard and the sheriff posting just about every man at that door to make sure I don't escape?" There was amusement in his voice.
"Wouldn't call it a waltz, sir- more like lying through the teeth and nearly getting my ass shot off. And we need to get moving if you want to escape the angry lynch mob that should be arriving soon." Charlie didn't look too nervous though. He had tossed away the knives and was now loading and inspecting his two pistols.
Ben grinned, snatching his hat, boots, and gun off the ground where the guards had left them, "Kid-"
"Charlie." The younger man interjected bravely.
"Charlie, I do believe it would be a damn crying shame if you ain't put to good use. So I'm gonna let you join me…"
Charlie's face gleamed.
Ben interrupted anything the youngster may have been about to say, "But now it's time to run like the Devil's giving chase!"
And the pair did indeed make a rush from the sheriff's office, dodging the bullets of the outraged, surprised townspeople with ease. They were on two horses and galloping away from Las Cruces before anyone knew what was happening; they made a fearsome outline against the horizon as the harsh Western sun fell and night covered their tracks.
And thus is the story of how Charlie Prince came to be Ben Wade's second in command.
"Boss." The croaked word impacted the still air like a punch to the stomach.
Ben shifted to look over at the now sitting Charlie. He waited expectantly for the younger man to say something else, but was met with nothing. Charlie's face was twisted into concentration- he seemed to be trying, but failing, to formulate some vexing thought into words.
"You angry at me, Charlie?" Ben interrupted the other's internal struggle with a thought of his own.
Charlie looked taken aback, his eyes wide in surprise. Then thought. He shook his head in frustration- was this some sort of test?
"Is that a no…?" Ben drawled, eyebrow rising.
"I never been angry at you, Boss."
"That so?" He spoke with nothing but careless disinterest.
"I've burned cities to the ground for you. Ain't that any indication?"
"Suppose it is, Charlie."
Silence.
"Why'd you nearly do it?"
Ben looked questioningly over at Charlie, though he already knew.
"Kill me." The younger supplied helpfully.
Ben Wade's mouth turned up a corner, his eye twitching in its amused fashion. "You are angry, then."
"Ain't never said that, boss."
Ben studied Charlie's eyes. He found nothing.
There was another pause.
"Boss…" Charlie started.
"How's that shoulder feeling?" Ben interrupted once more, suddenly.
"Think I'm ready to ride, Boss." Charlie's mouth began to turn upward into a grin.
"Then we best be going. There's a lot of work to be done before this outfit gets up to the way it was before. There's banks to rob, Charlie!"
"Yes, sir!"
Ben glanced over to Charlie, briefly studying his eyes for a second time.
He found fires.