8/1/10

...

Bobby laid awake some time around midnight, having a terrible feeling of being watched. He glanced around the children room of Jesse James' house, his blue eyes meeting the resting figure in the opposite bed.

As a small child would easily recognize the back-hand of his mother, Bob knew that sleeping figure to be his criminal hero: The infamous outlaw, Jesse James.

Bob looked at him now with a mix of awe and fear. He watched as Jesse's breath came out from his lungs in short, soft sighs, eyes jerking beneath gently closed lids. Watching him, Bob remembered the heavy bounty on Jesse's head- how much the law-men and his own family would praise him for killing the very person the world trembled from in their nightmares.

It wouldn't be easy: Hell, people had been trying to kill Jesse James for years. If it was easy, he would have been dead years ago.

But maybe they're like me, Mused Bob, propping his head up by one elbow, allowing his curious eyes to scan over the sleeping man's body. Maybe they respected and loved Jesse James even while they shot at him, and he shot them.

The light of the moon bled down sadly over the beds, casting transparent sheets of white over every surface of the room.

The moon was very bright tonight. Also romantic, in a way.

But Jesse James has never shown much affection to anyone outside his bloodline, Bobby reminded himself bitterly. He's cold for a reason; to keep traitors out, and the ones who understand him in.

A smile flickered over the boy's face, but he knew that he was wasting too much time thinking about what to do. What he needed now wasn't the soft blue eyes of Jesse's locked into his own, but the hard gray weight of a gun in his hand.

Bob looked around briefly, and his eyes locked on to the gun laying on the desk. He knew he needed to hold that gun in his own hands in order to find the strength to use it. Bob wondered, with a sick feeling in his chest, if he really had it in him to kill Jesse James. He was not like a gun; a gun always wants to kill; it is always loaded, always ready to plunge into the hearts of creation: The gun picked no sides; only the shooter did. But that was Bob's problem: Was killing the outlaw really evil? Or would he collect his bounty and be hailed as a hero?

Only one way to find out.

Bobby's mouth hung open a little as he rose up more in the bed, slowly so the springs in the bed would not groan. His eyes fell again to the man in the other bed; he watched the chest rise and fall with every delicate breath he took.

But Bob's heart was wild. It beat fiercely into his chest as if he were having a heart-attack. Licking his lips, he slung his legs over the edge of the bed and started to stand.

The noise of a gun being clicked into firing posion put Bob's heart sinking into a utter coldness; as if his very soul had been filled with ice. "What're you doin'?" a deep, rough tone sounded.

Bobby looked at Jesse, who, though his eyes remianed closed, had spoken.

"I have to use the privy." answered Bob, his voice crackling at the end. He mentally cursed himself, wishing his heart would calm.

"No you don't." answered Jesse firmly. He was taunting Bob, telling him without telling him to go back to bed.

Bob's eyes closed in anger and shame. How could he let himself get caught like this? One false move, and it was over. But was he crazy for... Bob looked at the gun on the desk... for thinking he might just make it to the gun and pull the trigger before Jesse pulls his own?

Jesse's eyes opened.

Bobby could almost hear the lips peel away from the outlaw's beautiful eyes.

At last, Bob's heart was calm.

In one jerking motion, Bobby threw himself to the desk, falling against it- he heard the springs of Jesse's bed make a loud squeal as the man rose up behind him- he took the gun in his hands and turned, eyes wide, aiming perfectly into the outlaw's chest. His trembling fingers slipped down the hilt, touching the trigger, but not quite squeazing...not quite putting enough pressure to fire a round.

In all this time, Jesse had his own gun pointed squarely into the younger man's head.

In a split-second when he saw the hesitation in Bobby's face- the God-awful fear in his eyes- Jesse felt two very different emotions: Sympathy, because after all Bobby had been through, he still didn't have the guts to take another life. Maybe it would have taken him one more second to gain his nerves and fire, but until then... The second emotion was grief, for he never knew that Bobby- the only man he felt a keen connection to- would want to kill him.

Jesse James' eyes met the eyes of his admirer.

It only took one shot to kill him.

...