Thou Shalt Not Kill
Disclaimer: Not mine. Although I don't actually know who they belong to.
Summary: "We were down in Nogales, taking the bank, we walked out into a street full of Federal soldiers. We got shot up so bad… This padre hid us in his mission. Tended our wounds, fed us, talked to us both for hours. When we were strong enough to head home, Herod told me to shoot him."
Implied Cort/Herod, if you squint. A few religious allusions, nothing too serious.
"Shoot him," John Herod said.
Cort shrugged. It seemed like a waste, but John was always right, and he always did what John told him to do. Those were the rules.
He drew his gun and aimed it at the priest. To his credit, the old man didn't beg or plead for his life. He just sank to his knees and closed his eyes. His voice was quiet, but still audible as he began to pray.
The sound of hushed prayer made Cort hesitate. It was the first sound he had heard, waking up in the mission, his body still blazing with pain. Over the last two weeks, he had grown used to the priest's voice. The old man liked to read aloud from the Bible. Or sometimes he just talked to them, about his life here in the mission, about God's mercy and forgiveness, about anything and everything.
Sometimes the padre asked them to join him in prayer. Herod just scoffed and said he didn't believe in God. Cort remembered Sunday mornings in church, dusty sunlight streaming through the windows, the feeling of belonging to something larger than himself. He felt that way now, riding with Herod and his gang of outlaws. But sometimes he still missed that sunlight.
This wasn't right, he thought. The Bible said so. The Bible said a lot of other things, too, but Cort wasn't so sure about that stuff. Thou shalt not steal, for starters. He thought the folks who wrote the Bible maybe should have tried being without food for three days before they wrote down that little commandment.
He had tried to explain this to the padre, half-wondering if the old man would label him a sinner and banish him from the mission. Instead the priest had thrown back his head and laughed, and then read him the story of Moses and the wandering in the desert, and the Ten Commandments. Cort had listened politely, but privately he still thought that stealing was okay when you had no other choice.
But killing people was wrong. He knew that. He had always known that. He didn't like it when John insisted that they kill someone. Sure, sometimes it was necessary, like to keep from getting shot himself. Or when a bank guard was about to call for help. But he never liked to kill. He could wound a man with just one shot, send that man spinning down to the ground, to lie there and not get up again – but not be dead. He was just that good. Most of Herod's other outlaws, though, they didn't have such good aim. Or else they just didn't care.
At first it had been a source of pride that John always chose him to go riding with. He was younger than the other outlaws, and he hadn't been with the group very long. But when John decided to go "revenue collecting," every single time he picked Cort to come with him. And only Cort.
After a while, though, it wasn't exciting anymore. It was always the same thing. Ride for a few days, hit a bank, then get the hell out of dodge. Nights were spent with John, and if that wasn't fun anymore either, well, he sure wasn't stupid enough to say anything. Whatever John Herod wanted, John Herod got.
But not this time. Cort lowered his gun. "No."
"What did you say?"
He turned to look at John. "I said no. I won't kill a priest."
Something hungry sparked in John's eyes. He had seen that look before, mostly when they were arguing about something and John seemed a hair's-breadth away from clearing leather. "No one tells me no, Cort."
"I just did." He gestured to the kneeling priest. "He helped us, John. Took us in and healed us." He shook his head. The Bible said you were supposed to love thy neighbor, not reward them for their charity by shooting them in the head.
He didn't want to do this anymore. It was something of a relief to realize that. For some time now he had been feeling uneasy about what they did. It was fun, sure, but somehow it didn't seem right. Walking out of that bank and into the waiting gunfire of the Federal soldiers had almost seemed just, like getting shot up was something he deserved.
He was through.
"I won't do it," he said. He faced Herod defiantly.
John's expression grew tight; his lips narrowed into a thin line. He pulled his gun lightning fast – though not as fast as Cort himself could – and thumbed back the hammer. "You will."
The priest's voice grew louder, his prayers more agitated. Cort did not even glance his way. "No," he said.
Herod stepped up and pressed the gun to the back of his head. "If you haven't fired by the time I count down from ten, I'll gun you down. And then I'll shoot the padre here."
They stared at each other for a long moment. With a sinking heart, Cort realized he had no choice. The priest was already dead. He was only fighting the inevitable.
"Ten."
But it was wrong.
"Nine."
He was going to hell for this. Killing bank guards and Federales was one thing. But this was a priest. If he did this, he would be damned for all time.
"Eight."
He didn't want to be an outlaw anymore. He was through taking orders from John Herod.
"Seven."
He was fast, but John's finger was curled about the trigger, and the gun barrel dug painfully into the back of his skull. There was no way out of it. For the last time, he would have to obey John Herod.
"Six."
I hate you.
"Five."
He had to leave. Ride away forever. It was the only way. If he didn't go now, he would never be free of John Herod.
"Four."
And it had to be tonight. He would be punished for this little rebellion, he knew that. But after, later, John would fall asleep the way he always did, one hand flung out of the bedroll, reaching for something that he could never quite grab hold of. When he was certain John was deeply asleep, he would steal away, never to come back. He would never have to see John Herod again.
"Three."
He couldn't save the priest, but he could save himself. The padre had said it was never too late to ask for forgiveness. All you had to do was ask for it.
"Two."
From the dusty reaches of his memory, he recalled the words of prayer. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins…
"One."
Cort pulled the trigger.
END
Note: The prayer Cort offers up at the end is the first two lines of the Act of Contrition