Lay Me Down

Chapter One - The Vow

Croop County, Montana Territory. 1884.

Deputy Keaton hoisted the piss bucket off the floor and, with a yellow-toothed grin, hurled it across the dark, dank cell, spattering the walls and the mud-black ground. The bucket clanked against moldy stone then rolled to a stop in the corner. The hay-stuffed cot looked particularly soaked by Keaton's efforts.

Kyle tried not to breathe, but it was useless. The bitter reek of ammonia and nitrates had already clung to the inside of his nostrils, to his mouth, and it wasn't gonna go away any time soon.

Keaton shoved him hard in the back, and he stumbled into the cell. Squaring his shoulders, Kyle turned to face him and thrust his shackled wrists forward. The heavy metal clattered against the bars. "You gonna take these off now?"

"Nope." Keaton spit a wad of tobacco onto the grimy wooden floor. Specks of it darkened Kyle's boots. He eyed Kyle up and down, a pernicious squint that told Kyle just how very little he thought of him. "Scum like you, can't risk it." He slammed the cell door shut, twisted the steel lock into place, and with one last baleful stare walked out of the jailhouse. Kyle could hear him whistling a jaunty tune just outside the front entry.

A heavy sigh rocked his chest—a mistake, as it only allowed the pungent odor of stale urine deeper entrance into his lungs.

He looked around. The cell was confining, little more than five-by-five feet. The back wall was built of thick stone, and the small cot butted right up against it. A line of metal bars closed him in on the other three sides. He felt like an animal in a cage, wasting away in filth and savage isolation.

He glanced at the soaked cot. Under it's fresh coat of piss, the top layer of fabric was covered in all manner of dark, foreboding stains. But there was nothing to be done for it. He was dead tired, limbs aching from the struggle, his wrists and ankles chafed and red under the weight of his shackles. He slowly lowered himself down onto the edge of the mattress, trying to avoid the areas heaviest with damp, and sat with his hands on his lap. His head hung low, chin to chest, and he breathed shallowly, through the mouth, trying to calm his beating heart.

This was his life. He was here, in this jail cell. There was nothing he could do about, nothing he could've done differently to avoid it. Well, nothing he would've done differently, if the universe presented him with a second chance. But it didn't matter anyway. There was no going back.

The whistling stopped. A murmur of voices drifted in from the outside. Keaton and someone else. Kyle recognized the timbre, the flow of the words, and his heart jumped in his chest... before it sank back down.

Slow, heavy footsteps entered the jailhouse, accompanied by the jangle of spurs on wood. He didn't look up. He couldn't. He was too tired; it was too painful.

"So it's true," the newcomer said, his voice drenched in... was it sadness? Maybe more of a simmering anger.

Kyle wasn't prepared for what that voice would do to him. His throat dried up, his eyes stung—but maybe that was just from the overpowering stench. His breath seemed caught in his stomach. He tried to make himself look up, but he couldn't. He was scared—so scared of what he'd see if he looked into those eyes.

"Deputy Fish," he managed to croak out.

"Kyle."

His head snapped up—against his will. He hadn't expected Fish to address him with such... intimacy.

He expected the anger in his friend's gaze. That was no surprise, and it didn't hurt him at all. It was the disappointment, the overwhelming disappointment he saw there that knocked a leaden pang through his chest.

"Come to say hello to your old pal?" He laughed, weakly. Taking a moment to observe his oldest friend, he noticed the changes of time with an empty sort of curiosity. He looked older, certainly more mature with that layer of fuzz on his face. His hands, thumbs tucked into his belt near his worn leather holster and pistol, were darker, less refined, damaged by long days in the sun and manual labor; something Kyle was sure they weren't used to. The deputy's star pinned to his vest glimmered a bit under the jail's flickering torchlight. It was the only thing that didn't look out of place on him. The only thing that seemed especially right.

"Kyle." Fish shifted his weight, his spurs tinging with each tiny movement. Darkness clouded his eyes. Darkness and distrust. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Kyle's head fell toward his chest again. He hadn't known it was possible for a man to feel this much shame.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

The wooden floor groaned as Fish took a small step forward. "You killed a man."

Kyle's breath hitched in his throat. "I know." His lungs ached. He couldn't breathe properly. There wasn't enough air—enough clean air—in the space.

"They're gonna..." Fish cleared his throat. His voice sounded wet. Thick. Emotional. "They're gonna hang you tomorrow."

"I know, Oliver." He paused, looked up again, and felt a warm, unwanted tear slip down his cheek. "I know."

Lakeside Ranch, Montana. 1871.
Kyle Lewis, age 8.

"Bang! Bang! You're dead!"

Kyle limped halfway to the ground and stared at Sheriff Ollie, his wooden revolver still raised in a fierce pose, with pitiful eyes.

"Aghh! Ya shot me, Sheriff! Ya shot me..." He gasped dramatically, then slowly raised himself back upright. "...right in my little toe." He grinned, hobbling away from his enemy, his shoes kicking up dust along the worn patch of last year's grazing land.

Ollie growled. Then he chased after him. Or tried to. Kyle, giving up the injured-ruse, was faster, and Ollie was quick to lose his breath in the pursuit. "Get back here!" he whined, clutching his chest with chubby fingers.

Kyle slowed, turned around, and smiled at him. "You want me? You gotta get me, Sheriff. Thems the rules!"

It was a warm, dry day out, the sun baking the ground, all the birds off and away, huddled in the limbs of the buckthorn trees circling the lake shore on the other side of the Fish family ranch.

Kyle took a moment to bask in the sun, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. His pa was busy tending to the cattle with Hector and Luis, and it was one of the first days since spring started when he was able to sneak away without being seen, and take Ollie with him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was met with the business end of Ollie's revolver. The wood felt warm and scratchy against his forehead as Ollie pressed it in.

"Bang."

Kyle fell to the ground and held as still as possible. He enjoyed the feel of the earth beneath him, the sun on his face. Ollie gently prodded his leg with his shoe. Kyle remained still, accepting his death for what it was.

"Kyle."

He didn't answer. He tried to slow his breathing instead.

"Kyle. Get up." Another kick to his leg, this time a little harder. Kyle tried not to smile. "Come on. Let's play again."

It was too much fun making Ollie impatient. He could picture his friend's face, red and squishy, his round cheeks puffing out with his annoyance.

A shadow passed over his face, and he knew that Ollie was leaning over him, could hear his heavy breathing. "You—you okay, Kyle?"

Kyle cracked one eye open, just barely, just enough to catch the hint of fear in Ollie's face. Trying to remain absolutely still, he finally opened his eyes and launched up, yelling, "Boo!"

"Ahhhhh!" Ollie scrambled backwards, losing his footing as his shoe caught on a rock half-dug out of the ground. He toppled backward, arms flailing, and landed with a loud thump.

Kyle's whole body rocked with laughter, and he was having trouble catching his breath. He wiped the back of his hand against his watering eyes. "Fooled ya, didn't I?" he asked, expecting a huffy protest in return.

But Ollie just lay there. Motionless. Quiet.

Until a small whimper escaped.

Kyle felt something lurch in his chest, something primitive and protective and guilty. He clambered up, crawled over to where Ollie was lying, and crouched over him.

He brought a hand up to Ollie's cheek, contorted with pain, and let it hover for a moment, unsure of what to do. He took a deep breath, then brought the hand down, letting his fingers gently smooth the tight muscles in Ollie's face. Then he reached underneath him and helped lift him into a sitting position.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt ya."

Ollie just nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. Kyle didn't know what to do. His chest felt all hot with shame and remorse.

"Want me to... to go get your ma?" he asked.

Ollie's eyes popped open. They were red and wet looking. He shook his head very quickly. "Please don't!" he cried out. And that's when little droplets of tears escaped down his cheek. His chest hitched wildly, and he looked like he was in the most incredible pain.

Kyle's hands were back again, this time ghosting along Ollie's arm, where he could see red, angry scrapes that threatened to break the skin. "Where does it hurt?"

"No—nowhere. I'm okay."

He looked anything but okay. Kyle knew the heaviness in his own chest wouldn't go away unless he made it up to Ollie.

"What's wrong then?"

Ollie hid his tear-streaked face behind his dirty hands. "I'm not—not s'posed to cry."

"Says who?"

"My—my pa," he gasped out. "He says I won't make myself a man. He says—he says I'm no son of his."

Kyle bit his lip. He thought maybe he knew what he could do to help. To make up for his crime.

"I cry," he said.

Ollie's sobs stopped almost immediately. He squinted at Kyle, like he was some sort of new creature he had never seen before. "You do?"

Kyle nodded. "I cried when my ma went to heaven."

"And your pa didn't whup you?"

"Nah." Kyle looked down at his hands, then back up at Ollie. "He cried too."

"I guess..." He sniffed loudly and wetly. "I guess we're just different."

"I guess," Kyle conceded. A strong gust of wind swept over their heads, and Kyle thought he heard voices in the distance, the familiar sounds of his pa and Hector and Luis grunting orders at each other in Spanish. If they were headed in this direction, he and Ollie'd have to get a move on. They weren't supposed to be playing on the grazing land, because it had to rest up for next year. He needed to get Ollie up, needed to get him moving again. What he really needed was a quick way to square things between them and make Ollie feel better again. He closed his eyes, and that's when an idea came to him.

"I think I know what to do." He reached out, very slowly, and wiped Ollie's cheeks with his palm, gathering up the tears. Ollie stared at him, open-mouthed, and said nothing as Kyle smeared the wetness over his own cheeks. "There," Kyle said with a curt nod. "You ain't crying anymore."

Ollie looked at him with his big, blue eyes, still shiny with tears but also round with wonder. "Okay."

"Ollie?"

"Yeah."

"Anytime you feel like crying, you can just come find me, and I'll take your tears. And then you'll be okay."

He sucked in his lip and nodded. "Okay."

"You feel better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He patted Ollie on the knee. It seemed like the right thing to do. Then he moved to get up. He didn't want his pa finding them there.

Ollie's voice stopped him. "Wait!"

"What?"

"Don't... don't go. Please don't... leave me alone."

"Ollie." He sat back down, took Ollie's hand, intertwining their fingers. He looked out across the empty distance. Maybe they had a few minutes to spare. "I'm not gonna leave ya."

"You promise?" His bottom lip trembled. Kyle didn't know why it was so important to Ollie, but he knew in his own heart that he wanted to give Ollie anything he needed to make him feel better. He liked it when Ollie smiled. He didn't know how else to explain it, but it was like someone shined sunlight on the dark places inside him when Ollie smiled at him.

"I promise." He gripped Ollie's hand tighter. "I promise before God, I won't leave you." Suddenly, he brought their joined hands up to his mouth and laid a quick kiss on Ollie's knuckles. It's what his ma used to do to make him feel better, before she went to be closer with God.

Ollie nodded silently. Another tear slipped down his cheek. Without a word, Kyle swiped it away with his fingers and rubbed it onto his own cheek, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

He took a deep breath and looked Ollie right in the eye. "Will you do the same?"

"The same?"

"Promise me."

Ollie nodded. "I promise. I won't leave you neither."

"Before God?"

"Yeah. I promise before God."

Satisfied that things were square between them, Kyle brought their locked hands up to Oliver's chest and knocked against it lightly.

"You die—" Then he brought their fists to his own chest. "—I die."

Ollie's brows creased, and he looked down at their hands like he'd never seen a hand before in his life. "What?"

"It's the end of the oath," Kyle said. "It means we'll never break it."

"Oh."

"Say it."

Ollie stared at him, a determined look in his eyes, then repeated Kyle's actions, bumping first Kyle's chest, then his own. "Y-You die, I die."

Without knowing why, Kyle darted forward and pecked him on the cheek. Then he was up and off, sprinting a few yards away before turning and smiling at his confused friend.

"You gonna catch me, Lawman? I'm the no-torious kissin' bandit!"

That brought a grin to Ollie's face, and then he was up too, wiping the dirt off the back of his pants. He reached for his dropped revolver and started jogging after him. "Hold it right there, you dirty varmint!"

Ollie smiled, and just like always, it put sunshine in Kyle's dark places. He jetted off again, warm wind ruffling his hair. And as they ran through the fields, yelling and laughing together, Kyle couldn't help but think to himself, He'll be my best friend until the day I die.

(...TBC...)