Author's comments: So about halfway through 3:10 to Yuma, I decided I would definitely write fanfiction about it. The characters are irresistible. What follows is a oneshot (albeit a lengthy oneshot XD) character sketch of Dan, Ben, and Charlie which takes place from 3:00 to 3:10 in Contention. (I realize my times are slightly off; I know Ben and Dan don't get to the station until 3:10, but it didn't mesh with the way I wanted to divide my chapters.) This is the first fic in which I don't kill off the main character, so be proud of me. XD All credit for the fabulous title goes to my good friend Freaky-hanyou. Finally, all 3:10 to Yuma characters, events, and place names copyright Elmore Leonard; Charlie Prince copyright Halsted Welles (1957 movie). I suppose I should also accredit Ben Foster for adding a vein of humanity to Charlie's character, which was all but absent in every other version of the character.
Temporal Immunity
3:00
Ben Wade sat quietly in an opulent leather chair in a bridal suite in Contention City, Arizona. He gazed pensively through the lace curtains at the brilliant blue sky outside, marveling at what a fickle harlot Justice could be. He had always hoped to spend his time in the Contention bridal suite with a green-eyed wench, not a sullen, gimpy rancher.
The rancher's name was Mr. Daniel Evans, and he was at once the most admirable and most pathetic man Ben had ever met. At first glance, the Civil War veteran was an avaricious, complacent, stubborn coward. Despite Ben's repeated attempts to befriend him, Dan still saw fit to drag Ben onto the 3:10 train headed for the Yuma prison, forcibly if necessary, for a mere two hundred dollars—even though Ben had offered five times that amount to let him live.
While most men strove to survive, Dan inexplicably sought death, dismemberment, or general physical inconvenience at every opportunity. He reveled in his martyrdom. He limped about with a suppressed sanctimonious air, refusing to acknowledge his alleged war wound while he nursed his injured pride with subdued glee. Literal martyrdom would be the perfect end for him. It was undoubtedly the reason he had chosen to undertake this suicidal endeavor in the first place. The entire West would whisper his name with reverence for years to come and release a sigh of collective woe about his untimely death. What a brave, brave man, giving his life in the name of justice! He'd walked Ben Wade to the train when no one else would, bless his holy name, amen.
On the other hand, Dan was a man of insurmountable resolve. Ben admired the way that Dan had coldly wrested a thousand dollars from that prim bastard Butterfield. Dan also appeared to be acutely conscious of his family's needs, placing them above every personal impulse. Ben could hardly understand why. Dan's finicky, doe-eyed son seemed to hate him. There was no denying that Dan was a man of unwavering integrity and indomitable devotion. He even looked vaguely like Jesus.
Dan sat forward in his chair tensely, his eyes glued to the pocket watch in his hand. Ben sat back and informed him, "You know, squeezing that watch won't stop time."
Dan hurled the watch across the room angrily in response.
Ben's expression softened. "Don't get so scared. You might pack a bad move."
A hint of a smile played at Ben's lips. He would have given his own leg to have a father like Dan. He had only vague memories of his own father, none of them pleasant. Jacob Wade had had bleary, jaundiced eyes and a pathetic drunken swagger that made Ben hate him. He had died when Ben was eight years old, shot to death in a fight over a shot of cheap blended Irish whiskey. Dan stood in such stark contrast to his selfish drunkard father that Ben had no choice but to respect him.
He hardly remembered his mother either, just that she'd had the face of an angel. Rachel Roe had been a pretty, cultured woman, the daughter of a steel tycoon on the east coast. Ben had never been able to figure out why she'd married a slovenly gravedigger like Jacob in the first place. Much of his childhood had been spent consoling and occasionally defending her from his father. Looking back, his mother had admittedly seemed half relieved when Jacob died.
Ben's mother thrust a beaten Bible into his tiny hands. "Here, read this while I get our tickets," she ordered tersely. She spun on her heel, her long murrey dress rustling around her legs.
Ben traced the golden flowers around the edge of the Bible's cover. "Where are we going, Mama?" he asked.
"We're going back East to start over. Stay here, honey. I'll be back. You read that Bible, now."
Ben barely remembered life back East, but his youthful optimism told him that he'd enjoyed it. He remembered feeding ducks in Boston Common. That was all. He'd been very young.
He sat on the hard wooden bench in the train station, wiry legs swinging, and read the sweaty little Bible from cover to cover. He couldn't pronounce half the words in it and hadn't the faintest idea what the phrase "He who confers benefits will be amply enriched" meant. Nevertheless, he had liked the idea that someone out there pitied those who had been spurned by Justice and was willing to throw them a bone someday, provided that they behaved themselves. He liked the sound of the Jesus person, too. To an untainted eight-year-old, the prospect of imitating him didn't seem like an insurmountable task.
But when Ben closed the Bible, the ugly world came crashing down on him. It was dark, and he was utterly alone. The God who purportedly loved the little children of the world thrust him into vicious reality without remorse.
Later that night, someone stole his Bible to hock for three cents. The consoling passages tumbled around in Ben's mind in a confused tornado with the leering faces of drunken strangers and their gap-toothed whores, who kicked dust in his face as they stumbled on their way.
Despite the oppressive heat, Ben was bathed in a cold sweat. He surveyed Contention with a lackadaisical smirk of false confidence. Charlie and the rest of his outfit were lurking outside like rabid mongrels. Shame that they'd be on Dan like wolves the instant the rancher stepped foot outside.
He swung his head around and fixed his gaze on the gimpy rancher. A nervous chuckle rose in his throat. "I woulda killed for a daddy like you, Dan," he said, shaking his head. He thumbed through the Bible in his hands. "You take care of that Will, now. Good kid."
Dan gave him a piercing look, his eyes almost lost in a thicket of dark brown hair. "He ain't your boy," he reminded him.
"Never said he was." Ben clasped his hands behind his neck and sang dolefully, "They're gonna hang me in the morning, before the night is done. They're gonna hang me in the morning. I'll never see the sun."
"How can you be so cocksure, Wade?" Dan demanded bitterly. His anxious gaze flitted to the rooftop across the street, where Ben's Mexican sharpshooter was crouching with his rifle. "How can you be so goddamn sure of yourself? I'm gonna get you on that train. It's gonna send you straight to Yuma and on down to Hell after that."
Ben smirked. "Now, didn't I just say they was gonna hang me in the morning?"
Dan's eyes narrowed hatefully. "You're gonna burn."
Ben idly began sketching Dan on the title page of the Bible in his lap. "You ever read the Bible, Dan?" he asked, the pencil stub in his hand gliding lightly over the page. "I read it one time. I was eight years old. My daddy just got hisself killed over a shot of whiskey, and my mama said, 'We're going back East to start over.' So she gave me a Bible, sat me down in the train station, told me to read it. She was gonna get our tickets. Well, I did what she said. I read that Bible from cover to cover. Took me three days. She never came back." He looked up and stared at Dan with pained admiration. In his mind, he could hear his father's drunken lullabies and the shrill whistles of dozens of trains.
Dan studied him for a moment, his head cocked. "How come you're telling me this, Wade?" he said suspiciously.
Ben returned his attention to his drawing. "Oh, I don't know. Just wanted you to know I ain't always been so sure of myself, that's all." He pursed his lips, regretting what he'd said. "I hate trains."
A bell outside began tolling. 3:00. The peals rolled like thunder. Dan slapped his hat onto his head and announced, "It's time."
3:01
"It's a half-mile to the station from here, Dan," Wade pointed out. "Guess we're walking."
Dan gritted his teeth and shoved Wade through the doorway. They were promptly greeted with a barrage of bullets from the surrounding rooftops. He and Wade crouched beside a building while the bullets whizzed overhead. He suppressed a ragged scream as a bolt of pain shot through his left foot. To Dan's relief, Wade didn't seem to notice. He let his gaze fall with shame and reminded himself for the umpteenth time that his foot was no longer even there.
"Phantom pains," the doctors had called it. Even though his leg had been amputated from the knee down for fear of gangrene, he still felt jolts of stabbing pain where it had once been. As if a pathetic limp hadn't been bad enough. He gritted his teeth and dragged Wade into an alley, begging time to move faster.
People always assumed he'd be eager to share the tale of how he'd been shot in the line of duty. People tended to romanticize everything, Dan had noticed. There was nothing heroic about being shot in the foot, especially in retreat, especially by the kid who always stood next to him in his regiment. He saw no reason to glorify mediocrity, so he kept his mouth shut about it.
It was the same every day. The same throbbing pain in a limb that didn't even exist, the same pleading with God to make time go faster, the same stupid hope that one day it would all go away, that he wouldn't be a dirt-poor rancher scraping a living off dust and, when that failed, limping around the desert with an outlaw on a chain to earn a measly two hundred dollars. It had been the same in Washington. There had been no phantom pain and no dust and no ranch, but he had still been trying to bargain for temporal immunity.
Dan had been swatting mosquitoes all night, and he could feel the sweat oozing down his back like slime. It had been a quiet night so far, although the oppressive stench of gore lingered in the muggy air. Then all at once, they were retreating in a panic. Lee's soldiers swept through the gloom like gray ghosts. Dan tumbled over limbs. Most of them were dead, many wounded. A couple were just fine. They'd just tripped in the chaos. There was no saving them once they fell.
They ran for the trees. The low-lying bushes were already brushing Dan's fingertips when he felt a sharp pain in his foot. A blue-clad private stood next to him, smoking shotgun in hand, looking very shocked. Dan took four or five steps before he fell down among the limbs, some stone dead, some shot to pieces, some just fine.
Another screaming bullet ripped Dan back to his senses. Wade's calm drawl rose above the din like spring water: "Lucky."
Dan glanced down at his wooden leg. There was a smoking bullet hole in his toe, in exactly the same place it had been the first time. He almost laughed. He set his jaw against the phantom pain and dragged himself forward on his elbows. Bullets screamed overhead. It was just like the war again.
3:02
Charlie Prince had done everything in his power to ensure Ben's escape short of wearing the handcuffs himself. He silently congratulated himself on his quick thinking to commission over forty townsmen to shoot Ben's captors. The odds were tilted drastically in his favor.
Two or three dusty men spotted Ben and the rancher crawling among some wooden crates. They were instantly firing a barrage of bullets straight at the rancher's head.
Charlie trailed them from a safe distance, both revolvers drawn and cocked. He kept his eyes trained on his boss's black hat. His hands were sweating. There were a lot of bullets.
"Might not get a chance to use those Schoefields, Charlie," Kinter commented next to him.
Charlie's eyes widened in alarm. "Hey! Hey!" he screamed. "Not the black hat! The rancher, you dumb shits! The rancher! The rancher!"
The bounty hunters failed to heed his warning. Charlie began to panic. The last thing he needed was forty guns aimed at Ben's head. He concluded that the job couldn't be done safely and quickly gunned down every man he saw.
"Guess you're using them after all," Kinter said in amazement.
"Shut the hell up," Charlie snapped, reloading his Schoefields. Thin tendrils of smoke still rose out of the barrels. He bit his lip. "He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life."
"Charlie!"
Charlie instantly snapped to attention. His stomach tied itself in a knot. "Boss! Boss!"
Charlie had been sleeping in a San Francisco train station for almost three weeks when he met Ben. Clad in his customary black attire, Ben trained his crystal blue eyes on him and asked, "Where's your mama, boy?"
"Ain't got one," Charlie replied.
"What about your daddy?"
"Ain't got one of those neither."
Ben crossed his arms disbelievingly. "Where's your train, then?"
Charlie shrugged. "Didn't know I had one."
Ben pursed his lips. "You ever been to Tucson? I been there one time. Spent a lot of time at a train station there myself. I sat around for three days reading the Bible, trying to get me an education on our Lord and Savior while my mama bought us train tickets. I waited around for her for a week or so. She never came back." He pulled his gun out of its holster and showed Charlie the handle. "That's why I got a crucifix on my gun, to remind me of my mama. I call it the Hand of God. I like to think a man can control his destiny a little." He slipped the gun back into its holster. "Proverbs 13:21: Misfortune pursues sinners, but the just shall be recompensed with good. Some lie, ain't it?"
Charlie nodded, wide-eyed with awe. "Some lie."
Ben cocked his head. "How long you been here, boy?"
"Eighteen days."
Ben's eyebrows flicked up. "I think you better come with me, then. I was wondering why you're thin as a rod. Hope you like chicken. Molly can't cook too good, but she cooks good enough."
He took Charlie home with him, where a girl with striking green eyes fried a chicken for him. Charlie ate the entire thing. Ben let him sleep in a bed with a red quilt. Charlie watched Ben sit by the fire, humming softly while he drew the girl's portrait. The girl sang a sad song about the sea in a voice like velvet. Ben kissed her goodnight three or four times when the fire died, then lay down on the dirt floor to sleep.
Charlie peered at him from beneath his quilt and whispered, "Ain't you gonna sleep in bed?"
Ben smirked crookedly at him. "You're in my bed, boy."
"Oh. Sorry. Thanks for the bed, Ben. And the chicken."
Ben raised an eyebrow at him. "Thank Molly for the chicken. And 'Ben' is a little too familiar. You better call me 'boss' or 'sir' or something."
Charlie nodded fervently. "Yes, sir, boss."
They both dreamt of trains.
"What're we even doing this for?" Kinter wanted to know.
Charlie whirled around and pressed both Schoefields against Kinter's chest. "You think this outfit is worth shit without Ben Wade?" he shrieked, shakily cocking his Schoefields. "You forgot what he done for us? Four hundred thousand dollars! You think you can get that kind of money?"
Kinter swallowed hard. "Just seems like a lot of effort—"
Charlie fired both revolvers. Kinter stiffened before collapsing in the dust like a felled tree, stone dead. Unlike the rest of the outfit, Charlie had not forgotten what Ben had done for him. This was certainly not the first time his loyalty had been questioned, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He stepped over Kinter's body and slinked toward a white door, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Boss! Boss!"
3:03
Ben Wade was no hero. He nevertheless seemed to be pretending that he was one, crouching in a disheveled store in Contention to satisfy the whims of a morose rancher. He suddenly realized that he had no need to act heroic at all, being rotten as hell and utterly void of compassion.
He could hear Charlie pacing outside like an incensed coyote, barking "Boss!" at random intervals. Charlie had not addressed him by his real name for almost twenty years. His pathological devotion was baffling at times. Ben suspected that Charlie held him in much higher esteem than he really deserved. The young outlaw had undoubtedly elevated Ben to godlike status in his mind even though he was nothing but a man, fallible, weak, and mortal.
"You know why I steal, Dan?" Ben asked suddenly as the rancher fired a few more bullets at Ben's outfit.
"Shut up, Wade," Dan snapped.
Ben continued anyway. "The way I figure it, most everybody's motivated by money. We all need it, after all. Look at you. Bet you never thought you'd be escorting an outlaw to a train headed for the Yuma prison. And for what? For two hundred dollars."
"To keep my family from starving to death," Dan corrected viciously, reloading his gun.
"You ain't the only one with a starving family. I had one of them one time. You ever been to San Francisco?"
Dan fired a bullet into the floor at Ben's feet. Ben didn't blink. "I said shut up!" Dan shouted. "You better shut your damned mouth before I shoot it off!"
Ben smiled wanly and continued, undeterred. "I used to live in San Francisco. I was gonna marry a sea captain's daughter with the greenest eyes you ever seen. Well, she got to coughing one day, and—you know me—I never done an honest day's work in my life. So I emptied the vault of the nearest bank. Almost got caught doing it. Sometimes I wish I had. Then you and me wouldn't be risking our lives to catch a damned train."
Ben knew that he was lying through his teeth. It came so naturally to him by now that he hardly noticed.Charlie himself had invented the tale when Ben came home with two thousand dollars in his pocket. Charlie had assumed that Ben had stolen the money and demanded to know which bank he had held up. Ben reluctantly played along. Fuller's Savings and Loan, he told Charlie. Stuck a gun in the clerk's face and ordered dramatically, "Gimme everything you got!" He hadn't had the guts to tell Charlie that the money had really come to him through tearful groveling. He had gone to Molly's sea captain father and begged him to help pay for her treatment. Initially, it had been little more than Charlie's romantic imagination that had elevated Ben from a petty thief to a crime lord.
Ben quickly lost his innocence. Molly died of tuberculosis after two months—an ironic end for a singer. It tore Ben apart. He only felt half alive without her. Always quick to add his old salt to any wound, the sea captain took every penny Ben had. He said he was taking back the money he had lent him. Like Ben himself, the sea captain was a chronic liar.
Ben sat on the dirt floor in front of the dying fire. He stared blankly at the shadows that danced on the wall, tears pricking his eyes. He was too proud to let them fall.
Charlie bounded into the room. "When's our next raid, boss?" he asked.
"I don't raid anything, Charlie," Ben said tiredly.
Charlie paused. "Where's Molly? At the doctor again?" Ben didn't reply. Charlie seemed to understand. "Proverbs 13:21," he said quietly. "Some lie, ain't it?"
Ben nodded vacantly. "Some lie."
Charlie hesitated, his shifty eyes leaping wildly around the empty room. "There's a stage coach headed for a bank in Bodie. Got five thousand dollars in it. You oughta check it out."
Ben had little choice but to embody Charlie's vision of what he was. Soon he was robbing every fop, bank, and stage coach he could get his hands on. He lived Charlie's lie out of necessity. Before long, it became the truth.
Survival was the highest priority for most people, and Ben was no exception. He had never been a hero. He decided that it was time to stop acting like one. There were too many bullets ripping overhead to make this venture worthwhile. "I ain't doing this no more, Dan," he announced. The rancher ignored him, still bent on getting Ben onto the train. Ben hurled him over his shoulder to the floor. "Boy's gone, you know. Nobody watching no more. You still got that one good leg; why don't you get on home?"
Dan wouldn't look at him. He just kept firing.
"Charlie!" Ben yelled. "Charlie Prince!"
Charlie responded in a muffled voice, "Yeah, boss?"
"Hold your fire! Walking out!"
Dan suddenly came back to life and tried to bar the path to the door. Ben wrapped his hands around Dan's throat. He was fed up with everyone telling him he was wonderful, fed up with trying to reconcile a piss-poor rancher with his doe-eyed son. The truth of the world was that sons and fathers just never got along and that he would always be rotten as hell, no matter what anyone told him. Above all, he was out of his mind with terror at the prospect of boarding the 3:10 to Yuma. He hated trains. Besides, like most people, survival was his highest priority.
"I ain't never been no hero, Wade," Dan choked. "The only battle I seen, we was in retreat. My foot got shot off by one of my own men. You try telling that story to your boy. See how he looks at you then."
Ben hesitated. Every man had a lie to live. He let go of the rancher's throat, his self-preservation instinct eclipsed by pity. He could still hear Charlie shrieking like a banshee for him outside. He nodded his head and said, "Okay, Dan."
3:04
Charlie was beginning to feel desperate. He spotted Ben and the rancher flitting over the rooftops and yelled, "They're on the roofs! On the roofs! Boss! Boss!" He shot at the rancher as many times as he could and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Boss! Drop!"
Ben wouldn't drop. Charlie's mind reeled. Why wouldn't he drop? The thought of losing Ben made his heart hammer with panic. It had little to do with the outfit anymore. Ben had been the closest thing to a father Charlie had ever known.
"Boss! Boss! Drop!" he screamed. His voice was becoming hoarse.
"Give it up, Charlie," Jackson advised. "He ain't going nowhere."
"Ben Wade!" Charlie screamed. He couldn't figure out why he was crying. "Just drop! Drop, you crazy son of a bitch!" He aimed one revolver at the rancher. His hand shook so badly that he couldn't hold the gun steady. "Ben!" he pleaded. "Drop!"
"Charlie! Enough!" Jackson said gruffly. "We've chased him too long. There's no chance in hell of springing him free this time. This is his own damned fault."
Charlie spun on his heel. "You forget what he's—"
"Charlie. He's one man. We can replace him. Hell, you'd do just as fine a job as him leading this outfit."
Ben and the rancher dropped off of the roof at last and bolted through some unfinished buildings. Charlie fired a hateful glare at Jackson and threatened, "Don't make me shoot you."
In all their years together, Ben had never done anything like this. It was as if he actually wanted to go to Yuma. Charlie sprinted after Ben and the rancher, chasing them to the Contention train station. Charlie stopped in his tracks and swallowed hard. He hated trains.
The rest of the outfit was bickering about whether to continue. Jackson's voice rose above them all: "One man isn't worth this trouble. We can replace him anyhow."
It was the same thing Ben had said about him once, when Ben had finally relented and let Charlie join his outfit.
It had taken almost two years to persuade Ben to let Charlie join his outfit. It would take another eight to earn any degree of his trust.
Charlie was thrilled to finally be included. His face was aglow with enthusiasm when Ben handed him two Schoefield revolvers. Ben stepped back and, surveying him with a critical eye, said, "Don't think I'll treat you better than the rest. I can replace you anyhow. You shoot who I tell you, when I tell you. Do what I say, you'll be rewarded. Do me wrong, expect no mercy."
By now, Charlie could read his boss like a book. Something was wrong. Ben was no hero.
Thinking quickly, Charlie dove into a nearby cow pen and crept toward the train station. He had no idea what had gotten into Ben, but he was sure his boss would thank him later.
Charlie cocked his Schoefields and crept closer to the train station. Ben had taught him to treat women like goddesses and always keep his promises. While the former still hadn't sunk in, Charlie Prince never broke a promise. Ben had saved his life, and he had only a few short minutes to return the favor.
3:05
Dan and Wade sat on the floor in the Contention train station, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the 3:10 to Yuma. Wade cast a wary eye at his surroundings, appearing keenly uncomfortable. Dan scrutinized him for a minute before he demanded, "Why're you doing this? Don't patronize me."
Wade chuckled. "I ain't patronizing you. What're you doing? Trying to compensate for your bum leg so your boy'll respect you?" He sat back against an overturned desk, wearing an easy grin. "What you don't realize is Justice don't work like that. She's a whore. Sometimes, no matter how much good a man does, she still turns right around and bites him in the ass." He brushed some dust off of his knee idly. "Besides, your boy already has a fine daddy. Not much room for improvement, frankly. I woulda killed for a good daddy like you."
Dan's eyes narrowed. "Don't patronize me," he repeated firmly.
"I ain't patronizing you," Wade assured him. "Why would I patronize some gimpy rancher?"
Dan laughed. "I don't know, Wade. You do a lot of things I don't understand."
Wade nodded. "As it should be. If everybody understood how my mind works, I'd never be able to pull off a single robbery. I don't even let my men know much about me. Can't have them getting too smart. Never know when people are gonna mutiny."
Dan was quiet for awhile, thinking about all Wade had said to him. Talking to Wade was like looking in a mirror. He was quick to point out every flaw, but he didn't hesitate to assure Dan of his best qualities. In some strange way, he was the best friend Dan had ever had.
Without warning, Tucker rammed into Wade's horse, nearly running him off the narrow canyon path. Wade wordlessly withdrew, his dignified posture unshaken. "Sorry, Wade," Tucker said with a toothy grin. "My horse stumbled."
"Tucker!" McElroy reprimanded. "It ain't your place to abuse him. I know it's tempting, but leave that to the hangman."
"Well, I apologize, Mr. McElroy." Tucker turned his gaze on Wade, wearing a mischievous smirk. "They're gonna hang me in the morning," he sang loudly, "'fore the night is done. They're gonna hang me in the morning. I'll never see—"
"Tucker, leave him alone," Dan snapped.
"And what are you gonna do about it, rancher?"
Dan let his hand fall discreetly to the butt of his rifle. Tucker took notice and slinked away with a satisfied grin.
Wade nodded in gratitude. "Thank you kindly, friend."
"I ain't your friend," Dan said coldly.
Wade smirked. "No? Why's that?"
"You're Ben Wade."
Wade chuckled and shifted his weight in his saddle. "And you're the stubbornest man I ever seen," he fired back. "What're you doing this for? So you can keep your wife and sons on a dying ranch? They need protection, not some bitter cripple nursing his wounded pride."
"I ain't the one who's gonna hang at Yuma," Dan said icily.
Ben straightened in his saddle smugly. "No. I reckon you'll be limping around your ranch 'til Judgment Day."
"You know…I ain't stubborn," Dan said suddenly.
Wade cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"You said I was stubborn for keeping my wife and sons on a dying ranch. When Mark—my youngest—was two, he got tuberculosis. Doctor said we should get him to a dryer climate."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Dan smiled vaguely. "I don't know. I guess I just wanted you to know I ain't stubborn."
Wade laughed. "'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'" Dan gave him an odd look. "Hamlet."
It grew quiet outside. A ceasefire. Dan wiped the sweat off of his forehead, suddenly nervous. He said a quick prayer for temporal immunity, hoping the train might be early today. But, as Ben had pointed out earlier, you can never rely on trains.
3:06
Ben laughed. "Well, as long as we're making confessions…"
Dan hesitated, a look of dread spreading across his face. "Yeah?"
Ben put on a frank grin. "I been to Yuma prison before. Twice. Escaped twice, too."
Dan's jaw dropped. His face hardened. "Oh," he said knowingly, "so that's why you're playing along with me."
Ben raised his eyebrows, offended. "I ain't playing along with you."
"Then what the hell are you doing?" Dan demanded. "Why don't you run?"
"I pity you, Dan."
"No, you don't. Don't lie to me. Why don't you run?" Ben paused, searching for the right words. "You think your outfit's gonna follow you all the way to Yuma?"
Ben grinned casually. "I need Charlie as much as he needs me. He knows it, too. I doubt he'll ever let me forget it."
Ben had escaped from the prison in Yuma by virtue of his own cunning the first time. The second time was all Charlie's doing. Ben was too bitter to contemplate escape on his own; his own outfit had turned him in for the reward money. He had never known how beautiful two smoking Schoefields looked until his three night guards keeled over dead, a smirking Charlie Prince behind them.
"That one's still moving," Ben said helpfully.
Charlie raised an eyebrow, unconcerned. He lazily lifted one revolver and fired another shot into one guard's back. "Looked like a Pinkerton," Charlie noted. "I hate Pinktertons."
"There seem to be few men in this wide world you don't hate," Ben observed.
"Like you well enough," Charlie said, snatching a ring of keys from one of the guards.
Ben cast him a sidelong glance. "How come you're here, Charlie?"
"Nobody else'd break you out. I didn't wanna see you hang, is all." He grinned crookedly. "Thou shalt beat him with the rod and deliver his soul from hell. Proverbs 23:14."
Ben stood up and put on his hat. "You read the Bible?"
"My daddy was a preacher." Charlie's lips swept up in a maniacal grin and added, "'Fore he killed hisself, that is."
Dan scowled bitterly. "Eventually, they're gonna get sick of busting you out all the time—"
"You wanna know why I ain't running?" Ben snapped. "I'm tired of running. I'm tired of running all the time. If I could turn back time, I'd stay right with my mama in that train station and never let her out of my sight. The truth is, I'm sick of all this. I'm sick of everybody revering me and telling me I'm better than I really am."
"Maybe they're right," Dan supplied.
"No," Ben said with more vehemence than he'd intended. "All this is a lie, Dan. A good lie, a believable lie, but still a lie. They all think I'm some thief king when I'm really just a smart man with sticky fingers, a good horse, and a fast gun. And I been wearing a mask so long I forget who I was underneath." He stared at his knees. "We both have our lies to live. I'm a bad man. You're a good man. Let's just leave it at that."
Dan gave him a long look. "The only thing that makes it a lie is you playing along with it."
Ben smiled sardonically. "And that's why I ain't running."
3:07
A shrill whistle sounded outside, heralding the arrival of the train. Dan put on his hat and nodded to Wade. From beneath his desk, the flighty stationmaster instructed, "First car, second door."
Wade's right-hand man was still firing shots from a cow pen outside. Dan gritted his teeth, praying they would be able to somehow get past him. Seconds later, the cows started running. Wade's right-hand man disappeared into a sea of horns and hooves.
Will was sitting astride the gate, firing his gun and shouting at the cows. Dan smiled softly. He hadn't taught his son much, but he had taught him how to move cattle.
After the Evans family moved to Arizona, Will made a point of ignoring his father. Try as he might, though, he could never sever every connection with Dan because they would always have cows. For a long time, that was all the father and son had in common. Will didn't have a hitch in his step, and Dan didn't have a mouth fouler than a sailor's. They had cows.
Will was eleven then. He had a natural affinity for driving cattle, like a dog with a flock of sheep. The cows went wherever he told them to, quietly, calmly, efficiently. Dan was ashamed to admit that he half envied his son's natural aptitude as a rancher.
One day, though, Will made a tragic mistake. Thunderheads were rolling across the plains with alarming alacrity, and Dan wanted to move the cows up closer to the barn. Will and Dan rode out into their fields as the first sheets of rain began to fall. They found their herd in the canyon. They huddled together and refused to listen. Their horses were steadily growing more skittish because of the bellowing thunder.
"Pa, they can't hear us!" Will shouted above the storm.
Dan was losing his temper. He ignored Will and urged his horse into a lope, circling the cows like an anxious hawk.
Dan started when he heard Will fire his rifle. The cows panicked, breaking apart into four or five clots. Enraged, Dan wheeled his horse around and screamed, "The hell are you doing?"
"They couldn't hear us!" Will said feebly, clutching his rifle to his chest.
"William, get back to the house," Dan snapped.
"I can help!"
"Damn it, get back to the house!"
The storm was almost over by the time Dan rounded up all their cattle. They lost eight head that day. It was one of the last times Dan and Will tolerated each other's help on the ranch. Afterward, Will grew sullen, and Hollander hounded Dan for money.
Wade's voice derailed Dan's train of thought. The outlaw laughed and said, "There, ya see? Told you nobody was watching him. He's stubborn as you. I figured he'd make sure I got on that train." He raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Kid's good with cows."
Dan felt his heart swell with pride. The cattle stampeded through the streets of Contention, baffling onlookers and stymieing all attempts to thwart him. He turned to Wade and said, "Now."
They dodged shots from Wade's outfit as they sprinted for the train. Dan slammed his fist against the door of the first car and shouted, "I got a prisoner! You going to Yuma?"
3:08
Ben hopped into the boxcar, let himself into one of the cells, and nonchalantly rested his wrists on the bars. Will was staring at his father from his perch atop the cow pen, his eyes wide with newfound admiration. Ben grinned. It seemed that fathers and sons sometimes did get along after all. Maybe God really did love the little children of the world.
Ben's plan couldn't have been executed more smoothly. Dan had gotten him on the train. To his surprise, he had finally won the sullen rancher's friendship too. He had proven to himself that he hadn't completely lost touch with his humanity. He was sure that as soon as the train rolled away, Charlie would be at a full gallop beside him all the way to Yuma.
"Well, you did it, Dan," Ben said cheerfully from his cell.
He noticed too late that Charlie was taking aim at Dan's back.
"No!" Ben yelled.
Charlie fired. His eyes were ablaze with vengeful rage as he shot Dan four times. Each bullet wrenched a ragged yell from Dan's chest. Dan fell against the side of the train before falling limply to the dust. He left a red smear on the boxcar's fresh coat of paint. Charlie stood still for what seemed like an hour, his Schoefield still pointed directly at Dan's chest.
"You better tell me everything you saw, friend," Charlie said menacingly. His eyes never left the old man who was pinned beneath his boot. He stood triumphantly over his victim like Washington crossing the Delaware, both revolvers aimed at the old man's head. As Ben approached, Charlie announced, "This one ain't talking."
Ben glanced at the old man briefly. His eyes were milky white. Ben raised an eyebrow and said, "Charlie…he's blind, you know. He got no idea what we were doing."
"Blind, huh," Charlie said, disinterested. "Mister, you ain't deaf too, are you?"
The old man shook his head fearfully. "No, sir!"
Charlie spun his revolvers demurely. "Marshal ain't stupid. He could figure out exactly what happened if you told him."
The old man cowered. "No! Please! Don't hurt me!"
"Let him go, Charlie," Ben ordered.
But Charlie fired anyway. Ben gaped at him for a full minute, shocked by his sheer heartlessness even more than his disobedience. He supposed it had always been there. He'd just never noticed it before.
Ben climbed down from the train, incensed. The engine throbbed like an iron heart. He stared down at Dan's broken form. There were a hundred things he wanted to tell him. He felt that he should apologize for Charlie. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. He'd never felt so small in all his life.
"For a one-leg rancher," Charlie said with a predatory grin, "he's one tough son of a bitch."
Ben was still frozen with shock. He was only jerked back to his senses when he heard Charlie address him as "Ben." Charlie tossed him his gun and holster, a triumphant expression on his face. Ben held his gun in his hand, staring blankly at the gold crucifix inlaid in the handle. All he could do was marvel at the apparent death of Justice. The one time Ben had actually wanted good to triumph, Charlie had ruined everything. He had deliberately disobeyed him.
Ben had read the Bible from cover to cover once. He'd been eight years old. When he'd closed his Bible, the vicious world had come crashing down on him. For awhile, things seemed alright. But now, all Ben could do was stare at that gold crucifix and ask God why everything had gone so horribly wrong. Predictably, God didn't say anything back. Ben had always believed a man controlled his own destiny, anyway.
Ben stared daggers at Charlie's back. The heartless gunslinger had disobeyed him one time too many.
3:09
Charlie felt Ben's gaze boring into his back and turned around fearfully. Ben was staring stonily at him. Charlie panicked and tried to draw his Schoefields, but Ben fired first. He was fast.
Without blinking, Ben shot every remaining member of his outfit. The once-infamous outlaws lay bleeding in the dust, dead as doornails.
Charlie's head spun. He was so shocked that he hardly even felt the bullet in his gut. Ben stalked toward him. Charlie couldn't run. It was as if he had been chained where he stood by a gang of pitiless angels.
Ben grabbed him roughly by the collar and stared coldly into his eyes. He calmly plucked one of Charlie's revolvers out of his hand and pressed it against his chest. Charlie stared back, his eyes wild. His mind screamed at Ben to not shoot him, but his mouth wouldn't work. The sheer terror had rendered him mute.
Seven years before, Charlie had accidentally detonated three sticks of dynamite prematurely, just outside Carson City. The blast attracted the marshal's attention before the outfit had even launched their attack. Charlie had never seen Ben so livid. As soon as they evaded the marshal, Ben seized his Schoefields and bellowed, "I'm gonna kill you with your own guns, you son of a bitch!" He pressed the mouths of both revolvers against Charlie's chest.
"I'm sorry, boss, I'm sorry!" Charlie pleaded. "It was an accident!"
Ben's eyes narrowed hatefully. "I don't give a damn if God hisself said to do it. You move when I say you move. You shoot when I say you shoot. You don't breathe unless I tell you." He licked his lips and pulled the hammers back on the Schoefields.
Charlie knew that tears were tracing thin rivers through the dust on his face, but he didn't care anymore. His voice shook when he begged, "Don't kill me, boss. Please."
Ben hesitated. Lowering the guns, he said lamely, "You got a lot of shaping up to do, Charlie. That dynamite's coming out of your cut." He immediately reassumed his usual righteous pride and fluidly quoted Proverbs, a vicious undertone evident in his drawl. "Severe punishment is in store for the man who goes astray; he who hates reproof will die. Disobey me one more time, you'll have five bullets in your gut faster than you can blink. That goes for every one of you. Understand?"
Ben wouldn't kill him, Charlie told himself. Not like this.
Ben cocked his head as he pulled the hammer back. Charlie's mind was numb. Impossible, he told himself. It bordered on filicide. Even Ben Wade wasn't heartless enough to betray him like this. His heart hammered in his ears, pulsating in time with the train's throbbing engine.
The closest thing he'd ever had to a father was now staring at him with pale ire and despair. He wanted to sob, but he could only stand petrified while the seconds ticked, begging God for temporal immunity. He heard the Hand of God explode and went rigid as a ring of crimson bloomed on the breast of his duster. The same question crashed through his mind, over and over, as he lay dying in the dust: Why had Ben pulled the trigger?
3:10
Ben stared in disbelief at Charlie's body. His mind went numb. The same question crashed through his mind, over and over, as he watched Charlie die in the dust: Why had he pulled the trigger?
Charlie, who had been loyal to him even when everyone else deserted him. Charlie, who had burned and killed and bled for him. Charlie, who was the only person Ben could truly say he trusted. Charlie, who was dead at his feet.
Such was the justice of the West, governed by sheer impulse. Of course Dan had died. He had wanted to die. Now Ben had nothing, just a train waiting to carry him down to Yuma. He felt himself being swallowed up by a Charybdis of profound regret.
He turned around. Will was aiming a pistol at him. Ben just stared, praying that for once he'd get what he deserved. Without Charlie, he saw no reason to keep living. His mother was dead. Molly was dead. He was nothing now.
The train throbbed like an iron heart. Ben's own heart crashed in his ribs, torn to pieces. Seeing Charlie dead at his feet was like seeing himself dead in the train station, the leering ghost of his drunken father standing over him while Molly coughed in the dying firelight and a young Charlie insisted he was worth something.
"It is too bad about Tommy Darden," Ben conceded, pouring himself a shot of whiskey.
Charlie gulped down another shot of whiskey and nodded in agreement. "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 will he be lost," he said, quoting Proverbs with ease in his trembling drawl. He ran his thumb down the handle of one of his revolvers. "Still too bad. You're right, though. We'll just replace him, pick up another while we're here in Bisbee. It ain't hard, finding replacements."
Ben swallowed his whiskey. "Why do you follow me, Charlie?"
Charlie shrugged. "You saved my life once. I'm just waiting for a chance to pay you back."
"You busted me out of Yuma. We're square."
"No. A man's got to stand on principle. It's in the Bible, you know. I read it one time, when I was at that train station in San Francisco." Charlie poured himself another shot of whiskey. He paused to make sure none of the others were listening before he said, "You remember that one time I shot off that dynamite on accident, outside Carson? If I was you, I woulda killed me. How come you didn't do it?"
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Ain't too late. You want me to kill you?"
"No," Charlie said quickly as the rest of the outfit headed for the door. "Just wondering, is all."
"You ever been to Dodge City?" Ben asked suddenly. "I been there one time. Used to pick up rich old ladies to steal from. There was a girl there who'd do things to you you'd never forget." He rubbed his chin, his face darkening with grim recollection. "Gave me the clap, too."
Charlie thwarted Ben's attempt to evade the question. "Boss. I believe I asked you something."
Ben ran his fingers through his hair pensively, trying to articulate an answer. "I don't know, Charlie. I guess I just pitied you."
Charlie stared pensively into his shot glass. "Marshal's only half stupid; he's gonna be back soon," he said gravely. "They're going across the border. I won't be far." He glanced at Ben from the corner of his eye. His hair was tousled from his hat, and he wore an earnest, devote expression. "I'll wait for you."
Ben swore he looked like a kid again. "Alright, Charlie."
The train throbbed like an iron heart. Ben just stared. He wanted to scream at Will to shoot him, but, coward that he was, he couldn't bring himself to say it. It was as if he had been frozen in time, betrayed by his own temporal immunity.
True to form, Justice stayed Will's hand. He lowered his gun and went to his knees at Dan's side. A combination of relief and disappointment made Ben's knees go weak.
He glanced at Charlie one last time. Ben swore he looked like a kid again, lost in a train station with nothing but a book full of beautiful lies for company. Charlie had fought so hard for him. For what? The same question thundered in Ben's mind: Why had he pulled the trigger? He had never regretted anything so much in his life.
Such was the justice of the West, governed by the stupid impulses of whoever had the fastest gun. Ben knew he should have learned long ago that a man in his position could not afford to pity anyone, lest Justice exercise herself against his volition. Conflicting pities invariably swallowed each other up.
He was tired of running. He turned his back on Charlie and knelt to pick up his holster. He would see to it that Justice was exercised, even though she had been repeatedly checkmated. He couldn't stand the thought of Dan having died in vain.
Ben climbed back aboard the 3:10 to Yuma, handed his gun wordlessly to the conductor, and locked himself in a cell.
Proverbs echoed in the corridors of Ben's mind as the train began to roll down the track. 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 will he be lost. It seemed even the infamous Ben Wade could not escape the iron law of divine justice, even though the secular kind seemed to repeatedly favor him. At the same time, though, he couldn't stand the thought of Charlie having died in vain.
Ben Wade was a man of implacable resolve. He couldn't suppress his basic human instinct to survive; temporal immunity was not something he was willing to forfeit. Just before the train rounded the bend out of Contention, he whistled for his horse.