Chapter 21
Once Upon A Time in the West
Part 3
John Hancock

Erron Black exited the throne room and frowned when he saw the capitol still under the wet canopy of graphite colored clouds. An irritated grumble slipped quietly from his closed lips as he narrowed his eyes at the rain still showering the city; he wasn't looking forward to getting wet again even if the weather was subsiding. After a day of rain, seeing the clouds depart would have been a small abatement that would have helped douse his state of persistent displeasure. Even outside in the fresh air, he still felt every inch of his skin prickling with bitter acrimony, and he knew it was going to get even worse the second he made his way to the city. Dealing with Tama would have been enough to send him looking for a bottle of liquor, but adding the debriefing with Kotal Kahn only made him want to drink that bottle dry by the time the day was over.

His upper lip curled up; the meeting had gone on far longer than what was necessary, and that small irritation caused his already bristled nerves to swell up even more with contempt. They had finally settled on interrogating Tanya despite her warning. Black ground his teeth together— Kotal Kahn could have done that in the first place instead of sending them to the Kuatan Jungle! The only thing Kotal's decision succeeded in doing was twisting his stomach tight with disdainful exasperation. Hoping for a break for once was beginning to turn into wishful thinking.

The bodyguard sighed and shook his head. Enough bitchin'— at least he paid you for your trouble.

As aggravating as he found it to be, the mercenary understood the Kahn was trying to use his dwindling resources. He was wary of the cards that Tanya may have had up her sleeve. Thankfully, the Osh-tekk was calling her bluff now. The female Edenian shouldn't have even tried. Even Tanya had to know that this would have been his response sooner or later. Erron guessed it was just her nature— especially if it wasted everyone's time. However, and unfortunately for her, the Edenian's most consistent and exploitable trait was her disloyalty for self-preservation. Now they would beat it out of her and then execute them both.

Even though it still irked him that it took Kotal Kahn time to come to that conclusion, Erron put the meeting behind him with a heavy exhale. Sucking in the humid air, he forced himself to calm down; allowing his tense muscles to relax even though his thoughts still prodded at him: one step down, two to go and they weren't going to be as easy as dealing with Kotal Kahn's indecisiveness.

Black lifted his dry hat from his head as his eyes steered towards the ivory-capped domed building in the distance. The moment his eyes landed on it, he returned his hat roughly back to his head and pulled the brim down tight like a soldier readying his helmet for war.

The gunslinger's footfalls against the slick palace steps were heated but listless as he tried to bury the tiresome meeting behind him. Instead he focused on the building awaiting his arrival as soon as he crossed the threshold of the palace walls. His eyes landed on the Coliseum obscuring and dwarfing the smaller buildings in the distance, but that wasn't where he was headed. His blue eyes glided to the left of the amphitheater and the building you typically departed out of first before entering the bloody circus ring.

Erron narrowed his eyes at the smaller obsidian spheroid situated on a rectangular first level. At first glance to someone unfamiliar with Z'unkahrah, they would have thought it was a dreary old abandoned mosque or ruin. They would have been wrong—it was very much occupied and in use, and if you stepped out of line, would be the last tourist attraction you'd see.

The four lance-shaped guard towers adjacent to the building's stone border walls stood out like spikes in an iron maiden as he exited the main doors of the curtain wall. With a huff of hot air flaring out of his nostrils, he willed his feet to move towards it. Past the marketplace, the path to the building sloped down before ascending back up.

His eyes always went towards the lower half, mainly because it was a decrepit eyesore compared to the modestly maintained dome on top of the rectangular first story. Being a Kahn's guard, Erron Black knew the lower building well and felt a brief, spiritless smile pull under his mask at the sight of it.

The Iron Vaults; appropriately named, since the prison cells underground were all made of the same cheap material. Erron always found it to be someone's weak attempt at sounding ominous, and instead of inspiring fear, made him roll his eyes. Like the name of a haunted manor in a child's ghost story that only worked at frightening you if you believed in that horseshit.

It was no different than any other prison in Outworld he had seen, and he had visited the Vaults on many occasions before he worked for Kotal Kahn; it was where he went to collect the majority of his reward money for the bounties he brought in. It was the capitol's main prison for common criminals, whether you were guilty or not. Whether minor or nefarious, it held a diverse collection of folks either waiting for their trail, their turn in the Coliseum, or if somebody truly wanted them to suffer, remained there for the rest of their days. It paid well, and he used to find the flaky black walls, charred by rust, a comforting sight to see when he entered the city. It always meant that a heavy bag of coins for meals, drinks, and comfortable lodging, was in his grasp until there was another hunt.

This time, he felt indifferent and a little sour walking to it. It was unnatural going there without hauling someone with him. In a way, Black could almost understand why they bucked and fought against him when he dragged them towards the prison. Being summoned towards it, instead of going willingly, made him want to walk the other direction. It was gloomy, and it sank his stomach into his boots knowing that was where the Baker was being held. He felt sorry for her; the Vaults wasn't a pleasant place to stay— the rancid smell alone was enough for you to want to volunteer for the Coliseum games.

The Vaults he could handle, though, and that wasn't what was worrying him.

His eyes glided along the cracked iron walls and up to the sphere on the second level…

It was the second part of the building he hated more than the prison.

Sitting like a smooth obsidian rock with a colored marble top, as if obnoxiously ebullient to help idiots distinguish the two buildings apart, was the People's Tribunal. Although the modestly lavished building was easier on the eye, Erron still preferred the prison. At least, the residents of the Iron Vaults were upfront about what they were; whether innocent or not, it was easy to see what he was confronting. Black could deal with criminals, but egotistical and short-tempered plutocrats were a different story. He'd rather pull his own fingernails then sort through whether they were politely spewing bullshit at him or not.

The magnates that operated the people's judicial system were typically self-absorbed, petty, and because of that, were disliked by nearly everyone. The only thing they did happen to do well, was constantly nip at each other's heels for higher administrative positions. On the bottom of the totem pole, the plebeians' barristers usually didn't enjoy their profession because they were handed the criminals who did something not worth anyone's time. It bored them.

However, the higher your importance, the more compensation you were given with dealing with the more exciting cases that involved the worst criminals. It was never about the money, though; even the bottom feeders got paid well from the tax payers dollars. They fed on the entertainment the depraved criminals brought in like flies to shit. However, it was a scarcely populated position, which was why the plebeians barristers spent most of their time trying to stab each other in the back for a better job, instead of focusing on doing their job well. It was nothing but a pitiful and pointless to look shiny in the eye of some official who might give them a career advancement; like a bunch of rats fighting over a single cracker in a pit they couldn't climb out of.

As conniving as it was, though, it was still the fairest—and only—due process outside of the Emperor's Palace. Only because, in most of the common people's collected opinion, the barrister's judgments were always lawful and unbiased. They followed the law and if it was indicated that personal opinion swayed a barristers own opinion, that barrister was executed. Usually in a public and gruesome manner.

Another important thing that helped the common folk agree that it was a fair justice system was the knowledge that bribes were seldom ever attempted on barristers. If you wanted to win your case— you would have to feed all the heads of the Hydra. No matter the case: murder, rape, or s stolen property dispute—which was why he was being summoned— there were three barristers you needed to swindle.

To convict someone guilty or innocent, you needed all three barristers to agree with each other based on the arguments presented by the two parties. If one attorney did not agree with the others, another set of lawyers was brought in, replaced the trinity, and the trial started all over again. If they could not agree as well, then the case was handed over to the Chief Barrister to give a final opinion. Everybody knew that once it was given to the Chief Barrister, you were as good as dead. It was typically the subject of tavern gossip that Chief Barrister Ushur never thought anyone was innocent. After all, if you were innocent why were you brought in for judgment in the first place?

Erron doubted that his dispute with Tama would reach the Chief Barrister or even a second trio of lawyers, but that didn't make him any less worried. He scoffed hotly as he looked back at the Courthouse. He still couldn't believe she actually had the goddamn gall to take him to court. Black grabbed his hat and roughly tugged it forward.

Even though the paper was putty, left in pieces on the steps of the palace steps and eaten by the rain and sand, the words written on the parchment were burned inside his head as if the very words were floating in front of him; taunting him like bait on a fishing lure.

By order of The People's Tribunal
_ERRON BLACK_
is hereby summoned to appear before the
_Barristers of Property Affairs_
to give testimony and to bring forth with you evidence relating to the allegations addressed by the complainant
_TSHO TAMA_
Failure to appear or respond to this summons will result in judgment by default against you, and action will be taken to satisfy the charges filed by the plaintiff in accordance with The People's Law.

Black shook his head, rolling droplets off his hat, as he passed the deserted streets and continued his march towards the building. It was desperate as it was dirty, but the more he got acquainted with Tama, the more he began to understand how she would resort to any means to make sure she had the last laugh. It was pathetic really. Still, when he saw the paper, thinking that it was the contract, it felt just like a sucker punch to the back of the head. He probably wouldn't have wasted his time with it, and allowed the barristers to pass judgment and force him to pay the monetary fee Tama wanted, until the older Outworld woman told him, the girl had been recaptured. Goddamnit. Tama knew what tackle to use to get him to do shit he didn't want to. Guilt.

Just get this over with. He unpleasantly persuaded to himself as he continued towards the courthouse.

Besides the lone gunslinger, there was nobody in sight, but he did have an audience of silent diversity watching him stomp his soaked boots through the damp silt. Pots and pans of various depths, colors and heights decorated the doorsteps; collecting what they could in their master's absence who huddled indoors. Although the people of Z'unkahrah hiding from the rain likes cats, the desert people enjoyed the rare rainfall that only came when the weather felt like being genial.

Erron tried to think of something else, and not how deviously crafty Tama had been, and settled on plucking out the different sounds around him: the sharp reverberation inside the metal pots, heavily colliding into each other like tiny sledges hitting a gong out of sequence. He glanced down at his boots and at the drops hitting the sand like palms slapping at mud puddles. They tried to drown out the even duller plop of water hitting the small lakes forming inside the clay pots—at least the cascade of rain and the droplets echoing off the metal walls distracted him for a moment. Unfortunately, there weren't enough diversions around to help remove the single ponderous realization he couldn't waver from his mind no matter how much he tried.

The gunslinger rounded the corner, exiting the labyrinth of apartment buildings and cantinas, and stores conjoined to the marketplace and headed downhill in the direction of the Coliseum. This part of the capital wasn't exactly as prosperous as the middle-class housing near to the market, and like the square, the only ones aware of his presence were the pots on the outside of the weathered doors, barely clinging to life on their hinges. It was similar to where he had dropped off the girl— now with a name— and her older friend.

As the clouds misted over the dome, doing its best to obscure his view, he couldn't help but wonder if Tama had thrown her name merely by accident, or if she was chucking an easy barb at him; trying to prove how empty his rescue had been all along when he didn't even know who he was rescuing. Regardless which fact was correct, it still worked at pissing him off. He knew her name now, but there was no weight to it. All he had done was steal a legally tied object from the older woman, one he thought was invasive in his life; a weed that needed to be pulled.

He felt eyes on him, and swiftly up towards the third level of the dilapidated residence. Water rolled backwards, towards the folds of his poncho to look up to see an Outworld teenage girl holding a metal cooking pot outside of her window. The tattered green curtains flapped lazily against her, kissing the outside of her arms as they began to shake from fatigue from holding the heavy pot. He kept his eyes on her as he walked; turning his head over his shoulder. The Outworld girl, a simple marker signaling that he was truly in the destitute neighborhood that surrounded the prison, cast her eyes down upon him. Through her reedy, slick hair, glued to her olive skin from the rain, her brown eyes narrowed at him with bewilderment before she scoffed and pulled her arms into the window.

He turned his eyes away from to the window and heard the shutters slam over the constant murmur of the rainfall around him. Erron's blue eyes rolled over the other windows, and as if she had flagged his arrival by slamming her window shutters, the other Outworlders craning their arms out of the windows to collect water also began to duck back inside their dwellings.

A small smirk managed to tug its way on to his face. He honestly couldn't blame their hesitation: a Kahn's guard strolling down the vacated streets with a sour disposition upon first glance would have had him thinking that he was coming after them too. Why else would he be heading in this direction?

A scowl formed underneath his mask. He shouldn't have been heading towards the Vaults at all! The ex-Earthrealmer's fist tightened with indignation, enough for his nails to bite harshly into his skin. The reason for why he was marching towards the prison was as apparent as the omen he walked past. The reason he was being called to trial, was because of that damn girl. It seemed that Erron wasn't the only one that couldn't discard her from his thoughts— apparently Tama couldn't as well.

He tapped a calloused finger against the drenched leather hide of his holster, patting it in thought. Erron had a good reason for continuing to be involved in her affairs, but what was Tama's interest in keeping her around? That was the one thing that bothered him. Why? Why all the damn trouble over a nobody? Tama had even told him to 'keep the whore' as she had so politely put it, before he had dragged the her out of Tama's room. So why go through all the trouble with a court hearing if she hadn't put up too much of a fight with him to begin with?

He shrugged lightly; maybe it was as simple as he thought: she was a sore loser who wanted her money. Black knew he was probably going to be found guilty no matter his position with the Kahn. Black knew it, Tama knew it, and the barristers would no doubt think so too.

Stealing another person's property— especially living property— was a serious misdeed, even in Kotal Kahn's lax post-civil war rule. Black had to admit, he didn't think she would have been brazen enough to file a claim against him with a target painted on her back. The ridiculous notion of her taking a Kahn's guard to court over one slave, and risking her life, never crossed his mind when he had been nagging at himself about what he had done in the jungle. Apparently, she was stupider than he had thought she was, which was better than admitting that Tama had found a way to pull the rug out from under him. Black sneered. At least he wasn't that sore of a loser.

Black looked over the top of the buildings to see the two sharp spires that stood at the front corners of The Vaults. The closer he walked towards the dungeon, the more they began to rise over the top of the apartment buildings like an elephant rearing its tusks at him—warning him to turn away. He continued with a strong, sturdy pace, unafraid by its foreboding appearance.

Black wasn't stupid, he knew exactly what the verdict he was going to be. That didn't mean he was afraid of facing his arraignment— not in the slightest. The typical penalty for stealing was death if you were a gutter dweller without a coin to your name— why keep you alive if you can't pay the fine? If you did have money and the court knew you could afford it, then you paid (and sometimes a flogging was tallied on to your sentencing if you were short a few coins). Paying the penalty was what he was expecting and the only thing that annoyed him about the verdict was being forced to play a game he wanted no involvement in— especially one he wasn't going to win.

Just from Tama's tone alone, Erron had a feeling that this was a punishment meant specifically for him. This was all tediously pathetic. A peculiar and irrational thought wormed its way into his head. Maybe if he could have taken the time to learn her goddamn name, he wouldn't have felt as if he was an infant fighting over a toy. That was all this was, and he felt somewhat bad for the rag-doll in the middle of their tug of war— that made him feel even more worse.

As it had read on the paper, Norah was nothing but property they were fighting over, and it was funny that something as simplistic as knowing a name could have helped teeter away some guilt he felt burying him. It was all on him, and it kept getting shoveled on him more and more— just like his decision to act as impudent and as rashly as he had did when he grabbed her from the room. Perhaps if he had stopped thinking about himself, he would have seen her as an actual person and could have done things correctly. Instead of taking her, he could have found a more logical, civilized solution to win her freedom. All he had done was discard her away like an obsolete tool. If he had known her name, Norah, perhaps he would have felt differently. Maybe, when he had pried her from the leviathan's tentacles, he wouldn't have been doing it to make himself feel better.

Raking his nails across his forehead, he sighed as the tall black fence gates, speckled with orange, came into view. He walked down and noticed the guards at the entrance lift their heads up at the single visitor.

He ignored them, his thoughts were still searching for the ways he could have avoided all this shit. Not asking for it really was his first mistake. Not the tavern. He had demoralized her, turned her into an immaterial object. He had plenty of opportunities to ask it, but never did and perhaps their temperament towards each other would have been different. Or maybe not at all, but discovering her name by Tama just disposing of it, throwing it at him like she had something sour on the tip of her tongue, made him feel like a vagabond that had picked it up from the street.

Erron really hadn't done anything to repay his debt after all, because he didn't even know who he was repaying it to. Shame hit him bluntly at the thought. In the jungle, when he was dreading seeing the girl again but was adamant that all he needed to do was rip an apology out of her to feel reprieve, he had been gravely wrong.

Black had been thinking too far ahead — thinking selfishly again without realizing it. Again, he had been trying to look for the easiest solution, which ironically, was what he was trying to repress since he acknowledged it as his bad habit. He knew that he couldn't half-ass his approach, and all he ended up doing was jumping too far ahead, not knowing he was leaping over vital stepping stones.

The first thing he needed to do, was ask for her name. That alone was not going to be an easy feat considering the first time he had asked.

"I never did get your name."

"And you never will."

There had been a reason why she said that. It had been his way of apologizing, but the baker didn't want something as personal as an apology from him. She thought of him from that point on as cold and inhuman. He hadn't earned the privilege to ask. That question of humanity popped up in his head again, and he clicked his tongue bitterly. Perhaps, there was more to it than her not wanting an apology by refusing to give out her name.

When he had asked, it hadn't escaped his notice that she took offense to it, but there was a chance not for the first thing he assumed; not because he had been seeking forgiveness, but because of what he had done to her. Erron had made her feel insignificant— just one bullet and he'd remove the pebble in his shoe.

From that point on, the girl had known what she was to him and asking for something that made a person unquestionably human, had sailed away. Erron had demonstrated how much she didn't matter to him, and accepted that was the way things were. With that in mind, with Norah thinking that she was nothing to him, he understood just how steep his uphill battle was beginning to look, and he wasn't even sure if he was indeed seeing the daunting peak, or it was just another illusion.

If he wanted his guilt removed, so he could carry on with his life without looking back, he needed to return to basics; start anew and go back to that day at the tavern when they first met. If he wanted to show her he was genuine, that he cared and felt sorry for what he did, then getting her name was the first step. He needed to show that she mattered, and what he had done to her was picking at him too. Then they could at least be at even level. In a way, his plans hadn't changed since he conceived his plan in the jungle: he had to get past Tama and her petulant actions before dealing with Norah. In a way, it helped him breathe a little easier knowing that his plans hadn't metamorphosed into something else—they just grew more complicated. After this unpleasant encounter with Tama, he would still make the effort towards the baker.

The guard standing post at the gate, a muscular Outworld man a little taller than him. His black, shoulder length hair clung to his neck, as if trying to hide the inscrutable scar running from the corner of his neck down to the dip where his collar bones met. No doubt a botched job and the only reason he was standing before him scowling at him in the rain.

Black told him where his business was. His blue eyes narrowed at the chestnut ones that stayed sternly glued on him even when his body turned to help the other guard unlock the fenced door.

The gunslinger walked in, paused and lifted a haughty eyebrow at the guard still gazing at him with ambiguous ire. "You like staring?" Erron Black growled. He leaned his hat towards him as his eyes darkened. "Do you want me to be the last thing you see?"

The brusque guard's mouth tugged up in a sneer before he averted his eyes towards the apartment buildings. Erron stormed past them and casually rested his palms on the handle of his holsters. The courtyard was vacant, but he did see more guards hiding under the shelter of the main entrance. Like the majority of the structure, the iron doors were spotted with orange.

He swaggered toward the building with an arrogant straight-backed posture; physically hiding his resentment and hesitance about walking into court for the first time.

Erron Black had been close, but as he entered through the doors that were opened to him by the guards, he knew he wasn't going to get as lucky as the last time.

Atchison, Kansas
1868

The boy in the jail cell swung his legs over the side of the bunk and jumped off. Approaching the bars, he grabbed them with his small fingers and pressed his face against the cold steal of his cage.

Abraham had told him during his nightly visit that he would be taken over to the courthouse for trial that next dawn. Aaron looked out the bars, across the table in the middle of the room and through the window. Across the street, he watched as the sun disappeared behind the wooden blocks of buildings and darkened them like a flame being smothered by a candle snuffer.

All day long he had waited with fearful impatience for his trial. All day long his stomach twisted tighter and tighter with nervousness with each passing hour. The Deputy and the Sheriff had stopped in, only to work on paperwork before leaving again, and neither of the men had offered him any insight on what was going on.

Zachariah hadn't been by to visit either, nor had Abraham who had promised he would. Aaron was not sure if that was a good or bad thing, but couldn't help but think it was the latter. Abraham was usually pretty good about keeping his word and it only piled on another stone of worry upon his already daunting pile.

With the last ribbons of sunlight vanishing from behind the building, he let out a sigh and crawled back to his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he reached over and grabbed the dirty, thin pillow. Folding it, he rested his head against it and closed his eyes.

Thankfully, his insomnia had finally caught up with him and he was confident that he might be tired enough to stay asleep without a nightmare jolting him awake. He certainly hoped so. Between Abraham's visit, his father's death, and the guessing about what his verdict would be, he needed a night of uninterrupted bliss. Even though the room began to blanket in darkness, his mind still buzzed.

Despite being too numb to move, even carrying himself to the edge of his cell had been taxing on his sleep-deprived legs, he still couldn't stop thinking back on Abraham's words and his proclamation of his sincere feelings for him. It all still sat about as comfortable as a rock in his back. There was no doubt that Abraham had meant what he had told him, but swallowing it down was the hardest part for Aaron. He could have sworn that the entire thing hadn't happened at all. Maybe if it hadn't, if it had been an hallucination, then the driver's words wouldn't feel as heavy on him as they did.

The only one that had ever said anything like that, or expressed any compassion for him, was his mother. It was difficult to compare Abraham to her and painful. A tear escaped out of the corner of his closed eye and he brushed it away with a sharp wipe. He sniffled, holding back the rest and let out a shaky breath as his mother's face appeared.

With the pillow as a substitute, he pretended that his head was rested across her thighs. He tried to recall the feel of her hands brushing tenderly through his scalp as she hummed a tune. Her voice was husky, but smooth and melodious like a wind blowing across a grass field on a cloudy day.

Tell her to find me an acre of land.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Between the sea foam and over the sand.
Then she'll be a true love of mine

Her voice was getting more and more difficult to hear in his head and each year that had passed since her death, the lyrics became forgotten. Soon, he knew there wouldn't be many left for him to remember; lost to time. She had only sang that song on occasion, and he was quite sure it was the only one she really knew, but he would hold on to as long as he could. As long as he needed to. For the longest time, it had been one of many tools he had used as a crutch. However, with each travel down the trail, it got harder and harder to remember her. All he had was hate and his promise that he would avenge her. The hate... he realized had eclipsed all the pleasant memories he had of her. He couldn't even remember what her fingers in his hair felt like anymore.

If she tells me she can't, then I'll reply.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Let me know, that at least she will try.
Then she'll be a true love of mine

Love imposes impossible tasks
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Though not more than any heart asks.
And I must know she's true love of mine

This time, he let the tears fall as he buried his face into the pillow. He missed her but felt ashamed when he realized how quickly her memory had began to already peel away. His father had not only killed her, but in the end, had also marred everything else about her.

When thou has finished thy task.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Come to me my hand for to ask.
For then you'll be a true love of mine

He fell asleep as her voice began to turn into a murmur and the rest of her words to her song were lost.

Snapped out of his dreamless sleep, he felt a hand at the back of his coat lift him to his feet before he could even open his eyes. Like a puppet on a string, he was dragged towards the open cell door he could barely make out as he tried to stabilize himself on his sleepy, paralyzed legs.

"Rise an' shine, boy. You're free to go." Aaron flinched when Zachariah shoved the burlap bag of onions at him, and the blonde boy juggled with its weight as he wobbled on his tired legs. Still with rocks in the corner of his eyes, he yawned as the Missourian looked down at him with an indifferent shrug as a pair of distorted shadows passed by him and entered the cell he wasn't able to get a good look at.

"Congratulations on the acquittal—" Zachariah remarked as he gruffly nodded towards the bag—"a token of your lucky circumstances."

The 7-year-old blinked through his heavy eyes to look down at the sack that scratched roughly against his soft palms. Aaron was utterly confused what was going on and never expected to be woken in such a strange manner. He wasn't even certain if he was still asleep or not.

The onions rolled wildly inside, as if trying to escape his grasp, while he slowly fluttered his eyelids. As soon as he felt some of the slumber fly away from him, he looked around to see the brown haired deputy seated in his chair and rocking on the back legs of his chair, precariously balancing with only his heel on the table as an anchor.

Aaron jumped when the cell door closed behind him and succeeded in fully bolting him awake. As the Sherriff turned the key in the lock, Aaron looked behind him to see a willowy young cowboy with disheveled short black hair sleeping on the bunk the boy had previously occupied. The gray-haired man passed the boy without a glance, and accompanied the empty chair across the younger man. The Shotgun Messenger turned his back to him as well and walked over to grab the lonesome chair by the writing desk to join the two.

"You wanna halt your solitaire in favor of a game of poker?" Both of the Atchison lawmen smirked at his proposal. Removing his foot from the table, the Deputy teetered forward and collected the cards as soon as the legs of the chair hit the ground.

Aaron stood in silence with his eyes at their backs and gulped nervously; unsure what he was supposed to be doing. Zachariah's words bounced around in his head like a pair of wild dice. Congratulations on the acquittal. He knew what the coachman had meant, but he might as well been speaking German because he didn't comprehend a single word of it. The boy, who had been locked up for almost a week, was suddenly free to go? No trial, no jury, no judge and more importantly, no trip to the gallows? Shyly, he looked at the bag of onions, as if hoping the explanation was inscribed on the burlap, but the sack was as blank on clarification as he was.

Money began to litter the top of the worn table as they chuckled to each other; calling out the name of the game, and boasting how they were going to take each other's money. The boy, outside of the his cell, looked behind him at the snoring man draped face-first over the bunk. Although he was grateful to finally be out, he still felt as if he should be the one sleeping on the bed instead of the cowboy.

Why was he not going to trial? Why wasn't he still locked inside. Why the onions?

A boastful laugh from the Sherriff jarred him out of his thoughts, and he turned back towards the table as Zachariah began to shuffle the deck. The Deputy's eyes fell on him and Aaron felt his stomach churn at the way his cheerful smile, the one produced from Zachariah's joke, fell slowly as he looked at him. He stared at him like a stranger weary of another passerby and averted his eyes just as quickly as his smile departed. It was the same look he had always given him, but the equivocation of his actions were heightened seeing him beyond the cell doors. He was apprehensive of what to think of him. The Deputy, who had at least 20 years and a firearm on his hip, looked at him like an unwanted ghost harassing him at the foot of his bed.

The confused orphan blinked and looked down at his shoes to hide his abashment, but he could still feel the awkward air that hung around him like thick campfire smoke. Aaron walked a few steps across the wooden floorboards— as if testing to see if his liberty was genuine or if it was a masquerade.

This time all three men looked up as they organized their set of cards. None of them said anything and just watched him with capricious eyes; like they were watching an animal smelling its new environment. He glanced up and frowned angrily; mirroring their silent judgmental concentration.

There was nothing but derision in Zachariah's brown eyes, but that was nothing new. The Sherriff and the Deputy, however, eyed him with the same quiet edginess. They were uneasy around him, not because of what he had done, but it looked as if they were internally arguing about what sort of opinion they should have about a young boy who murdered his own father. He swallowed and felt his doubt get wedged in his throat. Nobody was going to hang him for what he did, but all they saw when they looked at him was just another killer who got off free.

Aaron's brows bridged together in confusion. "Why onions?" It was the only question that came to mind.

Zachariah huffed with impatience, as if the answer was obvious. "I was gonna rub them in your eyes. Make you cry so the jury would be thinkin' you were blubbering about killin' your Pa'. Play with their heart strings. You can throw them at barn cats for all I care."

The boy holding the onions, looked around at the adults for comments. All three of them stared at him diffidently but didn't say anything, so the boy was left to ask: "Why? You hate me. Why would you try and help me?

"I was helpin' Abraham," the Stagecoach employee answered with harsh bluntness. Zachariah looked up at him with a brief flash of hatred before he glued his attention to his cards. "There a reason you're still gawking in here?"

"Is it because I'm a kid? Is that why nobody wanted to gimme a trial?" Aaron blurted out. His tone was blunt and full of resentment he didn't hide. It ended up being a rhetorical question since they projected what he had suspected on their fidgety faces. The Deputy and the Sherriff, cleared their throats uncomfortably as if they were struggling to cook up the words to say to him, but Zachariah was the one that granted him an answer.

The older man laid his cards flat against the table with a slam and leaned forward in his chair, his eyes glaring at him like a mountain lion. "Your neck is in one piece because you're a kid, alright, and if it were up to me, I'd see you treated like an adult on trial too since you gripe so much to be treated as such. Still, you ain't no fuckin' man for killin'. All you are is a whiny fuckin' pup who bites at the ankles of the only sonovabitch that feeds you scraps."

Aaron curled the bag closer to his chest as if trying to conceal how hard Zachariah had bruised him. The older man didn't relent and his disposition remained constant even though the other two men seated at the table had their eyes on the cards in their hand. It was obvious they wanted to intervene, but remained silent.

Zachariah waved his hand towards the door. "The door's all yours to step through. Go on and enter fuckin' adulthood since you think yourself so doughty for sullying yourself in it. It's what you always wanted, ain't it? Even though how considerately patient Abraham has been to you. I say you never deserved it. He should have put you on that orphan train to be some other fools' goddamn business. Get goin'. See who else wants a father killin' brat because with all guarantee, it ain't anybody sittin' in this room."

He wanted to scream. Yell and protest that everything he had spewed so scornfully at him was nothing but bullshit; that he was nothing but a cocksucking liar for what he had said. Aaron probably would have, he had never failed to voice his ire, but as silence continued to hang heavily around the room, the words stopped dead on his tongue.

The other two men said nothing but responded in agreement with quit faces full of pity for him. They wouldn't say anything to defend him, and it only made Zachariah's claim that nobody wanted him sting even more. It made the truth that had always been so easy to forgo, harder to dust off. Before, it was something that he had always told himself with; like a note to remind himself that he was alone and that was why he needed to avenge his mother's death. Aaron had always been the one to say those words, but now that his mother's death was vindicated, there was no more motivation to tell himself that. Even worse, hearing it come from someone else, even someone he knew disliked him, felt like cold hands at his throat; choking out any lie he could tell himself.

Tears pricked at his eyes that he sucked back by tilting his chin up. When they threatened to spill, Aaron ran to the door with the onions still cradled in his arms. The door fought against him as he shoved his way through and marched on the boardwalk. His shoes thudded heavily with each stride, and as he passed by an alley and threw the burlap bag into its dark path as he stormed past it.

Eventually, he ran out of breath, but was content he had put enough distance between him and the Jailhouse. Burying his hands across his chest and into his brown coat, he sniffled as he wandered around the deserted dirt streets of sleepy Atchison. He had no idea what hour it was, but knew, and was fortunate, that nobody was awake to see his tears wet the dusty wooden boards like raindrops.

Aaron had never been trying to prove anything that Zachariah claimed he did— all he wanted was for someone to care besides himself that his mother got retribution. What wrong was there? Maybe he had only said those things just to get him to leave so they could play their poker game, but that explanation didn't sit well with him. Aaron spat on the walkway. He hated that man!

Jumping off the wooden walkway, his shoes kicked up dirt. Rubbing his hands up and down his sides, Aaron tried to warm his hands under his coat as his breath coiled in front of him. He hugged himself tighter and hunched his chin against his chest as he slowly made his way towards the hotel. Aaron stumbled quietly as the moon hung overhead for him like a personal lantern. With each unenthusiastic step, he tripped over his own thoughts about Zachariah's contemptuous hatred towards him. The boy always disliked the wagon's shotgun driver but his words had always rolled off easily until tonight. He couldn't understand why it was different. Maybe he was just tired from the long week and Zachariah was taking advantage of his weakened shield. It was certainly better than accepting his words as a ruthlessly honest perception of what people saw of him. He was more than just an orphan...

The blonde haired boy stopped dead in his tracks. Zachariah had called him a father-killer, and they way he had disdainfully spat at him just reaffirmed his suspicion of why the Deputy and the Sherriff may have thought of him too. He shook his head and gripped his white shirt so tightly under his coat, he felt his nails scratch his ribs through the fabric. Why was he considered a monster for doing the right thing?! Just because he wasn't an adult?! Hot puffs of anger escaped out of his nostrils as he fumed where he stood. What was the difference?! There as none and he knew he wasn't the only one who thought so!

Regardless of what Zachariah had said, there was one person that had told him that he was wanted.

Abraham.

"I care about you, son. Not just because of your mother, either. You've grown on me no matter how much you hate me."

Despite what he had done, Abraham blamed himself and not Aaron. He was right to think so— he should have told him what he had been planning. However, as Aaron stood still, his arms hugged around his waist under a starless sky, the boy realized how wrong he had been all along— just as wrong as Zachariah.

Abraham still wanted him around, he had given him money and a proposition because he very well may be the last person on Earth that actually did give a damn. Aaron reached into his back trouser pocket and gathered the money he had given to him in the cell.

"I know what you think of me, and want to leave and I'll give you the choice if you want it. They're fixin' up the coach, then I'll be back on the trail. I was saving this up for us, move you to a decent place where I could find better work. Raise you proper. I'm givin' this to you. It's enough for a ticket on the train and then wherever you wanna go. I know you don't want to stay with me, but if you change your mind, I leave at dawn at the end of the week."

"I know you don't want to stay with me..."

The driver knew exactly what Aaron thought of him, but still gave him the money anyway. If he didn't care about him, he wouldn't have bothered — Aaron would have never given away such a fortune for Abraham if their roles were reversed.

Aaron looked down at the waded pile of green notes like he had been hit with a battering ram. Remorse flooded him all at once and when he looked down at the evidence in his hand, it felt as he was holding a hot piece of coal in his palm. He was wrong, so incredibly wrong, to think that nobody cared about him and the fact that Aaron had never once reciprocated what Abraham felt about him, made him feel disgustingly ungrateful. Aaron had been horribly mistaken about his own assumption about what he was.

He wasn't an orphan, not if he didn't want to be.

"I was saving this up for us, move you to a decent place where I could find better work. Raise you proper. I'm givin' this to you. It's enough for a ticket on the train and then wherever you wanna go."

This money never belonged to him, it belonged to both of them. There was no way he could keep it, even if it was a given to him willingly. Aaron knew with a heavy sigh of regret, that he had to return the money to him. His other proposition, however, the boy would have to give it some thought about. It was new, unexplored territory he was afraid to trek across — maybe the bravest thing that Aaron would ever consider doing, but certainly worth at least negotiating about.

Aaron pocketed the money and instead of the hotel, walked until he saw orange light flickering ahead of him; curtaining the dirt road. It was the tavern that Zachariah and Abraham frequently visited. Stepping back on the boardwalk, he peered through the dirty window and frowned when he caught the brim of a familiar dark hat.

The hour must have been later than he thought it was, because not very many people occupied inside the bar area. All he could make out where few older ranch hands playing cards with girls at their shoulders and Abraham seated at the table nearest the window. The barkeep, a short and stout frizzy red-haired man, walked over to the driver's table and placed another bottle of whiskey and collected the empty one he was holding loosely in hand.

Aaron felt abashed surprise flower across his face. Even after days on the trail, dealing with both Zachariah, Indians, the passengers, the horse team and making sure he was comfortable, he had never seen Abraham look as exhausted as he did; it stopped the breath in his throat.

Black bags cresentoid under his eyes as his fingers gabbered towards the drink the bartender gave him. The boy, his only audience, watched as he nearly missed putting it to his lips before he sucked it down. With the back of his dirty black coat sleeve, the stagecoach driver wiped the brown driblets from his beard before he squeezed his eyes tightly.

Abraham shuddered, and the 7-year-old watched every muscle on his torso quiver as the liquor ran down his pipe. A woman in her dirty white unmentionables sauntered over to him, but her hips didn't sway seductively as they would to a potential customer; more like easy prey. The curvaceous brunette placed a hand on the back of his back, springing him slowly to a disorientated alertness.

He saw her ask Abraham a question, give a toothy grin and nod her head towards the stairs. Abraham closed his eyes as his cheeks ballooned from the burp he was holding in. Swallowing it after a long moment, he dismissed her with a cordial but tipsy wave of his hand. She nodded, looking somewhat disappointed and went back to the poker game.

Abraham titled his hat back and leaned backwards in the chair until his head lolled back. As soon as Aaron watched his chest rise and drop with the slow rhythm of his breathing, he understood that he was seeing Abraham past his usual inebriated limitations.

He knew Abraham drank— there wasn't an adult he knew that didn't— but he had always retained his tenacity to remain steadfast. Never once had Aaron seen him drink past the point of self-prescribed restrictions. As he continued to peer into the window, looking at the sleeping, drunk man that was alien to him, he couldn't help but wonder why he had drunk himself into a catnap.

A disapproving frown tugged at the corner of his mouth as he continued to peer at his surrogate guardian snoring so loudly he could hear him through the glass. What was bothering so bad that it was forcing him to resort to whiskey to steal shut-eye? Aaron knew him long enough to know that something troubling could be the only the only reason he was drinking so heavily.

For a brief, shameful moment, Aaron couldn't help but think it had something to do with him. With a sigh, and feeling the weight of the realization fall on him like someone throwing a horse saddle on him, he knew that he was the reason.

Why though—and it was the same question that had been haunting him since Abraham had left his cell. Why did Abraham care about him so much? He certainly never asked for Abraham to take him with him on the trail; to clothe him, feed him and provide shelter for him when they weren't traveling. The reason for his generosity didn't rest well with him thinking that the only reason he did it was because of his mother. He knew that it was part of it, but not the entirety.

Maybe at first it was… maybe that all changed after time went by. Perhaps the more he was in his company, the more he wanted to care for him. Was there something about him that Abraham saw that Aaron and everyone around them was blind to? Perhaps it was simpler than he thought: they were two orphans who loved the same woman, with nobody else to call kin. Maybe it was because they weren't kin and they were the same, was why Abraham was willing to try. It was just up to Aaron to give him the opportunity.

Aaron's head shot up when he heard angry shouting and looked up in time to see one of the men at the poker table throw his boot at Abraham's head. It hit him, knocking his hat off to the ground, but the driver remained as stubborn as a bear in hibernation. The brother of the boot's owner hit him again in the head and this time he did wake up.

As if his head weighed as much as a buffalo, Abraham had trouble picking it up as he sucked in the spit that crawled out at the corner of his mouth. The men shouted at him, yelling that if he continued snoring a bullet was going to be the next thing hitting his head.

Abraham climbed to his feet like a man in his 90's with a broken back and nearly fell over as he bent forward to retrieve his hat. Grabbing his still full bottle of whiskey, his feet shuffled across the floor like he was linked to a prison chain-gang as he staggered towards the door.

With a grin identical of a cat who ate a canary, he turned towards the girls, placed his hat on his head and tipped it at them by pinching the brim. Aaron heard their feminine, amused giggles as Abraham opened the door and lurched onto the boardwalk. The wind hit him and he nearly lost his balance before grabbing on to the side of the door. Aaron looked at him like a perplexed dog as the stoic driver kept his loopy grin on his face and walked in the direction of the hotel.

His boots limped across the dirt as he passed by Aaron as if he wasn't even there, missing him completely as he shut his eyes and sauntered towards his room at the hotel, using only the memory and luck to get him there.

"Wish I was in the land of cotton… old times they're not forgotten… Look away… look away…"

Aaron followed behind him as he side-winded across the street. Singing the same line of lyrics sarcastically in an almost decipherable murmur. The boy scratched the back of his neck sheepishly as he walked with him, unsure if he was morosely captivated by this new side of him, or making sure he got his drunk ass to the hotel without falling over in the street.

"Wish I was in a land of cotton… old times they're not forgotten…"

They got closer to the hotel, and he could almost make out the sign in the distance even though the blackness of the night hid the letters.

"…old times they're not forgotten…"

Abraham stopped in his tracks and Aaron felt goosebumps rise and tickle the fabric of his shirt sleeve when he heard the sad and derisive way he repeated the Dixie lyric. Fumbling with his footing, the ex-Confederate turned towards the boy who had been stalking him.

Aaron actually took a step back when he saw the way his respectful guardian glared at him. He had never seen him once look at him with as much disgruntled malice, not even Zachariah looked at him with as much contempt. The major difference between the two men, was Abraham looked at him with angry tears coming out of his eyes as his upper lip twitched at him sharply—vindictively.

Instead of feeling frightened by it, Aaron took a step forward. It was all a show; he was acting—and doing it poorly. The only reason he knew Abraham was because of the formidable sadness he saw streaming down his cheeks.

Aaron managed to catch how honestly melancholy he was, before the man bared his teeth and lobbed the bottle at him.

The brown bottle scattered into jigsaw pieces across the dirt like a crack of lightening hitting the ground. Aaron had to jump backwards to avoid the shards that were pointed in a disorganized diamond shape where he once was. Even though he wanted to rationalize that Abraham was drunk, it didn't feel like a bluff.

"Get goin'. See who else wants a father killin' brat."

The blonde haired boy felt his bottom lip tremble. He couldn't take his eyes off the broken glass and the liquor sinking into the dirt. His vision blurred as tears resurfaced on the ledge of his eyes, and he looked at Abraham with bleak puzzlement. Abraham would have never harmed him—sober or drunk.

Maybe he had been wrong all along, maybe not even Abraham wanted him. Zachariah had been right about one thing: Abraham didn't have to do anything for him. He could have put him on a train and forgot he ever existed. Instead, the man opened his heart and tried to love him, and the only thing Aaron had done to repay him for his trouble, was believe that nobody wanted him. Abraham had wanted him and Aaron had rewarded his selflessness by doing the one thing that Abraham hadn't wanted him to do. Become a young killer, like he had been.

"I know you don't want to stay with me..."

That wasn't true anymore, and the more they stood in silence in the street, he began to understand that the money, and the talk in the cell was Abraham's way of telling him goodbye. He had been accepting that Aaron would never want him and knew it. That was why he was in the bar — Aaron had crushed his heart.

It was only confirmed when Abraham abhorrently uttered a sorrowful revision of the lyric, sending even more tears falling from Aaron and finally allowing Abraham's to escape.

"I wish it was your name that could be forgotten…"