Chapter 26
Once Upon A Time in The West
Part 8
The Crooked Man
As expected, Erron Black opened the door to the tavern and was greeted by both attentive and suspicious eyes. The fellow patrons of the small, shabby cantina, stared at him as acrid as the ambiance of the place was, and waited with tense anticipation; some even looked around, wondering if one of them were the reason why he was here. The gunslinger, his eyes as cold and harsh as arctic winds, closed the worn wooden door with a small push of his hand and then sauntered towards the bar.
Seeing that the Kahn's bounty hunter was not here to drag any of them away, they settled back into their seats and resumed their conversations. Still, despite that Erron couldn't see them, he could feel their eyes at the back of his head; anxiously dreading that he would suddenly drop his ruse and grab his unsuspecting victim.
The bartender, an older man with an always present pragmatic expression, walked his way as Black slid onto the stool. He was the only one accompanied at the bar except for the brunette woman at the other end that did her best not to look his way.
Erron, to avoid Norah any discomfort, suggested that she should enter the bar first. Despite being the only woman in the bar, the other 6 men, 2 to each table, accompanying the tables scattered around the musky den, ignored her. If they had wondered why she had entered, it was erased the moment his presence darkened the door. If they had walked in together, only then would they both of had share the awkward air and scrutinizing eyes. Norah understood that as well before they reached the tavern and seemed more than relieved when he had made the request.
The bartender, shorter than the gunslinger sitting on the chair, raised one of his thin gray eyebrows her direction but didn't comment before he turned back to him. It was obvious he wanted to say something. Even if the lithe Outworld man didn't have all the pieces he still had enough to see something of a picture. The receptive man knew the Kahn's guard after all. Erron hadn't lied to Norah when he told her he was familiar with the place and knew something was off the moment she sat at the bar.
Women weren't allowed; it was a rule of his establishment but mostly just personal rather than societal. Kuk'uq, the proprietor and bartender, was about to say something to her until he had walked in and distracted him. It wasn't until he Erron threw him a cautionary look did he understand that Norah was to be left alone. However, it didn't mean he was happy allowing her to break his one rule because of Emperor's bodyguard.
"I still don't have any of what you want," Kuk'uq told him placidly as he walked his direction. His raspy voice sounding more aggravated than usual. "And I would have thought that your absence would have meant that you understood I won't in the future."
The corner of Black's mouth tugged sneeringly at him behind the mask. Unbeknownst to former female delivery person seated nearby, Erron used to get his booze from Kuk'uq. The owner had stopped smuggling them in after Kotal Kahn thought it best to embargo any goods from Earthrealm after the reappearance of Shinnok. The marksman hadn't been happy about it and didn't return until now; there was nothing Black wanted here besides the whiskey, which he had to admit was better than what Norah had provided.
Even with the lull of his appearance at his place for almost a year now, it seemed that Kuk'uq still harbored unhappy feelings about their previous arrangement. Unlike Norah though, he didn't feel guilty about it nor cared that he hated him.
"Whatever doesn't taste like shit," the marksman told him, placing a small donation of coins on the wood.
A grimace rolled briefly across his diamond-shaped face before his brown eyes shifted slightly to the cupbearer and then back to him. "And her?"
"Ask her," Black instructed with an indifferent shrug.
"Does she even have money?" Kuk'uq asked sourly.
Erron stared pointedly at him as he growled, his patience already dissipated: "Just get her what she wants."
Kuk'uq fist tightened across the old, blotched surface of the hickory colored bar but didn't reply. The man knew there was no point in arguing. Erron was still a paying customer no matter who was sitting at the bar or whatever history there was between the two of them.
Black allowed himself to relax and laid his arms on the bar, one on top of the other. He passed the time waiting for his beverage by rhythmically tapping a finger against the point of his opposite elbow, bitterly lost in his thoughts. Unfortunately, Kuk'uq hadn't been enough to distract him from the issue he wanted eradicated and had followed him to the bar. The same issue ever since they had passed the wedding reception.
This blue-eyed entity, the phantasm, demon… whatever it was, plagued his already turbulent thoughts. The enigma filed down at his patience little by little, and he was almost tempted to return to the reception to speak with it. The mercenary knew how pointless it was, though.
Despite the small time interacting with the being, the very fact that it could possess and jump from body to body with ease already spoke loudly to him. It would come to him when it felt ready to. It made him feel cowardly for admitting it, but the bounty hunter felt unnerved by that fact. It was the lack of control, simple as that, and it made him feel as if that specter had its ghostly hands around the handles of his revolvers without him even knowing it.
The cowboy felt eyes on him and raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Norah's direction. She stared attentively at him, waiting for his marble, cold façade to break and reveal what was really bothering him. He wouldn't admit it even if she did ask not to be rude, but because it simply didn't concern her.
Or perhaps it did.
After all, the thing didn't show itself to him until he was forced to attend her trial.
Were the two connected?
Black felt that idea was preposterous. Just because it showed itself to him at the trial, didn't mean that it was not watching him beforehand. Whatever it was, as playful as it seemed, was meticulous with its timing and seemed to single him out. If it did involve her, then wouldn't it have shown itself to her as well when the both of them passed by the cantina.
He sighed exasperatedly through his nose as he eyed the area, looking at each individual seated before facing his eyes forward again.
Whatever it was, it wanted his attention.
Well, it got it.
Erron hadn't heard Kuk'uq return until he sat a bottle of Outworld wine on the counter. From previous encounters, Black noticed that the man didn't bother to leave a glass for him, and turned to talk to Norah.
The mercenary eavesdropped as he unclasped his mask and uncorked the emerald green bottle. To his surprise, the Outworld man wasn't as rude as he predicted, but Erron suspected it had something to do with him sitting close-by. The Outworlder's tone was straightforward as he asked what she wanted and Norah modestly requested for the simplest food to make. The bartender asked if she wanted soup, one that was already sitting in a pot the back. As starving as she was, she rejected it firmly and said 'anything else, please.'
As odd as he found that, Erron ignored it and pressed his lips to the bottle.
A faint groan of disgust left him as he lowered the bottle back to the surface of the bar. By the taste of the liquor alone, he knew it was going to be a long, boring time until they would have to make their way back to the palace. Erron was certain he could get a buzz but had no desire to endure the taste of Outworld rice wine.
Unfortunately, without the alcohol to drown them out, caused his thoughts to return to the cantina. With a slight twinge of paranoia, he looked over his shoulder towards the other tables.
He felt like a rabbit surrounded by oblivious coyotes; there was no threat yet, but that could change in an instant. At least the demon's tell was the azure eyes; too bright for any normal person that it almost made them look luminescent. As he inspected every male in the area, looking at their iris' specifically, Black did his best to try and dust off what he remembered about Outworld mythology.
Despite spectral constructs, Meso-American-esque emperors, and four-armed bipeds, when it came to understanding Outworld and its peculiarities, he knew nothing else until he encountered it. There were simply too many creatures, sorcerers, and other abnormalities to keep track of and record. Even if someone had made a log of every magical being, he doubted anyone would ever be able to complete it before there was a new entry. There were some still out there, hidden in the shadows that preferred it. The gunslinger imagined that his poltergeist had gotten tired of skulking in the dark and he just happened to be the first thing that came across his path to haunt.
Erron didn't hear Norah approach until she moved to a stool closer to him. There were still a few islands of chairs between them, but now they were within distance to have a private conversation without anyone else to hear it. Still, her movement closer to him caused the men to lift their eyes to her back and narrow them in confusion; wondering why she dared. Some came to lewd conclusions and scoffed before turning back to their drinks. The baker kept her eyes forward as he turned his own to the front and ignored the audience behind them.
"What is it?" she demanded firmly. Her green eyes fixed on the bottles on the shelves behind the bar as if waiting for each of them to relate some distressing news. But the look was more reserved for the mercenary, and they both knew it.
He said nothing and raised the bottle to his mouth for another unappetizing sip. The baker's eyes flashed to him when he purposely ignored her, and narrowed as he continued as if her presence was completely nonexistent. Seeing that she wouldn't receive and answer, Norah raised herself from the stool and returned to the one she had been seated on previously.
Black could still feel her ire, skeptical gaze on him, but as soon as her food arrived in front of her, she left him be. He didn't want to distract her from what she came here to do, especially when it didn't involve her anyway, and picked himself from his seat and headed for the door when she began to pry apart the bread and devour it. His hand was on the door, grasping the handle with his free hand when he paused and looked over his shoulder.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed her face pull into a strained complexion. Stopping mid-chew, she raised a hand and placed it against her forehead as if stabbed by a sudden headache. Ignoring it, but obvious that it was still affecting her, dropped her bread and moved to the cooked mushrooms on her plate.
Black brushed it off and escaped out of the tavern to lean against the outside of the wooden building. Adjacent to the door frame, and between the half-cracked open window, candlelight streaked out and eclipsed him in light while the other half of his body was shadowed by the desert night. Pain throbbed over his back when he did and he did his best to ignore the lacerations still healing. With nothing else to do but wait, Erron turned to the bottle in his hand and began his task of emptying it. He did buy it after all, and despite the taste, had nothing else to do to pass the time. Bending his leg, he placed the flat of his boot against the wall, and switched between watching the pedestrians that passed by and the stars reveal themselves from passing clouds.
Every passerby eyed him with the same suspicion he gave him, and after a while, the bottle became merely a ploy to look unassuming as malevolent thoughts ventured back. Paranoid needles pricked over the skin of his arms as he waited like bait on a hook outside. Even inside the bar, he felt like prey, but now that he was out in the open, he felt even more unsettled. With each Outworlder that passed by, either traveling back to their homes for the night or meandering away from them for a night elsewhere, Black felt that the possibilities were endless for the creature to appear; it could sneak up on him in anyone of the potential puppets.
Maybe it was all just a game, he thought bitterly to himself. He could have very well been the puppet. Black scowled at the prospect and took another swig, this time lingering the bottle longer on his lips. The wine had no burn to it and even halfway through the bottle already, felt only the slightest buzz dull out the ache on his afflicted back. The gunslinger ironically considered that for the best; he would need his wits when it did show even if he wanted nothing more than to drown his anger.
He didn't appreciate being the joke to some childish and supernatural game— if that was all it was. If not, then he wished to learn about the nefarious details about its plan already.
Another hour ticked by, and as the night quieted with less and less people, Black littered the empty bottle to the sand and crossed his arms over his chest. Kuk'uq hadn't cared when he ventured outside to collect money from him for Norah's meal, and wordlessly retreated inside.
Leaning against the wall of the cantina, he sighed in irritation through his nostrils. What was taking her so damn long to eat? Erron had thought about going back inside but disregarded it after a while.
There was no rush, even with the morning creeping on them soon, and he sincerely doubted she was in any hurry to see her new husband. Black could picture her at the bar, probably waiting for her to fetch her and dreading the moment he did. With that in mind, he would wait for her to come to out when she was ready. After all, even if he faced rebuke from Kotal, it was still nothing in comparison to what awaited her.
To his surprise, the door opened, and Norah walked out to join him and even if it took only a few seconds, the marksman could already see that something was wrong.
Her body language changed. No longer did she walk as if she was heading to a guillotine. On the contrary, her imperious posture was cool and relaxed she came to stand next to him; leaning against the wall as if to mock him.
With his nerves bristled in alarm, he immediately peeled himself from the wall to stand in front of her. Her eyes were fixed down at the empty wine bottle, concealing them from sight, as she tapped the glass gently with her foot.
The baker clicked her tongue as if reprimanding a naughty child and shook her head. "Not at all promising— especially for an Emperor's warrior."
The gunman's hand lashed out, grabbed her by the chin and lifted it with enraged fingers— his anger causing him to forget momentarily who it was the entity was possessing. As predicted, Erron was greeted with a pair of cyan colored eyes that stared at him with indifference at his action. Seeing that he might be hurting Norah's face than the specter as he had wished, his strong digits loosened but still kept a firm grip to hold her in place.
"What do you want?" Black growled. "Spit it out already."
It raised Norah's eyebrow at him in surprise. "I do not have to. And firstly, I think it would be better manners if introduced myself."
Inadvertently, he felt his hand tighten across Norah's skin with enough pressure to bruise. "You already have introduced yourself."
The blue eyes of the phantom gleamed in amused bewilderment at him as they glanced from his hand and then back to his ruthless cobalt stare. "I am not sure you are aware, but I cannot feel anything that you are doing while I am another's body. So, it is pointless to try and hurt me."
Black chewed the inside of his cheek, his glare still hard on the possessed baker. It was so odd hearing Norah's tone reciprocated to him in an alien mannerism, even if the voice itself was not manipulated in any other fashion. It still felt like night and day; the being was aggravatingly priggish, yet blasé. The charlatan's eyes glanced down at his crushing fingers and then back to him with an impartial expression.
"Norah on the other hand will feel where your fingers touched," it told him, warning him matter-of-factly. Only then did Erron relent his iron grip, but moved his fist to grapple the shoulder of the woman's blue dress to keep it pressed against the wall.
As before, the poltergeist seemed to regard the action as meaningless as dust settling on the baker's clothes. Perhaps he found its reaction annoying because it wasn't its clothes — or body — to begin with.
"Get out of her," the Kahn's guard ordered.
"I am not hurting her," it replied simply. "I am merely borrowing. As I did with the others."
"What do you want, then? I ain't askin' a third time." the fabric in his enclosed hand balled and twisted angrily to demonstrate his point.
"My name is Chaeomi."
"I didn't ask for your goddamn name," He blinked his eyes at the demon. "And what kind of name is that?"
"It is my name," Norah's face curved into a brief, entertained smile before frowning at him. "And to answer your other question: I have something you want. I also have something you need. Most importantly, though, I require your services."
"It's a little late in the night for riddles," Black pointed out with a grumble.
"I apologize. I forgot that you are man who prefers bluntness over polite conversations," Chaeomi pointed out, her nonchalant expressing mirroring her tone.
The bounty hunter ignored the remark and scoffed. "You don't have anything I want, and I'm not for free, no matter how much you think botherin' me is gonna to get you what you want."
The blue eyes sparkled like blue topaz the same moment a Cheshire smile pulled at the corners of Norah's lips. "I have Prince Rain."
Erron caught his expression from falling into a dour one at the mention of the Edenian's name and quickly shifted it into one of pure professional interest. The creature wearing the baker's skin still seemed to see straight through his shield and could tell that his commitment to capturing Rain was more vindictive than it was a requirement of his vocation.
How did this thing know he was looking for Rain? With that question on his mind, allowed repulsive possibilities to spring into his thoughts. How long had this thing been following him? Was it there in the jungle with him, amongst the other dangers that lurked? Was it in the throne room with him when Kotal gave the order. Or had it been with him since Rain had snapped Bert's neck in his room? The assumption made him feel violated as much as it did agitate him, and it only fueled him with more anger. Why him? Why did it care about Erron's assignment to apprehend Rain? Why did it care that he wanted to see the smug, Edenian bastard locked up? What was Erron to this being?
"Would you like to see him burn?" Chaeomi grinned, her seductive words slithering along his skin like the sharp end of a knife.
The muscles in Black's jaw tightened as he ground his teeth in irritation. The promise was enticing, but he knew that it would come with obligations — obligations that he would not submit to no matter what it offered. He refused to be snake-oiled into a deal with something that would not even show its true face to him.
"I don't need your help to see that happen," he stubbornly protested. The marksman released Norah's clothes with a small shove. "So, you have nothin' I want."
His counter didn't seem to vex the possessed cupbearer and retorted back smoothly: "I have no doubt you could find him in time. You are a capable man. How long would that be though? Years? I can give you days. You will not find him as easily without me."
"Even if I do believe you, I have no guarantee that you are tellin' the truth," the mercenary argued, shaking his head lightly.
"I have followed you from the jungle, and I have seen into your thoughts. You and I both know that my word is better than any information— or lack thereof— that you have presently."
Well, at least that answered if it had followed him from the Kuatan Jungle. It still offered little comfort finding out that it had been inside his head without him even knowing. Erron's knuckles turned white as he balled one of his hands into a furious fist. If it could trespass into his thoughts, and acquire knowledge without him even realizing, what else had it done? Had he been manipulated too while he was tasked to find Rain?
It seemed to understand the source of Black's rancor and lifted Norah's hand to place against his cheek. "I did nothing, I assure you. There was no reason to. I merely attached myself to you and followed you out of the jungle."
Erron grabbed the baker's wrist and pulled it away from his skin."Like a common parasite," he seethed, tossing Norah's hand away.
"Call me what you wish," Chaeomi said, sounding somewhat dejected, "But I am not your enemy. I am merely a messenger hoping that you will agree to solve both of our problems."
"And what problem is that?" the bounty hunter interrupted.
Norah's eyebrows slanted into a hateful demeanor. "Prince Rain has forced me to leave my own village and has turned my people against me. He rules with fear, and anyone that has protested has met death. He has already slaughtered many, and I cannot bear to see any more of my people hurt."
"And you need me to do your dirty work," Black interjected sourly.
"I need you to do your job," Chaeomi scowled back. "And besides the information I provide, I think you will find my form of compensation more than generous."
The cowboy crossed his arms over his chest and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"It is quite clear that you do not trust me, and perhaps that was my mistake. You haven't survived in Outworld as long as you have by being gullible, and how do you Earthrealmers say this? Oh yes, 'when something is too good to be true, it usually is'. So, I will have to prove to you that I will keep my word."
A small 'hmpf' left his mouth. "And how do you think you'll go about accomplishin' that?"
"By giving you what you need first."
"What is it you think I need, then?" the doubtful gunslinger scoffed.
The phantasm smiled sardonically and answered: "Peace of mind."
"My mind's at peace," Black asserted sarcastically.
"We both know that is not true," Chaeomi chuckled lightly and as sly as a fox, tilted Norah's head at him. "And I do not have to read your mind, or hers, to know what it is you both need."
Even without having to voice it, Erron knew that it was talking about Hulin. Black's silence condemned him, he knew, but he was at a loss for words; he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound like a weak debate. Simply because it was the truth, not only for himself, but surely for Norah as well.
Again, he couldn't help but feel defiled and manipulated by not only its observant behavior, but the fact that it knew it was none of its business and was self-aware that its ploy was dirty leverage to use against him.
"I know that you think he will kill her the moment she takes out the knife, and even if she chooses not to kill him, he certainly will to her, eventually," Chaeomi taunted candidly. "Despite your intentions to give her the knife as noble as they are, you know it will be fruitless— just as fruitless as your attempts to get rid of what dark memory it reminds you of."
The unnerved gunman popped the bone in his finger with his thumb, the sound an audible crescendo to his evaporating patience.
Norah began to walk around him, her possessed body making her circle him like a vulture looking down at a limping animal. He didn't react, choosing to remain as still and unmovable as a heavy boulder even when he felt Norah's fingertips land on top of his shoulders. They cradled each side gently, but her touch still burned his whipped back. As much as he hated the uncomfortable gesture, acted as if her hands were undetectable. However, he did reprimand himself for allowing it to do that when she leaned forward and whispered in his ear: "…And they all lived together in a little, crooked house."
His lip twitched in anger as he walked forward, letting the distance he created remove her hands from his back. As soft as curtains, Erron felt Norah's hands slide from him and fall away. But still he could feel those damned meddlesome eyes at the back of his head, and as much as he hated to admit it, felt the hair at the back of his neck stand.
"You were but a child back then, you could not have known what your actions would lead to, what they would inspire," Chaeomi told him, like a parent trying to console a grieving child. It did not last long, and her tone harshened. "But you are much older now. I know you mean well, but you know that you can do more for her. You do not have to be further inspiration."
"I know what you are doin'," the Kahn's guard fumed. He wasn't an idiot. The thing was pulling at his strings to see which persuasive tactic would finally make him snap.
First, it had been his job, then his hatred of Rain and now it was using his guilt. And although he considered the latter gimmick as nothing but blackmail meant to test the limits of his remorse, had to admit that it was working.
It was true that the situation with Norah did remind him of Atchison, although the two incidents were mere ripples in comparison rather than actual mirror images of each other.
One thing was for certain.
They both involved crooked men.
Atchison, Kansas
1868
At the behest of Dr. Finney and weight his philosophical motto sinking his conscious every time he tried to refuse, it did not take long for Aaron to find the girl with the pink ribbon.
But he was not the first.
Perhaps it was the moonless night and the dead lanterns that had been a catalyst. Or perhaps it was the tired horses and equally drained driver that just could not react in time, but Abraham did not see the little girl run from the alley until the two lead horses came to a screeching halt and neighed in distress. Like an accordion, each of the dark colored horses buckled into each other until the straps stopped them. Some reared on their hind legs as much as their restraints would allow, but each one of them bellowed loudly.
Aaron, who had kept his distance from the stagecoach station and ducked back into the alley when he saw Abraham's team, watched in wide-eyed horror as the little girl ran into the massive thigh of the left leader. When the orphan saw the girl disappear into the murky dirt, a large cloud of hazelnut dust blotting out the scene, he for sure thought that she had been pulled under their hooves.
He could see Abraham's black hat casting a shadow and cut through the dusty veil as he leapt off the driver's box of the coach. Zachariah was with him, and although he was concerned, was nowhere close to the same level of dreadful trepidation that was written all over the driver's face.
As the dust began to settle and drift away from the Butterfield Stagecoach station, the young boy kneeled to look under the horse's legs to see what was going on.
The little girl, her once pristine white dress and face unmarked with a single speck of dirt, was covered in walnut colored soil. She laid as still as a corpse and Aaron felt an uncomfortable lump grow in his throat at the sight. He didn't even know why he was upset, the boy had only met her once, but grew increasingly anxious when he watched Abraham try and wake her up with no avail.
The blonde-haired boy could make out the coach driver's panicked voice. Begging her to open her eyes, and each of his distressed requests was answered with more silence from the child.
From the darkness, Aaron gripped the edge of the wood and felt his fingernails dig into the splintered surface of the building. Only allowing half of his face and body into the street, he spied on the men as Zachariah went to control the spooked horses.
Suddenly, Abraham knelt and quickly gathered the girl in his arms. Carrying her unconscious body in a bridal's carry, the 7-year-old watched as Abraham ran as fast as he could in the direction of the alley he was standing in.
Aaron, who had been kneeling, stood back to his feet and began to take a step back. The boy begged his feet to spring alive so he could take off into a run and escape the man coming towards him. He feared as if Abraham might reprimand him again, yell and curse at him, disregarding the girl in his arms to take the moment to remind Aaron how much he truly hated him.
However, Abraham never entered the alley he was in and took off into the night— heading in the same direction of Dr. Finney's tent.
It wasn't what alarmed Aaron, though.
At the last moment, until Abraham disappeared behind the buildings and further into the empty street, Aaron caught a glimpse of his black-brimmed hat flying off his head, and tears running down the man's face.
Abraham, who had never forsaken his hat until now, didn't even blink as it lifted from his head and hit the ground behind him; Aaron was certain he would have trampled it under his own boot if it had been in his path. The man was that concerned about what he had done. Not that the boy blamed him, Aaron would have been scared if he had run over a little girl with his horses.
There was a small part of him that wanted to follow his former caretaker, only to see how the girl was. Was she dead? Was she still alive? His curiosity and concern nagged at him to go after them, despite that it was Black that was carrying her to find her help.
The boy wondered somewhat selfishly, however, if he could take off now that Dr. Finney had found the little girl. The older man didn't need the boy anymore, and his broken arm was healing in a sling, so he didn't need the doctor anymore.
"Do good deeds and endure… I know you are the coach boy… Repentance can be erased by completing good deeds."
The doctor's words rang through his head like church bells of a gothic cathedral, and he understood that he simply couldn't do that, as much as he wanted to go on his own. Aaron especially didn't want to confront the man that reminded him that he was either. Besides, the homeless boy had to make sure that the girl got to a doctor's tent, even if it turned out it was not Finney's. He had the waver that question from his conscious, or it would forever eat at him.
Aaron waited until Zachariah and the horses were out of sight, walking them to the livery to undress their harnesses and settle them in for the night. As soon as the shotgun messenger was gone, was when the boy embarked from his temporary sanctuary in the dark alley. As if alone in the desert, with nothing but the sounds of his shoes crunching the rocks beneath him as his own solitary music, the orphan ventured timidly into the open.
Now that he was exposed in the street, he suddenly had second thoughts about trying to find the doctor and the driver. Maybe it would be best, for everyone, that he just sunk into the dirt and erased himself from existence. Abraham didn't want him; he had made that blatantly clear the moment his bottle hit the ground, and the doctor was just using him. He still had no one.
The boy's eyebrows lowered and pressed into a scornful glare. The hat, tilted on its side like a toy top, only caused the angry coals in his stomach to grow hotter when he thought about its owner. But for some reason, he couldn't keep that fire alive inside him when he thought of Abraham running with that girl. The 7-year-old had never seen him passionate about many things, and had always seen the older man as stern and rational. There was not much that rattled him. Seeing that he had almost killed a girl—a girl that wasn't even kin— confused him.
Also, and he wondered if he imagined it, but he had never once seen Abraham shed a tear. There had been only one instance where he had, but even then, it had proven to be questionable if it was sincere.
When he threw the bottle at him.
Aaron looked down at the stagecoach driver's forgotten headpiece and was torn between wanting to kick it and picking it up to return it to him. In truth, Abraham didn't deserve either. Aaron, after all, seemed like nothing to him; he should treat Abraham and his things the same. Taking his anger out on the hat was pointless, and all it would do in the end was reaffirm that Aaron was still bothered by what Abraham did to him that night. The boy had tried to make amends, and the man had pushed his attempts aside despite how false Aaron had thought it felt. There was still nothing left to salvage and it was best to let it be forgotten.
The boy did eventually pick up the hat from the ground, unsure of what else to do now, and held it in his small hand by the brim. Sighing despondently, the child looked once again in the direction the dark-haired man had fled with the injured girl. A twinge of jealousy erupted within him, irrational but potent. Why did Abraham care more about her than him?
Why did he even care if Abraham did?
"The hour is late young man," called a male voice to him. "Perhaps you should head indoors."
The orphan turned towards the source of the voice and found the unwelcomed visitor to his solidarity standing much too close for comfort. Even if the lithe, old man was what most would come to look at as unassuming, there was something odd about him that Aaron just couldn't place, but discovered it instantly.
His hair was pulled back so tightly that the 7-year old was certain they were tearing from his scalp with every second that passed. Tight in the ponytail, the thin strands, as white as strings on a violin's bow, reached the middle of his back. The older man, who Aaron would have to guess was in his 50's, bent over towards him as if he had an unseen tumor on his back that weighed his shoulders down. His eyes twinkled at him like gray stones under a clear river's surface and seemed to smile at him with the same semblance as the grin that pulled across his face. The old man was also dressed quite refined for the small town of Atchison, and Aaron found it particularly curious. It was too refined.
He seemed dressed in his Sunday best, which was strange for a simple Tuesday. His gravel gray double-breasted vest and frock coat hung on him like a garden snake stealing the skin of rattler to camouflage itself as something more outstanding and respected. The senior man was too neat, too clean-shaven and his clothes were too polished. It was as if he bought them just now. The derby hat, the same color of his attire, was much more worn and speckled with dirt than the rest of his garments and it was the only clue that Aaron needed to know that his occupation was not one of a rich businessman even if he masqueraded as it.
Perhaps it was the deception that made Aaron nervous because the rest of his appearance gave off the air of a benevolent relative. As if he was the grandfather that Aaron had never met. The smooth skin of his face, which was devoid of scars or other abnormalities, clung the architectural structure of the bones underneath and made him look more skeletal and frail. Besides the hunched posture and the slimness of his body, he seemed to be in adequate shape for someone his age.
In the back of the lonely boy's mind, he had the disturbing inclination that the man before him was Mr. Bauchau—the little girl's guardian— and even more disturbing was he was alone with him. Aaron didn't need the gray man to introduce himself to the boy; he just knew it had to be him. What else would she be running from?
The girl with the ribbon had obviously been terrified of him, whatever it was that he done to her, and had sent her out to find him. The entire thing made his stomach worm, and finally meeting him, only amplified the feeling. He was struck dumb on what he should do, his entire body frozen as the man gleamed down at him like a cat with a cornered mouse.
Mr. Bauchau eyes landed Abraham's hat and gingerly reached with outstretched fingers. "That is quite a fine hat you have there," he acknowledged with a friendly tone. "May I?"
Unintentionally, the orphan's fingers gripped Abraham's hat tighter as the elderly man pinched the brim between his thumb and finger and pulled it out the 7-year-olds grasp gently. Aaron felt himself suck in a breath as he did. Briefly, the older man inspected it and then smiled as he placed Abraham's hat on Aaron's head. The black hat immediately fell forward over his eyes and he heard Bauchau chuckle at him. Air escaped out his mouth as hot as steam from a train engine and used his injured hand to bat the brim of the hat up with the back of his small hand.
"A tad too big for you," Bauchau commented. Propping his elbow his elbow in the palm of his hand and stroking his chin, contemplating an idea for a moment, he finally said: "I have something that might help you fit into it better. Something you can stuff with."
"It ain't my hat," Aaron snapped.
"Oh… then whose hat is it, young man?"
The boy narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you?"
"Well, if it is not your hat, perhaps you should return it to its owner," the gray man suggested, a pointed look cast down at the hat on the orphan's head.
The blonde-haired boy blinked nervously at him. The last thing he wanted to do was see Abraham now, but even more so was to continue to be in his presence. Conflicted on which option would garner less discomfort, he stood there before the man in silence. Aaron began to hope that perhaps he was wrong that the man was the little girl's guardian. Maybe he was just jumping to conclusions. Aaron could have been satisfied with that idea, and allowed it to calm his nerves for a moment, until the man said something that sent shivers down his spine.
"Or would you prefer to keep it from the Butterfield driver instead?" Bending down to one knee, so his teasing gray eyes were level with his, he winked and promised: "I won't tell a soul. I'll be as quiet as the grave."
The boy felt himself taking a step back. "How do you know it's his?"
"Because I know you, young man," the old man clarified. "Your story is an interesting one. The father you shot and the other man pretending to be yours to try and protect you from both the noose and evil itself. A funny little story, indeed."
Aaron stared in confusion at him and flinched when his weathered hand came to clasp the top of his shoulder. The small weight of it, despite that the old man was trying to be gentle, caused pain to flare throughout his broken arm and made the boy wince slightly. If the old man knew that he was hurting him, didn't seem to acknowledge or care.
"You remind me of myself from long ago," he reminisced to the youngster. "An orphan much like you who has had so much pain inflicted upon him. I know you have been told to feel remorse for your actions. I say, do not. The driver can never understand this because he does not know how you feel."
"And you do?" Aaron challenged.
"I simply despise those trying to impose their morals on others," the man replied with a frown. "Especially when they can never understand the person's position themselves. Do you feel what you did was wrong?"
Aaron considered his words for a moment. The implications of what they were and what would happen if the boy sincerely admitted that he thought his Pa had it coming; what kind of monster it would paint him as. Most would have agreed with him if they had known the whole story, hell even Abraham did even if his plan didn't involve Aaron pulling the trigger.
Regardless if the more Christian folk didn't agree with the methods, they would have had to say he deserved it as well, even if they would never voice it. Aaron didn't run to church for forgiveness, and never would so their opinions were meaningless to him, anyway. The boy had always known he wasn't welcomed and never bothered to understand what God would have wanted for him. He didn't think God liked him very much anyway.
So, Aaron couldn't say what he did was wrong, and perhaps the old man knew that as well before he even asked. With that in mind, suddenly he felt even more trapped being near him, and the question had simply been the key turning in the lock.
"It was not," Bauchau affirmed with a small shake of his head. "And it is not right for others to make you feel that way."
"Abraham never did," Aaron argued. Technically it was only half a lie. Abraham certainly hadn't been happy about what he did, but knew that it was irreversible. Frankly, the man blamed himself more than he blamed the child, and it was the only time Aaron could recall that he had someone that did not look at him as a monster. Abraham saw himself as the monster for allowing it to happen. Still, Aaron hoped what he said was enough for the man to deter the subject. It did not work.
"And yet, abandoned you," the old man pointed out, raising a perceptive eyebrow at him. "Sallie has told me that you have been alone for some time. Wandering the streets like a pup he cast aside. Alone all this time. Does not sound like a father to me."
The homeless child felt sadness swell in his chest as he recalled the sound of the glass bottle hitting the dirt at his feet. It wasn't the only thing he had done. He had given Aaron money, too much money, and had genuinely wished for the boy he found his way in the world under the idea that Aaron didn't want to be around him.
"After all the mistakes I've made, the decision to not trust you with the truth was my biggest one. "I was a coward. Afraid I couldn't be anything but be a disappointment. I'm not a good man, but I wanted to at least try with you. I don't reckon I'll ever get the chance to now. Hell, maybe this all just proves I never deserved to get the chance. I knew you could pull the trigger, never doubted it, but I was afraid gettin' you involved might make you turn out like me in some way. I was wrong. Your different boy— stronger than either of us"
Abraham had told him that while visiting him in the cell, and he hadn't forgotten the sincerity of them.
Aaron could still hear the bottle shatter at his feet that night…
"I wish it was your name that could be forgotten…"
The sound felt more muted now as he thought more on the discussion behind the bars.
"I care about you, son. Not just because of your mother, either. You've grown on me no matter how much you hate me."
Perhaps, Aaron had been wrong all along about the bottle. He didn't throw it at him because he hated him, but because he hated himself. Maybe… Abraham had been angry with himself that he let the boy go from his life.
"I wish it was your name that could be forgotten…"
He had only been drinking that night, because of Aaron… and how empty he felt now that the boy wasn't around.
"He didn't abandon me," Aaron retorted meekly in a whisper, his eyes on the dirt.
Aaron had abandoned him.
Bauchau ignored him. "I sent her to offer an invitation. I have taken in many young orphan boys, and sometimes girls, discarded on the train. Sallie is one of them. It would please me if you would think about staying with us. Or at least entertaining the idea? You do not have to decide now if you wish."
Aaron felt the man's hand squeeze his shoulder; minuscule but it was enough to feel. The gray suited man nodded his head over his shoulder, indicating to the direction behind him. "My house is not far. You can accompany me if you wish, inspect if it is a place you would like to stay and then make your decision later. It simply would not hurt to take a peak, would it? You must be hungry and must have had quite a day."
The child stared warily at him, befuddled by his offer. Not only was it strange to have it suggested to him so openly, but at the same time, felt the man start to massage his shoulder with his fingers absently. Although he was being tender, the digits immediately felt like talons sinking into his flesh, trying to secure him, and he wanted nothing more than to wiggle away from them. He didn't know this man, nor wished to, and certainly had no desire to see anything in his house.
If Sallie, the little girl, didn't want to be there, why would he? Despite that the man was being cordial with him, even genteel, something still felt unquestionably wrong. It was all too much; too brazen for a first meeting.
Sensing his discouragement, the hand clamped down harder— this time digging his nails into the fabric of his coat. As if it could perceive the danger, the small knife in his pocket announced itself, reminding him that it was near if he needed it. Aaron just wished that it wasn't in the jacket pocket that his bandaged arm was covering.
"I should give Abraham his hat back," the boy suggested, trying to find a safe solution to dismay him. An understandable one that he would believe.
It didn't seem to work, and the elder clicked his tongue at him. "Why? You can leave it in the street. I am sure he will retrace his steps to find it."
Aaron tugged at his shoulder, trying to slip the man's hand away. "I wanna give it to him myself."
"You can do so after you have had something to eat," argued Bauchau. "I do not know about you, but I am quite famished myself."
"I ain't hungry," Aaron shot back quickly, trying to take another step back. The man's slender hands stopped him, and Aaron grimaced as it applied more pressure to his already aching arm.
His refusal seemed to annoy the man, more than it should have, and it made Aaron gulp nervously. Most people would have released him, understanding that he did not want to go with them and forget about the whole thing entirely. Bauchau was the opposite, and his persistence was not only unwanted, but not normal.
"You must be hungry," the gray dressed man insisted, his phony, kind disposition giving way to make room for the sincere scowl. "And it is just a hat."
"You're hurting me," Aaron confessed honestly, letting out a small whimper when he refused to let go.
Something occurred to the boy as the man gripped him that made his stomach flip with terror.
They were alone.
There was nobody in the street, the windows were dark as people slept in their beds, and besides Zachariah who was still tending to the horses, there was nobody nearby that could help.
Perhaps that was why Aaron felt more afraid by the fact than the old man obviously did.
Something darkened in his gray eyes, and no longer did they bother to hold their polite zeal. They were menacing, darker and conveyed something mysteriously barbaric and feral. It was as if he had the devil inside him, and now that Aaron could see under his sheep's clothing, allowed himself to disrobe the masquerade.
Quickly he moved his hand from his shoulder to latch on to his broken forearm. Merely touching the swollen limb would have brought tears to his eyes, but the uncaring iron manacle that squeezed like a boa constrictor made him whine with agony and terror. Climbing back to his feet with the child in tow, the frightening gentleman marched with him; dragging him with as much care he would give to a sack of flour.
Tears pricked the corner of Aaron's eyes as his feet stumbled forward along the dirt, in the mercy of the man's unrelenting grip and the afflicted arm. Abraham's hat bounced back and forth, switching from blinding him for a moment before falling backwards. It inadvertently scared him, and for a moment, he feared about losing the hat until his screaming arm halted him back to what was happening. The pain he felt was tremendously brutal; as if somebody was pulling his bones from his skin and he caught himself crying in pain. It sounded pitiful, and it flared the already expired temper in the old man who looked behind him to glower distastefully at Aaron.
"Be quiet! Or I will make it more painful for you!" he ordered, pulling him forward and sending him spiraling to the dirt ahead of him. From the movement alone, it was enough to case his arm to fly loose from the sling. Aaron hit the rocky soil with a yelp, laying face first. More upset tears fell from him and darkened the dirt in small puddles beneath him. For an old man, he was much stronger than he looked.
Above him, like hearing a demon hovering over his bed, listened as the gray man shuddered out deep exhalations through his mouth in an unnerving manner. At first, he thought that merely throwing him had exerted the man, but as he flipped over on his back, his blue eyes widened at a grotesque sight.
Living in a whorehouse, even at a young age, Aaron had come to understand what it meant when a male bulged from his trousers. Even back then, he always hated seeing it. It disgusted him, but for the doves, it meant business, and he knew what that business involved.
There was something undoubtedly more abhorrent about Bauchau's though, and Aaron could only imagine it had to do with the fact that there were no prostitutes around to cause that reaction. So why was he displaying it? It sent alarm fluttering over his skin, pricking him with dread.
Licking his dry lips, the old man walked over to him, preparing to reach for him. Moving faster than the boy himself could have ever thought he could, panic guiding him to reach across his torso and reach in his pocket, he pulled out the knife. Holding it in front of him, keeping his attacker at bay for now, Aaron scuttled away by using his bent legs to propel him.
Bauchau simply scoffed at him. "Think wisely, son. I am stronger that you. All I have to do, is hit your arm and your blade will be mine," the old man taunted, grinning like a wolf.
"I'll keep that in mind, ya' cocksucker!" Aaron bellowed, sniffling as he backed away timidly.
The senior merely chuckled at him. "My, what a filthy, little mouth…"
The smooth and lecherous tone made the youngster shudder with aversion. Propping his feet against the dirt, he pushed himself further away as the man lingered over him and inched his way over his prone form.
To his horror, Aaron felt the brim of the hat cascade forward and cover his eyes. Desperately, he reached to pull the hat away with the hand that held the knife handle, and as soon as he could see, watched as the man's curled fist collide into his soft face. Flashes of starlight exploded across his blackened vision and he faintly groaned when the back of his head bounced harshly against dirt.
Aaron felt the Bauchau's hefty weight on him before he managed to open his eyes. The older man's strong slender hands wrapped around the outside of his throat, pressed his thumbs into his windpipe and pushed down. He gagged for air and tried to scream as Bauchau purposely pressed his knee into Aaron's broken arm. The only sound that managed to come out was a garbled high-pitched whine that sounded like a squealing rabbit.
The old man, who had introduced himself as such a kind elderly passerby, now frothed from his bared teeth as an ugly smile twisted his face. Aaron gaped in wide-eyed fear as his stone-colored eyes gleamed down with fervor at his struggle.
He was enjoying it.
He was enjoying trying to kill him.
And he was going to kill him for sure.
Remarkably, and as his vision began to fog, Aaron realized that the knife that he thought would have flown from his hand, was still clutched in his tight fingers. With blind aim — and luck — the small child brought his hand up with as much speed as he could muster. An inhuman roar leapt from Bauchau's mouth above him, and immediately the suffocating weight on top of his fled as the old man got away from the boy as fast as he could.
Aaron coughed as he rose to his feet, reclaiming the air he had been deprived of to see Bauchau on his ass and the knife sticking crookedly out the side of his thigh. The insane adult looked towards the boy, and hissed angrily at him. The old man swiped for him with an outstretched hand, his fingernails curled towards him like claws, and nearly nicked Aaron's dangling sleeve.
With cumbersome speed, the injured boy child sprang to his feet and ran to get as far away from him as he possibly could.
"Don't fucking run from me you worthless little shit!"
Aaron didn't even bother to look, but the sound of his deranged and boisterous howl only made him propel his feet faster in tandem. There wasn't a single part over his body that didn't hurt, most of it centered on the side with his broken arm, but nothing surpassed the colossal fear that tried to anchor him to the earth. The boy resisted against it, not knowing where he was running, but running as fast as his legs could carry him. The discarded sling flapped against his coat with as much impact as somebody beating a goose feather against his chest.
His muddled mind and clumsy body navigated him between houses and shops he did not recognize through, and at the moment, couldn't care less. His tears marred his vision like looking through a stained-glass window and it caused him to collide into a solid, dark shape.
Despite his adrenaline-fueled and frightened confusion, the boy still recognized what he ran into was another person. Aaron wasn't sure if it was because he was so worked up, or because he thought that Bauchau had caught up to him, he thrashed and screamed in retaliation.
His hand and feet beat against strong muscled legs and a chest as alien arms encircled around him and lifted him up.
Shrieking at the top of his lungs, and thinking the worst was yet to come, he closed his eyes tightly in horror and fought with every bit of strength he had left.
"Aaron! Aaron! Stop! It's Abraham! It's Abraham!"
The terrorized boy, who had heard the words in the air, refused to believe them and continued to fight against the cage of arms bringing him closer to the larger body. Abraham, who he couldn't even see though the murky kaleidoscope of color that his flailing produced, could still smell the familiar tobacco smoke as Abraham brought him into a tight embrace. The driver cradled his legs and hefted him up until Aaron's eyes were buried into the black wool of Abraham's coat. It was too familiar not to be him and the boy shivered as the stagecoach driver held him in a soothing and protective embrace; finally ceasing.
Shaking out the last bit of his trepidation little by little, understanding that the person holding him was somebody he knew, and not who he feared it was, wrapped his good arm around Abraham's neck and clung to the material tightly. Black hoisted him up and instinctively Aaron wrapped his legs around his torso as the boy cried into his shoulder.
"I got ya, son… I got ya…"
It sent more tears pouring out of the boy's eyes when he heard those comforting words. It made him swell with appreciation but uncertainty how to feel.
The orphan felt like a coward for hoping this wasn't a fleeting thing, and that the moment Abraham set him down, he would stay.
Or was he just calming him for now and would get rid of him the moment that he put him back on his feet?
While it seemed silly, since if he was so detached wouldn't bother to pick him up in the first place, Aaron still prayed it wasn't the case. Because the moment he did, the child worried that he would be back in the old man's clutches and plunged back into the horror he had endured.
Memory of what occurred just seconds before running into the driver caused him to bawl harder into Abraham's shoulder, letting it soak into the fabric of the ancient coat Aaron knew so well. What had happened? Why had he tried to kill him? The ordeal felt as scattered as broken glass and it was impossible to try and piece together what had occurred. Even now, in the safe concealment of the stagecoach driver's arms, it was still as scary remembering it as it had been when it happened moments ago.
If the Butterfield employee was upset about Aaron using his jacket like a widow's handkerchief, he never once said or expressed it. Instead, and hearing Aaron crying harder into the crook of his neck as he buried his face into his wavy hair, Abraham brushed off the clumsy hat that sat awkwardly on the boy's head and used his hand to smooth the back of his messy corn-colored hair.
The calloused fingers entwined into his blonde locks gently, trying their best to relax the 7-year-old's frazzled nerves. It was gentle, and Aaron could have sworn that Abraham was almost afraid at first to use his hand in such a consoling gesture; unsure how receptive the boy would be. It was certainly new to both of them, and Aaron couldn't recall him ever holding him in this manner at all. Aaron's mother had been the only one to ever do that to him.
The perturbed boy suddenly heard the stoic man, who he had thought had been his enemy for years, suck in a breath, sigh heavily and whisper in an emotional, choked voice: "I'm sorry. I never should've left you in the street. I didn't mean it. I was being fool-headed. I am so sorry… I am sorry for leavin'…"
Hearing the apology, not only surged him with relief, but made the orphan sigh heavily into his coat. The man didn't hate him after all, just as he had suspected. Abraham was remorseful about the bottle and hadn't meant his drunken words like Aaron knew in his heart that he hadn't. No matter how much Aaron had tried to ingrain disdain for him after that; to help him forget. It had felt false when the driver had done it and it was, and there was no better evidence than the candor in his admission. It was true. He was sorry. Aaron knew he was, and deep down the head-strong boy was too for doubting him. And for everything as well…
The child even tried to tell him that, but the words came out in quiet, hysterical gibberish. He just couldn't form any words, as if his mouth had been tarred closed. Abraham's hand ran over his dirty, tangled hair in acknowledgement; he seemed to know what he was saying but didn't want him to overwork himself more. The child complied and settled into his hold.
He felt Abraham begin to walk, once again his hat abandoned to what was happening around him, and marched towards a direction Aaron didn't bother paying attention to.
To Be Continued…