End of an Outlaw (Part 5 of 5)

Bart stared at ceiling. It always seemed cold here, even in middle of summer. The large building was light, but it was as if the lightness all stopped at the cold bars that caged him in.

He still was processing what had happened to him the past few weeks. He hadn't realized what a reputation he had gotten; it seemed every other murder and robbery in Texas had been blamed on him. Even with the testimony of Rachel, he was still convicted. It was scarcely more than a blur in his mind, but he remembered getting caught by the sheriff while the others got away. Fortunately, Rachel was left with him, and Dumarie didn't take her. It didn't even seem real that he was there, locked in prison on a charge of several robberies and murders, while the other men escaped, unharmed, from the law.

But he was there, and as horrible as the prison was, he had been learning more since he had been put in prison than he had in the rest of his life put together. He had been growing in his new-found faith, and when he was able to, he spoke with whomever he could about it. Even one of the guards had shown curiosity in what made Bart so different from the rest of the prisoners. It seemed ironic that he was so happy in prison, that he was doing things he never would have been able to do outside those walls.

Jim Hodge, a fellow inmate, had decided to go to school to become a parson, after he got out in six months. He told Bart that he never would have made that choice if Bart hadn't have shown him the way, and Bart knew that was all he was doing—pointing in the right direction just as Rachel had done for him.

But even with all the good that came, the prison was a terrible place. It wasn't the state of cleanliness, or the care he got, but rather the knowledge that he was caged in there so, that made it terrible for Bart. In fact, prison life was probably better than the life he had been living, but it still was hard to know that he couldn't go take a ride over the desert or look around and see nothing but land any time he wanted to.

Sometimes he wondered why. Why had he needed to be convicted of murder? The judge's words still haunted his mind: Sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead. He was just waiting now. The hanging was scheduled for noon the next day. Bart wished, so hard, that he could've made more of a difference, but he knew God knew best. But sometimes that was awfully hard to remember.

He spent his last day the same as the days before, and soon it was after dark. He went to sleep that night knowing that it was his last night of sleeping in that cell. His cell was small, and the few pieces of furniture taking up space made it seem even smaller. Bart would be very glad to get out of this cell.

The next morning, he awoke and remembered what day it was. All through breakfast he remembered what day it was. He caught a few sympathetic glances from others prisoners as they morning wore on, but many just averted their eyes. There was one other man who was to be hung right after Bart, and that morning, he was about as dead-looking as Bart had ever seen a live man. Seldom was a criminal hung around the small prison; it housed few men who were guilty of more than theft or counterfeiting.

Soon, it was time. As Bart climbed up the gallows, he counted the steps. Each one brought him closer and closer. . . . Ten . . . eleven . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . . He was there. He stood over the planks that would soon be dropped from beneath him, tightening the rope that the man held ready for his neck. Funny, Bart felt warm for the first time since he had been arrested. The noon-time sun hit the onlookers, momentarily blinding them. Among those below him pitifully watching and waiting his destruction, Bart saw a familiar face. Rachel Logan stood in the middle of the crowd, her cheeks again damp with tears because of Bart. She blew a kiss to him, before turning around and fighting her way out of the crowd. Bart knew she had loved him. Maybe not as she would a man she wanted to marry, but as she would any human.

And for that and showing him the Way, Bart loved her too.

           

            

THE END



End of an Outlaw part 5 of 5 © 2018 by K.J. Bruce

End of an Outlaw (Part 4 of 5)

Everything was black as Bart stirred and blinked. His head felt like it was tied to a rock, and he could feel a sharp pain shooting through it. A hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" The voice of Rachel Logan bounced around in his head, echoing. How are you feeling---how are you feeling. . . .

He shook his head. "What happened?"

"That man shot you—not bad, I guess, but it grazed your head. I pretended you were dead, and he was satisfied and rode off," she said. "You should be able to stand soon, after you sit for a minute."

As his vision and reasoning became clearer, Bart looked up at the sun to determine the time. Must be close to five o'clock, he thought. The gang would soon be showing up. He put a hand to his head and felt bandage on it.

"John—or Bart, I'm gonna level with you," Rachel said. "I already know that you're an outlaw, but what I want to know is, do you? Do you really want to be?"

Bart was sitting up, and Rachel was kneeling beside him. Her words hurt more than the bullet crease. He knew the answer to her question, but what was the use in telling her?

"Listen," he said, "I've seen all I need to see to convince me that there's no use in going straight. My Pa was hung by people who believed in law and order and he had never done nothin'. You don't know what the world is like, Rachel. It can be mighty, mighty hard sometimes."         

"No, Bart, you're wrong. I know all too well the ways of the world. Do you know what I did before I came to Watertown? I worked in a saloon. A dirty place where nothing was sacred. I saw and did some things during that time that even now I hate to think about. I was trapped within that world, Bart. Trapped like an animal. And I wasn't much better than one, either. Anyway, I had run away from home, and one day my father found me. He took me out of there, to a ranch where I couldn't see any of my old friends, or do any of my old things. He took me out of there and taught me a New Truth. I learned about the greatest things a person can know. I found God.

"Now, Bart, I know how it feels to be trapped in something. I know you could've stopped it, but everyone makes mistakes. There is a way out."  Rachel was nearly in tears. Bart simply stared straight ahead, listening closely to the words which his heart had been waiting to hear.

"Listen, Bart. There . . . is . . . a way . . . out."

"But how? The gang will never let me out now," Bart said somewhat begrudgingly.

"You know, it isn't the gang that's got you trapped. You have your soul trapped. Have you ever heard the Gospel, Bart?"

He shook his head. Things were so confusing! Life was so confusing.

"What have you heard about God?"

"Not a whole lot, I guess. Just that He's God and He can do whatever he wants to you."

"God sent his Son, to come and die for your sins. The Bible says, 'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever shall believe in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.' God's son was Jesus. He was nailed to a cross. They nailed his hands for you, Bart. He hung there until he died. Men mocked him. Beat him. He endured it all for us—sinners." Rachel put gentle emphasis on each word, slowly, but desperately speaking.

"Yes, God can do whatever he wants to you, but he chose to give you life," she went on. "But men don't always accept that gift, and that's why the world is like it is today. One day soon, Jesus will come again, and take all his children home, and punish the ones who shunned Him, even though He doesn't want to. All you have to do is pray, Bart. Say that you believe in Him, believe that He died for you, believe that you need the saving."

"I know . . . I know I need something." Bart's voice was shaky, and Rachel's cheeks were dampened with her tears. "I believe, Rachel," he said with sigh of resignation.

"Pray, Bart. Ever since you came into the store for the first time, I knew you would believe someday."

Bart did pray, and he felt years younger. He still didn't understand what happened to his father, to his mother, to him, but Rachel assured him that that was okay. Some things, she said, they would never understand. They spoke for quite some time.

It wasn't as if Bart hadn't thought about God before—every human creature has to at one point or another in his life. Nor was it as if the words Rachel spoke were what made him pray. His heart had been searching for truth, and wanting it so badly. All he needed was someone to tell him what to do and a little push from above. It had been the way Bart took all the tragedies that had happened in his lifetime that made him the outlaw he was. From his mother dying when he was young, to his father being hung, to falling in with Darth and Smithy, Bart had been fueled by revenge. But that was different now, and Bart even forgot he was called an outlaw, until the sound of hoof beats interrupted his and Rachel's conversation.

"Bart, get saddled there's been trouble—who's the gal?" said Lefty as the three outlaws rode up.

"I'm not going, Lefty."

"Not going?" Dumarie asked. "You are coming if we have to drag you. Come on."

Stan dismounted and went to tighten Bart's horse's cinch.

"Wrong, Dumarie. I changed my mi- . . . my heart, and I won't ride with any gang, anymore."

Lefty and Dumarie dismounted and came to face Bart.

"We got to get out of here—fast. Someone got in the way of a bullet, and it won't be long before there's a posse on our trail." Dumarie had sudden inspiration and realized Bart would go nowhere for his own safety. "If you don't mount up and ride with us, the girl gets plugged."

Bart stood there deciding what to do, as Lefty held his gun on Rachel, Stan stood off to the side holding the horses, and Dumarie glared at Bart. Charlie just stayed on his horse, prepared to flee at any moment. Bart's head still hurt from the bullet crease and he felt dizzy. He looked at Rachel. Her face was pale, but she didn't look afraid—she didn't exactly look at him, either.

"Okay," he finally said. "I'll go."






End of an Outlaw part 4 of 5 © 2018 by K.J. Bruce

End of an Outlaw (Part 3 of 5)

Bart had been riding with Dumarie for over two months now, and they had yet to pull off a real job. Lefty had been doing some petty pick-pocketing to keep them in supplies and satisfy his urge for mischief, but that was about all that had been happening. The gang had left Mexico, riding back up into the states, still in Texas where they could make a dash for the border if necessary. It didn't take Bart long to learn what was expected of him—to be cold, silent, even brutal, and always to do what Dumarie told him without question. Although he was beginning to wonder if they would ever do anything but ride around Texas, barely surviving. Just when he was about to—politely, of course—question his new "boss" about it, Dumarie spoke up.

     "I've been keeping an eye on a certain bank lately. The stage is bringing a shipment of gold in Thursday, and we'll wait for them to unload it, wait for the stage to leave, before trying anything."

     "Just where is this bank?" Charlie asked. At first Bart had been surprised at the way Dumarie had allowed Charlie to talk to him, but then he learned Charlie was Dumarie's nephew, and rather spoiled when it came down to it.

     "The bank is at Watertown."

     Bart nearly dropped the gun he was cleaning. "Watertown?"

     "Yes, Watertown. Something wrong with that?"

     "N-no," Bart stammered. "Nothing, except I've been there before. Someone . . . might recognize me."

     "Aw, that won't be a problem," Lefty said. "Will it, Boss?"

     "No, I don't think it will. Nearly all of us are well-known, anyway, so it doesn't matter if someone sees you after the holdup. You will have to keep out of sight until then, though."

     Bart nodded, the long-forgotten feeling in his stomach came back for an instant, but that was pushed away in the excitement of planning the robbery.

     Carefully, they outlined the plan. They would hang around town all day—everyone except Bart, who would wait on outside of town, until Stan came to get him. They would listen to talk around town, in case something was fishy. One of them—probably Lefty since he wasn't known around Texas—would go into the bank under the pretense of wanting to open an account, and get the inside layout of the bank memorized. After that, they would either break in after closing hours, or at least wait until no customers were there. Today was Tuesday, the plans would be carried out Thursday.

     All day Wednesday, Bart fought his feelings of doubt over the coming robbery. He fully realized that he would probably be stealing from that girl, Rachel. The girl he had named his horse after; the girl he had spent so much money on buying useless things from her father's store, just so he could see her. 

     Finally, his outlaw side won.  So what if he should steal from her? Her father had plenty of cash coming in all day at his store. He figured if they could pull off the robbery, they would have earned the money. Mr. Logan didn't have to risk his life getting that money. Bart fought the truth that he realized he just thought. Mr. Logan really doesn't have to risk his life to get money. 

     That night he sat by the fire pondering the truth of the matter. It seemed he was always getting interrupted by one man or another. Dumarie had some more instructions for the next day. Lefty wanted to know if Bart wanted to play checkers. Again and again they interrupted him. Soon, the evening was past and night crept upon them. The moon rose and twinkling stars appeared. A coyote howled; an owl hooted; a slight breeze blew. And the campfire cracked, as the flames danced around, illuminating the camp and making weird shadows over it.  The men soon turned in, and all was quiet on the desert.

***********

The next morning everyone was up early so they could head into town. It was usually a good two-hour ride from their camp to town, and they took it slowly. They made plans for Charlie and Bart to be decoys, riding out of town, while Lefty and Dumarie circled around and stayed right under the law's nose. They would hide in the livery stable. The boss knew the man who ran it. It was the same man who had fired Bart after his father was hanged, and Bart wasn't too keen on the idea of staying around Mr. Rodway's stable, but he didn't even mention he knew the man.

The ride seemed unbearably hot and long to Bart, but the other men were surely enjoying it. Lefty and Charlie were joking, and even Stan was whistling. By the time they got to the outskirts of town, to a little ravine which was to be Bart's waiting spot, it was well after ten o'clock, and the day was beginning to be considerably hot.

The other three left Bart in the ravine, a wildflower covered, cool spot. Bart watched them leave and head to the town, which he could easily see. He decided to stretch out and sleep while he had the chance. There was no telling when he would be able to get a good night's sleep again. As he slept, Bart dreamed he was on a bucking bronc. He held his own for quite sometime, but soon the jarring, the hot sun, and the dust in his eyes and nose made him dizzy. On and on the bronc went, and Bart soon felt broken. He knew he had to decide whether to jump off, or stay on. He made the decision to jump, but just as he loosened his stirrups, he saw the face of his old boss, Darth, peering at him. For some reason, that made him unsure.

Bart's sleep was interrupted. He woke with a start and knew there must have been something that caused it.

"Hello," a female voice said.

Bart turned slowly toward the direction of the sound. He knew that voice. And sure enough, as his eyes adjusted, he could see the gold-brown hair, the clear deep eyes of Rachel Logan.

"Hello. . . . " he answered back, and stood up. She took a step closer, coming down into the ravine.

"I'm sorry I woke you, but I didn't see you." It seemed to Bart that her voice fairly sang as she spoke and smiled. "You used to come to my father's store, didn't you? Your name was John Williams."

Bart noted her slight emphasis on the word "was."

     "That's right, Miss Rachel."

"You remembered my name," she said, as if she thought it were an honor for anyone to remember anything about her. "But your name isn't John anymore, is it?" 

Bart glanced down at his worn hat in his hands. "Never did like the name John," he said quietly.

She knew. She knew he was a no-good outlaw. Just then, standing before Rachel Logan, Bart forgot all the training in brutality he had had.

"I was just picking some flowers." Rachel changed the subject and motioned to the flower-covered ground. "My Pa has been ill. He's confined to his room, and he likes to see some of the outdoors."

"I'm sorry to hear your Pa's sick. Will he get better . . . soon?" Bart still hadn't made eye contact with her.

"He'll get better in a few weeks, the doctor—"

Bart was so busy listening to Rachel, and Rachel looking towards town that they didn't notice a man sneaking up behind them until the gun was slowly lifted from Bart's holster and a voice spoke up.

"So we meet again, Bart."

Bart turned towards the man quickly. Henley Darth stood there. The man Bart thought he had killed.

Rachel looked confused at the hostile stance and the very presence of Darth. She looked from Darth, to Bart, and back to Darth again.

"Who's your pretty friend?"

Bart could barely find his voice. "None of your business," he said without showing his real surprise at the sight of a supposedly dead man. That was the good part of being an outlaw in Dumarie's gang; you learned to control your outward emotions.

Darth was taken aback by Bart's even reply. He straightened up. "You know, Bart, I started something a few months back that I intend to finish."

"Not with the girl here, Darth," Bart said, recognizing that glare in Darth's eyes.

     "I'm not wasting time this time. When I did that before I got shot so bad I was laid up for months. I even had to escape jail, just so as I could come and finish my job."

With that Darth pulled a gun out of his holster, cocked it, and fired.





End of an Outlaw part 3 of 5 © 2018 by K.J. Bruce

End of an Outlaw (Part 2 of 5)

Bart could see the cabin, hidden in a small grove of trees. Old and broken down, the shutters hung partially off the glass-less window, and the whole thing looked like it wouldn't stand if a strong wind blew through. The dusky light gave the whole scene a weird appearance.

Carefully, Bart chose his steps down to the shack. Loudly enough as not to surprise his pals inside, and quiet enough as good sense told him he should be. He gave three quick knocks on the door and slowly opened it.

"Boss?" he called into the apparently empty cabin. "Smithy?"

He saw a lamp sitting on a table just inside the door and, pulling a match out of his vest pocket, he lit it. Even with the light of the lamp it took a few minutes for his eyes to get adjusted. He quickly scanned the cabin; the table, a large old cook stove, and—what was that on the floor? He took a step towards it and realized it was a body. A man with a sombrero over his face. He knelt down beside the man.

"Smithy. . . . " he whispered, checking beneath the sombrero to be sure. A bullet hole in Smithy's chest was the obvious reason for his death.

Bart was wondering what could have happened to the Boss, when he heard a slight creaking sound behind him. Straightening up from over Smithy, Bart turned slowly toward the sound. There was a figure in the corner, and the lamplight flickered off what could only be one thing. A six shooter pointed straight at him.

Bart raised the hand that held the lamp in order to get a good look at the man holding the gun. Henley Darth's face—his boss's face—was what the light produced.

"What's the matter, Bart?" the Boss's deep voice questioned. "Surprised about my new . . . hmm . . . shall we say, 'dividing' . . . plans? You see, I decided that it would be best not to split with Smithy, and he got rather annoyed over it. So annoyed, I'm afraid, that I had to do something about it. A two-way split is much better than a three-way split, don't you think, Bart?" Darth went on without giving Bart enough time to reply. "But then again, a one-way split is even better, and we hardly made away with enough to make even that worth it. So you see, Bart, that is the reason I'm forced to part ways with you. Or rather, you are forced to part ways with me. Where do you prefer your bullets? Through the head, or through the heart?"

Bart had been thinking as Darth rambled on. He looked around the cabin for something that might be of help. Nothing was there except the lamp he held in his hand, and Bart was ready by the time the Boss was done with his speech.

In answer to the last question the Boss produced, he said in a forced voice, gesturing with his right hand, "I guess I prefer them in your gun."

"Hmph." Darth made a sound which was a cross between a chuckle and a grunt. "That wasn't an option. I think I'll give it to you right between the eyes."

Before Darth could even cock his gun, Bart launched the lamp towards him. It thumped and shattered against the wall, causing enough confusion on the Boss's part to let Bart throw his gun.

Blam! Blam!

Bart fired two shots before Darth even caught on. He dropped his gun and slumped to the floor. Bart just stood there for a minute, in the dark, but soon he pulled another match out from his pocket and lit it against the bottom of his boot.

He noticed for the first time that Darth had been holding a bag. Bart recognized it as the bag that held the loot from the bank hold-up. Quickly going across the room, he picked up the bag and turned the Boss over onto his back. Dead, all right, Bart thought as he quickly looked at Darth's pale, lifeless face. So much for friends. The match burned out and Bart had to light another to find the door.

Slipping out of the cabin, Bart found two horses tied to a hitching post out back. Both horses were pretty well all in, but Bart had no desire to spend the night around that particular cabin, so he saddled the mount that looked fresher—Smithy's horse—and swung into the saddle.

Hate to leave Smithy like that, he thought as he rode away, but hearing the shouts from down the canyon, he realized the posse would soon be there to take care of it.

Bart reminded himself that he no longer had a "boss," and he was now fully responsible for the holdup. After all, he did have the money. And so he rode, making a beeline for Mexico, where he could wait until things cooled down in Texas.

************

"CASA GRANDE CANTINA," the sign read. A small adobe building was all it was, but Bart had heard they served the best food around. He should do something to celebrate getting over the border, he decided, and ordering himself the biggest and most expensive meal they had sounded like a good start.

The inside of the building was dark, illuminated only by dim lanterns and candles hanging on the wall. As Bart took his seat on a stool, a waitress came up to take his order.

"What will you be hafing this day, Señor?" she asked, her dark eyes flashing.

"The biggest and best meal on your menu, Señorita," he answered and took a look at the others in the cantina. Two men sat down at the other end of the bar with whiskey glasses in front of them. One was a short and stocky man, the other was practically a kid—Bart guessed his age to be around twenty. Bart studied the two men and the entire building as he waited for his supper.

"Here you are." The waitress was back in a few minutes, bringing his food. "Ah, Señor, you look familiar. You haf bean 'round thees place before, no?"

"Never been here before," Bart answered. He wasn't sure just how much information he should be giving out, so he kept his answer short. Even below the border it didn't feel safe.

He ate his meal in peace, although the lingering presence of the man and kid bothered him. They had been sitting there silently since before he came in, scarcely drinking or eating at all.
The waitress again was back to check on him. "Now I remember where it is I saw you," she said quietly as she leaned over the counter. "I take a trip over border last week and I see photo of man on a paper. You be that man,  Señor."

     Bart straightened up, but kept a steady gaze on the woman. "You made a mistake, Senorita. I haven't had my picture took since I was a kid." Bart lied, remembering the photo that was taken of him, Smithy, and the Boss last winter. That fool photographer must have remembered them and talked. The Boss sure could be stupid sometimes. Bart reached into his pocket and rolled a cigarette, to give himself a casual air, while he was contemplating what he should do.

"You need no worry, Señor," the waitress said as she looked closely at him. "I veel tell no one. Many men come in here that be running from the law, and I haf yet to turn one in."

"What do you want then?" asked Bart, quickly catching on to her game.

"Why, Señor!" she said accusingly. "You think I want much from you? I do not want anything except maybe around twenty per-cent of your reward? Do not forget I could turn you in. . . . Reward say 'dead or alive.' There be no way of knowing you deed not die in America. What you think, Señor? I do not like the killing, but there are ways of arranging things with my compadres."

"That's okay, Rosita, he's with us." The voice that sounded behind Bart was so much like the voice of Darth, it caused Bart to inwardly jump as he lifted his head and turned around to be sure. The men who had been sitting at the other end of the bar were there, the older one obviously the man who had spoken.

The senorita held the man's gaze for a minute before quietly drooping her head and turning back to whatever it was she had on the stove.

"Come with us," the short man ordered Bart.

"Now, just a minute—" Bart began.

"He said come with us." The kid pulled a gun out of his holster and wiped the barrel on his sleeve, suggesting that he wouldn't be afraid to use it, should Bart not follow orders. "Get the idea?"

"Yeah. I got the idea."

The three men exited the cantina, walking to where their horses were tied to a rickety hitching post.

"Get on." The short man seemed to be in favor of give short commands, thought Bart, as he did what the man bid. They took Bart out of town, about four miles over the desert, to a small valley that was much greener than the surrounding country. So much greener, in fact, that it look as if it just was dropped there, on that hot, sandy, desert, by accident. But it was no accident, and it was perfect for what the men needed. Bart could see a camp, by a stream in the valley. Two men sat around a small fire, one of them was hanging a pot of coffee over the embers to warm.

"Lefty. Stan," the short man greeted the two seated around the fire. The men seemed taken aback at the presence of a stranger. The setting was beginning to look familiar to Bart—the location of the camp, the camp itself.

"I suppose I should introduce myself," the man was saying. "My name's Dumarie. Frank Dumarie."

Bart recognized the name as the one belonging to a well-known cattle rustler, confidence man, and murderer from Kansas.

"Long way from home, aren't you?" Bart was getting the idea of why they wanted him at the camp.

"Never mind that. . . . This is Charlie Stone, that's Lefty Longland, and that's Stan Tucker."

The so-named men each nodded, as their names were mentioned. Lefty was also rather short and stocky, but younger than Dumarie. Tucker was tall, skinny, and plain looking, and seemed ill at ease as he stood by the fire. Charlie Stone was the only one out of the group of outlaws who could be called handsome. And his good looks were in great tribute to his youth and manner, things that one day soon would be gone. Bart's gaze swept over the three quickly and then he turned his attention back to Dumarie.

"Get to the point," he said. "Wha'd ya want from me?"

"We have been hearing quite a lot about you, Hendricks. How you murdered the sheriff and the bank teller, and then killed off your partners." Dumarie looked rather pleased with himself as he spoke.

"I didn't kill the sheriff, or—" Bart was cut off by Dumarie.

"Of course you didn't," he said and looked at his gang with something that resembled a smile. "But that doesn't mean that you couldn't be of some help around here. We have been in need of another man since the law got Ben, and you seem to be the best choice—gun-smart, experienced, and very wanted. You don't really have a choice, actually, because if you don't join us, you will still be on your own. And in these parts, a man don't survive if he's alone."

Bart thought over the matter. He had been thinking about joining another gang, but he hadn't done so well last time, and that was when he was sure about his companions loyalty. He was sure of these men's loyalty, too; he was sure they had none.

Just the same, he decided to join them. But, this time, he would keep an eye out for himself, and not trust anyone. No sense in ending up the way Smithy had. Or, come to think about it, the way Darth had.




End of an Outlaw part two of five, and pictures © 2018 by K.J. Bruce

End of an Outlaw (Part 1 of 5)

"End of an Outlaw"

                                                                               


"And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell."  (Matthew 10:28)



The evening hours were approaching on the desert-like land as three men raced over it on horseback. In the lead there was a man who was thirty-nine or forty years old. He had straight brown hair and cold brown eyes, a straight nose, but a rather crooked, offset jaw. Behind him rode a Mexican, a handsome man of thirty years of age, and another man who was about thirty-three, with blue eyes and light brown hair. All three were unshaven and were dirty from the dusty trail.

    As Bart pushed his horse, he could feel her breathing increase. Her sides were so lathered up that you could scarcely see her original color.

"My horse is about done in, Darth." Bart was surprised at how steady his voice was. Way more steady than he felt. His stomach had been doing flip-flops ever since that morning when the three of them had saddled their horses and rode into town—to the bank. Images flashed through Bart Hendrick's mind as they galloped through the sage brush—the little man bending at the vault with a gun stuck in his back; thousands of dollars being put in their black bag; the look on Smithy's face when he saw the figure looming in the doorway, and the look on that man's face as the Boss's gun gave its loud report, causing the man—the sheriff—to fall dead.

"We're almost there," the boss shouted in answer to Bart. "She can make it."

Smithy said nothing, but leaned down over his horse's neck and kept his dark eyes fastened on the trail ahead. The sombrero he always wore was flying out behind him, secured by a string around his neck.

Soon, hoof beats sounded behind the fugitives, and bullets started to whiz past their heads. The Boss unholstered his Colt and started shooting back at the posse. Bart could feel his horse was all but dead. The other two horses were younger and hardier, and they were just starting to show signs of tiring.

"I've gotta bail," Bart shouted to his companions. "Where can I find you?"

"Line shack. Quarter mile south of the big rock on the north road," the boss answered quickly. Bart knew the shack. He had seen it before as he was passing through the area.

Bart kicked his feet out of the stirrups and jumped off just in time. His horse fell to the ground as the weight was lifted off her back. Bart hesitated just a moment before cocking his gun and firing at the downed animal. Rachel, as he had named the horse, hadn't done anything wrong. She just happened to be the horse of an outlaw. She was good, and faithful. And she had seemed somehow to trust him, too. Trust, thought Bart as he yanked his canteen from the saddle. Can't be good for man or critter, with what happened to Pa, and what happened to Rachel, here. There was a real girl whom he had named his horse after. Bart had been reminded of the girl when he saw the mare's soft palomino color and her dainty, dished face. But right now, that didn't really matter.

Bart took off running on foot into the nearby rocks that spread over the hills to his left. If he had paused right there, forgetting his troubles and sins, Bart would've noticed a beautiful sunset stretching over the western sky, its red, pink, and gold colors promising more for anyone who dared hope. He would've noticed the little brown speckled bird, perched on some sage brush, that was staring at him as if he didn't belong on her range, and the wonderful fresh scent of outdoors and flowers that wafted through the air.

But Bart was too busy running. Running, it seemed, that would never end. Always running from something. Never again could he do something as simple as buying supplies without being in danger of the law, or the vigilantes that seemed to always be there, ready for a neck-tie party. There was no chance for an outlaw like him to ever have a normal life. No wife, no kids, no home. All he had—ever would have—was the range, the cactus, the sage. His boss seldom had slept under a roof, unless it was that of a shack, cabin, or occasionally, a hotel. Smithy had never even seen a real home, and some envied him of it. He never laid in bed at night dreaming of home, and pleasures of the past. It was true, though; some, like the Boss, didn't dream of things like that anymore, but that was out of need for survival, Bart reasoned. There was no way a man could live for as many years as the Boss had on the run if he didn't make himself like it, if not love it.

Bart was used to it—this life of crime and running. He had been an outlaw for five years now, and his heart was slowly hardening to the qualities which clashed with the outlaw life. He had seen men die. Some were innocent, some were guilty. The memory of a certain hanging of a blacksmith by a group of vigilante townsmen never left him. It was later proven that that man was innocent. That man was Bart's father. Bart had also been a blacksmith, before his father's death. Losing his job had really been what pushed him over the edge. The owner of the livery had fired him for no reason, and Bart had found himself at the end of his rope, so to speak.

Bart was still running, but he was fairly winded by now, and he started looking for someplace to hide until the posse was gone. A single set of hoof beats pounded behind him. Just one rider, he thought. Might be harder to give 'im the slip. Sometimes the confusion of a large posse made it easier for a single man to get away.

There was a small niche in between some rocks that Bart figured he could get into. First, he peered in to make sure he wouldn't be sharing his hiding spot with the likes of a rattle snake or some other critter. And then he squeezed in, just as the hoof beats came around the bend.

Nearer and nearer they were coming, keeping up an even rhythm that seemed to be etched into Bart's soul. It seemed hours passed as he waited for the sound to fade, but it was only minutes. How many times he had been in this situation! Although this time, it was worse. There had been two killings—the sheriff, and the bank teller—and that hadn't happened before. They had always managed to get the cash and get away without any hitches. Bart knew they had the law's attention now, and he knew from second-hand accounts that, once you had gone too far in law-breaking, you were going to have sheriffs and other lawmen everywhere, just waiting for you to make a slip up. Well, let those lawmen try to catch him! He could always, if something went wrong, head below the border. Yes, there were some that managed to out run, and out smart, the law.

"But do they win in the long run?" a voice in Bart's head seemed to say.

The sick feeling crept back into his stomach, and Bart was surprised to feel a tear sliding down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and mentally reproached himself. Men don't cry, much less outlaws on the run, he told himself. He couldn't help it, though, as he thought about his special horse, and how he had treated her. And thoughts of his horse brought thoughts of the girl she was named after.  Rachel Logan, daughter of Watertown's merchant. She worked in her father's mercantile and Bart had made many trips to the store when he had nothing important to buy. She was so sweet and so innocent—and so pretty with her hair the color of wheat at twilight, somehow brown and yellow at the same time, her eyes a brown that seemed so deep and clear, and her soft, musical voice. She was the sweetest girl in town, and everyone liked her just because she always liked them; even if she was oblivious to anything more than just kindness from the men customers. Maybe she was the reason for the sick feeling in Bart's stomach. He knew she would never approve of his outlaw life, and Bart cared about what she thought. She was the only person who had ever seemed to care about him—even if she didn't care for him. And she was also the only non-hypocritical person on the side of the law he had known.

Tears were falling freely now, as the single posse member sped by. Bart almost stepped out from the rocks and gave himself up, with thoughts of Rachel Logan troubling him so, but then dark thoughts began to crowd around the good ones. Thoughts of what the Boss would say if he heard that "Hendricks" had given himself up. I could've told you he wasn't worth a dime, Bart could almost hear him say. I always knew he was chicken. No, Bart would fight it; fight the law that had destroyed so many things he had loved. Fight the law that was so anxious to get a hold of him.

No more tears came. The tears were replaced by the anger that welled up inside of him. Bart remembered the words of two old ladies he overheard in town just a few days ago. They had said, "There's no honor among thieves." This wasn't true, he knew. He knew there wasn't anything that the boss or Smithy wouldn't do for him, or each other. They had sort of a code and whether or not it did them any good, it was something that they all had to respect. People didn't realize that outlaws---at least the group Bart was with---were not all that different from other people. Bart knew he could count on his friends when he needed them.

The loud call of a bird brought Bart back into the present, and he thought it was safe to be coming out of his hiding spot.  He was surprised at how dark it was outside of the rocks, and the coolness of the air.  He judged it to be about 8:00, and he could feel the stiffness in his arms and legs after being crammed in a tight space for over an hour. Slowly, at first, he began his long walk to the determined cabin hideout.




End of an Outlaw part one of five © K.J. Bruce 2018






Part Two: https://westernreservoir.blogspot.com/2018/01/end-of-outlaw-part-2-of-5.html

Part Three: https://westernreservoir.blogspot.com/2018/01/end-of-outlaw-part-3-of-5.html

Part Four: https://westernreservoir.blogspot.com/2018/01/end-of-outlaw-part-4-of-5.html

Part Five: https://westernreservoir.blogspot.com/2018/01/end-of-outlaw-part-5-of-5.html