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This
is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “The
Quick and the Dead".
No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is
intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains
adult language. The writer is not responsible for any
"discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these
situations.
The Final Hours by: Riley ©05/2008
The jail cell stunk like piss and pity. There was actually snow drifting into the high bars, dusting onto his last meal ever; the one he was supposed to savor, then shit out in front of all those good townsfolk after he died at the gallows. Twenty years old. Some way to end; hanging and jerking at the end of a rope. Soiled, filthy, smelling like a rotted steer. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Lord knew, he did.
Cort ran a hand through his gritty hair and stood, took a few steps to loosen the muscles in his back. He needed a gulp of the fresh air drifting down with the pellets of icy snow. Something to cool his guts a bit. He wasn’t ready to cry and pray like the horse thief in the next cell. The bastard was an old man. Cort didn’t care why the fucker stole the horse, didn’t care that the man was terrified to die. Cort was focused on the fact that he was gonna die and nothing else. He had six hours to live. When the sun came up, his neck would stretch. “And may God have mercy on your soul,” the judge had said. What did God have to do with his soul? With Cort’s entire young life, for that matter?
His parched tongue dragged raspy along cracked lips and he closed his eyes. The chill made his shoulders shudder and he chuckled, refreshed and suddenly alive again. Something in the winter high desert nights always cleared his head. Could be the sharpness of the stars, the slice of cold wind. Alive. Alive like nothing else he could recall.
He finally understood why a man gets locked up. It’s to tear his guts away from him, make sure he knows what he’s missing. And if he was like Cort and the horse thief, it was to drive it home that he’d soon never feel the air again.
When had he first noticed the air? Cort grunted and grinned, dropped onto his bunk and leaned back. With a thrust of his boot, the cold plate of greasy fried chicken soared across the cell. The metal plate clanged loud against bars and a chicken leg rolled to his feet. He closed his eyes and groaned to drown out the cowardly sobs of the man behind him. Would he hold strong? Or cry like a baby when his time came?
His knee gave a sudden jerk as terror streaked through his blood like a poison. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d die like a man. Of course his choice would have been facing down a gunfighter faster, better and sharper than him. He’d have much rather come eye to eye with his Lord, blood-covered and full of holes. That would have been fair. Not this. Not this.
What’s fair? Robbing banks? Revenuing? Taking what he pleased? Yeah, it was all he knew, thanks to Herod. All he knew and he was good at it. A man should be good at something. Hell, the wailing horse thief wasn’t even good at stealing a broken down nag. Maybe his plight was worse than Cort’s. At least Cort was taken in a flash of gunfire and glory, at least that’s how he wanted to believe it.
A strong gust of frosty wind blasted through the window and dropped on him like a boulder but he didn’t react. Instead he allowed it to feel heavy and potent. Give him strength. He sniffed the fresh air, drawing it deep into his lungs and holding it. Holding it.
It tasted familiar, like a night long ago. It had the strange tinge of minerals from the ground and the sensation of fluidity. Like water. Water. Yes, that’s the memory. That night it was water weighing against his chest, water and lovely Genevieve’s full, sweet breasts. If they really wanted to give a condemned man a feast, those breasts would have been it.
Ah Genevieve. She was nothing like that stupid whore Herod had given him as a gift just six short days ago. That fucking skinny bitch with a searing hot cunt and the conscience of a goddamn Sunday school marm. What did he know about what she’d do? But he didn’t wanna think about her. He spat bitterly and it streamed across the cell right into the waste that would have been his dinner. Nah, he wasn’t thinking about that one.
Genevieve was a gift he took himself. It was five years ago. Not yet sixteen and already an outlaw, he thought himself man enough to find his way between her thick, round thighs. Truth be told, he had his eyes set for Genevieve’s young daughter, a wisp of a girl with golden eyes, so tiny she might break under his weight. But when push came to shove, he was taking what he could get. After all, only God and Herod know how long and hard the ride was gonna be after they took the bank. Wasn’t likely they’d be stopping off at no whorehouses on the run. So he made his moves and sweet Genevieve answered the call.
Night, cold like it was that very night. Hell, maybe it was exactly the same time too. The wee hours of the morning. Cort was sitting outside the stable. Herod and his gang were sound asleep inside; the snoring was like a locomotive barreling through. They’d convinced the woman to let them stay, playing nice men just looking for a warm place to sleep before they moved on. It was the third day. Genevieve had to be getting suspicious, but she permitted it, cooking for them, washing their clothes and bed rolls. Ignoring their leers.
He couldn’t sleep that night but it didn’t worry him none. Cort knew he was always sharper after facing his nerves the night before a job. His ears seemed keener, his finger tighter on the trigger, his mind sharp as a skinning knife.
When Genevieve left her cabin and walked around to the back of it, his mind shot for the stars. She wasn’t going to the outhouse; that was in clear view. Whatever she was heading to required a blanket and he was damn curious. His boots quiet as he moved, he skirted around the cabin. Back there was a strange pond, one that seemed to always be covered with a cloud of mist. He’d seen those kinda waterholes before, but never went near one. Until that night.
Genevieve lifted her nightdress over her head in one elegant sweep and his breath caught, nearly choking him with excitement. It was a full mooned night and her body glowed blue and white, beckoning him. His cock reacted, but he stood still. Until her head turned and she smiled. That was all it took.
In a rush of desperation, Cort pulled at his clothes, dropping them where he walked, thumping to his behind to drag off his boots and britches, actually crawling to reach her. His hands grasped at her knees, caressed. Then he slithered before her and buried a kiss at her fur covered mound. Good Lord, she was delicious, smelled of woman and good food, of lye soap and want. He nuzzled and fingered, opened her to him, then slithered his reaching tongue between her lips and got his first taste of a truly mature and fully aroused woman.
Cort couldn’t remember all the details, sitting there in that stinking cell. But he did remember feasting on every part of Genevieve. The sounds she made. And how she led him into the hot, steamy water for the fuck of his young life. And Cort sadly realized that it had in fact been among the best he’d ever had. Oh, to be able to thank her for it. But it wasn’t possible. Not just because he would soon be executed…but because the last sight he had of sweet, delicious Genevieve was in a puddle of blood. After all, Herod wasn’t about to leave anyone alive who could point the finger at them after the bank job. Oh, he’d killed the pretty daughter too.
The old man in the next cell cried out, sobbed louder with a wail that shook Cort from his thoughts.
“Stop it, you old bastard! Give me some peace, will ya?”
He whimpered and groaned, returned to his quiet litany of sniveling prayers and Cort crossed his arms with a grumble. “Gimme some fucking peace.” He shifted, stood, stretched then leaned against the bars and shouted.
“I gotta take a piss!”
Both deputies in the outer room jumped to their feet, shaken from a deep sleep and Cort grinned. “I gotta take a fucking piss. Get me to the privy or I’ll aim at your goddamn boots.”
“Hold your fucking cock, boy. Gimme a minute.”
Cort heard the keys jingle then saw both men come to escort him. One came inside the cell and chained his ankles, then his wrists, while the other aimed a rifle at Cort’s chest. It was always interesting to take a piss like that, but they had to give him that much. They took him outside and across the clearing. The moon was hidden behind heavy clouds and snow was drifting thick, covering the wooden planks he walked across, muffling the sound of his footfalls. The bitter cold made his skin crawl, but his bladder was desperate for relief.
Inside the outhouse and suddenly, completely alone, Cort stood still as death. He looked around. Was that what it felt like in a coffin? Did it smell like his own human waste, and keep closing in tighter and tighter?
He shook off his sudden terror and worked at his britches. The cold night was fighting with his needs and for a moment he had to coax his melted, sleeping cock to life. He squeezed, tugged, teased until finally it thickened in his chilled hands. Piss steamed and hissed, thudded down along with all the rest of the filth he didn’t wanna think about. He turned away from the gaping hole, shook off his cock and rearranged his clothes. “Out, I’m done.”
~*~
Herod watched from the roof of the building across the snow covered road. Yeah, it pissed him off; yeah, it was a waste of time, but he had an investment in that kid. Too valuable to just let hang, that’s for sure. He was freezing his fucking balls off and Cort would pay for it. Oh yes, Cort would spend the rest of his life paying for his discomfort that icy night. And every way Cort paid for it would make Herod’s pockets fuller. He chuckled quietly and ran a freezing hand down his chin.
The two deputies would be easy to take, but he wasn’t going to try anything alone. Getting Cort back was what he wanted, but not at any risk to himself. It had to be a nice smooth break or nothing at all. Granted, there were less than five hours left. Herod liked Cort. Liked him a lot. But if the rest of his gang didn’t show up soon, he’d simply wipe his hands clean of him. Buenas noches, muchacho. Whatever Cort could have done to benefit Herod’s plans, would just have to be done by someone else. Wasn’t like the kid was the only prodigy with a pistol he’d ever seen….he was just the only one he was able to lure.
Wind howled over his back and Herod thought to just give up, but instead he hunkered down, his eyes trained on the road where his men should be arriving any minute. He’d give it another few hours before cutting his losses and walking away.
~*~
Cort couldn’t shake the chill that had seeped into his body. He sat on his bunk and shivered, taking deep breaths until a thought struck him. If he wanted, really wanted, he could easily overcome the cold that was weakening him. If he believed it, truly believed it, he could make the cell feel like an August high noon in Arizona. If he wanted to…and he wanted to.
Every image of heat slowly washed his imagination. The hot colors of the New Mexico Painted Desert at sunset. Flaming red hair in the midday sun. The fire in a woman’s eyes when he moved just right inside of her. The heat of Herod’s anger. Warmth flooded his veins and his muscles softened.
Herod’s anger was surely the wrath of hell, the kind the preachers used to talk about when he was a young boy, sitting in a stifling church with his mother. Herod’s anger was the steaming slap of his hand across an ungrateful whore’s face, the flash of his pistol fire at the back of an unfaithful gang member. Herod’s anger was the closest to being loved by a father Cort ever knew.
It made a young man feel special in a way. It showed he was precise, that he had plans greater than the likes of Cort could understand. It showed he’d chosen him, a poor rancher’s son, to be his best right hand. Since he’d turned eighteen, he’d been just that, the Devil’s right hand man. He was the one sent out to scout a bank, farmhouse or saloon. He was the one following orders to perfection and getting the biggest share of the take. Cort should be a wealthy man with all the rewards he’d earned, but had he seen a penny of it? No. Herod was holding it all for him. After all, Herod knew best. Herod would put it all in Cort’s hands as soon as he proved himself ready. And Cort had believed that. Year after year, he trusted that. And now?
What would he have done with that money? The face of Molly Weaver slipped across his mind. That had been a quiet spring; the spring Herod was recovering from some pretty bad wounds and the whole gang was dispersed like tumbleweeds. Cort stayed close. They were bunking in an abandoned barn and Herod talked of squatter’s rights and maybe keeping the land for himself. Building a town the way he liked it. He talked of lots of things while he burned with fever, and Cort, being seventeen, believed them.
Molly Weaver. Where was she now? Did she ever know how much he loved her? If he had that money, he’d have spent it on her, whatever she wanted or needed. He’d have married her and had babies with her, become a rancher again…and, as Herod pointed out often that spring…he would have tired of her quick as a snake strikes.
Dark hair, long and thick and soft as silk, it waved in the breeze like the prairie grass. Her skin was milky white and pink in all the most interesting places; just around her wrists, at the place where her neck and shoulders met, where the mounds of her pretty behind dimpled. And Cort would kiss every pink place, adore it slowly before he would drive himself deep to do some sowing of his seed. It was his hope that she’d become pregnant and he might be able to convince Herod to give him his money, maybe wish him well in his new life.
But instead, it was Herod who did the serious planting that spring, and Herod who gave Molly the money to rid herself of the baby…or he would assure that no man would marry her. She’d be a whore, just like she’d been for him and Cort.
Molly cried in Cort’s arms, but the bitter taste in his mouth never left. She wasn’t taken against her will, she gave herself to Herod.
Sitting in the cell, awaiting his own execution, Cort was forced to wonder…wasn’t that exactly what he’d done? Given himself willingly into the hands of the Devil?
He tugged at his vest, loosened the buttons of his shirt. He was hot. His eyes shot to the barred window. Snow was blowing out there, a constant horizontal stream of it glittering in the lamplight. But it wasn’t coming inside any more. It had cut him off from the freshness…or maybe he’d pushed it away with his thoughts. It was still dark out there…there was still time.
What would it feel like? Would his neck break nice and clean? Snap like a twig? Or would he choke and squirm? Would he let them put the burlap bag over his face? No. He wouldn’t let them do that. He wanted to look into the eyes of all those people. Wanted to see what they really thought about him. He’d robbed three banks, killed six men. He’d stolen from trains and stagecoaches. But did he deserve to die? For this?
They had him, wanted for the murder of a bank clerk in Aguila, Arizona. A man pointed at him and said he saw it. That fucking whore Herod gave him said the same, but Cort didn’t kill that man. He remembered the job, remembered it was complex and remembered that he didn’t do exactly what Herod told him to do because if he had…Herod would be dead. Cort remembered every face in that bank, every person outside on the street, and he didn’t recall ever seeing the whore or his accuser before in his life.
He was dragged from the upstairs room over a saloon, he’d caught his pistol with his hand and fired, but they had him. They had him. Naked, his cock still wet from being inside that bitch, and they had him. He was beaten, but made no confessions. A trial was set up the very next day, but the coming foul weather held it off, the judge couldn’t make it, and Cort watched for Herod, waited for him to come, get him out. Save him.
The judge arrived and took less than fifteen minutes to listen to witnesses, men and women who probably never even saw the inside of a bank or the town of Aguila. They all pointed. They all said they saw him pull his pistol and kill that man. Cort said nothing. He didn’t even carry a pistol that day.
He was being reprimanded, delegated to watching the horses for questioning the plan. It just didn’t seem right to him; why all the big plans when it was easier to take the money on its way out of town? He had the nerve to ask if Herod was trying to make himself a target. Until that day, riding with Herod had been safe, quiet, never the fanfare that was intended for Aguila.
After he was sentenced, he figured he’d be taken to Aguila to be hanged. He figured Herod was probably thinking the same thing, would find a way to get to him, get him free. But a telegraph came that the passes were snowed over and closed, probably ‘til spring. But did Cort get to breathe a sigh of relief? No. He would hang in Cottondale, a good sixty miles from the murder he didn’t even do. And…he would hang in fewer hours than he had fingers on one hand.
He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. The horse thief’s lament had become distant to him, like the humming of insects at a fishing stream. Maybe he didn’t deserve to die for this murder, but there were others. Dead men in the desert whose boots he carelessly stepped over to mount his horse. Dead men hanging from stagecoaches, the team of horses on a wild terrified run. Dead men in fields and craggy mountains. Dead men in the rain and dead men rotting quick in the heat. Yeah, maybe he did deserve to die. But for this murder?
Cort hadn’t pulled the trigger that day, Herod had. Adrenalin shot through him and he leapt to his feet. His boots pounded a relentless pace across the wooden floor and the deputies chuckled. The smell of coffee drifted to Cort and again he desperately looked to the window. Still dark. Not yet. There was still time.
Time for what? Had Herod set him up, hiring that whore and making a fool of him? Was Herod in that saloon, watching and laughing while they dragged him feet first and naked down the stairs? If he wasn’t, where the fuck was he?
Cold again radiated from Cort’s very belly out to the surface of his flesh. Was this what he wanted to spend his last few hours thinking about? And it was his last few hours.
He turned. The old man in the next cell was sitting on the floor, his back against the bars, his body trembling. Cort reached down and patted his shoulder, then returned to his bunk. What did he really want to think about? After all, it was his choice. They might be able to chain him and hang him, but they couldn’t make him think what they wanted. It was his choice.
Calming his burning blood, letting it wash over with the cold blast of anger, Cort slowly found his peace. Found it deeper in his heart. And he questioned. Being his final hours and his choice, what did he really want to think about? His life had been big. It had been exciting and dangerous, it was hard and it was most times fun. Stealing was fun. Even pulling the trigger had its charge of joy. He was an evil man, like the man who’d taken over as his father. But was there real pleasure in all of it? If not, what had really been the pleasure of his twenty short years? The answer came in an imagined whiff of wanting woman and lavender…Sissy Lockhart.
Sissy had been his lover for going on two years. She wasn’t what most men would call beautiful, not the kinda girl a man would walk across a church social to dance with. She was plain. Her hair was a soft brown, her eyes a muddy gray. She was slight but strong. Strong in her heart and that was what Cort loved most. He respected her, realizing for the first time that any man who could not see and admire the strength of women, even their daughters, was stupider than a mule. Sissy had ways of reaching Cort that no one had ever tried.
She was a widow lady, working at the only mercantile in Hachita, New Mexico, a town close enough to the border to catch Herod’s attention. She lived alone and Cort met her walking out of town toward her lone house. Riding his horse slowly, he managed to catch her attention, tip his hat and offer his smile. Good Lord, even at the first moment, he saw it. Saw what she was capable of, how she could make him whole.
He was in Hachita to check out the small bank. It wasn’t anything like Herod’s men were used to, but they didn’t need much. They were working their way down to Mexico where a majority of their loot was hidden. Cort looked around, but the only thing of real value he saw was Sissy. The bank was an easy target, but if the bank was hit, the town would suffer, Sissy right along with it. That was the first time Cort ever lied to Herod.
He sent word that the money had already been sent to Albuquerque by train, that it would be a worthless risk to go after the bank, as the town had little worth taking. Then he did a stupid thing. He stayed in Hachita.
Three days later, as the cool evening breezes picked up, he sat alone with Sissy on her porch swing. They talked about life and hardship, about the future and the past. He settled his arm over her shoulder and leaned in to take a whiff of her hair. That night he would ask to love her. He wanted to ask for more, but what more did Cort have to give her in return? Any money he had was in Herod’s hands. Any life he would share with her in the small town would soon drive him crazy with boredom. But he wanted Sissy, wanted her in a way that wasn’t usual. Cort was eighteen. He already knew he’d never marry, never be a provider, a rancher, a father. What he wanted was a place to go when he needed to be touched. A bed where he could reach for Sissy. Not every day or even once a month. Whenever he was near her, he wanted to know he could have her. It would go a long way to giving him something real and solid in his life. But what would that give her?
As the first star glittered, they suddenly straightened on the swing. A rowdy gang of riders whooped and raced past the house and there at the head, Herod waved his hat and shouted a holler. As the dust settled and they disappeared over the rise, Cort felt his muscles twitch. They’d taken the bank. Done it without him. Probably knew he was lying. His knee bounced and his mind spun.
Cort was as loyal to Herod as any man could be to another. But he had a few needs of his own too. He was already as big as Herod and stronger than most of the men riding with him. He was always faster than every one of them, even their leader, and they all knew it. He was tired of being the kid. He needed to stretch and rise in the gang. Or he needed to leave it.
When he spotted the lone rider returning to the house, Cort pressed a desperate, hard kiss on Sissy’s mouth. It was the first time he’d kissed her, could easily be the last time he ever would. Whatever Herod was about to do was a gamble; Cort could be dead in the next few minutes. The kiss was deep and hungry, filled with all the things he wanted to ask her for and she responded, tasting and sucking, panting with him until the clunk of hoofs stopped right at her step.
They looked up.
“Evening, ma’am,” Herod tipped his hat. “Mind if I talk with Cort a spell?”
Her hand squeezed his, but he stood and stepped down as Herod lowered from his saddle. Gripping Cort’s elbow, he led him several strides away then simply watched. Cort couldn’t face him, couldn’t look him in the eyes. He kicked stones with the toe of his boot and cleared his throat several times.
Herod laughed. “Look. We took four thousand dollars. We’re gonna hide out at Cactus Rock for a day or two. You have yourself a little fuck, play all you want, and if I don’t see you, I’ll just guess that you got yourself dead or something.” With a chuckle Herod returned to his horse then rode off.
Sissy was standing on her porch, her eyes glowed with a knowledge he didn’t want her to have about him. In a heartbeat, Cort knew that she was the one, the only one for him. There was compassion in her touch as he stepped up to her, a tenderness that made him want to cry as her small hand lay over his heart and he leaned down to taste her lips once more.
She led him to her bedroom and slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
“I don’t know if you want what I got to offer,
Sissy.”
Sissy was not smiling, tears trailed her face and she
leaned back against his sturdy frame. “Your heart hurts, Cort,” she
sighed. “I can feel it in mine. Maybe, maybe we can help each other.”
“Hush,” Sissy whispered and worked at removing his clothes. “Hush, let’s love each other.”
Grasping her hands, he focused on her eyes. He needed her to understand everything. “Sissy, I only got a little time tonight…I may not come again for a while…I gotta know you understand…”
“Cort, I was married. I didn’t love my husband but we made love. I miss a man loving me and I’ll take what you got for me…anytime you can…you find me and I will love you.”
Relief washed over him, it was more than he was hoping for. No woman he ever knew, no good woman, ever caught the facts of his life. He could see that she knew he must be an outlaw, that she forgave him for it and was willing to love him anyway, to sacrifice all those things women want…just to have him…when he could be with her. His mouth sought hers and pulled desperately at her lips. “I’ll find you, Sissy,” he groaned, pushing her back to the bed. “I’ll always find you.”
Their night was long and filled with sighs and grunts and sweat and tears. They talked about nothing, thought of only how to please each other. Sissy was not a shy woman in her bed. She was giving and strong, loving and tender and willing…always willing. Cort loved her every way he could think of, and that first night he did something he’d never done before. He committed each scent, sound and feeling to memory, every texture and sensation was logged like a bookkeeper, etched forever in his mind. Just before dawn, he knew he loved her. Knew he would forever love her.
She was sleeping, a quiet curled form in his arms, her face nuzzled at his chest, her warm breath brushing across his nipple, her gentle hand cupped over his strengthening cock. He wanted her one last time. He wanted her hard and fast before he rode away. Something he’d never forget. But brutality wasn’t his goal. Intensity brewed in his belly and he whispered to wake her.
“Wake up Sissy. I gotta have you, gotta have you this way.” He was already rolling her over, pulling her limp hips high. He lowered his face to her neck. “Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you. I need you like this, I need to feel I’m marking you as mine.”
“Yes,” she tightened against the assault, gripping her hands on the brass headboard. “Yes Cort. Make me yours and I’ll always wait for you.”
It was unbearable; his cock was stretched further than ever, he feared the skin would split. It was throbbing and weeping for her, every muscle in his body ached to connect. He plunged two fingers deep and Sissy cried out, arching back to touch his flesh with hers. When he drove, he drove hard, making his distance in a single, powerful thrust. His hands gripped tight at her hips and he squeezed, pulled her closer and rammed his hips, wanting, needing to be deeper than ever, fully encased and completely committing his body to hers.
His thrusts were like a train piston, pumping, pumping, harder and harder. He felt her path tighten, pulse, retreat, then spasm again. Sweat soaked his hair and he continued, his heart struggling, pounding in his ears so loud that he could hardly hear her cries. His name, she was crying out his name, and it drove him more and more.
Everything in his gut gripped, his heart skipped a beat as his sack tightened, nearly folding in on itself. Cort shouted loud, his lungs emptying as his hips rammed one last time, shooting everything he had into Sissy.
She was tightened, wracked and shaking in the throws of a crazy climax that sucked Cort dry, made him whimper and drop over her, crushing her beneath his heart, which now and forever belonged to Sissy Lockhart. No other woman would ever enter the depths of him. Ever.
Cort regained himself and kissed her tenderly. “It’s
time, Sissy. I gotta leave. But I will come back again.”
He rode hard and fast that early morning, charging toward Cactus Rock and Herod. When he arrived, coiling around high cliffs to the secluded opening, all seemed well. The men were sitting around a fire, drinking coffee and grumbling their morning grunts. Cort moved toward them with long easy strides.
In a flash faster than a mountain lion, Herod was on him. Cort dropped to the rocky ground. All the air was knocked from his lungs and he saw stars. He knew what was coming and he didn’t even try to stop it, let the man beat him. Fists flew and Cort grunted but held back, did not defend himself. Blood poured from his lips and nose and he knew that at least one rib was broken, and still Herod continued.
When he finally stood, he spat right into Cort’s face and pointed. His face was red and a vein popped in his forehead. “You ever…ever…fucking lie to me again and you’ll be dead, Cort! Ever! I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
And it was done. Things seemed to return to normal and Cort was treated as though nothing was different, but it was. He never trusted Herod like a kid anymore. Never trusted him as an outlaw and would never trust him as a man. It was like any man and son. The line was drawn and one day the fists would fly from the other direction. It was just a matter of time.
Like any father/son relationship at the brink of change, Herod could never again fully control Cort; most especially not the kid’s need for Sissy. He saw the girl every time they were near southern New Mexico or anywhere east of Tucson. Cort would even refuse to help with a job to be with her.
The last time he saw Sissy Lockhart was three weeks ago.
~*~
The icy wind again shot a gust through the high barred window over Cort as he struggled with that last visit. Sissy was sickly and weak, looking frail. He could hardly love her, he worried he’d hurt her. He gave her money to have the doc care for her, but it wasn’t until he was leaving that she told him that his child, growing four months inside her belly, had died only days earlier. Cort gasped his first loud sob since hearing that news; the first cry of fear and agony since being locked in that cell.
He gathered himself and again paced the cell, a relentless thumping of boot heels on worn wood. Anger seized in his chest and he paced harder. His life would end soon, and all for what? For what? For what?
Everything seemed to stop inside him; there was no time or anger, no fear or loss. He was about to die. There was nothing for him to do. Nothing. He sat and closed his eyes; let the darkness behind them cover his whole life like a coating of dirt. Over, done.
It was still dark outside the window, but dawn was coming like a rattler. He could feel it, almost hear its deadly hiss. Cort would give himself to it. Maybe there was no God. Nothing after the neck cracks and all the life drains from a body. Maybe there was nothing to fear…but why was he terrified? His belly roiled and he thought he’d spew. He swallowed back bile, forcing the burning film to return to the depths of him. He had to do this with dignity. He had to. He was doing it alone.
His eyes slit open. A paleness was sneaking into the window. Dawn. His body slumped in resignation.
The sudden sound of gunshots jerked his heart and Cort instinctively covered his head and dropped to the floor. A thunderous explosion and hands gripping his arm. Cort swung a fist to protect himself but whoever had him wasn’t taking anything, he was doing what he intended. Cort’s feet dragged along the floor. Smoke obscured everything and it wasn’t until he was heaved over splintered wood and broken stone that he realized he was being rescued. Adrenalin soared, twitching him back to life. He reached for the reins held out to him and swung into the saddle of his own horse, kicked the animal to action and in a cloud of dust, gunfire, and shouts, rode out of town.
They rode hard for hours, following treacherous snow covered paths, and twice they spilt into smaller groups. Herod rode beside Cort, laughing and whooping the whole time. When finally they stopped, there were four together, two men, Cort and Herod left. They walked the horses to water and Cort dropped to his knees, gulping air and stretching for the icy stream.
His body rebelled, was in some kind of shock. He blinked and twice retched. He was dead, feeling dead, sensing the rope. Dead! He had no time to appreciate the turn of events; his brain was not working right. Then…he heard Herod laugh.
The man slapped Cort’s back. “Get off your knees,
kid. You’re fine.”
“Hey! I was never gonna let that happen, Cort! Come on, it was fun! Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Cort’s pace accelerated and Herod twice looked behind to see where he was backing.
“Hey, come on. Jesus, do you think I’d ever let that happen? To you?”
Cort lunged. The others stayed back, not wanting any part of it as Cort beat Herod bloody. The older man fought back, but was no match for the madness that was driving his protégé. He managed to slip free, roll away and stand, draw his gun and aim right between Cort’s eyes.
“Go on, Herod,” Cort was panting, his eyes fire and
glaring directly into Herod’s. “Go on.”
Cort never stepped away, never wavered in his intensity. His fingers twitched and he knew that he was fast enough to get that pistol from Herod and blow the man’s head off. But slowly, slowly, the voice seeped into his crazy thoughts. Slowly, he was hearing, then finally listening. His brow curled and his heart slowed to normal.
“Jesus, Cort. I would never even think of letting you
hang. I love ya, boy! Love you like a son, like my own son. You
can’t think for a minute that I’d leave you to die! You can’t!”
Cort didn’t answer; he watched the other riders wind their way down a steep grade and disappear from sight.
“Just you and me. Come on,” Herod dug an elbow into Cort’s side. “Maybe you can get something pretty for that lady of yours.”
“Fine,” Cort grunted, rubbed his eyes again.
“Nogales.”
THE END
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