Happenstance

by Writing B.S.

The sound of gunfire rolled across the top of the tall grass on the open plain. Hours later, on the streets of a small town that lay nestled within the swaying stalks, one man stood propped against a display board in front of the undertaker’s store on Main Street while those who rode into town with him sweltered in a hot and cramped jail, waiting their turn.

“Where you think he come from?” a child asked his mother as they walked past the macabre figure.

The boy’s mother pulled him quicker along the dusty road, but his eyes would not be averted. “Same place as any of the rest of them that ride around to small towns trying to take what don’t belong to them. And it’s, ‘came from’, ‘where do you think he came from’.  Do I have to go talk to the school Master about your English?”

Further down the way, a short, old, rotund man was perched precariously on a wooden stool with a short-barreled shotgun resting on his lap. At the fat man’s back was a squat brick building with a faded sign hanging over the door that read simply, ‘Jail’. He leaned slightly forward every time he spat tobacco juice, but the added effort was for not, as the amber-colored liquid dribbled down his chin and into the scraggly white beard that hung down onto the tattered plaid cotton shirt covering his chest.

“You gonna keep those scoundrels from gettin’ outta there, Deputy Timms?” The boy asked as he and his mother continued on their way to Wednesday evening bible study.

The Deputy laughed. “Naw, there’s three more Deputies inside with scatterguns just like this’un here to do that,” he said, raising the scuffed and worn shooting iron for the boy to see. “My job is to keep anyone from gettin’ in.”

The boy received another tug from his mother as he cocked his head sideways, wondering why anyone would want to get inside a jail.

The occupants of the two jail cells a few feet away waited on their fate, and none of the three hardcases harbored any hope for a positive outcome. The sound of wood being sawn and nails being hammered on the street outside told the story of their future. The youngest of the soon-to-be-condemned stood at a small window overlooking the dusty street.

“Hey, boy,” one of the carpenters called out, “tell me how tall ya’ are? I don’t want yer feet to be hittin’ the ground when ya’ drop!”

“Sit down, Len, you’re drivin’ me crazy standing at that damn window!”

“Damn it right back at you, Curry,” Len said without turning around. “You’re old enough to have done it all and seen it all already. Here I am though, only two days ride from my parents’ farm and I’m already about to swing from the end of a rope! You told me we’d get to San Francisco with the money from that bank; easy job, you said.”

“Yeah, well starin’ out at those fellas while they build that damn gallows ain’t gonna change things now.” The old bank robber rolled over on the stained mattress to face the wall, throwing his unbuttoned shirt open to catch any bit of a breeze that might come by. “Besides, what’s out past here ain’t no better than what you’ve seen already, just maybe a little bigger and a little fancier is all. You ain’t missing nothin’.”

Len put his forehead against the bars in the window. The song of the gallows continued, singing the tale of a young man who sought an easier path but found a shorter one instead. A tear rolled down his face and fell to the floor, adding a single imperceptible note to the menacing orchestra that continued to torment him.

Not far away, most of the town’s residents gathered at the Ponder-inn and Saloon. Contrary to a normal Wednesday night, the saloon was just about full. The large wooden building with open space to dance and socialize on the first floor and rooms to let on the second served as a meeting place when meeting needed to be done in the town of Happenstance. The beer keg was plugged and the card tables and spinning wheels had been shoved into a back room. Four men and two women sat around a large round table that had been placed in the center of the worn and stained floor.

A tall man in his fifties, wearing a crisp wool suit, stood from the table and addressed the crowd, “They rode in and killed Tom Watson—shot him through and through! We need to get on with the business of hanging these scoundrels!”

“Clancy Turnbull, you sit back down and address us; it’s our decision to make. This isn’t going to turn into some mob action.” The owner of the town’s general store remained seated with both his hands palm down on the surface of the table in front of him. He was close to the same age as the owner of the town’s bank, but wasn’t intimidated by his wealth or status. “We all know that Tom worked for you at the bank for a long time, and that you two were friends; that fact isn’t being disputed. But, we have to discuss how we’re going to deal with those three in a responsible way. Anybody that doesn’t remember what happened the last time we ran off half-cocked can go over to the graveyard and remind themselves. I’ve got kin of my own buried down there because we got carried away once before.”

Clancy spun on his heels and glared at the others sitting at the table, then slowly sat back down in his chair and leaned back, “Fine, Lawrence. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say about it.”

“Thank you, Clancy,” Lawrence said. “Now, we’ve got one dead man down at Mr. Tucker’s place and three live ones sweating over in the jail. If we don’t make the right choices now we’ll regret it later. I for one, don’t want to just string these men up without giving the matter due consideration.”

“Due consideration is why I’m still waitin’ for a decision about extending my account, Lawrence; Three weeks later, I might add,” one of the women at the table said. The crowd laughed out loud and shuffled about in a release of tension. “We can deliberate all day, but the short answer is, murderers have to get hung fast if we’re to have any say about it. Or, maybe that’s why you’d just as soon sit around considerin’ it, so you don’t have to deal with them at all?”

“Hang the bastards, while we can!” a voice shouted from the crowd.

“Quiet down now!” Lawrence said, looking around the room slowly and deliberately, daring anyone else to continue with the rabble-rousing. “You all know the rules. We’re takin’ up serious business here. Any more outbursts like that and we’ll put all of you out on the street.”

Before Lawrence could continue, a man burst in through the swinging doors from the sidewalk, “They’re gone!” he yelled. “We found the Sheriff and his Deputies snoozin’ away like they was sauced or something, and those murderers ain’t nowhere’s around!”

The room came to life again. “We told ya’! While ya’ll sat on your wide rumps flappin’ your gums, those hoodlums done disappeared on us,” one man yelled while leaning over the upper-story railing!”

“We’re all gonna go to hell!” another man bemoaned, shuffling around in circles and wringing his hands together.

“Everyone sit down and be quiet, dammit!” Lawrence shouted. “Sit down and stop yer talkin’.” After slamming his glass down on the table a couple of times, the crowd finally took heed and came to order. Lawrence then walked over to the stairs and climbed three steps so he could look out over everyone present. “I don’t want to hear any more about those fellows, or what we should have done with them. Every one of you knows exactly what happened to them, and there’s nothing me or anyone else could have done to change that. Hell, the only way we could have done anything quicker than we did would be to have hung them right there inside the bank. Now, what’s done is done; so, I suggest we get on with the business of burying poor Tom Watson and those murderin’ thugs’ more fortunate cohort, and put this whole thing behind us. Those other three are gone, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

The crowd remained still for a moment and then began leaking quietly out the front door onto the street, disappearing into the night. After the council members thanked the owner of the Ponder-inn and Saloon for his hospitality, a ‘Closed’ sign was hung on the door and the lock thrown. The night was no longer one for drinking, cavorting, or card playing.

***

Len rolled onto his back and stared straight up at the sky; his head ached and it took a moment to focus his eyes on the branch that hung above him. It was in the middle of the day, according the position of the sun, not early evening as he remembered. Something else was different too—he no longer heard the incessant building noises from the site of the gallows outside the window. In fact, there was no window; there were no walls either. After a few minutes Len sat up and looked around. The ground was soft, dry sand and the sky was crimson, with long, sinuous, gray clouds stretching across the horizon. The tree that he sat under was marred and discolored, as if it had been burned in a fire; not a single leaf adorned its twisted branches.

Curry lay on the ground a few feet away. He was breathing deeply and slowly, like a baby in its crib. Mack was another couple of feet further away, and both seemed no worse for the wear. Len scratched at the back of his head, wishing he saw his hat laying somewhere close by. The afternoon sun hit hard and promised to punish anyone not properly prepared.

Len stood up and walked to where Curry slept and used the toe of his boot to roll him over and jostle him back to consciousness. “Hey, get up. There’s something goin’ on.”

Curry sat up with a start and looked up at Len. Just as Len had done, he spent a moment gathering his wits and focusing on his surroundings. After a few moments, Curry reached over and shoved Mack; he woke up and looked around now as well. “What the hell’s goin’ on, Len?” Mack asked.

Len had moved over to a large rock and sat down, wiping at his face with both hands. “We ain’t in jail anymore, that’s all I know.”

Curry and Mack both stood up and dusted themselves off. “You seen anyone else around?” Curry asked Len.

“Nope,” Len said. “I only just woke up before you.”

“Well, I don’t know why we’re here, or how we got here, but I say we get movin’; that way there looks best to me,” Curry said as he pointed off into the distance toward a rocky outcropping.

After several hours of shuffling through the hot sand and rocks, the men approached a small campfire at the edge of a huge pile of boulders. A lone man sat on a rock facing the fire, pouring a cup of coffee from a blackened metal pot. Curry lowered his stance and put his hand out to warn the others to move slowly. Len knew immediately what Curry intended, and couldn’t allow it.

“Hey there, partner,” Len shouted. “That coffee smells right good!”

Curry looked at Len with evil intent but Len ignored him and walked toward the man and his campfire. Mack snickered and followed along. The man didn’t turn around or show any sign of alarm. Len kept walking, hoping the man had extra food so Curry and Mack wouldn’t need to kill him and take what little there might be.

“Hey mister, you know how far to the nearest town?” Len continued, his approach remaining courteous.

“Yeah,” Curry blurted, “we been walkin’ all day. Our feet is killin’ us.”

The man at the campfire waved over his shoulder for the men to continue, finally acknowledging their presence. Len settled his shoulders and began feeling better about the situation. He looked at Curry and nodded his head. “See there, it’s all right. We’ll find out where we are and figure out what we should do.” Curry sneered back at him in response.

Len walked up behind the man and stopped, expecting him to turn around, but he didn’t. Len spied the man from top to bottom and immediately noticed a large dark stain in the middle of his back. The stain was red out toward the edges and dark, almost black, near the center. At first glance it almost looked like a gunshot wound.

“Hey mister, you all right?” Len asked.

“Yeah, what’s goin’ on with you?” Curry said, less out of regard and more from suspicion.

The man took another sip from the cup he was holding and then stood up. He was not dressed in outdoor clothes; his were more like fancy duds that someone who worked in town would wear.

“Your back don’t look so good, mister,” Len said, with genuine concern.

“Yeah, looks like you had quite the goin’ on with somebody,” Curry added.

The man threw the remainder of his coffee onto the coals at his feet, then let the hand with the cup hang down at his side. “You would know, Mr. Curry, now wouldn’t you.”

Len took a small step back at both the voice and the words it spoke. Curry stepped forward at the challenge. Always looking for a fight, Curry put his hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him around. “Just what are you sayin’, mister?”

The man spun on his heels and faced Curry; it was a sight that Len was not expecting. Not only did the man have a large stain and hole on his front that matched perfectly with the one on his back, but he looked exactly like the man that had died in the bank earlier in the day; but, unlike the timid bank teller, this man stood toe-to-toe with Curry, glaring at him with cold, dark eyes that lacked any kind of a soul.

Curry instantly reached forward and grabbed the man’s throat, squeezing with all his might. Mack and Len stepped back and watched in horror as the man continued to glare at Curry, failing to react to the attack. Curry threw a second hand on the man’s neck and attempted to force him down toward the ground.

“Curry, stop!” Len yelled.

“It’s all right, Len,” the man said. “I didn’t expect him to last any longer than this.” The man reached up with his free hand and, instead of hitting Curry, as Len and Mack had expected, he lightly touched a fingertip to Curry’s forehead. Curry’s expression changed immediately; his eyebrows and forehead rose in surprise, his mouth dropped open, and a sickening gurgle sounded from his throat. After a few more seconds, Curry’s hands dropped from the man’s neck and he fell to his knees; the gurgling sound continuing.

“Your Mr. Curry is very predictable,” the man said as he lowered his hand back down to his side. “There was never really any doubt about his fate.”

Curry slowly rocked back on his heels, his eyes glazing over and the gurgling sound becoming even louder. The skin on his face began to sink into his cheeks and his neck twisted and turned like a grapevine wrapping itself around a trellis; the snapping of the bones turned Len’s stomach. Within seconds, Curry was down on the ground, writhing and rolling in the hot sand like a crazed snake.

“What are you doin’ to him, mister?” Len asked with alarm.

The man looked at Len with his hollow, colorless eyes, but didn’t respond.

“Look mister, he didn’t mean no harm,” Mack said, as he took a step forward. The man raised his finger again and pointed it at Mack. “Don’t touch me!” Mack yelled as he jumped back.

“I am not doing anything to your Mr. Curry, he has chosen his own path—as you must do also.”

Curry began deflating, as if he were a balloon that was losing air. The gurgling now took on the sound of rushing air. Within moments, Curry lay in a pile, no more than dry bones in a bag that was once his clothes.

“He’s gone!” Len said. “Why did you do that to him?”

“You know why he done it,” Mack said. “It was revenge for shootin’ him back in the bank.”

The man looked at Mack, “Mr. Curry did not die from vengeance, he died of hatred—his own hatred. He is the one that came into the bank in Happenstance and shot me through the heart, remember?” The man looked down at his chest, as if it were the first time he had done so since receiving the wound.

“Where are we, and are you still alive?” Len asked.

“You are no longer in Happenstance,” the man said.  “I am no longer in Happenstance. We are all finding our way, our future. Mr. Curry did not find his here.”

“You’re crazy, mister,” Mack said.

“Shut up, Mack,” Len said, showing independence from his trail companion for the first time. “Unless you want to join Curry, wherever he is.”

Mack looked down at Curry’s clothes and then back to Len.

The man from the bank turned and began walking out of the camp.

“Hey, where you goin’ mister?” Len said.

“I am walking. You may walk as well, wherever you’d like. Your future awaits you somewhere out there—although, your past will follow you and try to keep you from it.”

Len looked back at Mack and then at the banker man; the choice was not a difficult one. Len began walking after the dead banker. Mack followed behind, grumbling about having to follow a dead man and a know-nothing kid through the desert.

***

Three hungry, dirty, and thirsty men sat tired in the saddle, looking out over the plain. They had finally shaken the posse that had dogged them since blowing a hole in the back wall of a bank two days prior, and were looking forward to finding a place to shake the dust from their backs and spend their ill-gotten gains.

“Hey, look at that sign there,” the lead rider said. “It says, ‘Happenstance, 10 miles’.”

“You ever been there?” one of the other men asked.

“Been there? Hell, I never even heard of it,” the leader said. “But, it sounds like a nice safe place to hide out. Besides, they probably have a bank of their own that we can visit before we leave.”

The third rider kicked his horse into action, “Let’s go then, I got a good feelin’ about this place.”

END