The road was long and flat and winded like a rattlesnake
through the desert. His horse plodded along, each step making a faint imprint
in the dirt that was soon erased by the wind. The wind and the dust that
accompanied it were their only companions. Not that he wanted it any other way.
Thin, wiry sagebrush dotted the mostly flat landscape like a thick layer of
freckles on the cracked, barren ground. Clouds floated in the distance but
hardly threatened to storm. He wondered how long it has been since the thirsty
terrain had tasted rain. The sun was slowly setting and the sky turned red and
the clouds that hung in it looked as though they were filled with blood. It was
a scene unlike anything he was used to seeing at home. Not that it was home
anymore. Home now was where he rode, where he ate, where he slept. Home was the
saddle on the back of his horse and the feeling of a pistol in his hand.
He was
raised the son of a southern preacher. Part of him had enjoyed the loud, fiery
speeches from the pulpit and the way the congregation crowded into the large
canvas tents just to be told that the way they were living wasn't how God
intended. People would change or try to change but it never lasted for more
than a few days. Hardly worth the effort of changing anything in the first
place. It didn't take him long to realize that he didn't have much faith in
anyone or anything besides himself. His problems didn't go away except by the
power of his own hands and he didn't attribute his successes to anything other
than his own hard work and that was enough to keep him satisfied. For whatever
reason, he still carried his Bible with him. Its cover was well worn and its
pages bent and stained brown with dirt, not because he read it often, but
because it had been with him for as long as he could remember. Maybe it was
superstition. Maybe it was because it represented a memory of his father. He didn't know why but he carried it with him
all the same.
A pneumonia outbreak swept through his town
when he was thirteen or fourteen. His entire family, father, mother, and
younger brother, were afflicted with it to some degree. God didn't spare his
preacher father or the rest of his family. He didn't spare much of their town
at all. Maybe there was some truth to the notion that God wasn't pleased with
the way they were living. Or maybe it was nothing but an unfortunate
coincidence. He didn't spend much time thinking about it. He and his father were able to recover. The
rest of his family wasn't so lucky.
He
remembered the joint funeral, parts of it anyway. He remembered taking off his
hat and squeezing it in his hands tight enough that he felt like he was
strangling the non-existent life out of it. Just some unsuccessful attempt to
keep himself from crying but the tears flowed anyways. His father struggled to
stand on weak legs and struggled even more trying to put together his thoughts
well enough to speak. The normally eloquent man was reduced to inchoherent
stammering and someone else in the congregation stood and took his place and
did their best to finish his thoughts. He didn't understand why anyone had to
say anything at all. What they were feeling would stick with them more than
hollow words anyways. Months later, his father recovered his physical health
but he was a different man. He had lost the fire that had driven him to stand
and preach to the masses, the fire to defend God's actions. The boy never saw
his father stand behind a pulpit again, and he never blamed him. He didn't
remember much more about it and maybe that was all he needed. Everything else
was some sort of unpleasant memory that served no purpose other than to weigh
him down so he let them go.
The boy left
home soon after. The town didn't have anything to offer him besides worn out
condolences and sympathetic smiles. His father didn't say much of a goodbye,
assuming that he would make his way back home before long. He didn't.
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