Gold Redemption

It was as quiet as quiet goes for a speeding mass of segmented steel. Any spectator from a distance wouldn't think otherwise when gazing at the picturesque silhouette of an iron horse trudging across the desert horizon. Not a single soul would have known the trouble brewing on the El Capitan as it hurried through the barren landscape of Santa Fe.

The rumbling of the train shifted the unconscious man further into his slumped stature. Glimmering embers danced wild, sweeping across the cabin like a dandelion caught in a tornado. The passengers remained still, even as the flickering remnants of the blast casually wafted by their cowed faces. A shrill train whistle splits the air and startles the knocked rustler awake. As he comes to, his eyes strain to open, fighting against the stinging hot air and his mangled eyelashes. A sputter, a groan and a touch of movement from his legs are all he can muster. He looks to his left, down the aisle of the passenger car. His eyes narrow in on the carpet leading down the pathway, letting the pattern of the emerald and silver fleur de leis lure him back to slumber. But the pain that cracks his skull trounces his wavering sensibility. Another hard cough and he's fully awake. With high pitched ringing in the ears, stiff appendages, blackened soot and debris all around; the reality of having just been in an explosion of some sort dawns on him. In a panic, his hands clumsily pat the rest of his body with hope that no other unpleasant realities are met. Charred leather chaps and a crispy overcoat report back to his tingling fingertips, as they too regain awareness. It feels like a ton of bricks are stacked atop his chest. The view before him corrects his suspicions. It wasn't bricks, it was a piece of busted up iron that resembled what used to be a part of a car coupler.

'How'd that get here?' he thinks to himself. His senses start to flood his body. The aches and pains make themselves known first but are hushed when the adrenaline arrives. His strength felt completely extinct which left him astonished when he was able to heave the lump of metal off his howling rib cage. The air that rushed his lungs would have been gladly received had it not commenced another bout of choking coughs. He lunges forward on his knees, his wrists threatening to buckle.

'Buck up, get on yer beetle crushers ', he commands of himself. His feet begrudgingly comply. Shakily, he stands. He can feel his body swaying in agony and grabs hold of the head rest on the seat before him. As his vision begins to clear his gaze is met with pair of pupils, magnified in dilation with terror. He snaps back sloppily and waits for his garbled vision to settle and adjust. He's in a passenger car, spotlight and center at the front of the aisle. Awestruck faces smattered throughout the seats are locked on him.

"What in tarnation am I doing on this goddamned train?" he hollered out to the crowd. They all shirked back in unison at the raspy question launched in their direction. No one dared speak up. He took a questionable step forward, still gripping the head rest for support. Before he could summon his other leg to follow, the back car entrance busted open with several large men brandishing rifles spilling in. He froze, unsure of the direction of the situation and his place in it at that moment.

"Goddamnit Roscoe, ya'dam near blew yer britches off! You tryin' to finish off what them Yellowbellies couldn't? Why'n the hell is this locomotive still a'movin?" barked the man in the front of the posse. He was a burly looking guy, tall with shoulders broader than an ox yoke. His cowboy hat and bandana set the stage for his angry baby blues to do the talking. A blonde beard poked through the bottom of his tattered face covering. The red clay dust that covered his coat and stovepipes wasn't enough to hide the ammo strapped to his thick trunk of a torso. He was a frightening sight to behold, especially when his gruff speech spewed forth.

"Roscoe, brisk up now ya hear? Why ah we a'still movin?" asked Baby Blues.

"I dun think he curtsied the blazes by the skin'n'him teeth, boss man.", spoke the middle man. This wrangler was a touch smaller than Baby Blues. A bit more wiry and slender, sharing the likeness of a spiked horned toad. There was no coat to hide his pointed, lanky build. Jet black hair draped his shoulders in wispy tendrils. The annunciation of his S's came out like a serpents slur. The eyes nestled above his tied scarf were dark and menacing, drowning out the white bits that gave any bearing of him being human. He seemed a little too calm, as if coiled and poised to strike at a moments notice. Snake Man, Roscoe decided.

"Boone! Git on up der and see if Roscoe pulled the pin on this here bull nose.". The man in the back rushed forward, like a boulder broke loose from a mountainside. Boone could've had a moose for a mother and a bull for a sire. His height alone was enough to snap a neck just by looking up. From the looks of it though, one of his mammoth hands would do the trick just fine. Everything about Boone was huge. You could still see the corners of his mouth peeking out from the cloth that was supposed to conceal his identity. It was ridiculous that a Goliath such as himself would even go through the trouble of trying to hide any identifiable aspect of his being. Roscoe knew better than to stand in the path of Boone and slid into a seat to avoid the rockslide headed his way.

Baby Blues starts towards Roscoe with his rifle half cocked up, a hostile reminder to the passengers to stay put. With one hand, he yanked Roscoe up and straightened him out with a quick shake, much like snapping a wet sheet before hanging out to dry. Baby Blues stared at him hard in the face, trying to discern if the lights being on meant somebody was home. The glaring meanness in his crows feet soften, and he pulls his kerchief down from his face.

"Look he'ah Ol'Ro boy, who am I? Look at meh. Ya goddamn sod, what'd ya do to ya'self?" Roscoe stares back, trying to force the gears in his head to crank out an acceptable answer. His mouth falls agape for a moment, trusting the muscle memory of his tongue to confess. Instead, he closed his parched lips back together and only shook his head in defeat.

"I say we cut our losses and ditch this blue boi, boss man." Snake Man had slithered up behind Baby Blues without Roscoe noticing. "More Lincoln skins, less dead weight to haul. He's full on in'a bad box."

Baby Blues seemed annoyed by the breach in space he was sharing with Roscoe but refrained from commenting. He kept his eyes trained ahead of him, not breaking his stare. You could see his mind working overdrive, trying to decide if he could pull Roscoe from his stupor or not.

He spun around to face Snake Man, who hadn't even flinched at the impressive finesse of such a stout man. You could tell he was still contemplating the situation at hand. Snake Man peered past the hulking cowboy and sneered with his eyes at Roscoe, miffed that precious time was being wasted determining his fate.

"Boss man!" Boones voice roared over the crowd. It could've been mistaken for an earthquake if there hadn't been a body attached to the boom that made even Snake Man twitch in surprise. "Is'not lookin good boss man! Ol'Ro dished the whole damn tang! It'sa melded togetha now. Too much heat from'd soup! Brake hand a goner!" Boone tossed a pulverized metal stick the size of a jail bar into the aisle, showing definitive proof that the train wasn't going to be stopping any time soon. Even in his discombobulated state, Roscoe knew that piece of iron lying twisted on the floor spelled trouble.

Baby Blues paced back and forth, turning thoughtfully on his heel with each round he made. He stopped to look at all the passengers.

"Ya'll gun be going for bit of a ride I reckon." Baby Blues addressed the crowd.

"Ya'll seem like nice folk nah, but we hee'ar had otha plans for what ya haulin. Me an ma boys got done brown by Uncle Sam and we's just collecting ah dues. We was treated like kid glove boys!" The way Baby Blues spouted that last sentiment started to click something within Roscoes distant memory. Were they ex soldiers? Was he part of this heist?

"Now we know none ya'll got a quarrel with us takin what is rightfully ahs, after servin' and taken som' lead pills so ya can keep on livin' with yer burgs and chow. We just hee'ar to take them papers and be out ya bonnet now. We was jus' gun'separate the steamer. Come down to a crawl and leave ya be! So I r'gret to inform ya'll that it ain't the plan afta'all. N'fact, this train ain't gon be stoppin fa'no one!" He gestured towards the small oval windows, as if the rapidly passing landscape would be enough to explain that they were now aboard a runaway train. The riders seemed to understand quite fine their predicament.

"If anyone's a'fixin to live, ya'll can stay put in this high-falutin doodlebug while me an'the boys clear out! Once that's square, if ya got enough horse sense n'ya, I'd suggest jumpin' this steel pony 'fore it gets to full chisel and walk ya top rail arses on back down the ties!"

With that Baby Blues whistled sharply, calling Boone and Snake Man to his command. They came over and formed a tight huddle. Raspy whispers escaped through the unblocked portions of the bodily fortress. Snake Man shot Roscoe with dagger eyes every few seconds. Something was decided upon. All three men broke quickly and started their process. What Roscoe didn't anticipate was being a part of it. Especially being slung over Boones ox strong shoulders as if he were a lily handed, painted lady.

"Godam- what the dickens?? Put me down ya half wit cluck!". At first, Roscoe tried to thrash about and shimmy off but gave up quickly when the head rush caught up. Back to spinning vision he went. Guess he wasn't quite ready for maneuvering yet. Roscoe stopped fighting against the giants grip and hunkered in.

A burst of blistering dry air swirled all around his face and bright blinding light struck his delicate optics. It was a sudden change in atmosphere, though only a few seconds long before he was dumped onto the floor of the next vehicle. Roscoe's adrenaline started kicking in again. This time his eyesight caught up faster. It was only him and Boone in this car. The lug was strapping up bags and tying ropes around overstuffed satchels. Keeping himself in a busy hurry.

"Boone. I reckon I don't have the slightest right now. What the hell is going on?" Roscoe figured he'd try to act in a familiar manner, even though his memory of this hulk was lost for the time. Perhaps if he seemed like he had some clue to their relationship, he'd gain one as well.

"We clearin' out the safe car. Gettin ah pay. Hoss and ya got stiffed with ya war pension. So the two of ya's wagered with me n'Striker to collect on some of the last greenbacks shipments rollin' out a'circulation. They's suppos'd to get turned in for bars, for the Resumption Act. You's was suppos'd to unhitch the head. Striker packed the juice, you's was suppos'd to blow it. I know Striker though. He was prolly fixin' to hornswoggle ya, send ya to the marble orchard. He a wolfish man, Striker." Boone was still meticulously readying the last of the packs, making sure the remaining were spread wide open. "Striker don' think yer no great scratch. Less people, less splittin' the scuds. I'ma bettin' he didn't think ya'd shave his skin game."

For being such an intimidating man, Boone had a straight forward compassion about him. How fitting that Snake Man had a name that doubled down on the similitude of such a low creature. Roscoe wasn't sure why he was divulging that Striker wanted to do him in. He wasn't even sure why he would've joined this posse in the first place. The more he thought on it, the more recall started to dribble in. The freshest accounts were bits and pieces of the war. It was clouded at first, but the feelings of anxiety and full blown fear swarmed his body as distant screams, gunfire and sounds of raining dirt swelled his mind. He remembered slogging through muck, fog and bodies; many crying out in agony as they toed the line of life and death. He shuddered at this and tried to push forward but his conscious kept him in that moment. A stinging sensation ripped through his abdomen as the memory of buzzing insects sunk in. Except he knew it wasn't winged vermin. They were bullets, flying past madder than a hornet. One had struck him in the gut. Tore him up real good. He remembered fully then. Waiting for rescue while a full night and day had passed before he was found. Caked in mud and old blood, hypothermic and delusional. The entirety of the yarn rolled out in a tidal wave. His recovery, long and painful. Going back home to find only his mother remained, having turned to alcoholism and running a brothel after her husband and child never came back. Traveling miles to collect his paycheck only to find out it would take months before his pension would arrive. And even then, it was only eight dollars a month, due to him being discharged on disability from his war injury. How was a man supposed to live and get by with that set up? He remembered feeling angry, lost and hopeless. Mulling about for years just scraping by, getting into trouble with alcohol and money, or lack thereof. He met Hoss one night after he'd been tossed from a boardinghouse trying to swindle the wrong men in a gambling match. They shared their experiences with fighting for the Union. Hoss had been running on the meager disability pay dolled out to decommissioned soldiers as well. His injury had left him with a partial left foot, a right ear blown to smithereens and two missing rib bones. He had a luckier time finding work as a civilian though. Got himself aligned as a book binder at a bank. That's how Hoss knew of the precious cargo they were lifting.

Everything made sense again for Roscoe. They had indeed struck a deal with Boone and Striker. The plan was to raid the El Capitan where the tracks crossed the most barren part of the Santa Fe desert. This train was carrying one of the last cycles of bank notes to be turned in for gold coin and bar. This meant it was untraceable money, just waiting for a big cash out in precious metal. There had been a new issue of bank notes that were already accounted for in circulation of the US. A very limited amount reserved for farmers and those with agrarian interests to continue their high price dealings. Those, you could just rob from any hoity toity, but weren't worth their weight in gold like this buy-back jackpot. This was how Hoss and Roscoe were going to settle the score with the mishandling of their compensation. The way they saw it was simply swapping out the value of their time, pain and labor for the value of the retiring greenbacks - both discarded by the government but rated as a necessary expense. You can't steal what doesn't exist.

Roscoe's trip down memory lane was cut short by the clear ring of a Colt 45 going off in the next car. Boone stood to attention, his hand snaking down to rest on the holster of his cannon. Striker came through the door carrying a midsized trunk and dappled red clots on his legs. Blood splatter, probably from some poor sap making his egos last stand. Hoss came in right after him, slinging two canvas bank bags. Roscoe jumped to his feet, fully recounted and able to carry his weight.

"Ol'Ro! Look who decided to cut a figure! Was 'bout to strap ya to one of these hee'ar bags and toss ya!" Hoss came over and pulled Roscoe into a bear hug. The squeeze lit up his senses to the other injuries he most likely procured from the explosion earlier. But it felt good to have his wits about him. When Hoss let go, the distinguishing click of a revolver halted any further stirring from both. Hoss slowly turned to see Striker with his pistol lined up in their direction, with him directly in the bullseye.

"S'bout time me an Boone do wha'we do best boss man. Ya want'd bootleggers, ya got'm." Striker was sidestepping over to Boone without wavering his slinging hand. They'd been duped. Boone was packing the last of the papers from the trunk into the open satchels, remorse eking out from his fractionally covered face. Striker gestured at them with the loaded gun to move away from the side door. He unlatched the lock and was swinging it back in a rolling motion. For a brief moment, Strikers attention was focused on sliding the heavy gate. That's when Hoss drew his pistol and all hell broke loose. The first bullet to fly missed Strikers head by a foot, causing him to stumble back in a panic and kick off a few rounds himself. Wood splinters gusted by Roscoe's head as the wall behind him gained new peeping holes. Hoss was on Striker in an instant, not noticing Boone lumbering up behind him. In a blink of insanity, Roscoe felt his body hurling through the air towards the behemoth with every intention of taking out his kneecaps. He hadn't planned on his chin doing all the work on the oversized patella, but work it did. Roscoe's face made contact with the likeness of an elm tree. Boone came tumbling down and knocked into Hoss and Striker, pinning the gangly cottonmouth to the floor. Hoss shook free and yelled for Rosco to 'draw his piece goddamnit'.

Hoss kicked Boone square in the jaw as he was trying to scramble away from the pile of human logs and twigs writhing about the floor. Boone was hardly affected when the stogies rammed into his face and was forming up again. It was seconds enough for Hoss to jump up and pull Roscoe's thirty eight from his belt. Hoss spun round and fired a warning shot that grazed Boones thigh; he simply flinched like he'd been bit by a fire ant. Striker was back on his feet, bloodied in the face after having met the full split of a wranglers fist.

"I see ya try'n't get us in the neck eh? Seems I pick'd the wrong pigs tail hee'ar." Puffed Hoss, still out of air from when the boulder crashed atop him. Hoss had the upper hand, but the look spreading across Strikers face gave Roscoe a nervous feeling. Striker positioned himself behind the wall of a human that Boone was.

"This dope ain't gun' protect you from what'sa comin' Striker. I got's the bulge on ya." Hoss called out. Boones eyes widened suddenly as the spindly hand of Striker careened out from the side of him, brandishing the stinger he had tucked in his waistband. Pop pop pop! Roscoe ducked down but not before catching a lead slug in his left arm. He saw Hoss hit the ground opposite of him, still firing the beans from the wheel. The air was deafened with bangs and cracks. Light beamed across the cabin left and right, exposing the wild hurricane of dust and wood streaming all around. A yelp broke through and then chaos subsided. A loud thud shook the car ever so slightly and the site was one to behold. Boone was splayed out on the wooden planks, clutching his neck and howling. It wasn't necessarily a river of blood pouring out, but certainly enough to make the huge goon whimper like a baby.

Striker was no where to be seen. Roscoe almost looked over the red stained hand mark that was on the edge of the open side door. 'Bugger had it comin to him', Roscoe thought, as he pieced together who had yipped like a kicked coyote. He sat up, cradling his wound with his free hand. Hoss hadn't moved yet. His body was still laying on its side from whence it had landed. Boone was regaining composure and sitting up, legs bowed out and back hunched. He'd taken his face covering off and used it as a blood stop, held tight in place by a hand that seemed to be missing a finger as well. He had tears streaming down his face as his shoulders shook with sad sobs.

"Hoss! Hoss, wake up ya damn toad!" Roscoe called out. But he didn't stir. Boone was closest and rolled over on his knees, skootching over to Hoss's body.

Roscoe shot up immediately and grabbed the nearest largest item he could get his hands on; a sack of beans. He stomped up to Boone in the most intimidating fashion he could muster and held it over his head, ready to smite his head with favas. Boone cowered back and cried out.

"I jus'wan help 'im! Please! I don'want to pal on wit' Strikers schemes no mor'! I ain't wit'im no mor'! Please!" begged Boone.

There was something about seeing such a gargantuan man fall to pieces that stopped Roscoe from taking the swing. He believed him. He could tell from earlier that Boone was ready to check out of the Striker gang. After giving up that the TNT had been rigged to kill him and that Striker couldn't be trusted, Roscoe felt undoubted that Boone was being genuine. It was the tears leaking from his whopping head that really sealed the deal.

He stooped down to Hoss and gingerly flipped him to his back. Big lifeless baby blues stared back at him, glossed over. Roscoe could see the entry wound on his left temple, still active in its flow. His heart fell to his stomach, queasiness not far behind. Roscoe allowed one gulping wail to surface before burrowing his face into his functional arm. He didn't even notice Boone scooping up the stuffed money bags and roping them all together.

Boone reached out and lightly shook Roscoe's shoulder, not noticing the sleeve that was soaking up the crossfire catch.

"Ow goddamit! Why'r you such a buffoon?? You got prairie coal fa'brains? Boone the buffoon?" yelled Rosco, balking from the pain that ran up and down his arm. Boones face was unchanged from the insult, probably numb from years of verbal abuse.

"I knows ya upset about boss man. I liked'im. He treated me good. Kind like. But we still chokin' down the tracks and I dun'want to be at the end of this runnaway. Its'a time to scuttle on now."

"We can't leave 'im here Boone!"

"What'n the hell we 'sposed to do? We ain't got any horses. We passed the jump miles back! Its'a gun'be a hellova walk back t'base! And what if Striker still back there? I need ya wit'me Ol'Ro!" spouted Boone.

'Well I'll be damned', thought Roscoe. 'Big boy gots some sense in'im'. It pained Roscoe to leave Hoss. Didn't feel right. He wanted a proper burial for the man who had pulled him from the gutter and shaped him back up. He knew they were running out of time as the barreling of the steam bucket seemed to be gaining notable traction. Roscoe painstakingly pulled himself away and tacked himself up with bags and satchels. They were heavy.

Roscoe and Boone steadied themselves on the edge of the cars open door, unable to stick their heads out due to the speed of the train and the aerodynamics of the exertive air. They stared at each other for a moment, then back out to the shifting arid landscape. Sand, rocks and cactus blowing by in a blur. It was now or never. A nod from each and they both leapt from their spot.

Roscoe was braced for impact as the centrifugal force spun him around in the air, his load pushed into him as the center of weight in his spiral. He kept on expecting to hit ground any moment and shot his eyes open in alarm when the burn of sand didn't catch him. The velocity of his fall brought a stinging dryness to his eyes as he soon realized his plummet was directly into a canyon. Him and Boone had jumped as the train was starting over a bridge.

'How do you like that crock of shit' Roscoe thought to himself, letting the weightlessness of the fall take over. He wished right then, that he'd never regained his memory for the reason he was ever on that train. Ignorance could have been his bliss and life saver. Hell, even Striker had voted to leave him behind. All the plans he'd thought of with the gold started to fade away. The idea of rescuing his mother from her unfortunate means of survival. Starting up a cattle ranch with Hoss. A fruitless endeavor with hope keeping him high for the ride. He dwelled for a moment on the events leading to all the disappointment he had bestowed upon his family and friends. It was time to let it all go. Roscoe forgave Hoss and his mother. He forgave Boone and even Striker. Then he forgave himself. It was the richest he'd ever felt. Better than any golden retribution. Roscoe blinked back tears and let the peace consume him as he headed for one last round of lights out.