Through the Keyhole

"Looks like they's comin'," Charlie Petersen said to his companions. He again put his good eye to the keyhole. "I'm countin' ten, maybe twelve of 'em. Sheriff Dean out front and his Deputy beside him. They's all carrying guns."

"Hell, we got guns," Andy said. "What if we stand up and fight?" He scanned the crew's faces to see who supported him.

Major Bruce, the curmudgeon with the bum leg sat up. "We don't fight unless we's forced to," he said, his voice firm with finality.

"And why not?" asked Andy. His father's death still weighed heavily on him, and, rightfully or not, he blamed these men for it.

Major Bruce shook his head. "Damned fool kid," he said, and spat a stream of black tobacco juice onto the splintering floorboards.

"That money's rightfully ours," Andy protested. No one disagreed with him on that point. But rightful ownership hardly mattered anymore. "Why don't we fight for it? Let's stand up and fight, and…." He extended his neck like he'd seen in the theater. In his mind he had already rehearsed this most powerful and dramatic line of his speech that would surely spur the gang to action. "And act like men," he concluded, with all the passion he could muster.

Charlie snickered, but that was the only reaction. Andy frowned and shook his head. He searched the men's eyes, but there was nothing there. He went and sat in the chair by the window and crossed his arms and pouted.

"Get away from the window," the Major said. "They don't know we're here. No use giving it away."

But Andy wasn't listening. If these old washed up outlaws wouldn't fight on their own, then by God he would just have to make them. Goddamn cowards. Nothing worse than a coward, his father used to say. Only thing worse than a coward is a preacher. Andy would show these fools what a true man was. Not to mention his father had been shot in the back and killed while robbing a bank with these idiots down in Prescott last summer. The fact that his father was killed, yet none of these other men suffered so much as a scratch, had been stuck in Andy's craw.

"He acted reckless, and took a useless gamble," one of them had said. "He was out of line. There wasn't nothin' none of us could'a done about it."

Well, Andy thought. You let a man die that way. Not if you're a real man you don't. And not if you're a gang, bound by blood. Where's the honor in sitting back and watching? Where's the code? Well, fuck 'em then. If they want to be cowards, fuck 'em. I'll show them what it means to be a man. I'm a good shot. I can take this posse, maybe even by myself. Would be nice to have some help, but either way, a man's got to take care of his own business. I got… let's see… 18 bullets. That's one and a half for each of them riders. That'll do.

—

Sheriff Dean stopped his men just on top of the rise where the land lifted itself from the starch-dry arroyo. No rain for months. Springs sunk underground or just barely gurgling, some of them turned alkaline, poison water. It sure felt like the end of times his Apache scout kept talking about. Though the Sheriff could never figure out if the prophecies extended to white men or if they were reserved for the Apaches alone. On the former, there was considerable question. On the latter, there was no debate.

The scout had a way of knowing things the others didn’t — like he could see into dimensions far beyond the scope of the white mens' vision. Dean had been at this work long enough to know that his kind saw the world through a narrow slit, the borders of their eyesight shaped and constricted by laws and ideals and statutes. But not the Apache. His world was not bound by such constraints. He looked on the world the way God might — whole, undivided, and entirely without mercy. Living was simply a matter of not dying and nothing else. But taking another human’s life, especially in time of battle, was to him a sacred right required to properly rejuvenate the shrivelling spirit of his people.

"Why are we stopping, Sheriff?" the Deputy asked. He was winded and trying to catch up to his breath as usual.

The Sheriff removed half of a used cigarette from his breast pocket. He struck a match on his boot heel and puffed until the cigarette was smoking. Exhaling, he said, "Like to get a look at that cabin at the base of the hills there." The Deputy squinted, trying to see what the Sheriff was. Sheriff Dean handed him the field glasses.

"Mmm," the Deputy said. His ugly, sweating face strained in concentration. Making that face, Sheriff Dean remembered why no one hired the poor Deputy or allowed him on their crew. He had to be the single ugliest son of a bitch east of the Mississippi, and his face could make a healthy man nauseous. Sheriff Dean kept him around, though, because he was strong of heart and a loyal lawman, and that surely meant something.

"See anything?" the Sheriff asked. The Deputy squinted harder, as if that might reveal something.

"You know I ain't the best at these types of things, Sheriff," the Deputy responded apologetically. He handed the glasses back and shrugged. "Them eyecaps is too small to see nothin' anyways."

Sheriff Dean glassed the cabin. From his vantage point, it looked empty. The cabin, which was long and rectangular with a crude covered porch and a flat roof that would certainly leak under winter snow, was too far off the trail to warrant investigation unless there was some justification. For what they knew, the bandits were at good six, seven hours ahead of the posse, and every moment wasted was another moment lost.

The Sheriff tapped the reins against his horse’s flank, signaling both horse and riders to move on. Behind him came the creak of saddles and the steady stamping of hooves in motion. Keep going, he told himself. Stop wasting time. But as he glanced back over his shoulder, he caught the Apache scout kneeled on the ground and studying a few suspicious stalks of disturbed grass.

—

Being stuck with four men in a suffocating cabin cooking under Arizona summer sun is bad enough when all are healthy and there isn't a sick one shitting his pants.

The black man named Cole knew exactly when the illness took root in his gut. Hours before they'd come across the burned wagons with the money just sitting there, the men had been eating at the widow lady's farmhouse. Having slaughtered and cooked more pigs than he could remember, Cole knew bad bacon when he smelled it. But ravenous hunger and his empty, jealous stomach spoke quicker than sense, and those few seconds made the difference. He shoveled spoonfuls of breakfast into his mouth before his brain could object, and he had barely even tasted the spoiled bacon before it slid involuntarily down his throat into his gut. But then, of course, it was too late.

“Don’t eat the bacon,” he said to the others, quiet so the dutiful widow wouldn’t hear. “Rancid.” The other men fed their bacon to the dog, and Cole was the only one who ate it. That small choice, harmless at the time, would play out in ways none of them could have imagined. Truthfully, the only reason they stopped in the cabin was so that Cole could have some relief from the sun-hardened trail.

"Smells like shit," Andy said in disgust. His face was puckered up tight, with his childish features folded up like they did when he pouted. His whiny looks were one of reasons the men hated him, but yet they tolerated Andy and his obnoxious moods. To some degree they each felt responsible for his father's death, and thus, Andy's continued survival and well-being. But internally, they swore that as soon as they were free of the brat, they would surely never seek his company again.

"That's because it is shit," Cole said, his weakened voice patient and not angry. He'd been emptying himself from both ends for hours. Nobody thought he'd last much longer. Where they were, dehydration was as deadly as a bullet.

Charlie Petersen, who had been watching the posse through the keyhole, stepped back, and, with his one good eye, looked from Andy to Cole and back again. "Will you two shut the hell up?" he hissed. "If them boys hear us, we're done for."

Andy chuckled derisively. "They don't look so tough," he said, peeking through a corner of the window.

Major Bruce spoke for everyone when he again told Andy to get back out of sight. "Only a fool would stand there knowing every damn one of us is dead if he's seen."

Andy leaned in against the window frame, keeping there to annoy the others.

"Major said get back from the window," Charlie said. He pointed where Andy should move to.

"Yeah?" Andy said, his voice contentious and defiant. "Well I'm not." He spat on the floor.

"Christ," Major Bruce said. "He's as bad as his father."

Andy's hand dropped to his holster. Pulling the Colt free, his boots hammered across the creaky floor. He stopped with the revolver leveled at the Major's face. "What did you just say?" The hammer clicked back.

—

The Apache scout was certain the men had been to the cabin. All the signs said so. He felt the gang's presence and was convinced they were inside, though that knowledge spurred from his intuition as opposed to any specific evidence.

Scanning the ground, he considered the messages and formed opinions of the men involved and their condition of body and mind. The wind delivered him the information that one of them was sick and dying and that there was great fear spread among them. Then, the pistol hammer clicked.

The scout grinned. His excitement rising, he breathed in deep and held the exhale to settle his anxious stomach. Removing his hunting knife from its buffalo hide sheath, he signaled to the Sheriff how to proceed then vanished into the scrub.

—

The only man in the cabin who didn't have a gun drawn was Cole. Andy had his on the Major. The Major and Charlie had theirs on Andy.

"Put that damned gun away," Charlie said. His head was turned at a funny angle so his good eye could stare straight down the pistol barrel. "Ain't no sense in fightin' your own men."

Andy scoffed and shook his head. "My own men? Shit. I don't see no men in here. Just cowards."

Cole attempted to sit up. "Just settle down, Andy." His voice was raspy, fading. "Being brave ain't just pointing a gun."

Andy wiped the sweat from his face and considered his next move. He held onto the pistol because he didn't know what else to do, like if he let go he might just disintegrate and die. But he knew things didn't have to be so serious; that it was he who was keeping the tension and that it was he who could, at any moment, release it. He could admit these men didn't want to cause him harm. He could see that in their faces. They were just tired. Tired in body and mind and in spirit. Tired of running from the law, especially the few times they weren't wrong but had to run anyways. Tired of sleepless nights, because sleep could get a man killed. Tired of bad water, bad food, bad whiskey, and women that were even worse. Tired of being tired, and tired of being jealous that the men always on their trail got to go home to a warm bed and a warm woman. Andy was not as familiar with these thoughts as the others, since the thrill of the score still excited him. And with the recent death of his father, he had something pure in his heart to fight for... even if that pure thing was vengeance.

A fist-sized rock shattered the window and bounced off the opposing wall. The bandits instinctively dropped to the floor and minimized their figures. They had been busy fighting amongst themselves and had forgotten about the posse.

"Now we're cooked," Major Bruce said. He put his gun away.

"Next one is a flaming whiskey bottle," someone yelled from the yard. "Then we commence shootin'." It was Sheriff Dean alright. They would recognize that voice anywhere.

"What do we do?" Charlie Petersen asked, already knowing the answer.

Major Bruce sighed, and his old face aged years in an instant. "I'll do the talking, I reckon. Everybody put your guns down." The Major shuffled to the door on stiff legs and yelled. "It's me, Mickey, and I'm coming out." Major Bruce opened the door and counted the men outside. There were eight facing him, each holding a gun, and there would be surely more surrounding the place that he couldn't see. Stepping onto the porch he came near face to face with the Apache and his knife. Bruce scurried off quickly into the yard, eager to avoid the scout and his evil eyes.

"I'm all yours, Jason," he said to the Sheriff, and raised his hands. The Deputy cuffed the Major and took his gun, then sat him with his back to the porch rail. "Come on out, men!" the Major yelled to the gang inside. "It's safe."

Next out came Charlie with his hands and fingers locked behind his head. He had been through this plenty of times, and simply wanted to get to the jail so he could have a meal and a bed and maybe some clean water to drink. The Deputy sat him next to the Major.

"Who's left?" the Deputy asked.

"Just the boy and Cole. But Cole's done up. Sick as a dying dog. Andy’s the only one standing."

"Come on out, Andy," the Sheriff hollered. "Let's get this over with." Tense moments passed with nothing but the sounds of creaking saddles and the rustling of aspens up in the hills. Sheriff Dean looked to Major Bruce for a sign. The Major pursed his lips and shook his head just once. "Damnit," Sheriff Dean cursed, and dismounted his horse.

Inside, Andy struggled with his conscience. Did he truly want to kill these men or get himself killed? Was his cause of vengeance and warped justice worth that? Or was he simply preserving his ego and his twisted sense of honor? And what about his father? Would he be letting him down if he gave up without a fight?

"It's all over, Andy," Cole said. "Put down the gun. No sense in dying today.”

Andy moved to the window and looked out at the mounted men. The sun was bright and hot and the glass intensified it. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. His gun hand was clammy and slick. He moved from the window and crossed back to where Cole lay slumped in the corner.

“You think my father would’ve given up?” Andy asked.

Cole didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t.

Andy checked his pistol. All six chambers loaded. He snapped it shut, and the metallic click was loud in the quiet cabin. He moved toward the door, then stopped. He could hear the horses outside shifting their weight, leather creaking. Someone coughed.

He thought about his father falling in that Prescott bank. Shot in the back while these men ran. He looked at the door. Looked at his gun. His hand was shaking now and he hated that it was shaking.

Andy shifted to the open side of the door, the pistol held behind his back. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sun's brightness, and when they did, his vision settled on the Sheriff's badge. Then he saw Major Bruce and Charlie Petersen tied up, their heads hung low in defeat.

A flash of anger hit him. Goddamn cowards. In his mind’s eye he again saw his father fighting desperately for his life. He imagined these two sitting there with their heads held low and not caring.

“He’s as bad as his father.” Major Bruce’s words rang in his ear. “Maybe worse.”

Then, without consciously deciding, his arm was up and swinging the weapon not at the Sheriff but towards Major Bruce. There was commotion in the yard, yelling voices, guns raising. A dark flash on his right, and the unseen Apache was quickly upon him. In a single, swift motion, Andy's head was jerked back and the razor sharp knife mortally split his neck flesh. Andy's finger squeezed the trigger and the pistol fired, the bullet slamming into the porch ceiling. Andy’s body fell lifelessly onto the floor, and his prized Colt clattered away harmlessly.

The Apache, knife still wet with blood, slipped into the cabin and found Cole helpless in the darkened corner. The Sheriff was yelling something, but he wasn’t listening. He simply closed the door behind him with a soft click, pivoted, then sprang like a wildcat. The knife sank deep into Cole’s belly, and a weak, rattling grasp escaped his throat.

—

In the Sheriff’s official report, he wrote that Cole had attacked the scout and the Apache was only defending himself. But the truth was murkier. From where he stood, Sheriff Dean saw only fragments: flashes through the dust and the shattered window, shadows on the wall, and figures moving too quick to follow. It was as if he were peering through a mere keyhole, watching a world that remained hidden beyond his restricted sight, with its truths forever just out of focus.