The Butcher and the Butterfly (11 page)

The Deputy
stumbled up the small set of steps leading up to the main door of
the jail house. He was oblivious to all around him. His gut was on
fire. He couldn’t believe that they had made their presence so
obvious, leaving their horses tethered so out in the open. Johns
anger rose but he knew he had to control it. Opening the main door
to the building he stepped into the shade and into the beginning of
the rest of his life.

He looked upon
them like he would any hardened criminal.

The eldest
brother, Wilson, sat at John’s old and untidy desk; his right boot
laying heavily on its dulled surface. Wilson’s hair was long,
black, as with all the brothers and it was tied back with a single
knot of some unclean material. His face was long, dangerously
serious, skin the tan colour of the desert and covered in scars of
past encounters. His mouth was rigid, slight and full of wit, hate
and malevolence. He had eyes of green fury. He wore the usual
attire of a man of the desert; long dark leather jacket, dark blue
jeans and a frayed white shirt. Around his waist he carried; slung
low like the slinger he was, an old and battered hand made six
shooter. The weapon had seen better days but not a better owner.
Sat in the chair and staring straight at John, Wilson showed no
emotion for he had lost it a long time ago and would never get it
back.

The second eldest
brother (if only for but sixty minutes) was Boyd and he was stood
next to the chair like the doting wife in all those old photos John
had seen. He too had long black hair, but his was tied back with
two knots instead of one. He stood shorter than John, an even six
foot. His face, as with Wilsons, was hard, rugged and emotionless.
His deep blue eyes, like lakes of glass; shone in the dim light. He
was the most handsome of the trio, less tanned than the other two
and not as tatty looking. His leather jacket, frayed at the bottom
edges as it dragged along the floor, concealed his father’s double
barrelled shot gun. Again with a white shirt and a pair of faded
blue jeans he looked the part. His face, too, was expressionless
and his eyes unblinking. Never play cards with Boyd Quint.

The third brother
and the youngest of the three, Bane, was positioned opposite his
twin brother and to the right of Wilson. He was the spit of Boyd
and in their childhood had been mistaken many a many time. The only
real aspect that pulled them apart where his brown eyes, dull like
lifeless corpses. Recently, a scuffle had broken out in some far
off pub and Bane had been left with a deep scar running from the
tip of his jaw, across his right cheek, over his right eye and
finally finishing in a lump on his forehead. The scar had made him
ugly and far meaner. Banes long black hair was tied back with –
yeah you guessed it – three knots and it shone in the sunlight. He
wore a shorter leather jacket than his older brothers and his
clothes were tatty beyond age. He carried a rusty six shooter but
his real talent was slung across his back and tied ‘quick release’
to his shoulders. Banes rifle, a Jenkinson ‘Pip the Ace’ could find
a target at well over eight hundred yards and Bane was a deadly
shot. Deadly.

So there they are
in all their glory. Three brothers all born in the same day. Wilson
the eldest and leader with the twins; Boyd and Bane following like
a true brother should. They are men whom care for little else but
themselves and the gains that they can make from the misery of
others. If you take but one bit of advice from this old story
teller be it this: take a wide berth from the men, about a thousand
miles should do it.

John swallowed
hard. He knew that one wrong look, one misplaced gesture would end
in his life. He had to be careful.

Wilson spoke first
his voice gruff, low and devilish. ‘I hope we didn’t surprise you,
John? But I thought a mission of this importance would require us
to be a little... shall we say; prudent?’ Wilson’s eyes lit up and
his mouth became a pink slit.

John remained
silent, awestruck for the moment.

‘What he means
is,’ now it was the turn of Boyd to speak; his voice was coarse,
often monotone, ‘that we arrive in your sweet little town early and
we is seen by many riding round all day and causing a fuss, so when
what is going to happen happens we can takes the blame.’

John nodded, his
eyes not leaving the open gaze of Wilson but being aware of all the
little movements the other two brothers make. The Deputy moved
toward the desk and went to sit on the spare chair opposite
Wilson.

‘Who said you
could sit?’ Wilson asked looking concerned. His tone of voice
hadn’t changed, it very rarely did and John quickly lifted himself
back up. Sweat formed upon his brow. Both Boyd and Bane chuckled
under their breath.

Wilson leant
forward, ‘You wary of me, aint cha Dep’ty?’

John remained
hunched over, holding onto the arms of the chair, his backside
propped up facing the doorway. He knew the question to be a trick.
If he answered positively then that would imply that Wilson was a
cold hearted thug who cared little for anything or anyone else (a
fact that was blatantly obvious). However if he were to answer
negatively then that would show that John wasn’t afraid of death
itself in all its glory and so a man that shows no fear needs to be
put in his place. The trickle of sweet on his brown soon became a
river and his back and pants became sodden. He didn’t like how the
day was starting.

‘Always dodging
the tricky ones aint ya, John? Well it’s a good job I don’t give a
pigs titty if ya are or if ya aint! All I cares about is how much
and at what time. Anything else can go fuck itself. Just dust and
piss as my Dad always said.’ Wilson lowered his right foot to the
floor and leant forward.

‘Now sit the fuck
down, you look like a dumb cunt!’

3

Over the next hour
John and Wilson discussed the when, the where’s and the how’s and
then finally how much. It was a discussion that no God fearing ears
should have to listen. Before their meeting was over John voiced
his concerns about Stephen.

‘We have a visitor
in town. Stephen. He claims to be Watchman from Ritash.’

‘Oh, aye. This far
out? You sure?’ Wilson looked to his brothers and leant back in the
chair. It creaked with age.

John shook his
head. ‘Not sure. I have no reason to doubt him, but then I have no
reason to believe him. In these wretched days anyone can pose as
anything,’

‘So what is it to
us?’ Boyd asked and John turned to face him.

‘Cathy and I are
concerned.’ John took in a breath. It was hellishly hot in his
office today.

4

Bane, Boyd and
Wilson looked at one another. Looked at each other’s expressions
and knew what each were thinking. They all began to smile. A
Watchman meant a challenge and a good kill. A Watchman carried guns
of grace and honour; guns that could shoot straight and kill
quicker. Wilson stood slowly from the chair and strutted across the
room. John did not follow him but instead listened to the dusty
footfalls as the echoed on the hardwood floor. Finally they came to
rest behind him. Wilson leant over and whispered into John’s
ear.

‘If he is a
Watchman, then he will be dealt with. Just like the all the
others.’

5

The three brothers
left the Court House in silence and together they untied their dark
horses from the hitching rail and began to walk them toward the
water trough in the centre of town. Rockfall was coming to life.
Boyd decided to ask the question he knew his twin brother never
would.

‘Do you think John
is right?’

Wilson didn’t
answer straight away, he was too busy watching the locals run back
into the shade and the comfort of their homes. They would walk out
from the doors of shops, unaware of what was coming toward them and
then on seeing it their mouths would open and their eyes would
bulge. How Wilson enjoyed seeing their discomfort.

‘I doubt it very
much. He’s probably a man who walks the walk and talks the talk but
when it comes down to crunch time he won’t be worth a fart in the
breeze. He would run a fuckin mile! Why the fuck would a Watchman
come all the way out here?’

As the three
brothers arrived at the trough the man already there, Pete Grinde
the baker, quickly ushered his mule to finish its watering and then
hurried off. His next stop not the bakery it should have but the
Sheriffs house. Rockfall was a ghost town and the three brothers
watered their horses with prying eyes gazing upon them from behind
twitching curtains.

Wilson looked to
his right, along the line of stores set back against the boardwalk.
They looked in worse repair than they had on their last venture
into this rotten dump.

‘How long has it
been? Two years, three. When was it we robbed old Frans store?’

Bane was silent
allowing his brother to answer. ‘Three, I think. Not too sure
anymore, times hard to read now a days.’ Boyd turned to Wilson,
‘Who is to do what, brother?’

The eldest brother
took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. The air here
was dusty, like that of the desert but Rockfall had a stench about
it that Wilson cared little for. He untied the knot holding his
hair back, placed his hands in the water trough and wetted his long
black hair. It shone in the bright sunlight like oil. He combed
through it with his hands and the carefully tied it back. With is
hair slicked back Wilson looked far more focused.

‘Bane and I shall
go to the house and see to the wife and we shall do it as the
Deputy requests. Boyd, you shall remain in town and get us the
provisions we need. Grab as much as you can. Two more horses.
Bread, meat, fish and water. Make sure the horses are strong. We is
going to be getting a lot of gold.’

Boyd spat. He
didn’t like it. He was second brother and so should join the eldest
on the mission.

‘Why should I go
to the stores? Send Bane. Why do I have to be the bitch?’

Wilson turned his
gaze to Boyd; his eyes a fire. ‘Coz I fuckin said so, Boyd! Don’t
go and be making a mistake like Ralph made. I don’t want to shoot
yer fuckin mouth off!’

Boyd looked to the
floor and then into the eyes of his brother. There was death in
those eyes. Murderous intent with every blink. Boyd knew that he
was strong, tougher than old boots but he was no match for his
eldest brother.

Sorry
brother.’

Wilson kicked at
the dusty ground sending stones flying across the road. All the
while Bane stood silently watching what was going on.

‘So ya fuckin
should be.’ Wilson placed his right arm on Boyd’s left shoulder. ‘I
trust you with any task I set, but getting the grub aint a task for
old silent tongue here, is it? He is best for the main job, you
know that.’ They both looked at Bane and nodded in agreement of
Banes wicked ways.

A few moments past
and the brothers stood there, together as one. How they enjoyed
their unity. It bound them together and made them stronger. As
individuals they were hard men. But together they became so much
more.

Wilson felt a tap
on his shoulder and he turned to see Bane gazing off to the west
and toward an oncoming figure walking along the boardwalk. The
silent brother motioned Wilson to look quickly in that direction.
The fat man walking toward could be no one but the Sheriff and
Wilson had been looking forward to this meeting for a few days now.
The Sheriff wobbled from side to side as he forced his huge frame
to move quicker. Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the Sheriff and
gestured to his brothers to keep their hands well out in the
open.

‘Keep your hands
where the Sheriff can see em brothers. We don’t want to upset the
local law man, now, do we?’

The bravery of the
Sheriff always came as a surprise to Wilson and even now, when the
two of them had met on so many occasions, the Sheriffs straight
back, unwavering hand and gaze impressed the elder Quint
brother.

‘What in the Lords
name are you doing here, Wilson Quint? And I don’t want any of yer
saucy remarks neither!’ The Sheriff waved his fat hand at Wilson
and then at his two younger brothers. He came to a halt in front of
them but still under the cover of the boardwalk, a good ten meters
away.

‘My good Sheriff.
It is so nice to see you again. We are well met on this fine morn,
so we are. Happy birthday for the other day. Sadly I didn’t get an
invite.’ Wilson looked at his two brothers and grimaced, ‘But I
guess we don’t warrant an invite, do we boys?’

The Sheriff fell
silent and began tapping his foot upon the boardwalk.

‘Look, Mr Sheriff,
me and the brothers are just passing through and thought we might
pick ourselves up some grub, that’s all. No more – no less. I am in
a good mood today and I don’t want nothing to happen to spoil
it.’

The Sheriff shook
his head, his face becoming red and flustered. What arrogance they
have.

‘You are not
welcome here, Wilson, you nor your brothers. Now be on your way
before I call the force. We are certainly not well met!’

Wilson looked to
the floor, his brothers took a step back. Things were turning sour.
The air grew hotter and the sun seemed to smile down on the group
of men below. Finally Wilson smiled.

‘As always
Sheriff, your hospitality is as warm as the moon. You boil my
blood, aye, you’d do and I don’t give a fart in the wind if we are
met in favour or not!’ Wilson thumbed behind him, pointing
aimlessly at his two brothers. ‘Look, I have already been to your
office this morning and spoken to John assuring him that I mean no
harm to day. Nobody here will feel our wrath. Not today. You have
my word.’

The Sheriff
laughed loudly; his belly rolling from side to side. The small
crowd about him followed suite. If there was anything that got the
Quint brothers backs up then it was being laughed at. How they
didn’t draw their weapons and kill every last bastard in this town
God only knows. Wilson took in a deep hot breath and calmed himself
down. He glanced to each of his brothers his eyes telling them to
do likewise. Jameson, realising that he may have taken this a
little too far stopped his laughter and it wasn’t long before the
small group had returned to silence.