lesson plans - nine
They're waiting until sundown to get rid of the body.
After figuring out what they were going to do with the body, earlier, it made the most sense to wait until after the sun had set. It was easier to think of the cooling corpse on the floor of the dining room as just a body -- not the man who'd just held them for hours, captive and bound. Not Charlie, the bounty hunter. Not a lawman -- not a man that would be missed. Simply a body, just like an animal. Something dead that you need to get rid of before it starts to attract attention of all other unsavory sorts of critters.
"How's your arm feelin'?"
Doc doesn't glance away from the horizon, and doesn't shift in his chair. They're sitting on the front porch in the fading twilight, watching the sky paint a picture over the desert. For a moment, Frank isn't even sure if the question he just asked even registered in his friend's head.
"S'fine."
"Fingers?"
"Movin' alright," Doc promises, taking a moment to flex all the digits on his right hand, one at a time. There's a bit of stiffness, but it isn't anything to be concerned over. The skin on his bicep is warm underneath the cloth wrappings, but he blames the heat on the fact that he's still bleeding, now and again, when the skin pulls open. He needs to stitch the wound closed, but he doesn't have his kit -- and he'd have to do the work left handed.
Not high on his list of desires.
Or priorities.
Frank reaches for the bottle of whiskey sitting beside his chair. "Figure the clouds are gonna roll in 'nough?"
Tipping his head towards the sky, Doc glances heavenward. "Might. So long as we've got some cover, it ain't gonna be t'obvious that there's a little extra somethin' in the sky." The stars that are beginning to wink into existence are unfamiliar; he finds himself wishing he was standing by the lakeshore back at the bar, watching the sunset over the treeline.
"Hope you're right."
"He was a bounty hunter, Frank. They ain't really people that tend t'be missed."
"What if he had family, or somethin'?"
"Then he had family," Doc replies. "And they don't got him no more."
Frank swirls the whiskey around in the bottle, obviously debating his next words very carefully. "...that don't bother you none?"
"No, it don't."
"Men don't just go out t'work and not come home, after a time someone is gonna come lookin'."
Doc nods. "They will."
"Then what?"
"Well, there ain't gonna be nothin' left for 'em t'find, now is there," he says, slowly pushing himself up to his feet. Every bone in his body is aching with fatigue and soreness as the injuries begin to take their toll. "And nothin' is gonna tie this t'you, or me, 'cept our memory'a the event."
It takes him a moment to shrug his duster on over his shoulders, ignoring the painful twinge in his wounded arm as he slips his hands into the sleeves, one at a time. There's a tight feeling in his left hand, but he ignores that as well, lifting the now-clean knife from the pocket and twirling it between his fingers. The fading rays of sunlight dance off the steel, but this time the familiar flash doesn't bring fear to his mind.
Instead, memories:
An outlaw's skill displayed as he moves among the forest green, a band of Robin Hood's men, fighting the good fight against corruption and power. The swift, steady swing of a warrior's battle axe, aim true and without hesitation. Sunlight glinting off the steel and glass of a flying aircraft awaiting passengers at the gate of an airport terminal. Light's reflection off a shiny tin badge and the chittering of one very angry raccoon...
"Doc?"
Frank's voice startles him away from his thoughts, and Doc curls his fingers around the handle of the knife, glancing over at his friend. "Yeah?"
"Sun's down."
He glances at the horizon, to confirm this fact for himself. Then, he nods. "Then we'd best be gettin' to work."
They'd spent the afternoon (before the sunset) scrubbing the bloodstains out of the hardwood with lye soap and sand from the yard, getting the majority of the actual blood off -- but the hint of color would never fade. Doc had suggested several hand-woven throw rugs over ripping out the entire floor and replacing all the wood, and they'd laughed about that.
The whiskey had helped the second time they'd washed off his arm, and Doc was wishing now (as they dragged the sheet-wrapped body out of the barn and onto the makeshift 'sled' attached to one of their horses) that he'd had a few more drinks of it. Every step hurt, every movement caused pain. He just wanted to lay down and sleep, but that wasn't an option.
It was time to get to work.
Frank had tried to dig the well on the south side of the property -- closer to the river -- the first time. It hadn't struck the water table. He'd hit water to the north, but they weren't headed to the north, tonight.
They were headed south.
(The irony isn't lost on him. To the north is all that he wants -- which he thinks he'll never have; Colorado, freedom, land, open sky and a clean slate for his name. To the south is all that he's ever wanted -- all that he really needs; a little ranch in Heyser, Ol' Mexico, an empty well and a place to hide the body of the man he murdered less than five hours ago.)
They reach the dry, empty well shortly after setting out from the house, but still before moonrise. There's enough residual twilight to keep from stumbling over rock and sand, but it's dark.
Frank busies himself with pulling some old wooden planks off of the well, moving aside the heavy rocks used to keep them from shifting out of place. Doc, meanwhile, kneels next to the body and unwraps the sheet.
Without thinking about what he's doing, he carefully checks the pockets of the clothing currently being worn by the corpse, no expression crossing his features as he silently takes stock of the contents. Each handful of items is studied before being returned where they were taken -- except for the roll of paper bills and coin pouch that Doc carefully pulls from the bounty hunter's vest.
The coins clink as the leather shifts in his palm, catching Frank's attention. His friend looks over, and speaks once he realizes what the sound was.
"...pickin' the pockets of the dead ain't good luck, Doc."
"I ain't pickin' his pockets," Doc replies, as he places the money into his own coat pocket. "I'm simply makin' sure I git paid."
"Paid?" There's the dull sound of cracking brush, as Frank drops a handful of dried scrub into the pit, followed by a few heavy logs. "Ain't sure I'm followin', here."
Doc takes one glance at the face of the body -- at Charlie -- before he tosses the sheet back over the death-pale features and stands. "One thing you'll find, 'bout bounty hunters," he explains, "Is that they've always got someone willin' t'pay a piece for their head. Might not be written up'n ink and plastered on posters all over town, but s'always someone willin' to pay." His eyes cut to the sky. "And since I ain't sure who wanted this son of a bitch t'quit breathin', I'm collectin' in advance."
Frank says nothing, because there's nothing to say to that sort of logic -- especially when he realizes that the logic is solid and true. He moves for the horses, to fetch a glass jar full of clear fluid, then returns to the well to drop the entire container into the darkness.
The shattering of glass barely registers, in Doc's mind -- the same with the flickering of orange-yellow flames once Frank drops a burning wad of cloth into the hole. The kerosene-soaked scrub and wood catches easily, sparks beginning to drift towards the sky, red embers blurring in his vision to mingle with the white pricks of stars on the black.
"Help me with 'im," he says, one hand curling around the sheet.
Frank steps over and grabs the other side, and the two of them work together to drag the body to the well and then into the hole, fire going dim for a moment before the flames begin to grow. The smell is unpleasant, at the least -- which is why Frank turns and walks away, coughing to clear his throat. Doc steps back a distance as well, but doesn't cough. He's not even registering the scene in front of his eyes, his mind distant and thoughts focused on a different sort of bonfire -- rum and marshmallows and fireworks, music and dancing late into the night.
"How long y'want t'wait 'fore we throw rocks'n such on top."
"Let it burn for a bit," Doc responds, reaching into his coat pocket for his cigarettes and a pack of matches, eyes focused on the dancing flames of the bonfire before they shift to the glow at the end of his smoke. A moment later -- after exhaling a stream of smoke towards the sky, he glances over. There's the barest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, before he turns and walks away from the pit. "We don't want there t'be anythin' left for 'em t'recognize, if someone gits the mind t'start diggin' up old wells."
They're sitting back in the house, now. The job is done.
"So...you're thinkin' 'bout headin' out?"
Doc nods, slowly. "I ain't figurin' that folks are gonna come lookin' here for 'im, but if they do, be best not t'have the both of us sittin' 'round the table, again."
"Right," Frank replies. "You have any idea of where you're gonna go?"
"I was thinkin' 'bout Colorada."
The faint sound of liquid filling a glass can be heard as Frank pours two tumblers of whiskey. "Colorado s'cold this time of year."
"Cold all the time, probably."
"What 'bout that girl of yours, Katherine?"
Doc curls his fingers around the glass in front of him, staring at the amber liquid. "What 'bout her?"
"Where's she at...she up in Colorado, someplace?"
"Texas." Right now, anyway.
"...then why are you headed north?"
"Ain't good 'nough for her daddy, yet."
Frank can understand that. "Didn't take you for the traditional type."
Doc swallows a mouthful of liquor, before he shrugs. "Sometimes men'll surprise you, Frank. S'another thing y'gotta learn 'bout folks. Don't take no man for granted."
"Always were a good teacher."
"Mmm."
They sit in silence for a few moments longer, before Frank speaks again. "It's only a few days ride, north towards Trinidad. You take the pass, it should be all right, this time of year. Snow ain't comin', yet."
"I'll head out tonight."
"You'll eat, first?"
The firelight flickers inside the glass lamp on the table between them, and in the low light, Frank swears that he sees the first hint of a smile on his friend's face that he's seen all day.
"Yeah, I ain't in a hurry."
"Good."
The sound of chairs scraping against hardwood fills the quiet room as both the men stand -- Frank to head over to the stove to see about dinner, and Doc to head into the small room he's been living in for the last several weeks, to pack his things.
(There isn't much.)
Every time he shifts his right arm, an ache seeps into his chest. The duster is shed from his shoulders, and he peels out of the dirty and bloodied shirt to inspect the tear in the fabric. It's about as long as the gash in his arm, but the blood has long since dried, a dull shade of brownish-red against the cotton. He could use a bath -- he would kill for a hot shower, right now -- but the threat of capture, even as non-existent as it is, is creeping into the back of his mind and causing prickles of fear at the nape of his neck.
He's listening to every sound in the kitchen, every sound in the entire house. Listening for something wrong, for heavy footsteps on the steps of the porch, for a warning shout.
His bag is light, with little in the way of provisions and clothes. The knife Charlie used to cut him -- the knife he used to stab Charlie -- is wrapped in an old rag, tucked in next to the one change of clothes he has. A box of bullets and a bag of hardtack biscuits nestle together among the rest of his kit.
"You need fresh wraps for that arm?"
"Maybe for later, s'alright for now."
His horse is well-rested, he knows that much. Nova will be grateful for the chance to head out onto the trail, and he'll be grateful to get away from the still-smoldering ashes at the bottom of an old well. It might be a few long days to Trinidad, but there he'll be able to see a doctor, get his arm fixed up, and maybe even find a new shirt.
It takes him awhile to button up his current one, ignoring the bloodstains on the front. The duster hides them, anyway, and it will be dark for hours yet. Bag in hand, and gun over his shoulder, he returns to the kitchen for dinner.
He'll eat -- even if he's not very hungry.
And then he'll go.
(And he'll try to tell himself he's not running.)
After figuring out what they were going to do with the body, earlier, it made the most sense to wait until after the sun had set. It was easier to think of the cooling corpse on the floor of the dining room as just a body -- not the man who'd just held them for hours, captive and bound. Not Charlie, the bounty hunter. Not a lawman -- not a man that would be missed. Simply a body, just like an animal. Something dead that you need to get rid of before it starts to attract attention of all other unsavory sorts of critters.
"How's your arm feelin'?"
Doc doesn't glance away from the horizon, and doesn't shift in his chair. They're sitting on the front porch in the fading twilight, watching the sky paint a picture over the desert. For a moment, Frank isn't even sure if the question he just asked even registered in his friend's head.
"S'fine."
"Fingers?"
"Movin' alright," Doc promises, taking a moment to flex all the digits on his right hand, one at a time. There's a bit of stiffness, but it isn't anything to be concerned over. The skin on his bicep is warm underneath the cloth wrappings, but he blames the heat on the fact that he's still bleeding, now and again, when the skin pulls open. He needs to stitch the wound closed, but he doesn't have his kit -- and he'd have to do the work left handed.
Not high on his list of desires.
Or priorities.
Frank reaches for the bottle of whiskey sitting beside his chair. "Figure the clouds are gonna roll in 'nough?"
Tipping his head towards the sky, Doc glances heavenward. "Might. So long as we've got some cover, it ain't gonna be t'obvious that there's a little extra somethin' in the sky." The stars that are beginning to wink into existence are unfamiliar; he finds himself wishing he was standing by the lakeshore back at the bar, watching the sunset over the treeline.
"Hope you're right."
"He was a bounty hunter, Frank. They ain't really people that tend t'be missed."
"What if he had family, or somethin'?"
"Then he had family," Doc replies. "And they don't got him no more."
Frank swirls the whiskey around in the bottle, obviously debating his next words very carefully. "...that don't bother you none?"
"No, it don't."
"Men don't just go out t'work and not come home, after a time someone is gonna come lookin'."
Doc nods. "They will."
"Then what?"
"Well, there ain't gonna be nothin' left for 'em t'find, now is there," he says, slowly pushing himself up to his feet. Every bone in his body is aching with fatigue and soreness as the injuries begin to take their toll. "And nothin' is gonna tie this t'you, or me, 'cept our memory'a the event."
It takes him a moment to shrug his duster on over his shoulders, ignoring the painful twinge in his wounded arm as he slips his hands into the sleeves, one at a time. There's a tight feeling in his left hand, but he ignores that as well, lifting the now-clean knife from the pocket and twirling it between his fingers. The fading rays of sunlight dance off the steel, but this time the familiar flash doesn't bring fear to his mind.
Instead, memories:
An outlaw's skill displayed as he moves among the forest green, a band of Robin Hood's men, fighting the good fight against corruption and power. The swift, steady swing of a warrior's battle axe, aim true and without hesitation. Sunlight glinting off the steel and glass of a flying aircraft awaiting passengers at the gate of an airport terminal. Light's reflection off a shiny tin badge and the chittering of one very angry raccoon...
"Doc?"
Frank's voice startles him away from his thoughts, and Doc curls his fingers around the handle of the knife, glancing over at his friend. "Yeah?"
"Sun's down."
He glances at the horizon, to confirm this fact for himself. Then, he nods. "Then we'd best be gettin' to work."
They'd spent the afternoon (before the sunset) scrubbing the bloodstains out of the hardwood with lye soap and sand from the yard, getting the majority of the actual blood off -- but the hint of color would never fade. Doc had suggested several hand-woven throw rugs over ripping out the entire floor and replacing all the wood, and they'd laughed about that.
The whiskey had helped the second time they'd washed off his arm, and Doc was wishing now (as they dragged the sheet-wrapped body out of the barn and onto the makeshift 'sled' attached to one of their horses) that he'd had a few more drinks of it. Every step hurt, every movement caused pain. He just wanted to lay down and sleep, but that wasn't an option.
It was time to get to work.
Frank had tried to dig the well on the south side of the property -- closer to the river -- the first time. It hadn't struck the water table. He'd hit water to the north, but they weren't headed to the north, tonight.
They were headed south.
(The irony isn't lost on him. To the north is all that he wants -- which he thinks he'll never have; Colorado, freedom, land, open sky and a clean slate for his name. To the south is all that he's ever wanted -- all that he really needs; a little ranch in Heyser, Ol' Mexico, an empty well and a place to hide the body of the man he murdered less than five hours ago.)
They reach the dry, empty well shortly after setting out from the house, but still before moonrise. There's enough residual twilight to keep from stumbling over rock and sand, but it's dark.
Frank busies himself with pulling some old wooden planks off of the well, moving aside the heavy rocks used to keep them from shifting out of place. Doc, meanwhile, kneels next to the body and unwraps the sheet.
Without thinking about what he's doing, he carefully checks the pockets of the clothing currently being worn by the corpse, no expression crossing his features as he silently takes stock of the contents. Each handful of items is studied before being returned where they were taken -- except for the roll of paper bills and coin pouch that Doc carefully pulls from the bounty hunter's vest.
The coins clink as the leather shifts in his palm, catching Frank's attention. His friend looks over, and speaks once he realizes what the sound was.
"...pickin' the pockets of the dead ain't good luck, Doc."
"I ain't pickin' his pockets," Doc replies, as he places the money into his own coat pocket. "I'm simply makin' sure I git paid."
"Paid?" There's the dull sound of cracking brush, as Frank drops a handful of dried scrub into the pit, followed by a few heavy logs. "Ain't sure I'm followin', here."
Doc takes one glance at the face of the body -- at Charlie -- before he tosses the sheet back over the death-pale features and stands. "One thing you'll find, 'bout bounty hunters," he explains, "Is that they've always got someone willin' t'pay a piece for their head. Might not be written up'n ink and plastered on posters all over town, but s'always someone willin' to pay." His eyes cut to the sky. "And since I ain't sure who wanted this son of a bitch t'quit breathin', I'm collectin' in advance."
Frank says nothing, because there's nothing to say to that sort of logic -- especially when he realizes that the logic is solid and true. He moves for the horses, to fetch a glass jar full of clear fluid, then returns to the well to drop the entire container into the darkness.
The shattering of glass barely registers, in Doc's mind -- the same with the flickering of orange-yellow flames once Frank drops a burning wad of cloth into the hole. The kerosene-soaked scrub and wood catches easily, sparks beginning to drift towards the sky, red embers blurring in his vision to mingle with the white pricks of stars on the black.
"Help me with 'im," he says, one hand curling around the sheet.
Frank steps over and grabs the other side, and the two of them work together to drag the body to the well and then into the hole, fire going dim for a moment before the flames begin to grow. The smell is unpleasant, at the least -- which is why Frank turns and walks away, coughing to clear his throat. Doc steps back a distance as well, but doesn't cough. He's not even registering the scene in front of his eyes, his mind distant and thoughts focused on a different sort of bonfire -- rum and marshmallows and fireworks, music and dancing late into the night.
"How long y'want t'wait 'fore we throw rocks'n such on top."
"Let it burn for a bit," Doc responds, reaching into his coat pocket for his cigarettes and a pack of matches, eyes focused on the dancing flames of the bonfire before they shift to the glow at the end of his smoke. A moment later -- after exhaling a stream of smoke towards the sky, he glances over. There's the barest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, before he turns and walks away from the pit. "We don't want there t'be anythin' left for 'em t'recognize, if someone gits the mind t'start diggin' up old wells."
They're sitting back in the house, now. The job is done.
"So...you're thinkin' 'bout headin' out?"
Doc nods, slowly. "I ain't figurin' that folks are gonna come lookin' here for 'im, but if they do, be best not t'have the both of us sittin' 'round the table, again."
"Right," Frank replies. "You have any idea of where you're gonna go?"
"I was thinkin' 'bout Colorada."
The faint sound of liquid filling a glass can be heard as Frank pours two tumblers of whiskey. "Colorado s'cold this time of year."
"Cold all the time, probably."
"What 'bout that girl of yours, Katherine?"
Doc curls his fingers around the glass in front of him, staring at the amber liquid. "What 'bout her?"
"Where's she at...she up in Colorado, someplace?"
"Texas." Right now, anyway.
"...then why are you headed north?"
"Ain't good 'nough for her daddy, yet."
Frank can understand that. "Didn't take you for the traditional type."
Doc swallows a mouthful of liquor, before he shrugs. "Sometimes men'll surprise you, Frank. S'another thing y'gotta learn 'bout folks. Don't take no man for granted."
"Always were a good teacher."
"Mmm."
They sit in silence for a few moments longer, before Frank speaks again. "It's only a few days ride, north towards Trinidad. You take the pass, it should be all right, this time of year. Snow ain't comin', yet."
"I'll head out tonight."
"You'll eat, first?"
The firelight flickers inside the glass lamp on the table between them, and in the low light, Frank swears that he sees the first hint of a smile on his friend's face that he's seen all day.
"Yeah, I ain't in a hurry."
"Good."
The sound of chairs scraping against hardwood fills the quiet room as both the men stand -- Frank to head over to the stove to see about dinner, and Doc to head into the small room he's been living in for the last several weeks, to pack his things.
(There isn't much.)
Every time he shifts his right arm, an ache seeps into his chest. The duster is shed from his shoulders, and he peels out of the dirty and bloodied shirt to inspect the tear in the fabric. It's about as long as the gash in his arm, but the blood has long since dried, a dull shade of brownish-red against the cotton. He could use a bath -- he would kill for a hot shower, right now -- but the threat of capture, even as non-existent as it is, is creeping into the back of his mind and causing prickles of fear at the nape of his neck.
He's listening to every sound in the kitchen, every sound in the entire house. Listening for something wrong, for heavy footsteps on the steps of the porch, for a warning shout.
His bag is light, with little in the way of provisions and clothes. The knife Charlie used to cut him -- the knife he used to stab Charlie -- is wrapped in an old rag, tucked in next to the one change of clothes he has. A box of bullets and a bag of hardtack biscuits nestle together among the rest of his kit.
"You need fresh wraps for that arm?"
"Maybe for later, s'alright for now."
His horse is well-rested, he knows that much. Nova will be grateful for the chance to head out onto the trail, and he'll be grateful to get away from the still-smoldering ashes at the bottom of an old well. It might be a few long days to Trinidad, but there he'll be able to see a doctor, get his arm fixed up, and maybe even find a new shirt.
It takes him awhile to button up his current one, ignoring the bloodstains on the front. The duster hides them, anyway, and it will be dark for hours yet. Bag in hand, and gun over his shoulder, he returns to the kitchen for dinner.
He'll eat -- even if he's not very hungry.
And then he'll go.
(And he'll try to tell himself he's not running.)