The Young Riders. Ike McSwain. 086. Broken.
The Long Black Train
Fandom: The Young Riders
Characters: Ike McSwain
Word Count: 1205
Summary: The weight of guilt can break even the strongest man
Disclaimer: I don't own the character, nor do I own the song which inspired this story. The Long Black Trained as performed by Josh Turner.
The glint of metal in sunlight only increased his rage as he stared at the man who smirked so coldly, so smugly back at him. The screams and shots from minutes before echoed within his ears and he could feel the urge to pull the trigger grow.
The shifting, prancing of the horse beneath him had his grip on the reins tightening as he watched the murder riding away. Glancing behind him he swore under his breath, his fury in every line of his body as he screamed silently as his gaze fell upon the dead woman who had slid from his mount mere moments before.
“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you boy?” the snickered question had him grinding his teeth as he glanced from the rapidly disappearing man and horse to the innocent dead woman.
*I should have shot him,* he thought to himself as he whipped his horse’s head around and kicked him into a hard gallop.
Pushing his horse hard he barely felt the sun beating down upon him, or the relentless tickle of the sweat as it rolled down his face. Instead all he could hear smell, or see was the taking of a life that was unwarranted.
Damn that man, damn his inability to be ruthless, to be cold and unyielding. He wished he’d killed him, wished he’d done what needed doing. His inability to do so only proved how weak, how frail he was. He wasn’t strong like the others, he had no honor, no worth - instead he’d allowed that man to murder that woman in cold blood.
Riding into the yard he pulled up harshly, cursing under his breath at the tangle of his foot and stirrup until he managed to break free. Slapping the horse on the rump he stomped up the steps ignoring the comments, the questions from his friends.
He just wanted to be left alone; to deal with his own shortcomings. Sinking onto his bunk he stared at the wall, listening to their chatter as they ate supper, ignoring them completely.
He could still hear the woman’s screams as those men had tormented her, see the cold, hard gaze as that man stood there mocking him. Mocking him for his sense of honor, for his pride. In the end it hadn’t mattered, the woman was dead, the man got away, and he was left with nothing but the bitter, suffocating weight of failure sitting on his chest.
Closing his eyes he slid into sleep, no desire to be social about him. Instead he willed himself to get lost in dreams of happier times, of days when he didn’t feel so inconsequential, so useless.
‘You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you boy?’ like the merciless echoes of the past the words invaded his sleep. Haunting him, taunting him until he jerked awake gasping for air.
Rolling out of bed, intent on making the voices stop he grabbed his gun and headed for the garden patch, he’d show him. He’d show them all that he was tough, that he was strong enough to do what needed doing.
The chill of the night air barely penetrated his open shirt as he stared at the moonlight silhouette of the scarecrow, memory bringing it to life with the face of the man who he’d been unable to stop.
Firing at the scarecrow until long after his gun was empty he barely registered the presence of the boys, barely felt the tears streaking down his face as he sat there. Instead he wallowed in his inadequacies as he huddled there.
Alone, weak, what was he doing here? He couldn’t even protect the weakest person. Without knowing who that man was he had no way of knowing where he was but he wanted to find out. Wanted to find him, kill him, hurt him, and make him suffer as he himself was.
It’s what he wanted but he knew he’d never get the chance; his innate weakness would stop him.
Hunkered against a chill that was more internal than external he glanced up at the seemingly familiar rumble of a locomotive. He watched it steam toward him, getting closer and closer with each breathe until with a huge cloud of steam it stopped next to him.
“All aboard,” the booming voice of the conductor had him swiveling his head to stare at the robust, short man watching him. With a quick assessing look the man frowned, “You sure you want on board son?”
Frowning in confusion he shifted uneasily, what did the guy mean?
“You don’t look the killer type son,” the man continued, “You sure you wanna climb on board this thing? Once you’re on, you don’t get off again.”
He shrugged, did it really matter anymore?
“Let me tell ya son,” the man sighed and moved closer to him. “There’ll be plenty of times in your life when you might see this old engine, but just remember something really important son, cling to the father and his holy name and don't go ridin' on this black train, the devils a ridin' on board this old, long black train.”
With a derisive snort he glanced away but there was nowhere to look other than at the shiny, black engine that sat steaming away. Even the devil would have no use for him.
“Don’t be so sure,” the conductor replied softly, “Feeding off the souls that are lost and crying, he rides upon these lines every night. You don’t got the look about you son of a cold-blooded killer,” with a slight nod the man exhaled slowly, “Someday when you’re looking back on this night you’ll understand why I tell you this. Until then, take care son, take the utmost care cause this old black train doesn’t miss a stop.”
Blinking groggily he shifted and glanced around him. The horizon was colored with grey and pinks a sure sign that the sun was rising. Jumping to his feet he stared at the ground around him, gone were the tracks, the engine, the conductor, every single sign of the massive train was gone.
Shaking his head he trudged back toward the bunkhouse, it was another day full of chores to keep him busy and he wondered just how things would go. Could he keep this within himself?
Pulling his hands from his pocket he stared down at the ratted edge of a train ticket that read ‘cancelled’, written in a scrawling hand was another reminder of his dream from the night before and he squinted in the dreary light to read it.
“Look to the heavens, you can look to the skies, you can find redemption
staring back into your eyes there is protection and there is peace the same burn in your ticket for that Long Black Train, cause there's victory in the lord I say.”
Clutching it tightly he glanced once more to the vegetable patch and sighed, it looked as though for once he’d managed to come out on top. He wondered briefly if he’d recognize it the next time the train came to call.