fic: lord, how the blast will ring (raylan, boyd -- raylan/boyd if you squint)
title:lord, how the blast will ring
author: someotherstorm
fandom: justified
pairing: raylan/boyd if you squint -- set pre-canon
rating: same as the show, probably tamer.
word count: ~2700
summary: There's no place for blood feuds down in the dark.
AN: the ghost story is a real one from Eastern Kentucky, about a man named Carl Pruitt. you can read about it here. the remark Napier makes about not whistling is Appalachia miners’ superstition that it will bring bad luck. the quote Boyd says at the end about “blood will have blood” is from Macbeth. title is a lyric from dynamite mine, by murder by death. if you want to listen here you go: dynamite mine, by murder by death.
finally, please excuse my fondness for dashes, and obvious lack of knowledge about the specifics of modern mountain-top removal/ strip mining :| wikipedia only tells a girl so much.
there are way too many notes for this story :|
lord, how the blast will ring
Son, cover your ears
Lord how the blast will ring
And when a rumbling shakes the walls
You can hear that devil sing
Everyone always thinks it’s working down in the mines that makes them friends, but the truth is -- Boyd Crowder doesn’t say a word to Raylan Givens until the day Tim Napier tells them about the chain ghost.
Raylan hasn’t been there for very long; he’s still clumsy with the work and the tools, still startles easy when the powder blows. Boyd knows who he is, of course. Enmity runs deep like a coal seam through Harlan County, and Boyd’s family has mined its fair share over the years.
If some accident snuffed out Arlo Givens’ only child, Boyd’s father would probably be ecstatic. It might rank him a notch or two above Bowman’s throwing arm, for a week at the very least. But if that happens, it won’t be Boyd’s fault and it won’t be on his watch. Miners have a brotherhood, a code of conduct, and Boyd won’t betray that for brief taste of family honor.
If something goes wrong, the men with you are your only hope of survival -- men with features made indistinct by the dim light, by the soot smeared like war paint on their skin. Families stand above ground and pray with the sun in their eyes, waiting.
There's no place for blood feuds down in the dark.
* * *
Napier tells the worst stories Boyd’s ever heard. Not just ones about ghosts, but about girls, booze, his daddy’s hunting dogs, you name it and Napier’s rattled it up somehow. Boyd thinks he sounds like the whine of a buzz saw cutting through concrete. Napier clearly thinks he’s a raconteur of the highest order.
Napier’s version of the so-called “chain ghost” story is muddled and clunky, less frightening and more confusing than anything. Boyd tends to ignore Napier regardless of what yarn he’s clumsily trying to spin, but he finds himself annoyed on principle because how in the hell do you manage to screw up making something scary down in a mine? Jesus.
“So it goes like this,” Napier is saying, pleased to have the attention directed at him, in that simple way that men like him enjoy. “There was this old man who caught his missus in the sack with another guy -- well.” Napier clears his throat, squints up at the ceiling of rock and dirt in what turns out to be a series of fairly substantial pauses. “Maybe he weren’t too old if he was mad about his woman doing it with another man. Though, wait now, maybe he was real old and she was real young? But then why would he be so mad in the first place if he she was just gettin’ what his old ass couldn’t give her?”
“Is that the story?” Raylan asks, a current running under his words that sounds like a challenge. It’s the first thing that pricks Boyd’s interest, gets him listening instead of just hearing.
“Well, no, Givens, you gotta be a little more patient and let me get to it. Gotta make sure I got the details right, don’t I? Else this ain’t gonna make much sense. Now, like I was sayin’, there’s this git -- maybe he was old, maybe not, but probably he was middle aged, that sounds about right. Not givin’ it to his old woman on account of working long hours, but mad enough about someone else doin’ it. Just ‘cause you don’t eat bacon no more don’t mean you want someone stealin’ your pig, ain’t that right, boys?”
“Who doesn’t eat bacon?” Albert Hensley interjects suspiciously, as if this is enough to give him doubts about the story’s credibility.
“A damn fool,” Napier answers smoothly, waving his hand. “But anyways, this man comes home from work, don’t know what he did but reckon he was a miner like we are --”
“I thought he was a pig farmer,” Hensley interrupts again, blinking. “Was I wrong?”
“I thought this was a goddamn ghost story,” Raylan says, that undercurrent of challenge having shifted into something that sounds a lot like how Boyd feels the second before he sets a match to the powder -- coiled up and stretched tight at the same time. “Was I wrong?”
“Givens, you shut the fuck up and Hensely, it don’t matter what he did for a livin’, point is, he was doin’ it and came home and there was another man doin’ his lady.” Napier accompanies this with an obscene gesture involving his fingers and a pelvic thrust, which makes Boyd feel sorry for Napier’s wife. “Okay? We all clear, now?”
“Was just confused ‘cause you was talkin’ about bacon,” Hensley mutters, and Boyd snorts a laugh he doesn’t bother to hide.
“So’s as I was sayin’ before you idiots interrupted, was that this old man -- middle aged, that’s what I meant -- found his woman doin’ the nasty with someone like, oh, maybe his neighbor or the guy what pours the drinks down at Tappy’s in Versailles, maybe, but it don’t matter, because what matters is he killed ‘em both. With a chain.”
“Aha!” Hensley beams, as if this grim detail has restored his faith in Napier’s tale.
Boyd almost asks if it’s a coincidence that Napier’s kin hail from Versailles, but he decides to keep that to himself. A certain amount of embellishment is understandable.
“The guy was so torn up about what he did, he killed hisself. Prolly with a gun, or I guess he might’ve hanged himself.” Napier draws his finger across his throat with raised eyebrows, accompanied by choking noises and ending with his tongue sticking out . “He was dead, D-E-D dead. So they bury him and his wife in separate cemeteries, of course.”
“Why?”
“Well, Givens, I reckon ‘cause they figured when the good Lord came down to bring us to paradise on judgment day, she might not like risin’ to greet Him right next to her murderer.” Napier clears his throat. “Ladies sensibilities, and all that. Anyway. Listen up, this is where it gets interesting, with the ghost and all.”
“Not sure a ghost is gonna make this interestin’, Napier,” Raylan drawls, and Boyd ducks his head to hide a smile.
Napier flips him off. “So there’s this chain on the gravestone --”
“A real chain? Somebody put a real chain on a gravestone, just right there in the open?” Hensley seems far less skeptical about this than the existence of hypothetical bacon-haters from a moment prior. “That seems like somebody’d just run off with it.”
“Why’d someone steal a chain from the cemetery? It probably’d get all rusted and shit, bein’ outside in the elements,” Napier tells him.
“You shouldn’t steal from the dead,” Boyd points out softly, staring down at his boots. “It’s bad luck.” He doubts Napier hears him.
Raylan hears him, though -- the awareness of his regard hits Boyd like a dynamite flash, but he keeps his eyes down and doesn’t look up. There’s the oddest sense that this story is drawing a line in the dirt, putting Raylan and Boyd on one side and Hensley and Napier on another.
“So this young boy is drivin’ his bike home and he starts throwin’ rocks at old Mr. Chain Killer’s grave, tryin’ to mess it up.”
“Why’d he do a thing like that? Ain’t very respectful.”
“Well, Hensley, I’d reckon little Jimmy figures if he was murderin’ women with chains, maybe his headstone was fair game. Or he’s a boy, and that’s what boys got up to in nineteen-thirty-whatever? I don’t know, but he does it and the ghost gets pissed off and chases him home, and kills him --” Napier pauses dramatically. “With the chain.”
“What chain?” Raylan demands, hands on his hips, like Napier’s confessing to a crime.
“The chain from his grave,” Napier answers flatly, giving Raylan an unfriendly look.
That’s not the story, at least not how Boyd’s heard it. “It was his bicycle chain,” he tells Raylan. “The kid threw a rock at his grave because it was haunted, and on his way home, he fell off his bike and the chain choked him to death.”
Napier’s arms go across his chest. “No, it was the chain on his grave. Now stop stealin’ my goddamn story, Crowder.”
Boyd shrugs. “Thievery runs in my blood, Napier, be it petty, literary or felonious in nature.”
Napier gives him a look and continues with his hodgepodge of original ghost story details and things he must have seen on his way to work that morning. It goes on too long, with Napier backtracking and over-thinking irrelevant details ( “now what kind of car was it that policeman who got beheaded was driving, I forget...”), and Boyd is mostly focused on the way Raylan is reacting to the story, the annoyance on his face that seems disproportionate to a miner with a fourth-grade education butchering a ghost story.
“So,” Napier finishes, “The chain ghost kills five people, all for fucking around with his gravestone -- destroyin’ it and whatnot, even though ain’t nobody seen a scratch on it after it was supposed to be a pile of rubble. And it’s a big deal, too, ‘cause the last two were police, like I said. And then, everything just stops -- nobody dies, and they ain’t figured out why.”
Napier looks at them all in turn, hopeful and then disgusted in turn at the lack of reactions he's getting.
“That’s not the ending,” Boyd points out, unable to help himself.
“The fuck it ain’t, Crowder. Nobody else done died from a chain after they moved the cemetery.”
“They moved the cemetery?” Raylan has dirt streaked across his brow, voice still sharp as flint. “You didn’t mention that part.”
“Well, yeah,” Napier says, uneasily, like maybe it is important and he forgot. “And then they lost his bones and he don’t kill nobody no more.”
“That,” Boyd points out, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “Is why it’s the scary part, Napier.”
Napier peers at him and then spits into the dirt, looking disinterested. “Don’t see how not-killin’ is scarier than the killin’, but whatever you say, Crowder.”
“‘Because they built a mine over his grave, a whole huge mine, and in case you gentlemen haven’t noticed?” Raylan indicates the mine with a sweep of his gloved hand. “We got a lot of chains around here. Maybe we’ll run into ol’ Pruitt’s bones and then what? Totally fucked.”
That’s not exactly why Boyd thinks the story is scary, but he nods anyway -- he doubts Raylan really believes that. He’s already cursed by blood, what the hell, throw an angry ghost or two in the mix. Why not.
No one’s mentioned the part about the mine, which means Raylan must have already known the story. That’s not surprising, considering they are sons of men who carry proverbial chains in their pockets, waiting for any perceived slight to wrap it around someone’s neck. The kind of men who would choose a tale about preternatural retaliation as a bedtime story, so their sons never did anything stupid when they grew up like forgive.
Napier exchanges a glance with Hensley, who obviously isn’t following Raylan’s logic. “We ain’t minin’ over that boy’s grave, son. Ain’t nobody knows where it is. It’s just a story, anyhow. Mind you don’t start whistlin’ a tune and we’ll be just fine.” He turns away, obviously intending to go back to work, but Raylan won’t let it go.
“It’s not just a story if you’re one of the five people who died.”
“Well, they ain’t alive, neither,” Napier grouses, going back to work with a sour look at Raylan. “Victims, killers -- what’s it matter if ain’t nobody alive to remember which one you were? You’re dead just like everybody else.”
“No, I take it back. That's why it’s scary,” Boyd mutters, exchanging a glance with Raylan. Violence colors their family history in shades of red, streaks that meet and run alongside each other like one long river of blood.
Clearly out of patience, Napier turns away from him. “Well, we all die, Crowder. Unless you get bitten by a vampire. Hey, Hensley, I ever tell you about the time my cousin swore up, down and sideways he was bitten by a vampire? No, God’s truth, he did. Well, he said it was either that or some kind of flying leech, but still...”
Napier directs his story to Hensley, judged a far worthier audience -- likely on account of how he doesn’t offer nearly as many suggestions. Boyd tunes out the particulars of Napier’s speech until only the rhythms of it are left, fading beneath the sounds of iron and rock, and goes back to work.
Or he tries to, at any rate. His attention is still caught up in Raylan in ways it shouldn’t -- Boyd is coming to the realization that he and Raylan Givens are two sides of the same coin. They’re unwilling participants in a war started years ago, by men who’ve become unreadable names on crumbling gravestones, buried beneath blood-soaked soil.
He and Raylan are doomed to till the same soil, until one day they’re nothing but bones lost in forgotten cemeteries. Victims, killers -- what’s it matter if ain’t nobody alive to remember which one you were? You’re dead just like everybody else.
Maybe Napier is better at ghost stories than Boyd is giving him credit for.
He needs to focus on what he’s doing. Everyone thinks you have to be a hothead to lay powder, but they’re wrong. Any idiot can blow shit up -- it doesn’t take any skill to destroy. But setting it all up beforehand, with the how and the when? That part’s a lot harder. You need to be patient, watchful, aware of where people are and how to get them to move where you want them. And you need to learn how to yell just right, to motivate but not cause panic. There’s no time for regrets once that fuse is lit.
Of course, without a spark to light it up, powder ain’t nothing but dust.
Boyd leans casually against a rock, fiddling with the fuse. “You know why that bastard Pruitt had to turn into a ghost to kill people for dishonoring his name, right?”
“Yeah,” Raylan mutters, running a hand through his hair. “He didn’t have any sons to do it for him.” He straightens up and regards Boyd with eyes like flint, sharp and glittering. “Cut the bullshit and tell me what you’re getting at, Crowder. Ain’t in the mood for any more stories today -- especially ones that don’t end up going much of anywhere.”
If Boyd’s the powder turning to dust, Raylan’s a spark with nothing to catch -- a restless flame flickering angrily until it burns up into ash.
“Blood will have blood.” Boyd holds up the lighter, flame dancing between them. “ and stones have been known to move...”
Raylan’s watching him, wary but the light is caught in his eyes, like they’re burning. “What the hell does that mean?”
Boyd grins at him. “Fire in the hole,” he says, and lights the fuse.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust...
Maybe later.
author: someotherstorm
fandom: justified
pairing: raylan/boyd if you squint -- set pre-canon
rating: same as the show, probably tamer.
word count: ~2700
summary: There's no place for blood feuds down in the dark.
AN: the ghost story is a real one from Eastern Kentucky, about a man named Carl Pruitt. you can read about it here. the remark Napier makes about not whistling is Appalachia miners’ superstition that it will bring bad luck. the quote Boyd says at the end about “blood will have blood” is from Macbeth. title is a lyric from dynamite mine, by murder by death. if you want to listen here you go: dynamite mine, by murder by death.
finally, please excuse my fondness for dashes, and obvious lack of knowledge about the specifics of modern mountain-top removal/ strip mining :| wikipedia only tells a girl so much.
there are way too many notes for this story :|
lord, how the blast will ring
Son, cover your ears
Lord how the blast will ring
And when a rumbling shakes the walls
You can hear that devil sing
Everyone always thinks it’s working down in the mines that makes them friends, but the truth is -- Boyd Crowder doesn’t say a word to Raylan Givens until the day Tim Napier tells them about the chain ghost.
Raylan hasn’t been there for very long; he’s still clumsy with the work and the tools, still startles easy when the powder blows. Boyd knows who he is, of course. Enmity runs deep like a coal seam through Harlan County, and Boyd’s family has mined its fair share over the years.
If some accident snuffed out Arlo Givens’ only child, Boyd’s father would probably be ecstatic. It might rank him a notch or two above Bowman’s throwing arm, for a week at the very least. But if that happens, it won’t be Boyd’s fault and it won’t be on his watch. Miners have a brotherhood, a code of conduct, and Boyd won’t betray that for brief taste of family honor.
If something goes wrong, the men with you are your only hope of survival -- men with features made indistinct by the dim light, by the soot smeared like war paint on their skin. Families stand above ground and pray with the sun in their eyes, waiting.
There's no place for blood feuds down in the dark.
* * *
Napier tells the worst stories Boyd’s ever heard. Not just ones about ghosts, but about girls, booze, his daddy’s hunting dogs, you name it and Napier’s rattled it up somehow. Boyd thinks he sounds like the whine of a buzz saw cutting through concrete. Napier clearly thinks he’s a raconteur of the highest order.
Napier’s version of the so-called “chain ghost” story is muddled and clunky, less frightening and more confusing than anything. Boyd tends to ignore Napier regardless of what yarn he’s clumsily trying to spin, but he finds himself annoyed on principle because how in the hell do you manage to screw up making something scary down in a mine? Jesus.
“So it goes like this,” Napier is saying, pleased to have the attention directed at him, in that simple way that men like him enjoy. “There was this old man who caught his missus in the sack with another guy -- well.” Napier clears his throat, squints up at the ceiling of rock and dirt in what turns out to be a series of fairly substantial pauses. “Maybe he weren’t too old if he was mad about his woman doing it with another man. Though, wait now, maybe he was real old and she was real young? But then why would he be so mad in the first place if he she was just gettin’ what his old ass couldn’t give her?”
“Is that the story?” Raylan asks, a current running under his words that sounds like a challenge. It’s the first thing that pricks Boyd’s interest, gets him listening instead of just hearing.
“Well, no, Givens, you gotta be a little more patient and let me get to it. Gotta make sure I got the details right, don’t I? Else this ain’t gonna make much sense. Now, like I was sayin’, there’s this git -- maybe he was old, maybe not, but probably he was middle aged, that sounds about right. Not givin’ it to his old woman on account of working long hours, but mad enough about someone else doin’ it. Just ‘cause you don’t eat bacon no more don’t mean you want someone stealin’ your pig, ain’t that right, boys?”
“Who doesn’t eat bacon?” Albert Hensley interjects suspiciously, as if this is enough to give him doubts about the story’s credibility.
“A damn fool,” Napier answers smoothly, waving his hand. “But anyways, this man comes home from work, don’t know what he did but reckon he was a miner like we are --”
“I thought he was a pig farmer,” Hensley interrupts again, blinking. “Was I wrong?”
“I thought this was a goddamn ghost story,” Raylan says, that undercurrent of challenge having shifted into something that sounds a lot like how Boyd feels the second before he sets a match to the powder -- coiled up and stretched tight at the same time. “Was I wrong?”
“Givens, you shut the fuck up and Hensely, it don’t matter what he did for a livin’, point is, he was doin’ it and came home and there was another man doin’ his lady.” Napier accompanies this with an obscene gesture involving his fingers and a pelvic thrust, which makes Boyd feel sorry for Napier’s wife. “Okay? We all clear, now?”
“Was just confused ‘cause you was talkin’ about bacon,” Hensley mutters, and Boyd snorts a laugh he doesn’t bother to hide.
“So’s as I was sayin’ before you idiots interrupted, was that this old man -- middle aged, that’s what I meant -- found his woman doin’ the nasty with someone like, oh, maybe his neighbor or the guy what pours the drinks down at Tappy’s in Versailles, maybe, but it don’t matter, because what matters is he killed ‘em both. With a chain.”
“Aha!” Hensley beams, as if this grim detail has restored his faith in Napier’s tale.
Boyd almost asks if it’s a coincidence that Napier’s kin hail from Versailles, but he decides to keep that to himself. A certain amount of embellishment is understandable.
“The guy was so torn up about what he did, he killed hisself. Prolly with a gun, or I guess he might’ve hanged himself.” Napier draws his finger across his throat with raised eyebrows, accompanied by choking noises and ending with his tongue sticking out . “He was dead, D-E-D dead. So they bury him and his wife in separate cemeteries, of course.”
“Why?”
“Well, Givens, I reckon ‘cause they figured when the good Lord came down to bring us to paradise on judgment day, she might not like risin’ to greet Him right next to her murderer.” Napier clears his throat. “Ladies sensibilities, and all that. Anyway. Listen up, this is where it gets interesting, with the ghost and all.”
“Not sure a ghost is gonna make this interestin’, Napier,” Raylan drawls, and Boyd ducks his head to hide a smile.
Napier flips him off. “So there’s this chain on the gravestone --”
“A real chain? Somebody put a real chain on a gravestone, just right there in the open?” Hensley seems far less skeptical about this than the existence of hypothetical bacon-haters from a moment prior. “That seems like somebody’d just run off with it.”
“Why’d someone steal a chain from the cemetery? It probably’d get all rusted and shit, bein’ outside in the elements,” Napier tells him.
“You shouldn’t steal from the dead,” Boyd points out softly, staring down at his boots. “It’s bad luck.” He doubts Napier hears him.
Raylan hears him, though -- the awareness of his regard hits Boyd like a dynamite flash, but he keeps his eyes down and doesn’t look up. There’s the oddest sense that this story is drawing a line in the dirt, putting Raylan and Boyd on one side and Hensley and Napier on another.
“So this young boy is drivin’ his bike home and he starts throwin’ rocks at old Mr. Chain Killer’s grave, tryin’ to mess it up.”
“Why’d he do a thing like that? Ain’t very respectful.”
“Well, Hensley, I’d reckon little Jimmy figures if he was murderin’ women with chains, maybe his headstone was fair game. Or he’s a boy, and that’s what boys got up to in nineteen-thirty-whatever? I don’t know, but he does it and the ghost gets pissed off and chases him home, and kills him --” Napier pauses dramatically. “With the chain.”
“What chain?” Raylan demands, hands on his hips, like Napier’s confessing to a crime.
“The chain from his grave,” Napier answers flatly, giving Raylan an unfriendly look.
That’s not the story, at least not how Boyd’s heard it. “It was his bicycle chain,” he tells Raylan. “The kid threw a rock at his grave because it was haunted, and on his way home, he fell off his bike and the chain choked him to death.”
Napier’s arms go across his chest. “No, it was the chain on his grave. Now stop stealin’ my goddamn story, Crowder.”
Boyd shrugs. “Thievery runs in my blood, Napier, be it petty, literary or felonious in nature.”
Napier gives him a look and continues with his hodgepodge of original ghost story details and things he must have seen on his way to work that morning. It goes on too long, with Napier backtracking and over-thinking irrelevant details ( “now what kind of car was it that policeman who got beheaded was driving, I forget...”), and Boyd is mostly focused on the way Raylan is reacting to the story, the annoyance on his face that seems disproportionate to a miner with a fourth-grade education butchering a ghost story.
“So,” Napier finishes, “The chain ghost kills five people, all for fucking around with his gravestone -- destroyin’ it and whatnot, even though ain’t nobody seen a scratch on it after it was supposed to be a pile of rubble. And it’s a big deal, too, ‘cause the last two were police, like I said. And then, everything just stops -- nobody dies, and they ain’t figured out why.”
Napier looks at them all in turn, hopeful and then disgusted in turn at the lack of reactions he's getting.
“That’s not the ending,” Boyd points out, unable to help himself.
“The fuck it ain’t, Crowder. Nobody else done died from a chain after they moved the cemetery.”
“They moved the cemetery?” Raylan has dirt streaked across his brow, voice still sharp as flint. “You didn’t mention that part.”
“Well, yeah,” Napier says, uneasily, like maybe it is important and he forgot. “And then they lost his bones and he don’t kill nobody no more.”
“That,” Boyd points out, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “Is why it’s the scary part, Napier.”
Napier peers at him and then spits into the dirt, looking disinterested. “Don’t see how not-killin’ is scarier than the killin’, but whatever you say, Crowder.”
“‘Because they built a mine over his grave, a whole huge mine, and in case you gentlemen haven’t noticed?” Raylan indicates the mine with a sweep of his gloved hand. “We got a lot of chains around here. Maybe we’ll run into ol’ Pruitt’s bones and then what? Totally fucked.”
That’s not exactly why Boyd thinks the story is scary, but he nods anyway -- he doubts Raylan really believes that. He’s already cursed by blood, what the hell, throw an angry ghost or two in the mix. Why not.
No one’s mentioned the part about the mine, which means Raylan must have already known the story. That’s not surprising, considering they are sons of men who carry proverbial chains in their pockets, waiting for any perceived slight to wrap it around someone’s neck. The kind of men who would choose a tale about preternatural retaliation as a bedtime story, so their sons never did anything stupid when they grew up like forgive.
Napier exchanges a glance with Hensley, who obviously isn’t following Raylan’s logic. “We ain’t minin’ over that boy’s grave, son. Ain’t nobody knows where it is. It’s just a story, anyhow. Mind you don’t start whistlin’ a tune and we’ll be just fine.” He turns away, obviously intending to go back to work, but Raylan won’t let it go.
“It’s not just a story if you’re one of the five people who died.”
“Well, they ain’t alive, neither,” Napier grouses, going back to work with a sour look at Raylan. “Victims, killers -- what’s it matter if ain’t nobody alive to remember which one you were? You’re dead just like everybody else.”
“No, I take it back. That's why it’s scary,” Boyd mutters, exchanging a glance with Raylan. Violence colors their family history in shades of red, streaks that meet and run alongside each other like one long river of blood.
Clearly out of patience, Napier turns away from him. “Well, we all die, Crowder. Unless you get bitten by a vampire. Hey, Hensley, I ever tell you about the time my cousin swore up, down and sideways he was bitten by a vampire? No, God’s truth, he did. Well, he said it was either that or some kind of flying leech, but still...”
Napier directs his story to Hensley, judged a far worthier audience -- likely on account of how he doesn’t offer nearly as many suggestions. Boyd tunes out the particulars of Napier’s speech until only the rhythms of it are left, fading beneath the sounds of iron and rock, and goes back to work.
Or he tries to, at any rate. His attention is still caught up in Raylan in ways it shouldn’t -- Boyd is coming to the realization that he and Raylan Givens are two sides of the same coin. They’re unwilling participants in a war started years ago, by men who’ve become unreadable names on crumbling gravestones, buried beneath blood-soaked soil.
He and Raylan are doomed to till the same soil, until one day they’re nothing but bones lost in forgotten cemeteries. Victims, killers -- what’s it matter if ain’t nobody alive to remember which one you were? You’re dead just like everybody else.
Maybe Napier is better at ghost stories than Boyd is giving him credit for.
He needs to focus on what he’s doing. Everyone thinks you have to be a hothead to lay powder, but they’re wrong. Any idiot can blow shit up -- it doesn’t take any skill to destroy. But setting it all up beforehand, with the how and the when? That part’s a lot harder. You need to be patient, watchful, aware of where people are and how to get them to move where you want them. And you need to learn how to yell just right, to motivate but not cause panic. There’s no time for regrets once that fuse is lit.
Of course, without a spark to light it up, powder ain’t nothing but dust.
Boyd leans casually against a rock, fiddling with the fuse. “You know why that bastard Pruitt had to turn into a ghost to kill people for dishonoring his name, right?”
“Yeah,” Raylan mutters, running a hand through his hair. “He didn’t have any sons to do it for him.” He straightens up and regards Boyd with eyes like flint, sharp and glittering. “Cut the bullshit and tell me what you’re getting at, Crowder. Ain’t in the mood for any more stories today -- especially ones that don’t end up going much of anywhere.”
If Boyd’s the powder turning to dust, Raylan’s a spark with nothing to catch -- a restless flame flickering angrily until it burns up into ash.
“Blood will have blood.” Boyd holds up the lighter, flame dancing between them. “ and stones have been known to move...”
Raylan’s watching him, wary but the light is caught in his eyes, like they’re burning. “What the hell does that mean?”
Boyd grins at him. “Fire in the hole,” he says, and lights the fuse.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust...
Maybe later.