A Short Story
This story takes place roughly in the time of Huckleberry Finn. It is a boyhood adventure with bank robbers and dynamite. It explores sacrifices true friends will make for each other.
The Train Bandits is one of the stories in The Chain Story, a series of tales told at the Wanderer’s Club (a gathering place where fantastic stories of adventure are traded). The Train Bandits can be read independently of other stories in the series.
Average Reading Time: 15 – 22 minutes (about 5,500 words)
The Train Bandits
Chuck Heintzelman
Copyright © 2010 by Chuck Heintzelman
James Thackeray scooted his chair back from the table. “Interesting, Mr. Bell. Benjamin Franklin said ‘Life is a kind of Chess, with stuggle, competition, good and ill events’ but your story about Giuoco Piano, or soft game, really takes things to a whole new level.”
Thackeray stood, using his cane to help himself up. As he spoke, he ambled over to the open window. He stuck his head outside and inhaled, catching a slight whiff from the rose bushes below. He sighed, lamenting the passage of years; the sense of smell is one of many things which diminish with age.
“Before the next story, let me share a small discovery.” He stepped back from the window and, using the cane’s tip, pulled the curtain aside, revealing a boy no older than thirteen. The boy stepped forward, his eyes darting around the room.
Those seated at the table looked as startled as the boy.
Thackeray pointed at the boy with his cane. “You’re Widow Hennessey’s son.”
The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “Billy’s my name.”
Thackeray hobbled back toward the table. “Son, you neglected to note the curtain’s length. Your dirty, scuffed loafers stood out like a beacon, advertising your presence. You also failed to realize any movement made behind the curtain is magnified–you brush the bottom and the entire curtain moves. Had you stayed perched on the stepladder outside the window, you may have remained undetected indefinitely.”
Billy didn’t reply.
Thackeray settled into his chair. “Rogers,” he called out.
Rogers stepped forward, appearing almost magically, and bowed slightly. Perhaps the Majordomo had been there all along, unnoticed until needed.
“Please have our young interloper escorted out.”
“I got a story,” Billy said to save himself.
As one, all heads turned to the boy.
“I been listening to all yours and I got one even better.”
“Very well. But I warn you, should your story be either juvenile or maudlin, I’ll have my man Rogers send you out the window whence you came, headfirst.”
~
This is the story of the last time I thought I’d ever see my best friend, Duffy.
It was last summer when me and Duffy Jenkins went fishing over to Trundle Creek. This was when I lived in Warner’s Crest. It’s in Washington State. The town’s so small it only gots two buildings. The Sheriff and Post Office share one and Sanfordson’s Mercantile is the other. You can get just about anything you need at Sanfordson’s and if they don’t have it they can order it from Spokane and get it on the next week’s shipment. The sign coming into town says “Welcome to Warner’s Crest” on both sides so you can see it either direction you’re coming from.
It was one of those lazy summer days where time moves slower than molasses. If you don’t have nothing to do, you can sit and relax for hours. We sat on the Mill Road Bridge over the creek, our legs dangled over the side, and our fishing line dangled between our legs. The fish weren’t even nibbling. I didn’t care, but I think Duffy was getting a mite itchy for some action.
“Wanna play Injun?” Duffy asked.
“And do what?” Playing Injun meant either tracking or scouting.
Duffy had this grin that was one part trouble and two parts fun. I call it his “shit-eater.” When he used this grin, you knew an adventure was coming. He flashed his shit-eater at me, saying “My old man says he saw a grizzly in the woods north of the creek.”
“Ain’t no grizzlies here. Brown bears, maybe a few black.”
Something I got to tell you about Duffy. A body couldn’t ask for a better friend. He was the best friend I’ll probably ever have, but he had it rough. His old man distilled fruit, mostly apples, to make liquor. He drank most of it but sold some to make money to buy more apples. Duffy’s old man was a mean drunk. Duffy was always coming to school looking like he had played chicken with a locomotive–and lost. One time he had a broken nose, a broken arm, and an eye so purple and swelled up there weren’t nothing but a slit for him to look through. He said he fell down the cellar stairs. Nobody believed him, but nobody said nothing about it. What a person did to their kid, as long as they didn’t kill them, was their own business.
Duffy’s brother, J.J., weren’t no better than his old man. J.J. was a thief and spent some time in county lockup down to Spokane. His mom wasn’t so bad, but when his old man was on a bender, which was most days, she’d go stay with her sister in Deer Park, leaving Duffy with his old man and good-for-nothing brother.
So when Duffy said his old man saw a grizzly, I knew there weren’t no truth to it. His old man was probably lit up like Chinese fireworks and seeing all kinds of things that weren’t there.
“Let’s go find the grizzly’s tracks,” Duffy said.
I started bringing in my line, spinning the reel fast so the wet line sent water drops onto my face. Refreshing. “What’ll we do if we find the grizzly? Poke him in the eye with our fishing poles?”
He pulled out his prized possession, his pocket knife. It had two blades, a big one and a small one. Duffy kept it sharp enough to shave with. Of course, neither of us had no whiskers yet.
I laughed. “If a grizzly sees you chasing it with a three inch blade it’s going to plumb fall over laughing.”
“No, dumb-ass, we use the knife to make some spears.”
We stashed our fishing gear under the bridge, found a couple straight branches, and sharpened their ends to points. The spears wouldn’t have been much protection against a barn cat, let alone a bear, but they were good enough for the game we were playing.
After we had our spears, Duffy had the idea to follow the creek. Bears had to drink and we might pick up tracks. We went upstream, not seeing a thing.
“You know what bear shit looks like?” I asked.
“It’s black but depends on what they’ve been eating. If they’ve been digging at roots and stuff then you’ll see some in their scat. If they’ve been eating berries then you might see some undigested bits. Hard to say.”
One thing about Duffy, he knew his shit.
As we kept moving upstream, the woods varied from sparse trees, easily navigated, to underbrush so thick we had to walk dozens of yards out of the way to get around. At one of these detours Duffy looked back at me and stuck a finger to his lips. We crept to the edge of a clearing. In it, four men sat around a campfire.
Duffy wore his shit-eater again. He whispered, “Let’s spy on these guys.”
I nodded and squatted down next to Duffy. They were a rough looking bunch. Definitely outlaws. The back of my neck shivered.
Duffy kneeled down next to me. “I can’t believe it. The man with the beard is Dry Gulch Davis.”
My look told Duffy I had no idea who Dry Gulch Davis was.
“The bank robber? His picture is up in the post office.”
“Oh that Dry Gulch Davis,” I said.
“You don’t know who he is.”
“Sure,” I said, “He’s a bank robber.”
“What bank did he rob?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What have we here?” came a man’s voice from behind us.
I sprung sideways. There were two of them! One grabbed for me and just missed. Duffy wasn’t so lucky. The butt end of a rifle connected with his forehead. I was off like a hare, glancing back once to see Duffy crumple to the ground.
They chased me, but I was smaller and able to squeeze under a large fallen tree and run toward the stream. The men pursuing me had to go around. I ran like I had never run before, dodging branches, leaping over deadfall, and ducking under obstacles too high to jump over. When I made it to the stream I ran down it, trying to stay to the shallow, rocky bottom. I sprinted right past our fishing spot without slowing down. Once on the road, I had to stop running and catch my breath. I kept walking fast, head twisted around, checking if the bad guys were behind me.
Was Duffy okay? They gave him a pretty good wallop upside the head. He must be hurt, or worse. I had to get him help. And fast.
After I caught my breath I took off running again. The bridge over Trundle Creek was a mile from town. Covering the distance in record time, I ran down main street and into the Sheriff’s Office.
When you walk into the building the Sheriff is to your left; the Post Office is to your right. I barged in, went left, and looked around for the Sheriff. Not a soul in sight. This couldn’t be. When you needed the law they were nowhere to be found.
“Can I help you?”
I spun in my tracks. It was Mrs. Yates, standing behind the Post Office counter. In my rush I hadn’t even seen her.
“Oh, you’re the Widow Hennessey’s boy. William, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Where’s Sheriff Rawlings?”
“He’s out to the Taylor’s place. Seems Ol’ Bishop Taylor’s got himself a barn fire. Probably started it himself, you ask me.”
Behind Mrs. Yates, several wanted posters plastered the wall. Smack dab in the middle was the evil looking, black bearded, Dry Gulch Davis. They offered a $1500 reward for him alive, $500 dead. I couldn’t believe it, Duffy was right.
“What do you want Sheriff Rawlings for?”
“I need him. Duffy Jenkins was–”
“I knew that boy was trouble. Just like his father and brother. No good.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Why God burdens us with people like that, I’ll never know.”
For a minute, I didn’t say anything. When Mrs. Yates assumed Duffy had caused the problem, I realized what was going to happen if I did find the Sheriff. Sheriff Rawlings would think Duffy was at fault too. They didn’t understand that a kid could have a no-good father but still be somebody’s best friend. I made a decision then. I would save Duffy myself. Mrs. Yates stared at me, waiting for me to agree with her. I turned and headed out the door.
“William? What happened?”
I ignored her. I’d go get Buster Daniels to help. He was a friend to Duffy and me, and a great shot with a .22. We’d spent many afternoons in his back field, shooting groundhogs as they popped their heads out of their holes. Buster lived half a mile away. With renewed energy I ran toward his place.
I found Buster behind his house with Eugene Fitzgerald, playing marbles. Most people call Eugene “Tubs”, on account he’s fat. I don’t much like him. Not because he’s so fat, but because he always does stupid things to get you to like him. One time at school he brought a bag of nickels. Kids formed two lines in front of him. Each person from the head of the line would come up and he’d toss a nickel in the air. Whichever kid called heads or tails right got to keep the nickel. Kids eagerly took their nickel and ran back, getting in line to have another turn. I made $1.15 that day which I then spent at Sanfordson’s Mercantile buying so much candy that I puked on the way home. Tubs must have spent a small fortune trying to buy friends. As soon as he flipped his last nickel everyone left. A couple of kids were even mad at him for running out of money.
I ran to Buster and Tubs, right into the circle they had drawn in the dirt.
“Out of the way you stupid git,” Buster said.
Leaning over, I put my hands on my thighs, panting and trying to catch my breath. “You got to help me. Duffy’s been captured by bank robbers.”
“What?”
I explained how we had been playing in the woods and came across Dry Gulch and his gang. How they ambushed us, conked Duffy on the head, how I had escaped and ran back to town, and how the Sheriff wasn’t around.
“Let me grab my .22,” Buster said. “You can use it and I’ll use my dad’s .30-30 Winchester.”
I figured Buster’s Dad would tan his tide for borrowing his new rifle, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“What about me?” Tubs asked.
“You’re not going,” I said.
“Come on guys. Let me come. I can be your lookout.”
Buster and I exchanged a look. “Okay,” I said. “But if we have to make a run for it, it’s every man for himself.” I figured running might scare Tubs off.
“What about my gun?” Tubs asked.
“No.” Both Buster and I said at the same time.
“That’s okay.” Tubs pulled a slingshot from his back pocket. “I got this.”
Lotta good a slingshot would do against a wanted bank robber.
We started off toward Trundle Creek. Tubs, as usual, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He asked questions about where we were going, how far was it, who the bank robber was, and what our plan was. He was huffing and puffing so much you’d of thought he’d stop flapping his jaw, but no.
I couldn’t take it no more. “Eugene, you got to be quiet.”
“Why?”
Buster cuffed him on the back of the head. “This is life and death, you stupid git.”
We made it to just before the clearing in the woods. Tubs hadn’t made another peep.
I held up my hand to stop and motioned them in close enough I could whisper. “Here’s the plan. Eugene, you stay here on the creek. If something happens you run as fast as you can back to town and get help. Buster, you head up the stream a couple hundred yards and then go straight left about fifty yards and turn and come back this way. That should put you behind the clearing. Wait for my signal.”
“What’s the signal?”
I made three whooping cries. The sound of a loon.
Buster’s eyes went wide with what I took as appreciation of my skill. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning and trudging upstream.
I worked my way to the edge of the clearing and hid behind a large bush. I parted the branches and looked around. The campfire was still there, but the men, and Duffy, were gone. I examined the perimeter in case Dry Gulch Davis left any men behind to ambush us. I couldn’t see anybody.
I stepped out of the woods and made my loon call. Buster crashed through the brush on the other side of the clearing, rifle raised, moving it back and forth like he was trying to cover ten men at once. He looked at me, confused.
I shrugged my shoulders and headed toward the campfire in the middle.
He met me there. “Where are they?”
“How should I know. They were here.” I knelt down by the campfire and held my hand over the ashes. The coals were still warm.
I heard a loud crack like a bullwhip being snapped. Inches from my hands a puff of ash erupted into a small cloud. I jumped backwards, almost losing my balance. It took a moment for my brain to register what happened. Gunshot.
“Good bird call, kid.” One of Dry Gulch’s men stepped into the clearing. He held a rifle, leveled at Buster and me. “I didn’t think nothing of it. Hear them loons all the time. But Mr. Davis, he’s always suspicious. He tells me to come check it out. And I find a couple little boys playing with guns.”
Buster’s pale face and wide eyes told me he was as scared as I was.
“You want should I kill you now or are you going to drop those guns?”
Buster and I dropped our rifles to the ground.
From the woods came the sound of branches cracking, something moved toward us, fast. I hoped it wasn’t Tubs. When he heard the rifle shot he should have taken off running to get the Sheriff as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him.
Dry Gulch Davis and two other men–a large brute and a small man with a black cowboy hat–stepped into the clearing. Good. Not Tubs.
In person, Dry Gulch looked twice as menacing as his poster. His black beard covered his entire face. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a rodent poke its head out of that thicket of hair. His eyes were blacker than his beard. He wore a dirty grey cowboy hat pulled tight down on his head.
Dry Gulch marched over to Buster and me, looked back and forth from one of us to the other, and started laughing. His laugh, deep and gravelly, was as frightening as the man. He stopped laughing for a moment, looked at us again, and started into another laughing fit. He took off his hat–and I got a surprise. Black hair straggled around the edges but most of his dome looked like polished granite. I hadn’t expected him to be bald. He wiped his forehead with a shirt sleeve before putting his hat back on.
Once Dry Gulch’s laughter was under control, he spoke. “Figured you would’ve brought the law.”
I puffed up my chest, trying to look more confident than I felt. “The Sheriff’s on his way.”
Dry Gulch smiled. His brown teeth hadn’t seen a toothbrush in years. “What are you? Deputies sent ahead to capture us?”
“Boss,” the man with the black hat said, “it’s almost time.”
From inside his jacket, Dry Gulch retrieved a pocket watch. He looked at it for a second and started giving orders. “Graves, you and Hutchins grab these kids. Put them with the other one. Make sure you tie them real good.”
I made a mental note of the names Graves and Hutchins in case I had to identify them later. Graves seemed to be the small one with the black hat and Hutchins the big man.
“I think we should just kill them and leave them here,” said Graves. He looked down at his boots, as if he were sorry he had spoke.
Dry Gulch spun around and backhanded Graves, knocking him off his feet. “You think? Do I pay you to think? Then what do you think is better, for their bodies to be found here, or for their bodies to be buried under five ton of rubble from the bridge?”
Graves cowered, but didn’t reply.
“I asked you a question.”
“Sorry, Boss, buried. To be buried is better.”
Dry Gulch stared at Graves for a moment longer. “Well?” He looked around at the other men. “What’s everyone standing around for? Get a move on. We got a train to rob.”
I couldn’t believe it. Robbing banks was bad enough, but they were going to rob a train.
Dry Gulch left the clearing. Hutchins prodded Buster with his pistol to follow.
“Let’s go kid,” said Graves.
I looked around. If I ran I’d be dead before taking two steps.
Graves poked me in the back with his rifle. “Just so you know, when I was a kid they called me Twitchy, on account if I get surprised then I’m real jumpy. So if there are any surprises I’ll twitch my trigger finger and you’ll end up with a hole in your head.”
The look in Graves’s eyes told me he’d love an excuse to pull the trigger. I couldn’t do anything but start walking. I followed the large man out of the clearing onto a trail running parallel to the creek.
Dry Gulch had said they were robbing a train. The tracks weren’t far away, maybe a mile, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Maybe our slow progress through the woods to the tracks would give Tubs enough time to get the Sheriff. I trudged along, not seeing any way to escape, occasionally prodded from behind by Graves.
Eventually we made it to the tracks. A small train bridge spanned Trundle Creek. The bridge was short, twenty-five feet over the creek. There were two levels: the top where the tracks were, and the underside consisting of horizontal beams and vertical struts. Cross-beams made Xs along the length of each side. Duffy sat on the lower level, legs tied to a horizontal beam, back against a strut, with his arms tied behind it. My heart jumped into my throat when I saw him.
Dry Gulch stood atop the bridge, issuing orders. “Get those kids tied up. We don’t have much time.”
Graves poked me in the back again with his rifle. “Come on kid.”
As I got closer to Duffy I could see a red goose egg on his forehead.
“Sorry Billy,” he said.
I struggled up the embankment and stepped onto the underside of the bridge, next to Duffy. “Not your fault.”
“You girls want to kiss each other goodbye before I tie you up?” Graves asked.
“Quit lollygagging.”
Graves tied me against the same strut as Duffy so we were back to back. Then he walked across the underside of the bridge to the middle, stepping from beam to beam, and holding onto the bridge’s truss to balance himself. Hutchins tied Buster on the other side of the bridge, across the creek from us, and scrambled down the embankment.
“Playing Injun was my idea,” Duffy whispered. “This is my fault.”
“Nah,” I said. “I should’ve got the Sheriff instead of trying to rescue you myself.”
“The worst part is you and Buster got captured. I don’t matter. Hell, my life is already set, everyone thinks I’m worthless. I got no chance but to end up a pile of shit, but you could have done something important with your life.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I began choking up, but forced myself to stop. I wasn’t going to cry. The Sheriff could still get here and save us.
“We got six minutes,” Dry Gulch said. “How long’s the fuse?”
“Two minutes,” Graves said.
“That gives you four minutes to place the dynamite.”
It felt as if a rock had stuck in my throat. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. Time was running out.
Hutchins carried a large canvas bag halfway up the embankment and yelled at Graves. “Here.” He tossed the bag up to Graves.
Graves lunged for the bag, catching it with his fingertips. “Jesus. What’re you thinking. You could’ve killed us all.”
Graves opened the bag and pulled out several sticks of dynamite bundled together. He tied the dynamite to the bridge where a truss beam met a strut.
Dry Gulch reached down from the top of the bridge to within a foot or so of Graves. “Come on, three minutes left.”
Graves pulled the long fuse out and held it to Dry Gulch’s outstretched fingers. After Dry Gulch grabbed the fuse, Graves slung the canvas bag over one shoulder, and came toward Duffy and me.
“I know the perfect place for this one,” Graves said.
I craned my head around, to watch Graves, and was horrified to see him tying a dynamite bundle between Duffy’s legs.
Graves giggled. “Now when it goes boom, little bits and pieces of you go flying everywhere.”
Dry Gulch’s gravelly voice came from above me. “Quit fooling around. I swear, Graves, you’re slower than a slug.”
Graves handed him the fuse and started toward Buster’s side of the bridge. He seemed more confident crossing the bridge’s underside now, not needing to use his hands for balance.
I whispered to Duffy. “Where’s your knife?”
“In my back pocket. I can’t reach it. I tried.”
“Maybe I can.” I slid my butt out as far as I could, bringing my hands down. “Scoot your butt back.” He did and I got the tips of two fingers into his back pocket.
“Other pocket,” Duffy said.
I switched to the other pocket, stretched and strained until it hurt and was able to feel the knife. “Can you lift yourself up?” He did and I got the knife between my index and middle finger. I inched the knife out and grabbed it with my other hand. Opening the blade was easy, but angling it to cut the rope between my hands was difficult. I sawed at the rope, unable to apply much pressure or move back and forth very far.
“You get it?” Duffy whispered.
“Yeah, I’m trying to cut now.”
“Come on,” yelled Dry Gulch, “you got a minute left ’til I light the fuse.”
I craned my neck around to see Graves across the bridge, tying dynamite between Buster’s legs. I doubled my effort at cutting myself free, slicing my wrist to shreds in the process, but I didn’t care. I had to get free so I could help Duffy and Buster escape.
“Got it?” Dry Gulch said. “Now get the hell out of there. I’m lighting them.”
The rope came loose. I twisted around and freed Duffy’s hands in two knife strokes.
“Gimme the knife,” Duffy said.
I handed it to him and went to work untying my legs. The knot was difficult. I worked on it a bit and realized it would be easier to cut than untie. “Duffy, I need the knife.”
Duffy had freed his legs and cut the lit fuse from the dynamite between his legs. He slid the rope off the dynamite and dropped the bundle into the creek below. I cringed waiting for the dynamite to shake the bridge, but no explosion came.
“Here,” Duffy said, tossing the knife.
As the knife arced toward my hand a shot rang out. The bullet pinged near me, hitting the bridge.
I missed the knife, watching in horror as it fell out of reach.
“Billy,” Duffy said. “You get through this, let people know I’m not like my old man. I’m better than he is.”
He turned and ran across the underside of the bridge to the center. With each step he took, bullets ricocheted off the steel beams. Halfway across the bridge Duffy went down. Luckily, he fell along a beam and caught himself. Six inches of water in the stream below ain’t enough to dive into. He struggled back to his feet and stood there for a moment, a strange look on his face. He staggered back a step, leaning against a strut, and clutched his belly with both hands. Slowly, he brought his hands up, looking at them. They were bloody.
They had shot Duffy.
He moved in slow motion, leaning down and tearing loose the dynamite. He tried pulling the fuse out but his hands were so slicked up with blood he couldn’t get a grip.
Oh no. If he tossed the lit dynamite off the bridge, we’d still be blown to hell.
Duffy clutched the dynamite to his chest and started across to Buster’s side, the fuse burned, sparking and sputtering behind him, getting shorter with each step he took.
Another shot rang out. This one near me. I scooted my feet out and tried to lay flat, making myself as small a target as possible. Lying on my back, I rolled my head and watched, upside-down, as Duffy tore free the dynamite tied between Buster’s legs. He held this dynamite close to his chest with the other bundle. The fuses were short now. I didn’t know how much more time we had.
Duffy saw me watching and shot me his shit-eater. It was just a moment, less than a second, but his look told me everything. I could hear his thoughts, clear as day, “Hey, I’ll be all right. I’m off on another adventure. I’ll see you later.”
He turned, stepped onto the embankment and took off, half limping, half running, away from the bridge.
“No!” I screamed.
Even though I expected the explosion I wasn’t ready for it. It was louder than the cannon Ol’ Man Bowles fires off every Fourth of July. It was louder than cherry bombs or gunshots. It was so loud I couldn’t hear a thing but a ringing in my ears afterwards. It rocked the bridge.
I couldn’t believe it. Duffy had sacrificed himself to save us. Right then, I realized that if Dry Gulch came back and finished us off, Duffy’s sacrifice would be for nothing.
I sat up and clawed at the knot still holding my legs. I tried not to think about what Duffy had just done, but I couldn’t help it. Tears blurred my vision. A fingernail tore off, but I kept at the knot. I expected, at any moment, to feel a bullet ripping through my flesh, but none came. The knot loosened. I yanked my feet free and raced across the underside of the bridge to Buster.
The bridge began to vibrate. I almost lost my footing and grabbed onto a vertical strut. The vibrations became so violent I thought the bridge was collapsing. A train roared past above me. The clanking and shaking and clattering jarred me to the bones. I clenched my teeth together, hugged the vertical strut, and waited for the train to pass.
Though tears blurred my vision, I saw Dry Gulch and his men gather in the stream below the bridge. He stood there, hat in one hand, scratching his bald head with the other, as if he didn’t understand why the bridge still stood. Didn’t he see Duffy run off with the dynamite? He had to of heard the explosion, and his men firing at us. Maybe Dry Gulch had cowered behind some rock and didn’t see a thing.
From my vantage point I could also see Tubs had brought the cavalry–the Sheriff and several deputies surrounded Dry Gulch and his gang from behind. The four outlaws stood, staring at the bridge in disbelief, totally unaware the Sheriff had got the drop on them.
The Sheriff and his men rushed forward, putting their rifles in the outlaws backs. The Sheriff said something but with the noise of the train overhead I couldn’t hear him.
The outlaws put their hands up. It looked like the Sheriff would bring the gang in without firing a shot, but Dry Gulch had a different idea.
Keeping his hands in the air, Dry Gulch turned to face the Sheriff.
The train passed and I was able to hear Dry Gulch speak. “Now this ain’t a very friendly way to greet heroes, Sheriff. We was only trying to rescue these boys.”
The Sheriff looked confused.
“We was minding our own business, when–” And Dry Gulch made his move. He twisted sideways while bring his arm down, knocking the rifle to the side with his forearm. The Sheriff fired, but the shot went wide. With his other hand Dry Gulch went for his pistol. Just as he gripped the handle another shot rang out. Dry Gulch’s legs crumpled and he fell, face first, at the Sheriff’s feet.
The Sheriff nodded at the deputy who had fired. “Thanks Pete.”
I made my way to Buster.
His eyes were wide, his dirty cheeks muddy with tears. “Why’d Duffy do it?”
I untied Buster’s hands and choked up a bit. “I don’t know. He wanted to save us.”
“Stupid git was the best person I’ve ever known.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
~
“Jolly good tale,” Thackeray said.
“It’s all true.” Billy held his hand in the air as if taking an oath. “I swear to God.”
“Son, I’ve listened to many a tale, both tall and true, and I’ve learned to tell the difference between them. You said you thought that was the last time you’d see your friend. Clearly, because of the explosion, you couldn’t have seen him again.”
Billy looked at Thackeray and cocked his head sideways. “I have seen him. But that’s a story for another time.”
~ The End ~
For more stories in the Chain Story Project visit the website: chainstory.stormwolf.com