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handful_ofdustAt last! The epic is done like dinner!
LITTLE RED ANTS ON A HILL, Part Three of Three
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Summary: Charlie helps Ben pull the long con, with some fallout.
Then it’s eight weeks come and gone already, and Charlie Prince can’t quite help but notice that he and Ben Wade still ain’t yet shed of Bewelcome, in all its horrid homeiness. Might be this state of affairs has something to do with Ben giving Clarabelle the preacher’s girl nightly lessons in gaiety, the which method of instruction she seems to have taken a particular shine to…to Best Friend Lyla’s and Charlie’s mutual annoyance both, though probably not for quite the same reasons.
Because: Bewelcome wears on him hard overall, in intimate places, worse than saddle-sores gone bad—and it just doesn’t get any better, the longer they stick around. Perhaps ‘cause he knows it’s not that he can’t do any of the things Bewelcomers measure ‘emselves by, spending their nights in righteous sleep and their days in useless toil. Just that he won’t, not ever again—get his living the way any other fool does, and for what? Spit and dust. The simple thought of it almost enough to make him want to kick himself, ‘long with anybody else might be passing by.
Won’t farm. Won’t keep shop. He sews pretty well, turns out, if he has to—Missus Prince never raised no daughters, ‘least not that lived—but it ain’t like he’s about to make that public knowledge. Bad enough that others make assumptions as it is, going on his fantastical taste for dress alone. Charlie recalls this particular hire-on who took a mind to taunt “the Princess” with one of many rhymes which happen to be built around his given name—
Oh, Charlie’s neat and Charlie’s sweet
And Charlie, he’s a dandy,
And every time we chance to meet
He gives me sugar candy…
Sang it endlessly, just out of the boss’s earshot, ‘til the same day Charlie knew Ben was done enough with him to not begrudge Charlie putting a ball in the idjit’s brain. Which he did, in mid-chorus: Jerk, pop, blessed silence. “Sweet” indeed.
Fact is, Charlie knows himself either far more’n any of Bewelcome’s accepted options, or far less—different, anyroad. Knows well how the sort of man someone like Ben Wade might claim as his own wasn’t made for “honest” work…which all suits him just fine, thank you very much. With bells on.
So: April Ninth, and the Bewelcomers are out in droves celebrating the End of Hostilities, but “Ethan Rees” ain’t joinin’ in. To Charlie, Armistice Day—Surrender Day, more like—is a day of infamy. and always has been. Even now, with so many years gone by, he feels as though he’s spent more of his life At War than not—like his time soldiering was simply more worthwhile, important, genuine than anything which came before, or after. That boy he once was, what little he had—and lost—means nothing at all to him now; less than the meanest hair on Ben Wade’s lofty, Bible-crammed head.
Which is funny, considering how Ben doesn’t much care, either way—except maybe about the effect it has on Charlie, who’s far more apt to pick fights which end in whole saloons burning down today, even, than he usually is. “Stay out of trouble, ‘Ethan’,” he tells him, solemn-faced, with that undertone to his voice which brooks no real opposition…and thus Charlie does, regulating himself hard enough he barely does anything beyond smile, nod and wave as he makes his way down Main Street, like he’s runnin’ a damn gauntlet.
“A little somethin’ for the Reverend, Mister Rees—you don’t mind, now, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Tell him how good that homily was on Sunday, and invite him ‘round for dinner sometime, at his own convenience…you too, Ethan, ‘course.”
“’Course, sir—goes without sayin’. But I sure will.”
By the time he reaches “home”, he’s loaded like a donkey; slams down a can of milk with one hand, a still-steaming pie with the other, and snaps—
“We need to get the Hell out of here, boss, while we still can.”
Ben, who’s already sitting there with a thumb stuck deep in the Bible, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow—just leans forward a bit, sniffing. “Mmm, apple. Clarabelle’s?”
“Might’a had a little damn much of that girl’s pie already, you ask me. You’re gettin’ fat.”
Ben shoots him a sharpish look at this, but can’t really deny it, because his waistcoat is fitting a bit more snugly; self-satisfaction always hits him in the gut, something sleek little Charlie—who thinks of food as fuel, not recreation—will never bring himself to understand. But instead of chiding him over his lack of proper respect, Ben instead sits back again, and asks:
“This ain’t ‘cause of that party they’re throwin’, now, is it?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” Charlie replies, stiffly.
To which Ben just smiles, an expression caught halfway between affectionate amusement and genuine sympathy—and Charlie ain’t exactly sure which part of it hurts the more, only that something does, keep and sudden, in a way that makes him want to touch his own chest.
And: “No,” Ben says, mildly, “I don’t guess you do. But sit down with me a spell anyways, ‘E-’…Charlie. Cut yourself some of this pie, ‘fore it goes cold.”
Not an order, as such—yet Charlie does, without protest. Outside, someone starts letting off fireworks, and a concertina strikes up. Charlie forks out a mouthful of pie and sits there, chewing, as Ben marks out some passage he’s been studying on, before laying the Book back down. Saying, absently—
“You know, I’ve been a thief, an outlaw and a hired gun since I was younger’n you were when we first met, Charlie—and I know you were a lot younger’n you pretended, that’s for sure. Longer than I can easily reckon, anymore. So the War didn’t mean a damn thing to me but opportunity, though I’m sure it was a whole lot different for you. I saw some bad stuff, here and there; expect you saw worse. Tell me…what was it happened to all them Princes and Reeses and what-not, exactly?”
Charlie swallows, and makes himself shrug. “Don’t much matter. Whatever you think might’ve happened, you’d be just as likely right as wrong.”
Ben nods. “No, it probably don’t matter, all too much. But you joined up to kill some people, didn’t you? In specific. Am I right?” Charlie looks down, obliquely. “And did you? The ones you wanted to, I meant.”
“Some, yeah. One or two. And then…I guess I just forgot to keep on lookin’ for the rest of ‘em.”
“‘Cause it didn’t really matter anymore.”
“…yeah,”
Another nod, still smiling, softly. “And then you found out how you were damn good at killin’, but damn bad at takin’ orders. And after it all fell apart, you and your buddies took off on your own—“
“—yeah, and you saw what else went and happened, after that.” Another bite; then, a bit brighter: “Found you, though, ‘cause of it—didn’t I, boss?”
“That’s right, Charlie—same’s I found you. Fortunate confluence of events for both of us, wasn’t it? Almost enough to make a man believe in fate.”
So the evening passes, surprisingly pleasant, ‘til Charlie’s sleepy and replete, having found he’s somehow eaten most of that contentious pie. While Ben just keeps on checking through the Bible, searching out suitable quotes for the next homily: Jeremiah, 7-26 to 7-34, as War-like a passage as Charlie’s ever heard, ‘specially when mused on aloud in Ben Wade’s low, smooth, insinuating voice…
Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places; for the LORD hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath.
For the children of Judah have done evil in my sight, saith the LORD: they have set their abominations in the house which is called by my name, to pollute it.
And they have built the high places of Tophet, which is in the valley of the son of Hinnom, to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire; which I commanded them not, neither came it into my heart.
Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the valley of slaughter: for they shall bury in Tophet, till there be no place.
And the carcases of this people shall be meat for the fowls of the heaven, and for the beasts of the earth; and none shall fray them away.
Then will I cause to cease from the cities of Judah, and from the streets of Jerusalem, the voice of mirth, and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom, and the voice of the bride: for the land shall be desolate.
And: Maybe I never WAS too good at takin’ orders, Charlie thinks, head dipping in approval automatically, without him even knowing it. But then again, maybe I just needed t’find someone WORTH takin’ ‘em from.
“That’s what oughtta happen here, too,” Charlie says, licking the last of the pie from his fingers. “What will happen, sure ‘nough—seein’ they don’t even know to keep ‘emselves from bein’ fleeced by such as you and me.”
“Why, Charlie Prince—that’s somewhat harsh, even for you. Did you really never want yourself a real life at all, or near as makes no never-mind?”
“This is my life. With you. Wherever and whenever, doin’…whatever. That’s the only kind of life I want.”
“So if I was to say ‘stay’…we’d stay.”
“Yeah. Sure. But—you ain’t gonna say that, boss. Are ya?”
But: Ben doesn’t answer, just looks at him straight-on, long and level; no smile, this time. Nothing of the damn sort. No visible way out of it at all, not with a joke, or even with a plea…like Ben’s God himself, all of a sudden. Immune to prayers and invective alike. Aloof, all-powerful, unreachable…
(Oh, Christ Jesus. What did I go and get myself into, after all?)
Never mind. Don’t matter. I made MY choice.
…and that’s the single scariest thing about it.
*
As it turns out, though, it’s far easier to get Ben shed of Bewelcome than Charlie’d worried it might be; only takes one single piece of news, in fact, delivered pretty much like so—
“Lyla says Clarabelle’s missed her courses.”
“Oh? Too bad. Was at least a good month’s worth of money still left in this town…”
“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve fucked her so fast, then.”
Ben nods: “Maybe not. But we’re not all of us able to be quite so forbearing as yourself, ‘Ethan’.”
“…true enough.”
Four of the afternoon by the Pye family’s clock, “lent out” to good Reverend Beckford on account, ‘til Clarabelle herself gets carried back ‘cross the threshold to repossess it. And by twenty minutes after the house is grave-silent, empty as the meeting-house’s cash-box, with Bewelcome fading fast behind ‘em. They ride ‘til they hit the state line, then camp a spell near Unfortunate Butte (one-eighty miles shy of Contention, just south and east a bit from No Silver Here), so’s Charlie can dig beneath that Jericho tree where they buried their clothes and guns. Thirsty work, and it raises dust, too—which might be why he don’t notice the skinny would-be robber ‘til he’s right on top of them, rifle levelled at Ben’s head.
“Better throw over that chest you got there, mister, ‘less you’re fixing to meet your God just a little bit sooner’n you might’a…yeah, that’s good. Now keep them hands up, and stay right there while I jump down—“
“Son,” Ben says, without much rancor, “you’re goin’ about this all wrong. First robbery, or did we catch you just after you got your cherry popped? ‘Cause if I ever saw anything screamed ‘sloppy seconds’…”
The boy frowns. “Got a damn dirty mouth on you, for a preacher-man.”
“Well, there’d be a reason for that.” Raising his voice slightly: “Wouldn’t there?”
OH yeah.
“Boss,” Charlie calls back, throwing Ben his guns. The boy gets off one panicked shot, grazing Ben’s shoulder, but Ben doesn’t even pause—puts him down in the dirt with one to the wrist, another to the belly and one more to each knee, for good measure. Standing over him as he curls in on himself, yowling, and raising his gun once again to let the last of the sun glint off the crosses on its hilt, as the boy looks up, eyes streaming. And gasps:
“Hey, that’s the Hand of God! You…you’re Ben Wade! Right here in the middle of nowhere, Ben Goddamn Wade—“
So happy with himself for figurin’ it out, he never even hears Charlie comin’ up on the other side of him, soft and quick, his Schofield at the ready, at last. Saying—
“You’re Goddamned right, he is. So who’s that make me?”
(A second’s hesitation—must be the lack of beard. Then)
“Uh…Charlie Prince?”
Ben laughs merrilly at this, sounding more like himself than he has in months. To Charlie: “I do believe he’s heard of you.”
And: ”Damn right,” Charlie tells the idiot. Right before he blows whatever he must’ve been usin’ instead of brains out the back of his stupid head.
*
That’s not really how it all ends, though. Not quite.
*
Some years on, Charlie’s crossing the street in Bisbee when a voice hails him from behind: “Ethan! Ethan Rees!”
(The Hell?)
And before he can stop himself, he’s already turned to find Lyla Goddamn Ferriday, late of Bewelcome township, standing behind him with both hands on her hips—dressed all hat to skirt in black, as small, dark and as fierce as ever.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she tells him. “I know exactly who you are now, Charlie Prince…you and that boss of yours, Ben Wade, too.”
And: “Okay,” is the only thing he can think of to reply. “Uh…how’s your friend?”
“Clarabelle? You can tell your Mister Wade she bore herself a son; her kin’s got him, now. I heard they were raisin’ him up as a nephew, or some such.” As Charlie stares at her: “Means she died in childbirth, in case you were wonderin’.”
“Well,” says Charlie, to cover the fact that hasn’t been. Which she seems to know just by looking at him, anyways, given the angry way she shakes her head, eyes hot with unshead tears. Throwing back—
“That’s right. And you can tell him she was always my gal, too—not his. Never his. Same way you’re his boy, I suspect. You can tell him I hope he rots in Hell a good long time, for all the things he done.”
And if she was a man (or looked like to pull a weapon on him), Charlie’d shoot her right there in the street—but she ain’t and isn’t, so he don’t. Just tips his hat at her slightly, a stony imitation of Ben’s easy charm, before he walks away.
What with all the excitement later on that day, however, he plain forgets to ever mention anything about it to Ben at all—until everything’s over, that is, at least for him. Until it doesn’t matter anymore who knows what about what, exactly…
…or doesn’t.
THE END
LITTLE RED ANTS ON A HILL, Part Three of Three
By Gemma Files
Fandom: 3:10 to Yuma
Pairing: Charlie Prince/Ben Wade
Rating: Pre-slash, PG-13
Summary: Charlie helps Ben pull the long con, with some fallout.
Then it’s eight weeks come and gone already, and Charlie Prince can’t quite help but notice that he and Ben Wade still ain’t yet shed of Bewelcome, in all its horrid homeiness. Might be this state of affairs has something to do with Ben giving Clarabelle the preacher’s girl nightly lessons in gaiety, the which method of instruction she seems to have taken a particular shine to…to Best Friend Lyla’s and Charlie’s mutual annoyance both, though probably not for quite the same reasons.
Because: Bewelcome wears on him hard overall, in intimate places, worse than saddle-sores gone bad—and it just doesn’t get any better, the longer they stick around. Perhaps ‘cause he knows it’s not that he can’t do any of the things Bewelcomers measure ‘emselves by, spending their nights in righteous sleep and their days in useless toil. Just that he won’t, not ever again—get his living the way any other fool does, and for what? Spit and dust. The simple thought of it almost enough to make him want to kick himself, ‘long with anybody else might be passing by.
Won’t farm. Won’t keep shop. He sews pretty well, turns out, if he has to—Missus Prince never raised no daughters, ‘least not that lived—but it ain’t like he’s about to make that public knowledge. Bad enough that others make assumptions as it is, going on his fantastical taste for dress alone. Charlie recalls this particular hire-on who took a mind to taunt “the Princess” with one of many rhymes which happen to be built around his given name—
Oh, Charlie’s neat and Charlie’s sweet
And Charlie, he’s a dandy,
And every time we chance to meet
He gives me sugar candy…
Sang it endlessly, just out of the boss’s earshot, ‘til the same day Charlie knew Ben was done enough with him to not begrudge Charlie putting a ball in the idjit’s brain. Which he did, in mid-chorus: Jerk, pop, blessed silence. “Sweet” indeed.
Fact is, Charlie knows himself either far more’n any of Bewelcome’s accepted options, or far less—different, anyroad. Knows well how the sort of man someone like Ben Wade might claim as his own wasn’t made for “honest” work…which all suits him just fine, thank you very much. With bells on.
So: April Ninth, and the Bewelcomers are out in droves celebrating the End of Hostilities, but “Ethan Rees” ain’t joinin’ in. To Charlie, Armistice Day—Surrender Day, more like—is a day of infamy. and always has been. Even now, with so many years gone by, he feels as though he’s spent more of his life At War than not—like his time soldiering was simply more worthwhile, important, genuine than anything which came before, or after. That boy he once was, what little he had—and lost—means nothing at all to him now; less than the meanest hair on Ben Wade’s lofty, Bible-crammed head.
Which is funny, considering how Ben doesn’t much care, either way—except maybe about the effect it has on Charlie, who’s far more apt to pick fights which end in whole saloons burning down today, even, than he usually is. “Stay out of trouble, ‘Ethan’,” he tells him, solemn-faced, with that undertone to his voice which brooks no real opposition…and thus Charlie does, regulating himself hard enough he barely does anything beyond smile, nod and wave as he makes his way down Main Street, like he’s runnin’ a damn gauntlet.
“A little somethin’ for the Reverend, Mister Rees—you don’t mind, now, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Tell him how good that homily was on Sunday, and invite him ‘round for dinner sometime, at his own convenience…you too, Ethan, ‘course.”
“’Course, sir—goes without sayin’. But I sure will.”
By the time he reaches “home”, he’s loaded like a donkey; slams down a can of milk with one hand, a still-steaming pie with the other, and snaps—
“We need to get the Hell out of here, boss, while we still can.”
Ben, who’s already sitting there with a thumb stuck deep in the Bible, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow—just leans forward a bit, sniffing. “Mmm, apple. Clarabelle’s?”
“Might’a had a little damn much of that girl’s pie already, you ask me. You’re gettin’ fat.”
Ben shoots him a sharpish look at this, but can’t really deny it, because his waistcoat is fitting a bit more snugly; self-satisfaction always hits him in the gut, something sleek little Charlie—who thinks of food as fuel, not recreation—will never bring himself to understand. But instead of chiding him over his lack of proper respect, Ben instead sits back again, and asks:
“This ain’t ‘cause of that party they’re throwin’, now, is it?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” Charlie replies, stiffly.
To which Ben just smiles, an expression caught halfway between affectionate amusement and genuine sympathy—and Charlie ain’t exactly sure which part of it hurts the more, only that something does, keep and sudden, in a way that makes him want to touch his own chest.
And: “No,” Ben says, mildly, “I don’t guess you do. But sit down with me a spell anyways, ‘E-’…Charlie. Cut yourself some of this pie, ‘fore it goes cold.”
Not an order, as such—yet Charlie does, without protest. Outside, someone starts letting off fireworks, and a concertina strikes up. Charlie forks out a mouthful of pie and sits there, chewing, as Ben marks out some passage he’s been studying on, before laying the Book back down. Saying, absently—
“You know, I’ve been a thief, an outlaw and a hired gun since I was younger’n you were when we first met, Charlie—and I know you were a lot younger’n you pretended, that’s for sure. Longer than I can easily reckon, anymore. So the War didn’t mean a damn thing to me but opportunity, though I’m sure it was a whole lot different for you. I saw some bad stuff, here and there; expect you saw worse. Tell me…what was it happened to all them Princes and Reeses and what-not, exactly?”
Charlie swallows, and makes himself shrug. “Don’t much matter. Whatever you think might’ve happened, you’d be just as likely right as wrong.”
Ben nods. “No, it probably don’t matter, all too much. But you joined up to kill some people, didn’t you? In specific. Am I right?” Charlie looks down, obliquely. “And did you? The ones you wanted to, I meant.”
“Some, yeah. One or two. And then…I guess I just forgot to keep on lookin’ for the rest of ‘em.”
“‘Cause it didn’t really matter anymore.”
“…yeah,”
Another nod, still smiling, softly. “And then you found out how you were damn good at killin’, but damn bad at takin’ orders. And after it all fell apart, you and your buddies took off on your own—“
“—yeah, and you saw what else went and happened, after that.” Another bite; then, a bit brighter: “Found you, though, ‘cause of it—didn’t I, boss?”
“That’s right, Charlie—same’s I found you. Fortunate confluence of events for both of us, wasn’t it? Almost enough to make a man believe in fate.”
So the evening passes, surprisingly pleasant, ‘til Charlie’s sleepy and replete, having found he’s somehow eaten most of that contentious pie. While Ben just keeps on checking through the Bible, searching out suitable quotes for the next homily: Jeremiah, 7-26 to 7-34, as War-like a passage as Charlie’s ever heard, ‘specially when mused on aloud in Ben Wade’s low, smooth, insinuating voice…
Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places; for the LORD hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath.
For the children of Judah have done evil in my sight, saith the LORD: they have set their abominations in the house which is called by my name, to pollute it.
And they have built the high places of Tophet, which is in the valley of the son of Hinnom, to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire; which I commanded them not, neither came it into my heart.
Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the valley of slaughter: for they shall bury in Tophet, till there be no place.
And the carcases of this people shall be meat for the fowls of the heaven, and for the beasts of the earth; and none shall fray them away.
Then will I cause to cease from the cities of Judah, and from the streets of Jerusalem, the voice of mirth, and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom, and the voice of the bride: for the land shall be desolate.
And: Maybe I never WAS too good at takin’ orders, Charlie thinks, head dipping in approval automatically, without him even knowing it. But then again, maybe I just needed t’find someone WORTH takin’ ‘em from.
“That’s what oughtta happen here, too,” Charlie says, licking the last of the pie from his fingers. “What will happen, sure ‘nough—seein’ they don’t even know to keep ‘emselves from bein’ fleeced by such as you and me.”
“Why, Charlie Prince—that’s somewhat harsh, even for you. Did you really never want yourself a real life at all, or near as makes no never-mind?”
“This is my life. With you. Wherever and whenever, doin’…whatever. That’s the only kind of life I want.”
“So if I was to say ‘stay’…we’d stay.”
“Yeah. Sure. But—you ain’t gonna say that, boss. Are ya?”
But: Ben doesn’t answer, just looks at him straight-on, long and level; no smile, this time. Nothing of the damn sort. No visible way out of it at all, not with a joke, or even with a plea…like Ben’s God himself, all of a sudden. Immune to prayers and invective alike. Aloof, all-powerful, unreachable…
(Oh, Christ Jesus. What did I go and get myself into, after all?)
Never mind. Don’t matter. I made MY choice.
…and that’s the single scariest thing about it.
*
As it turns out, though, it’s far easier to get Ben shed of Bewelcome than Charlie’d worried it might be; only takes one single piece of news, in fact, delivered pretty much like so—
“Lyla says Clarabelle’s missed her courses.”
“Oh? Too bad. Was at least a good month’s worth of money still left in this town…”
“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve fucked her so fast, then.”
Ben nods: “Maybe not. But we’re not all of us able to be quite so forbearing as yourself, ‘Ethan’.”
“…true enough.”
Four of the afternoon by the Pye family’s clock, “lent out” to good Reverend Beckford on account, ‘til Clarabelle herself gets carried back ‘cross the threshold to repossess it. And by twenty minutes after the house is grave-silent, empty as the meeting-house’s cash-box, with Bewelcome fading fast behind ‘em. They ride ‘til they hit the state line, then camp a spell near Unfortunate Butte (one-eighty miles shy of Contention, just south and east a bit from No Silver Here), so’s Charlie can dig beneath that Jericho tree where they buried their clothes and guns. Thirsty work, and it raises dust, too—which might be why he don’t notice the skinny would-be robber ‘til he’s right on top of them, rifle levelled at Ben’s head.
“Better throw over that chest you got there, mister, ‘less you’re fixing to meet your God just a little bit sooner’n you might’a…yeah, that’s good. Now keep them hands up, and stay right there while I jump down—“
“Son,” Ben says, without much rancor, “you’re goin’ about this all wrong. First robbery, or did we catch you just after you got your cherry popped? ‘Cause if I ever saw anything screamed ‘sloppy seconds’…”
The boy frowns. “Got a damn dirty mouth on you, for a preacher-man.”
“Well, there’d be a reason for that.” Raising his voice slightly: “Wouldn’t there?”
OH yeah.
“Boss,” Charlie calls back, throwing Ben his guns. The boy gets off one panicked shot, grazing Ben’s shoulder, but Ben doesn’t even pause—puts him down in the dirt with one to the wrist, another to the belly and one more to each knee, for good measure. Standing over him as he curls in on himself, yowling, and raising his gun once again to let the last of the sun glint off the crosses on its hilt, as the boy looks up, eyes streaming. And gasps:
“Hey, that’s the Hand of God! You…you’re Ben Wade! Right here in the middle of nowhere, Ben Goddamn Wade—“
So happy with himself for figurin’ it out, he never even hears Charlie comin’ up on the other side of him, soft and quick, his Schofield at the ready, at last. Saying—
“You’re Goddamned right, he is. So who’s that make me?”
(A second’s hesitation—must be the lack of beard. Then)
“Uh…Charlie Prince?”
Ben laughs merrilly at this, sounding more like himself than he has in months. To Charlie: “I do believe he’s heard of you.”
And: ”Damn right,” Charlie tells the idiot. Right before he blows whatever he must’ve been usin’ instead of brains out the back of his stupid head.
*
That’s not really how it all ends, though. Not quite.
*
Some years on, Charlie’s crossing the street in Bisbee when a voice hails him from behind: “Ethan! Ethan Rees!”
(The Hell?)
And before he can stop himself, he’s already turned to find Lyla Goddamn Ferriday, late of Bewelcome township, standing behind him with both hands on her hips—dressed all hat to skirt in black, as small, dark and as fierce as ever.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she tells him. “I know exactly who you are now, Charlie Prince…you and that boss of yours, Ben Wade, too.”
And: “Okay,” is the only thing he can think of to reply. “Uh…how’s your friend?”
“Clarabelle? You can tell your Mister Wade she bore herself a son; her kin’s got him, now. I heard they were raisin’ him up as a nephew, or some such.” As Charlie stares at her: “Means she died in childbirth, in case you were wonderin’.”
“Well,” says Charlie, to cover the fact that hasn’t been. Which she seems to know just by looking at him, anyways, given the angry way she shakes her head, eyes hot with unshead tears. Throwing back—
“That’s right. And you can tell him she was always my gal, too—not his. Never his. Same way you’re his boy, I suspect. You can tell him I hope he rots in Hell a good long time, for all the things he done.”
And if she was a man (or looked like to pull a weapon on him), Charlie’d shoot her right there in the street—but she ain’t and isn’t, so he don’t. Just tips his hat at her slightly, a stony imitation of Ben’s easy charm, before he walks away.
What with all the excitement later on that day, however, he plain forgets to ever mention anything about it to Ben at all—until everything’s over, that is, at least for him. Until it doesn’t matter anymore who knows what about what, exactly…
…or doesn’t.
THE END
