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Fools fold their hands And consume their own flesh. Better is a handful with quiet Than two handfuls with toil And a chasing after the wind. Ecclesiastes, 4-5, 4-6.
"It’s a fairly simple scam, Charlie," Ben Wade tells him, that last night in Tlaquepaque. "A little Bible quotation, some minor barn-raisin’ for charity, all cut with a substantial smidgen of charm—could do it in my sleep, but I can’t really do it alone; not anymore. Certainly not when the prospective take’s on this particular order of size." His voice dropping further as he leans forward, breath stirring at the hot cup of Charlie Prince’s ear like some well-honeyed silver spoon: "And of all these fools we been runnin’ with this last year or so, you’re still the only one I’d ever trust to help me out on something this important." A beat. "‘Course, if you think you got somethin’ better to do with your newfound, uh…free time…" But Charlie don’t, obviously. And that’s how it all starts. *** And: "Well, I ain’t gonna shave my beard," Charlie repeats, contrary-soundin’ even to himself, some hours later. "You’ll have to, Charlie. Can’t have you lookin’ like you, after all—it ain’t safe." "Uh huh, okay. ’Cept for nobody knows what I look like, that is." "Oh, I actually think you’ve made damn good and sure they do in justabout every town we’ve ever hit, in point of fact." "You’re Ben Wade, though. Think they ain’t likely to notice that?" "You’d be surprised. Take off the hat, put away the Hand of God, swap my neckerchief for a collar—I think gentle Reverend Ben’ll seem pretty damn far away from that dreadful scoundrel Ben Wade, in most parishoners’ eyes." "But they write dime novels on you. You’re known." "You’re in those too, y’know." "…I am?" Much as he’s ill-inclined, therefore, he lathers up extra-heavy all the same, and starts in to scrapin’—but it’s been so damn long, the razor slips free, sharp edge out, on only his second try. Before he even knows what’s what he’s already cut himself, shallow and painful, along the flat of one cheek; hisses like a cat at the sting, and hears Ben tsk—tongue between teeth, all schoolmarmish, like he’s blotted his damn copybook again—from behind one shoulder. "My God, Charlie—keep on like that, you’ll end up making a right ol’ mess. Let me." Charlie sees himself blush deep in the mirror, bright red to his hairline. Snaps: "I can do it my ownself!" "Don’t be foolish, Charlie Prince. Now, just sit, and stay." And after, staring at that goddamn stripling’s face he hasn’t seen for seven years or more, so shorn and goggly-eyed and looking maybe all of eighteen…Charlie sees his lips thin and crimp, stupefied by the spectacle, only to grow angrier yet once he realizes he may need to bite his own tongue (hard enough to hurt) in order to keep his betrayin’ jaw from trembling outright. Ben just smiles, however—and chucks him slightly under the chin, far too fast for Charlie to shy away in time from such indignity. Saying, cheerfully, as he does it: "There, now: You’re somebody else. Ain’t that a neat trick?" Charlie just shakes his head, grimly; doesn’t trust himself to reply. Thinking—
But I don’t WANT to be somebody else, and damn sure not THIS feller. I want to be ME.
Because: He’s worked hard enough for it, hasn’t he, since the War ended, and Lincoln’s murderous "peace" first set him on his way to Ben Wade’s side; before and during, same as ever after. Lied, stole and burnt, robbed stages and trains, killed men by the score—and it’s not like that last part was anything he wouldn’t’ve done anyhow, given the opportunity, but that’s hardly the subject at hand. For Charlie surely does enjoy his favorite chosen form of recreation, much as most next men do. Not that any of it would mean even the slightest damn, though, if he weren’t carrying it all out for the boss, with the boss…riding into battle at every fresh opportunity, given and ungiven alike, on Ben goddamn Wade’s express say-so. If he weren’t the most wanted man in Arizona’s right hand, his best gun, kept constantly cocked and loaded for bear—not to mention more’n well-ready to hammer down on any fool might dare dream to challenge him for that exact same privilege. "Think I’ll be William Beckford, from now on," Ben tells him, musingly, as he checks his already preacher-black jacket’s cuffs in the newly-free vanity mirror. "What name strikes you best for easy pseudonymity, Charlie?" Charlie scowls at himself just one more time, then turns away with a quick twist, determined not to torment himself overmuch (so long as he can possibly help it). And: "Ethan Rees’ll probably do me fine," he replies, shrugging. "Same as my second cousin, his Daddy, and his Daddy before." "Never knew you had any one of the above, I must admit," says Ben "And what did they do, anyhow, the family Prince—back before Davis’s secessionist leanings broke out fully, that is?" "Not much of much, most of ‘em—but it ain’t like that matters now, given they’re all of ‘em dead." Now it’s Ben’s turn to shrug, a move he injects with at least some small portion of seeming sympathy, along with all the physical style he can muster—masterful economy, effortless command such that it still makes Charlie fair shiver to see, even now he’s been this close to it almost every other minute of his life, for more days put together than he would care to have to count. Turning to fix Charlie’s eyes with his as he does so, and quoting, in that amused rumble of his— "Vanity of vanities, saieth the Teacher…for what doth a people gain from all at which they toil under the sun?"
A generation goes, and a generation comes, Yet the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down, Round and around goeth the wind… All streams run back to the sea once more, Yet the sea is never full.
"Ecclesiastes, 1-2, 1-7, Charlie."
Oh, no damn doubt.
But: "Amen to that, boss," is all Charlie has to say, in audible response. Then trails him outside, head down to mask this dreadful new face of his from any curious passers-by, and puts his heels to his own horse in turn once Ben’s safely mounted up… …quick (as ever) to follow—blindly—after. *** The “town” they’re going to—Bewelcome, New Mexico—turns out to be a loose clump of camps with aspirations of the sort Charlie’d normally ride through at top speed, not looking ‘round while he does, then never think of again, after. It’s only got two real buildings (a general store and a church, surprise surprise); what streets as they have are full of yokels, dust and an uncommon amount of truly bad Jesus loves me, Power in the blood-type caterwaul disguised as legitimate song. Reminds him of that one shit-stain nearby township his kin once dreamed on raising enough stock to eventually move to, the which fact alone is enough to make Charlie hate each and every part of it on sight. These folks are the kind who’d probably call ‘emselves “poor but honest”—more poor than honest, by Charlie’s reckoning. Starving rats running a losing race, constantly at the mercy of larger forces, waiting in line to get ground into the dirt…like clockwork, or gravity. No point mourning over any of it, though; he knows full well how this particular game usually turns out, even if they don’t (as yet). “This place really is the asshole of the world,” Charlie mutters, keeping his voice low and his mouth immobile, as he does. To which Ben replies, idly—bestowing a suitably beatific smile on every single grinnin’ fool who passes, at the same damn time— “Oh, come now, ‘Ethan’. I’m sure you’ll learn to love it…for long as we have to stay to work the trick right through to it conclusion, at least.” “And how long’s that gonna be?” “Eight weeks at the most, a month at the very least; patience is a virtue, you’ll do well to remember. Now stop your sulkin’, and find us a place to get hitched up.” These marks have been waiting on some educated body like “good” Reverend Beckford for quite a span, apparently—long enough to billet him in the nicest house in town, at any rate, while he organizes the rest of ‘em to pony up their scam-funds in the most efficient manner possible. Actually, turns out the mayor’s been corresponding with Ben for nigh on five months now, which frankly amazes Charlie; the scheme they’ve cooked up “together”—one-tenth divine/mayoral inspiration, nine-tenths patented Ben Wade steerage from behind—is bent on raising money for a (conveniently nonexistent) missionary campaign to convert the Apache, thus freein’ up their land for “civilized” development…ridiculous idea at best, but the Bewelcomers all eat it up like cake, especially since it’s delivered wrapped in Ben’s usual honeyed load of Bible-babble. Charlie mainly skips right over the mechanics, though—always easier by far for him to concentrate on watching Ben’s back, rather than pay close attention to whatever web of lies he might happen to be weavin’. Besides which, it ain’t as though they can spend any of the money they’re gathering until they’re safely gone—and in Charlie’s view, money you can’t spend is only slightly less useless than a gun you can’t shoot. So he spends most of the next month walking around all yokelized, tryin’ his best to ignore how crazy it makes him: Not being taken seriously anymore, just on his own mere presence; not being able to give orders and know they’ll be obeyed instantly, without question—because he speaks for Ben, and Ben Wade trumps every damn thing. Not being the dangerous, terrifying thing he’s struggled so hard to make of himself, while simultaneously having to play pretend he could ever really go back to what he once was, before the War… …like he even really remembers what that was, anyhow, long’s it’s been since. What Charlie hates most is how their eyes skip over him, like he’s just somehow meant to be there, part of the normal Bewelcome run of things. Or worse—how, when they see him comin’, they don’t any of ‘em even know enough to run the other way, fast and hard; just smile and start over for him in turn, all friendly. “Damn dumbshit farmers,” Ben overhears him muttering to himself, as he lays out the texts for the latest Meeting-hall do. “Lookin’ at me like I’m one of their own, like I ain’t killed near a hundred men already…” “That’s overstating the case just a tad, ain’t it, Charlie?” Charlie pooches out his lip, mutinous. Allowing, at last: “Maybe. I sure wasn’t countin’.” From this angle, he can hear the grin in Ben’s voice, more than see it. “Look, it won’t be for much longer, I reckon: So just fake it, play pretend. I know you can do that—seen you do it before, more’n enough times.” “Not for days, you ain’t. Not for eight goddamn weeks.” Ben turns to look at him then, long and level, like he’s noticing something about him for the very first time. Observing— “You truly do despise simple people, don’t you, Charlie? Why is that, I wonder?” Charlie shrugs. “Just don’t think too much on ‘em, that’s all.” “I’m sure they’d be main happy to keep it that way, too, they only knew you like I do.” Charlie grins at that, with genuine amusement, wide and mean: “Yeah, probably.” A pause. “Hell…they should be.” And the thought does cheer him up a bit—for a while, at least. ‘Til the next friendly face comes grinnin’ towards him, right about: Him with his itchy palms, his sweaty back-small, his store-bought nobody’s clothes, stranded in the middle of a herd of human cattle who all assume he wears their exact same brand. Charlie Prince, trapped amongst fools without his finery, his beard, his own damn name to answer to… Without even his goddamn guns. *** Happens like Spring, everywhere they go, from Mexico to Texas: Stay there long enough, people start parading their daughters by for Ben—or Reverend Will, more like—to gawk at. And oh, but Ben does love this process, much like a schoolboy loves his pie; due tribute offered up daily for him to luxuriate in, amused and watchful as some big cat, fair purring with the so-damn-fitting right-ness of it all. Just one more comfort to enjoy, in ways Charlie might find frankly ridiculous—weak, silly, contemptible—were he watching them played out by anybody else. But: If there’s anything Ben Wade ain’t, it’s weak…not to mention how it’d take a sight more than some passing sashay of corn-pone country pussy to ever render him so, even if Charlie wasn’t already in place to ward off all other potential threats to the boss’s supremacy. This time ‘round, the front-runner’s an overblown bloom of a gal named Clarabelle Pye who comes joined at the hip with her bosom pal, Lyla Ferriday—dark where Clarabelle’s fair, plank-skinny where she’s dewy-buxom, sharp and hard where Clarabelle’s all giggly and giving. The first time they pop up—arm in arm—is after a particularly rousing sermon Ben gives on the Slaughter of the Idolators (Ezekiel, 9-1 to 9-11) to cover for Clarabelle’s daddy, Bewelcome’s more usual preacher, who’s down sick with the food-poisoning, or some-such:
Pass through the city after him, and kill; your eye shall not spare, and you shall show no pity…Defile the house, and fill the courts with the slain. Go!
Not exactly the sort’a thing to fill most young girls’ hearts with thoughts of marital bliss, from what Charlie can gather—but then again, what little Charlie really knows about the state of matrimony would probably fit pretty good inside just one of his holsters, with plenty of space left over for extra bullets. It ain’t a thing he’s given much thought to, or ever plans to. So here comes Clarabelle, blushing and stammering, while Lyla hangs silent on her arm. Exclaiming, to Charlie: “That was…so inspiring, Mister Rees! Wasn’t it, Lyla? The Reverend…” Charlie shrugs. “Reverend Beckford’s—not like other men.” “He’s sure not!” Clarabelle agrees, nodding like her head’s tryin’ to work itself free—then falls dead silent as Ben swans over, strutting like he’s still got a gun on his hip, to introduce himself. While Charlie watches the way Lyla scowls to see Clarabelle’s mouth hang open, and gets a brief yet familiar stab at the sight—‘cause damn if it ain’t like catching sight of himself in some whorehouse mirror, noticing Ben notice some gal with green eyes…or brown, or blue, or whatever the Hell Ben Wade might think himself in the mood for, that particular evening. Knowing he’ll just have to amuse himself awhile, whether he wants to or not—and make sure to watch the boss’s back for him, too, as he does so. He can’t ever quite make out what color Clarabelle’s eyes are, in the end, though Lyla’s stay flat and black as Apache Joe’s own, no matter how often proximity forces him to stare into them. So they end up sitting next to each other in church each day, equally uncomfortable, while Clarabelle and Ben flirt shamelessly in the next pew across—Lyla all stiff and sallow under her poky bonnet, staring fixedly, while Charlie mainly studies the floor. The both of ‘em trying to touch as seldom as humanly possible. “I think she likes you,” Ben tells him. “I mean, Clarabelle’s folks’re already talkin’ up how they might have to plan a double wedding…” “Yeah? Well, they might be jumpin’ the gun just a bit with that, ‘cause I think she really don’t. Don’t like anyone too damn much at all, that one, far as I can tell—‘sides from her friend, that is. And maybe Jesus Christ.” “So you’re made for each other, then.” Charlie bites his lip, and sees Ben grin. “Aw, you underestimate your own attractions, ‘Ethan’. Try taking her out a time or two, perhaps when Clarabelle and I are out and about—use us as cover, or vice versa. Might be sort’ve nice for you to kiss a woman without having to pay her for it afterwards, for once.” And: Oh, uh huh, Charlie thinks. ’Cause you know how I’ve been worryin’ over that, obviously—been fair kept up nights, worn to a thin white rope. And you’re just always thinkin’ of me, ain’t you, boss? My welfare, how best to keep me happy… (Yeah, right.) It’s around then, however, that Charlie realizes what everyone else (including Ben, and possibly even Lyla) seems to have missed entirely—that Lyla’s actually in love with Clarabelle, genuinely flat-out queer for her in some flowery girlish way he ain’t really encountered close-up, but always suspected probably existed. ‘Cause it’s not like Charlie’s never run into anything similar before, what with spending time in the army; before that, too. And after. The real Ethan Rees, for example, who used to stake out his Daddy’s swimming hole every summer and challenge anybody showed up past a certain time of day to wrestle with him, naked. Or that offputtingly neat-spoken feller ran the general store in Gila, who agreed to sell Charlie his white leather jacket for half-price, ‘long as Charlie promised to come back for a slightly more intimate “chat” after the place was officially closed. Which Charlie eventually did, seein’ how he already had to linger ‘round town ‘til Ben and the others showed up for their usual pre-stagecoach robbery planning session, anyhow… But none of that’s hardly the point, though it does make him wonder what in the Hell she can possibly want with him, given: An excuse to keep close enough to see what Clarabelle’s getting’ herself into, probably, if nothin’ else. All of which comes to a head on the night they follow “Reverend Will” and Clarabelle out into Bewelcome’s tiny graveyard, only to see ‘em stretch out under the stars on a blanket Clarabelle’s own mother provided with a wink and a nudge, earlier that same evening—for since everyone knows how Clarabelle’s poised to become the next Mrs Beckford, why not turn a blind eye if she and he want to act like they’re married a month (or even two) before the full shindig goes through? Like cows in a field or dogs in an alley, it’s only natural. As Ben slides his hand up under Clarabelle’s skirt, Lyla freezes—then turns to Charlie with a scary look in her eye, seizes his hand, and tries to make it do the same: Past her goose-bumped thigh to the open leg of her drawers, then straight on into tangled hair and tight, wet heat—the whole pulsing mess of her laid bare, sudden-shocking, like some dead dog in the road. Charlie rips his slimy fingers back like he’s been burnt, but she don’t aim to let him go so easy. “He’s gonna ruin her,” she says, “so you got to ruin me too, Ethan, don’t you see? You just got to.” Charlie: “What? No, I don’t. You got to do every damn thing she does, that it?” That scowl again, deeper than ever, lip trembling on the edge of what might be a sob, a snarl, a scream. Pointing out— “You do everything he does, though…the Reverend. Everything he tells you to, and some things he don’t—things you just think he wants. If he said ‘jump’, cliff-side, you’d be halfway down ‘fore you even thought to worry ‘bout dyin’.” “He’s my boss, gal, Goddamnit. It’s…” A pause. Then, lamely: “…it’s just…different.” She shakes her head, sinking down and hauling him with her, stronger than some tiny little might-be-halfbreed girl has a right to be, under any circumstances. Saying, firmly, as she does so: “No. It ain’t.”He can’t quite carry through, though, not in the end—pulls out at the very height of the act and spills his seed like Onan, telling her how she’ll thank him for it; ignores her when she spits right in his face like some short-changed Mexicali whore and hisses that she won’t, ‘cause long as her folks think she’s still a virgin, they’ll never stop tryin’ to marry her off…away from Bewelcome, from Clarabelle. So if it ain’t him, it’ll have to be someone, anyone, and right damn quick, too…Right damn quick, goin’ by the noise sweet Clarabelle’s makin’, face-down in the dirt just over that hill. But it’s hardly Charlie Prince’s business how Lyla’s been fool enough to rope herself at the heart-strings with some Scripture-drunk slut can’t keep her skirts down, after all—not even Ethan Rees’s, come to that. So he up and leaves her there, crying to herself with her face in her hands, rendered plainer than ever by grief—and later, as the moon’s just begun to dip, Charlie strips himself off hard and fast with the fingers of one hand stuffed far enough to hurt down his throat, to keep himself quiet while he does so. Thinking far less about Lyla’s desperate heat than of those noises Ben Wade pulled from Clarabelle, lodged fast between her legs. He doesn’t sleep the whole rest of that night and rises up cranky, wishing with all his considerable might that the first person he meets on the road will be somebody he could get away with shootin’. *** 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— “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