Horrible Harvest

I am Major Galt’s assassin.

It was what come to mind as I stared at him slumped forward, still set on his fat ass, too round to fall all they way forward.

The boy, now all the way dead, was in a folded heap next to him. I owned his last breath, too, and I felt it in my throat, choaking me.

The other boy pushed past me, pert near knocking me to the floor. I didn’t make no attempt to stop him. I didn’t even follow after him. I just stared at the two bodies. The one dead like lady Barker, dead for no good reason. The other dead by intent. Dead suited him just fine.

A blast from a stick of dynamite somewheres in Galtville shook the demon hut and rattled me to a state of complete awares. I held tight to the pepperbox, and turnt to see a fella stumble inside the door of the hut, his head covered in blood. He give me a pleading look before he tumbled face first to the floor.

I stuffed the pistol into my britches, and shuffled backwards until I was up against wall. A gust of wind drew my attention down, and I seen a hole big enough to crawl through, so through it I went. On the other side, I run like the Devil. Straight into the brush. Tree limbs slapped me about from shin to forehead as I pushed my way through a tangle of woods that seemed determined as hell to grab holt of me.

I stopped when I heard a gunshot and give the forest a quick scan. Gunsmoke. I know’d right off it was Charles. I stooped over and skulked toward him. The mass of trees thinned, and I found a clearing. There. On the floor of the forest. The other dead-eyed boy. Blood and mucus poured from a whole at his armpit. He breathing come out hard. I could see the tiny bit of muscle in his chest strain as he pushed air past his yellowed teeth. The noise that come out of him was the same I’ve made many a time after getting punched in the stomach. “Fuh-wah, Fuh-wah.”

The sound of Charles having a terrible cry directed my attention away from the dying boy. My older brother was set back against a tree. His knees was pulled to his body, and he held himself in a hug at the legs, rocking back and forth. The gun rested in the grass at his feet.

He looked up at me. I ain’t never seen eyes so wet. I got an ache for him. For the boy. For the whole world entire.

I spotted the other gun leaning against a tree arm’s length away, and I snatched it up. It was left to me, and I was mad as hell all over again. The ache I had turned to rage. The little runt got himself shot. I pitied him so much I hated him for it.

I placed the barrel to the dead-eyed boy’s forehead and waited. I wanted him to give me permission, to turn his dead-eyes bright and show me he understood what I had to do. I wanted to be forgiven for it, but such a thing didn’t come. He was scared. That’s all I felt. His fear. I didn’t want none of it, but I didn’t have no choice. I pulled the trigger.

I am the dead-eyed boy’s assassin.