The Butcher and the Butterfly Page 8

  A sick feeling welled up in his gut and he barely got to the downstairs toilet before throwing up all of lasts nights cured ham and spuds. He hugged the Porcelain King, hoping that he wouldn’t start puking again. With four more retches and a spluttering of reddish sick the knots began to fade away. He staggered to his feet and leant upon the wash hand basin. Turning on the tap and letting the cold water pool in his closed hands, he looked at his reflection and hated the face starring back at him. Feeling the urge to puke again he splashed the water across his face, not once but five times. The water dripped from his nose and his mouth and all over the expensive shag pile under his feet. He cared little. The sickness was lifting now and his head was a lot clearer.

  He wiped his hands across his face, picked up his dark blue trousers and white shirt from the back of the chair that he had slept in the night before and dressed himself. He couldn’t stand it in this house anymore. It was full of too many memories, too many hurtful memories. Guilt was a silent killer, a killer that doesn’t get much credit. He had dreamed last night that the contract had failed upon his wife and instead of him being the main point on the signed agreement it had been him and the three brothers had come for him. Come for him and killed him.

  Everything around John felt cold and empty. Distant, other worldly. His house, his wife’s house, was that of strangers or a distant family member. The ornaments, the paintings, the china and the rich trivialities were all borrowed. Borrowed from her. He felt borrowed sometimes; lent out to someone who cared little for their new toy and would eventually throw it on the scrap pile and get a newer, shinier toy to play with.

  He opened and closed the front door of the giant mansion and the guilt, the nerves, the trepidation left him. He finished zipping up his fly and tucking in his shirt and he realised that this would probably be last time he left this house with a wife to his name. His wife. The bitch on his arm and the whore in his bed. No that was unfair. She was a good woman. She was no more a bitch than Susie was a whore. He was going to pay for what he was doing but hopefully his payment was years off. He glanced up to the top windows and to the one that had been his bedroom for so many years. He felt nothing for her. Felt no hate, no loss. No love All he felt was self-loathing and hatred towards his own wretched soul for doing what he was about to do. He knew though, that in time that the feelings would pass like a stubborn turd passes when given the opportunity.

  As he walked down the steps leading to the gravel track that led to the gateway a familiar voice rang out in his head.

  How could you John? How could you do this to me and the children? I gave you everything, this house, my love, your children and all you do in return is fuck around and have me killed

  John shrugged off the voice and continued walking down the path. The road to the station was dusty and barren. The houses were quiet and hardly a soul appeared to greet the Deputy. The message from his wife did not leave his mind. He had loved Ellen, once, long ago when he was a lad and she was a lass. But now, age had gotten the better of both of them, he yearning for younger more willing pussy and she with sagging tits a stuck up nose and a tight unwilling hole. His marriage with Ellen was a sham now and everyone knew it. But it shouldn’t end like it was going to end. But it would. What made it worse, for John that is not Ellen, is that he couldn’t simply wait for her to die of natural causes, oh no, by that time he would be as old as the hills and her Will would have no record of his name what so ever.

  No, if Cathy and John were to prosper and live a good life then Ellen must die and she must die sooner rather than later. His name was in the Will, that he knew for sure and so leaving it any later put his and Cathy’s plans on a knife edge. He wished it didn’t have to come to this, but he loved Cathy. Loved her so very much. He would rather lose his wife and children than Cathy and the Travellers Last.

  My children. My little babies.

  That would be his greatest loss, his children. All five of them would be sent away, to be brought up by Ellen’s sister. It had been written and in her Will and there was little John could do about it. Besides, he wasn’t much of a father. John booted a stone that lay in the road and watched it scuttle across it, kicking up little puffs of air as it went and finally coming to rest outside his place of work. It finished up next to a hoof of a horse that made up a trio of horses tied neatly in a row. The brothers were on time. His wife’s time had run out.

  2

  The three horses were roped to the banister atop the boardwalk that surrounded the building, the sign of which marked it as the Court House. All the windows were barred and apart from the smoke coming from the chimney the building looked dead. The court house had space for four small offices used mainly for filling and junk, one large office which had the desks of the Deputy and the Sheriff in and six tight cells. It was a shabby building in a shabby town but none the less it was the home of the law and was to be respected.

  The sand wrapped around Johns shoes as he stood outside his place of work and he stared long and hard at the three horses parked outside. They were big beasts, strong, muscular, with eyes as dark as coals. They cared little for him, brushing away the flies with their tails. The guilt began to rise in his gut again.

  John spat out a huge wad of phlegm onto the dusty floor. His shirt became wet with sweat and his pants hung low in the humidity. It felt as though he had crapped himself. Three mules, three men and one goal, one plan, one simple plan; hard to fuck up. They were here to kill his wife. Simple. Rob the place and then kill his wife. So why my avid reader did John call upon these three men that ride horses fit for Death himself? Let me answer that; because these three men are killers. Long, tall and ugly killers. That is their lot in life. They go from place to place, taking what they want and caring little for the people they take it from. They are the lowest of the lows, the dirtiest of the dirtiest and would kill their own mother – and have by the by – for a chance to get at some gold. The Quint brothers are the best boys for the job, but be warned my avid reader for the brothers can turn quicker than a swirling bullet and they are not to be trusted. If you want details on how they look or how they strut then you will only have to imagine for a little while longer.

  The Deputy stumbled up the small set of steps leading up to the main door of the jail house. He was oblivious to all around him. His gut was on fire. He couldn’t believe that they had made their presence so obvious, leaving their horses tethered so out in the open. Johns anger rose but he knew he had to control it. Opening the main door to the building he stepped into the shade and into the beginning of the rest of his life.

  He looked upon them like he would any hardened criminal.

  The eldest brother, Wilson, sat at John’s old and untidy desk; his right boot laying heavily on its dulled surface. Wilson’s hair was long, black, as with all the brothers and it was tied back with a single knot of some unclean material. His face was long, dangerously serious, skin the tan colour of the desert and covered in scars of past encounters. His mouth was rigid, slight and full of wit, hate and malevolence. He had eyes of green fury. He wore the usual attire of a man of the desert; long dark leather jacket, dark blue jeans and a frayed white shirt. Around his waist he carried; slung low like the slinger he was, an old and battered hand made six shooter. The weapon had seen better days but not a better owner. Sat in the chair and staring straight at John, Wilson showed no emotion for he had lost it a long time ago and would never get it back.

  The second eldest brother (if only for but sixty minutes) was Boyd and he was stood next to the chair like the doting wife in all those old photos John had seen. He too had long black hair, but his was tied back with two knots instead of one. He stood shorter than John, an even six foot. His face, as with Wilsons, was hard, rugged and emotionless. His deep blue eyes, like lakes of glass; shone in the dim light. He was the most handsome of the trio, less tanned than the other two and not as tatty looking. His leather jacket, frayed at the bottom edges as it dragged along the floor, concealed his father�
�s double barrelled shot gun. Again with a white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans he looked the part. His face, too, was expressionless and his eyes unblinking. Never play cards with Boyd Quint.

  The third brother and the youngest of the three, Bane, was positioned opposite his twin brother and to the right of Wilson. He was the spit of Boyd and in their childhood had been mistaken many a many time. The only real aspect that pulled them apart where his brown eyes, dull like lifeless corpses. Recently, a scuffle had broken out in some far off pub and Bane had been left with a deep scar running from the tip of his jaw, across his right cheek, over his right eye and finally finishing in a lump on his forehead. The scar had made him ugly and far meaner. Banes long black hair was tied back with – yeah you guessed it – three knots and it shone in the sunlight. He wore a shorter leather jacket than his older brothers and his clothes were tatty beyond age. He carried a rusty six shooter but his real talent was slung across his back and tied ‘quick release’ to his shoulders. Banes rifle, a Jenkinson ‘Pip the Ace’ could find a target at well over eight hundred yards and Bane was a deadly shot. Deadly.

  So there they are in all their glory. Three brothers all born in the same day. Wilson the eldest and leader with the twins; Boyd and Bane following like a true brother should. They are men whom care for little else but themselves and the gains that they can make from the misery of others. If you take but one bit of advice from this old story teller be it this: take a wide berth from the men, about a thousand miles should do it.

  John swallowed hard. He knew that one wrong look, one misplaced gesture would end in his life. He had to be careful.

  Wilson spoke first his voice gruff, low and devilish. ‘I hope we didn’t surprise you, John? But I thought a mission of this importance would require us to be a little... shall we say; prudent?’ Wilson’s eyes lit up and his mouth became a pink slit.

  John remained silent, awestruck for the moment.

  ‘What he means is,’ now it was the turn of Boyd to speak; his voice was coarse, often monotone, ‘that we arrive in your sweet little town early and we is seen by many riding round all day and causing a fuss, so when what is going to happen happens we can takes the blame.’

  John nodded, his eyes not leaving the open gaze of Wilson but being aware of all the little movements the other two brothers make. The Deputy moved toward the desk and went to sit on the spare chair opposite Wilson.

  ‘Who said you could sit?’ Wilson asked looking concerned. His tone of voice hadn’t changed, it very rarely did and John quickly lifted himself back up. Sweat formed upon his brow. Both Boyd and Bane chuckled under their breath.

  Wilson leant forward, ‘You wary of me, aint cha Dep’ty?’

  John remained hunched over, holding onto the arms of the chair, his backside propped up facing the doorway. He knew the question to be a trick. If he answered positively then that would imply that Wilson was a cold hearted thug who cared little for anything or anyone else (a fact that was blatantly obvious). However if he were to answer negatively then that would show that John wasn’t afraid of death itself in all its glory and so a man that shows no fear needs to be put in his place. The trickle of sweet on his brown soon became a river and his back and pants became sodden. He didn’t like how the day was starting.

  ‘Always dodging the tricky ones aint ya, John? Well it’s a good job I don’t give a pigs titty if ya are or if ya aint! All I cares about is how much and at what time. Anything else can go fuck itself. Just dust and piss as my Dad always said.’ Wilson lowered his right foot to the floor and leant forward.

  ‘Now sit the fuck down, you look like a dumb cunt!’

  3

  Over the next hour John and Wilson discussed the when, the where’s and the how’s and then finally how much. It was a discussion that no God fearing ears should have to listen. Before their meeting was over John voiced his concerns about Stephen.

  ‘We have a visitor in town. Stephen. He claims to be Watchman from Ritash.’

  ‘Oh, aye. This far out? You sure?’ Wilson looked to his brothers and leant back in the chair. It creaked with age.

  John shook his head. ‘Not sure. I have no reason to doubt him, but then I have no reason to believe him. In these wretched days anyone can pose as anything,’

  ‘So what is it to us?’ Boyd asked and John turned to face him.

  ‘Cathy and I are concerned.’ John took in a breath. It was hellishly hot in his office today.

  4

  Bane, Boyd and Wilson looked at one another. Looked at each other’s expressions and knew what each were thinking. They all began to smile. A Watchman meant a challenge and a good kill. A Watchman carried guns of grace and honour; guns that could shoot straight and kill quicker. Wilson stood slowly from the chair and strutted across the room. John did not follow him but instead listened to the dusty footfalls as the echoed on the hardwood floor. Finally they came to rest behind him. Wilson leant over and whispered into John’s ear.

  ‘If he is a Watchman, then he will be dealt with. Just like the all the others.’

  5

  The three brothers left the Court House in silence and together they untied their dark horses from the hitching rail and began to walk them toward the water trough in the centre of town. Rockfall was coming to life. Boyd decided to ask the question he knew his twin brother never would.

  ‘Do you think John is right?’

  Wilson didn’t answer straight away, he was too busy watching the locals run back into the shade and the comfort of their homes. They would walk out from the doors of shops, unaware of what was coming toward them and then on seeing it their mouths would open and their eyes would bulge. How Wilson enjoyed seeing their discomfort.

  ‘I doubt it very much. He’s probably a man who walks the walk and talks the talk but when it comes down to crunch time he won’t be worth a fart in the breeze. He would run a fuckin mile! Why the fuck would a Watchman come all the way out here?’

  As the three brothers arrived at the trough the man already there, Pete Grinde the baker, quickly ushered his mule to finish its watering and then hurried off. His next stop not the bakery it should have but the Sheriffs house. Rockfall was a ghost town and the three brothers watered their horses with prying eyes gazing upon them from behind twitching curtains.

  Wilson looked to his right, along the line of stores set back against the boardwalk. They looked in worse repair than they had on their last venture into this rotten dump.

  ‘How long has it been? Two years, three. When was it we robbed old Frans store?’

  Bane was silent allowing his brother to answer. ‘Three, I think. Not too sure anymore, times hard to read now a days.’ Boyd turned to Wilson, ‘Who is to do what, brother?’

  The eldest brother took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. The air here was dusty, like that of the desert but Rockfall had a stench about it that Wilson cared little for. He untied the knot holding his hair back, placed his hands in the water trough and wetted his long black hair. It shone in the bright sunlight like oil. He combed through it with his hands and the carefully tied it back. With is hair slicked back Wilson looked far more focused.

  ‘Bane and I shall go to the house and see to the wife and we shall do it as the Deputy requests. Boyd, you shall remain in town and get us the provisions we need. Grab as much as you can. Two more horses. Bread, meat, fish and water. Make sure the horses are strong. We is going to be getting a lot of gold.’

  Boyd spat. He didn’t like it. He was second brother and so should join the eldest on the mission.

  ‘Why should I go to the stores? Send Bane. Why do I have to be the bitch?’

  Wilson turned his gaze to Boyd; his eyes a fire. ‘Coz I fuckin said so, Boyd! Don’t go and be making a mistake like Ralph made. I don’t want to shoot yer fuckin mouth off!’

  Boyd looked to the floor and then into the eyes of his brother. There was death in those eyes. Murderous intent with every blink. Boyd knew that he was strong, tougher than
old boots but he was no match for his eldest brother.

  Sorry brother.’

  Wilson kicked at the dusty ground sending stones flying across the road. All the while Bane stood silently watching what was going on.

  ‘So ya fuckin should be.’ Wilson placed his right arm on Boyd’s left shoulder. ‘I trust you with any task I set, but getting the grub aint a task for old silent tongue here, is it? He is best for the main job, you know that.’ They both looked at Bane and nodded in agreement of Banes wicked ways.

  A few moments past and the brothers stood there, together as one. How they enjoyed their unity. It bound them together and made them stronger. As individuals they were hard men. But together they became so much more.

  Wilson felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Bane gazing off to the west and toward an oncoming figure walking along the boardwalk. The silent brother motioned Wilson to look quickly in that direction. The fat man walking toward could be no one but the Sheriff and Wilson had been looking forward to this meeting for a few days now. The Sheriff wobbled from side to side as he forced his huge frame to move quicker. Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the Sheriff and gestured to his brothers to keep their hands well out in the open.

  ‘Keep your hands where the Sheriff can see em brothers. We don’t want to upset the local law man, now, do we?’

  The bravery of the Sheriff always came as a surprise to Wilson and even now, when the two of them had met on so many occasions, the Sheriffs straight back, unwavering hand and gaze impressed the elder Quint brother.

  ‘What in the Lords name are you doing here, Wilson Quint? And I don’t want any of yer saucy remarks neither!’ The Sheriff waved his fat hand at Wilson and then at his two younger brothers. He came to a halt in front of them but still under the cover of the boardwalk, a good ten meters away.