Rail Spiked Tea

“One or two?” Jack lifted his little tin teapot from the fire and filled two mugs. The steam from the tea blended into the night mist that covered the floor of the graveyard. It had been 3 hours since Jack started digging. He counted four graves in total, taking him an hour to dig up a grave and he could save an hour if he really pushed.

Jack figured it was time for a much-deserved tea break.

“Two, please”

Jack pinched two sugar cubes between his fingers, careful not to disturb the row of neatly packed cubes in his tiny tin box, and dropped them into the mug. The sugar cubes bobbed up and down, then bubbled and browned, gurgling and slowly drowning in the hot water. A hand reached out the grave and Jack placed the tin mug between the man’s rotting, bony palms.

The tombstone read “Bodnar “Bo” Smith ‘May God forgive his sins and let him be born again’ 1880-1920”. Bo propped himself up in his dug-up grave and rested his head against the tombstone.

“Thank you” Bo gripped the mug and it looked as if he were holding smoke. Jack wasn’t sure if it was the hot tea or the tin mug that warmed the steam off Bo’s cold hands. He wasn’t all bones yet. The maggots and worms had not got their fill and there was still a thin layer of stretched-out flesh left for second and third helpings. Bo’s cheeks sucked into his face and pressed tightly against his teeth. He was a hollow, cold grayish man. His hair was blonde and thin and had grown long, covering his brow and parting to the sides of eyes that sank deep into their sockets. The white shirt Bo wore was still in good shape except for the few patches that bugs ate at and some dirt stains and shards of wood from the broken coffin. He was buried with his lucky leather suspenders and a forgettable pair of dark navy trousers. Bo loved his suspenders though and demanded when he died, he be buried in them, ‘Leather doesn’t decompose!’.

Not the sight, nor the sour smell of Bobby’s rotting corpse and decade-old breath bothered Jack. He had been robbing graves since he was a teenager and seen all manner of ghosts, ghouls, and jinns.

“What sorry excuse brings you here boy? Too lazy to make a livin’? Too dumb to hold a job?” Bo was warming up to Jack awfully quick.

“Dead father. Hysteric mother. No home to go to.” Jack didn’t bother to look up. He stared straight ahead into the small fire next to the open grave.

Grave Robbing was a lonely job, and if Jack had any friends they would have described him as a man of few words. The years of digging built his body strong, his forearms as thick as tree trunks and his grip matching the roots of ancient trees that grew deep into the earth.

He was a man on a particular mission, looking for very peculiar people.

It was January 14th, 1910, Jack’s 10th birthday, that he watched his father gunned down. Jackson “Jackson Sr.” Bacal worked for the Southern Illinois and Missouri Bridge Company and once a year sat his son on his lap in the train conductor's seat. It was an honest living and fair birthday gift for a boy Jack’s age. Jack remembered on his 9th birthday his father gifted him the first rail spike used on the railway he would be running. And on his 10th birthday, he promised he would take Jack along for a ride on the rails.

Jack lived for those memories, and on his 10th Birthday, Jackson Sr. died for it.

Jack was too young for heroics at the time of the train robbery. 6 grown men fitted in red bandanas and long duster jackets that smelled of saloon whiskey, sweat, and Missouri dirt boarded the train. He had the misfortune of meeting two of them.

The Dalton Gang, Jack would later learn their names in the paper, spun a story of railroad companies as the enemy of the common folk – or rail robbing companies as they called them – whose only purpose was to starve poor farmers and steal their land. They justified their thieving and murdering as a fight against the political machine. It wasn’t until 1909 that the Dalton Gang rode their way to Missouri. ‘Easy pickin’ on the Missouri trains’ they said. There was a pretty penny to be made in the south and the Dalton’s were more than happy to strap dynamite to rails and safes to steal from the rich.

Jack remembered his father wasn’t bothered by 2 men that burst into the conductor's car. Dead or Alive, they were looking for a buck.

The wanted posters around town called for their capture:

William ‘Bill’ Dalton and Robert ‘Bobby’ Bogar of the Dalton Gang.

Wanted for Murder, Robbery, and Crimes against the Southern Pacific Railroad.

Bill was the moon-faced man in the posters; a round white face framed with dark hair and eyes, a nose, and a mouth that were all scrunched up too close together. Bobby was a Dalton brother only in name – he didn’t share any of the features as the rest of the Dalton’s sticking out like a sore thumb with blue eyes and a dirty mop of hair that could have been blonde or brown depending on the last time he had showered. Jack remembered the swaying gun holstered on Bobby’s leather straps.

‘Alright fella - stop the train and take us to the express cash car. Make this easy for you an’ your boy’

Jack Sr. calmly hit the emergency braking control and the train sparked and screeched until it came to halt.

``We'll be fine son. You just sit tight and let your pa take care of this.’ He bent down to one knee and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder with a smile. Jack’s terror faded. It wasn’t protocol for a conductor to carry the cash-express safe key in his back pocket, but Jackson Sr. always said it made the robberies go quicker.

‘No need for trouble, gentleman.’ He reached into his back pocket.

BANG.

The revolver barrel stuck out in the air and let off a swirl of smoke, and 2 feet away Jack Sr. let out a groan and dropped, planting face-first onto the floor. He let out a swirl of blood that matched the revolver and pooled at Jack’s feet.

‘DAMMIT BOBBY - You killed the son bitch. I told ya’ we ain’t killin’!’

‘Boy was reachin’ for his gun!’ Bobby tucked the smoldering Smith & Wesson revolver in his leather shoulder holster and walked over to the man he shot in the head. He kicked the body over and Jackson Sr. flopped onto his side like a dead fish.

Jack stared wide-eyed at his father’s lifeless face.

The men took the key and walked out of the conductor's car. Jack couldn’t move a muscle, not taking his eyes off his father’s dead face.

It’s 1920 now and as the years passed Jack learned to always keep moving. Traveling through towns, saloons, and dingy hotels, only ever ordering Lipton black teas or Robur imported from Australia if he was lucky enough to find it. He spent his days over a mug, interrogating townsfolk with short questions about cowboys and train robbers rumored to have lived and died in their towns.

There was one time in Dallas when his curiosity got the best of him and he overheard a man bragging about Bonnie and Clyde being buried side-by-side in the back of the town’s Church. He was disappointed to dig up an old boring couple with the same names as the infamous outlaws. Jack spent the night silently listening to them argue over past marital problems and outdated lover quarrels.

Tonight it was Cass City, Missouri, and Jack was equipped with his leather satchel, digging tools, and four small brown bags. He spent the entire day traveling between the 3 saloons in town until he found what he was looking for.

He heard Bill Dalton, Emmet Dalton, and Bobby Bogar had died. Jack wanted to make sure.

‘Few of the Dalton’s called it quits years ago! Gave up robbin’ for honest living here.’ An old-timer that looked like he had seen his share of duels indulged Jack in his interrogations.

The day went away and the evening came bringing crisp winter air that was silent and still. Most of the town's folk were either too drunk or cozy to bother wandering outside their homes. Perfect for a night of digging.

No restless spirits snapping twigs behind bushes, no widowed wails and moans, no children singing between hedge stones at 3:30 AM. The wind barely moved and not a branch or mound of dirt changed places.

This is how Jack liked it.

“A stir-stick maybe?” Bo felt entitled to his tea. He had been buried for the last 20 years after all, and it wasn’t every night that he could get out for fresh air.

“Sure.” Jack obliged and reached to the open toolkit that sat in front of the fire. He hovered his hand over the mound of tools to find something to stir the tea: a small wooden hand shovel for digging, a crowbar for prying things from cold dead hands, and a rusted ball-peen hammer and railroad spike for smashing clay pots and tiny treasure locks…or bones if he needed to. Jack chose the rail spike and handed it to Bo; it was a rusted brown and black, the same color as the tea, and had all sorts of dents in the metal.

“Well fella, I can already tell you’re an amateur. You came with 4 small sacks that barely fit a melon each! Not good for carryin’ treasures” Bo stirred the tea and laughed at Jack’s misfortune, making a racket of banging and clanging from the rail spike hitting the tin mug.

“Ain’t even mention your lousy eye for robbin’. Of all the graves you could've picked, you chose a family of farmers. When I and mine passed from the winter - all we left behind was a broken-down barn and a field of crops that never grew. No gold or treasures in these graves here boy.”

“Not looking for treasures.” Jack reached into the leather satchel hanging off the side of his hip and pawed at the insides until he heard the soft crunch of his cigarette pack. He leaned into the fire with a smoke stick in his mouth until the dry tobacco popped and hissed. He lit a second cigarette and reached it to the side.

Jack did not see Bo lunge at his arm. His dead weight was enough to nudge Jack a little from his seat, stepping on one of the little brown bags and crushing whatever small treasure he dug up. Jack looked right at Bo for the first time that night, and Bo held tightly onto Jack’s arm. It had been years since Bo felt pulsing, living flesh and for a moment the stream of rushing blood and filled veins under Jack’s skin was warmer and more comforting than the tea.

Jack wasn’t bothered – a little annoyed, but not bothered. He was a much stronger and livelier man than Bo. It would take Jack only one squeeze with his vice-like grip to pop-off Bo’s head and turn his skull to dust.

Bo leaned over with his mouth grabbed the cigarette between his cracked and empty dried lips then let go. He didn’t have working lungs, of course, so the cigarette sat and burned to ash in his mouth.

“Not lookin’ for treasures huh? So what you lookin’ for? Secrets of the dead?”

“Already know all the secrets.” Jack took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled toasty warm smoke.

“Ah - so you know if you crush a skull it means—”

“Yep. You crush the spirit's soul.” He inhaled and exhaled again, watching a ghostly smoke swirl into the still night.

“Ye’ well… did ya’ know if you crush a spirit's soul - poof! You erase em’. It’s like that poor soul would never exist.”

“Yep,” Jack answered.

“Heh…Then the real fun begins…the devil gets a hold of your soul to replace it! An eye for an eye, a soul for a soul type deal!” Bo looked to get the drop on Jack with the last secret.

“If you believe in that sort of thing, sure.” Jack didn’t care much for the mysticism and zealot threats. He figured he’d be doing the devil a favor by clearing out a few rotten folks from hell.

Bo wasn’t amused with Jack’s nonchalant attitude about the secrets of the dead, muttering under his stale breath.

Jack stood up from the little mound of dirt he sat on and walked to the family plot of tombstones buried next to Bo.

Four in total:

Bodar ‘Bo’ Smith

Mary-ann Smith

Mary-Jo Smith

Bogar Jr “Little Bo” Smith

Each of their hedge stones was a work of art. Custom crafted gray slabs carved with a family emblem and an arch-way adorned with stone flowers that were housed under a large barnyard roof.

Jack walked to Mary-Ann’s grave and ran his dirty hands over the artwork, “Expensive for a failed farmer.”

“Well I wasn’t born no farmer - a smart man makes a hard-earned living and keeps that money tucked away. Ain’t out robbin’ the dead for knick-knacks and broken pots” Bo nodded to the 3 small brown bags, each filled with something round.

“I heard the only way to earn a living is if you learned to rob other folks or shoot a gun.” Jack picked at the 3-hour old dirt underneath his fingernails.

“Heh – well I had me a quick draw and made myself a killing on the railways. Woulda put a fella like you in the dirt before you could even ask ‘One or two sugars’.” Bo shot back at Jack.

“Only ever heard that outlaws and cowboys were good with guns. Not farmers.” Jack was quick to the punch.

“Like I said boy - I wasn’t born no farmer. I was runnin’ through towns while you were still shittin’ your trousers. Ran with a rough lot. Some called us outlaws. Teachin’ rich folk what's theirs could easily be ours.” Bo held out two fingers in the shape of a revolver and fanned his right hand over his overgrown thumbnail. He pulled at his thumb like the hammer of his gun and let off three shots into the night.

‘BANG BANG BANG’

Jack pulled out his notebook from his hip, “Only heard of a few outlaws with names worth mentioning. Robert Parker, Belle Star, Frank Dalton…”

“Frank was no outlaw! Turn-coat coward got shot down in the street like a dog by those Smith-Dixon boys.”

“You ran with the Daltons?” Jack looked over the list of names in his notebook “Nobody has ever mentioned the name of ‘farmer Bo’ Smith’.”

“That’s 'cause I ain’t no damn farmer!” Bo’s voice deepened, sounding more terrifying than before. It shook the night but it didn’t bother Jack.

“You musta heard of me…the quickest shooter in the Dalton Gang. Bobby Bogar. Put them rich folks in graves like the one you’s seeing me in now.”

Jack smiled for the first time since his 10th birthday and flicked his cigarette onto Mary-Jo’s grave – the little orange flare tumbled and spun for 6 feet. For the first time since he buried his wife, Bobby looked over at the grave and saw it was already dug up. Then he looked down the line to the other two graves…freshly dug and sitting in the open air.

Jack had been busy for the last three hours – it would have taken him four, but he really pushed that night.

“Bastard…” Bobby barely got out the word before Jack’s hands gripped his neck and tugged high into the night – popping his head off like a bullet from a gun chamber and tossing it next to 4 brown bags on the ground. Only one was empty – that one was for Bobby.

Bobby’s head rolled and he came face to face with the little bag – they weren’t pots or bowls…not unless you ate your beans out of a skull. Jack emptied the first bag next to Bobby’s face – the one he had stepped on and crushed earlier. Bo Jr. tumbled out the bag, landing face to face with Bobby. Then Jack emptied out Mary-Jo’s skull and Mary-Ann’s, laying them in a neat little line.

It was the most stuck Bobby had felt since he had been dead and buried. He couldn’t move a muscle, not taking his eyes off his son’s dead face.

Jack was a man of very few words, but his smile said it all – it was the same one he had on his 10th Birthday. Jack took the rail spike and balanced it perfectly on Mary-Jo’s skull then he stomped on it, letting out a small swirl of dust. He picked the rail spike up again and placed it on Mary-Ann’s skull and he stomped again, crunching and letting out more swirls. He erased both of them while Bobby watched.

The fourth bag was empty. That one was still for Bobby. Jack picked his head up and looked him dead in his sunken eyes, he couldn’t wipe that boyish smile off his face as he tucked Bobby neatly away in the bag.

It was January 12th, 1920 and it would take Jack and Bobby about two days on horseback to reach his father’s grave. Two unstill nights filled with moans and wails from the thief Robert ‘Bobby’ Bogar of the Dalton Gang.

“Happy Birthday Pa’”. Jack would celebrate his birthday again.