The White Oak

The repeater grew heavy in Quinn’s hands. Pressed into a corner of the room between the side wall and a chipped and worn bureau, he tensed and relaxed his hands in turn to try to alleviate the perceived heaviness of the paltry 9-pound piece of wood and steel. It wasn’t actually heavy at all, he’d just been waiting in the same position for too long. Quietly waiting. Patiently waiting. Almost motionlessly waiting.

The first couple of hours had been rough, the early afternoon sun blazed windlessly in through the partly opened windows, and he felt sweat line his clothing - from the collars of his waistcoat and the brim of his hat right down to the toes of his boots. With the day passing at what felt like a snail’s pace, the afternoon finally granted him a cool breeze. Thank God. Feeling minor pins and needles begin to creep up his calves, Quinn shifted on his feet ever so slightly, for what little good it did. He would have smoked but didn’t want to risk anything wafting out the window and giving him away. Come on.

As slowly and silently as he could manage, Quinn slid his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and carefully cracked the cover open. Almost four in the afternoon. Curran should be passing by sometime within the next fifteen minutes. As he replaced the watch, Quinn felt a quick pinching sensation in his lower back. That damned pain again. He was in good shape for his age, but none the less, was getting old.

All the more reason to be here, suffering the silent pains of stillness. The bounty on Curran was big, really big. Big enough that Quinn could go a few years before he would have to start looking at wanted posters again. Big enough to be worth spending the last two months tracking the man at a distance across three different states. Worth lying in shrubs and muddy ditches to determine his daily routine. Worth bearing the heat, the aches and pains, and the boredom of hiding out in the empty house across the way from the man’s lodgings. That big, that worth it.

Quinn scanned the room for the fiftieth time since his wait began. Curran was staying in one of two run-down houses on the edge of town. The other, smaller of the two had been vacant long before Quinn chose it to post up in. The hinges on the back door were seized, and took a forceful shoulder charge to free it up. Every door and floorboard wailed with use. A thick layer of dust sat on every surface inside. And a pervasive musty smell filled every nook and cranny; Quinn had been there that often that he no longer detected the scent.

The room he was in was clearly once the living room; though it was now only occupied by the dying bureau, the floor was dotted with slightly less dusty circles left behind by couches, tables, chairs. The walls too bore the outlined ghosts of old paintings and pictures long removed. Quinn tried to ignore the ones on the far wall – the spacing between them was uneven and jarring to the eye. But he had been there that long and scanned the room so many times that those shapes were burned into his memory, he would likely see them in his sleep that night.

Again, he quietly checked his watch. Any time now. God, he could really go for that smoke. To take his mind off the heat, the sweat, the body and back aches, the boredom, the craving, and those damned shapes on the wall, Quinn pulled the wanted handbill out of a back pocket of his pants.

Quinn had simply been passing through Helena all those months ago when he was given the handbill by one of the local sheriff’s deputies in a saloon. He’d stuffed it into his coat pocket with little thought, until he’d seen the contents of his billfold the following morning. He’d managed to track down that same deputy and get some additional information on Curran, had stopped to ask at every city, town and camp between there and where he stood right now. He slowly unfolded it, scanning over its contents.

In the middle of the piece of paper it bore a rudimentary illustration of a common-looking man. Its details were minimal, the lines of the drawing almost looking rushed. He had short hair parted on the left, close-set eyes above a large nose and a pencil moustache. Quinn had only been up close enough to compare the sketch to the man once, “accidentally” bumping into him in a small saloon outside of Camp Collins. And sure, the picture was close, got some key features right. Still, it was so basic, you could imagine some innocent men being accosted over it by mistake.

The description below the sketch was basic as well. It read:

WANTED! Name: James Curran. Age: 29. Height: 5 ft. 11 inches. Weight: 180 pounds. Features: dark hair and eyes. Wanted for the crimes of petty theft, assaulting an officer of the law, grievous bodily harm, horse theft, and the transportation of stolen goods across state lines. Known alias 'Joseph Lee'. Wanted alive, for the reward of $10,000, payable by Sheriff Johnson - Helena, Montana.

Curran had been drinking alone in the saloon in Camp Collins, and a fellow patron with a few too many whiskeys under his belt had planted himself at the stool next to him. The man was either too drunk, had no ability to read social cues, or both, and was talking Curran’s ear off. From the dark corner where Quinn nursed a beer, it would seem as if Curran was only giving short answers, maybe a handful of words each time. They spoke – or rather, the patron spoke at Curran – for maybe five or ten minutes, before the drunken man stumbled off toward a faro table. From the other side of the establishment, Quinn could see that despite being a fugitive, Curran had a sense of calm, the probing of the drunken man hadn’t seemed to rattle him any.

Curran had one final drink after that, then got up, headed for the saloon doors. Quinn stood, walked to the bar, passing him by mere feet. Curran didn’t even glance his way. Quinn leaned on the bar, watching Curran walk outside, disappearing into the dark of night. His drinking partner from earlier stood shy of the saloon porch's edge, relieving himself before stumbling back into the building. Quinn watched the man approach the bar, emptying his pockets, turning up a few small coins.

An opening.

“Buy you a drink, fellow?”

The drunken man shot Quinn a look that was part shock, part music to his ears. When he replied, his voice was surprisingly free from the slur Quinn expected of a man that was staggering as much as he was.

“Why, that’d be downright charitable of you! I have recently had the misfortune of losing my wages, swindled by a dishonest faro dealer of ill repute. Thank you mister...”

“...Taylor.”

“Kind Mister Taylor! Bless your heart and soul for extending your good graces to the destitute wretch I currently present to you. I’m Samuel D. Jackman, at your service.”

Quinn signalled the barkeep to pour two shots of whiskey. As Quinn paid for the round, Jackman almost knocked his over before getting a grip on the glass. Jackman raised the shot in the air, his hand shaking.

“To the follies of the damned, the curse of the misfortunate, and the cruel fate of the faro table!”

Quinn saluted with his own glass, and drank the shot. Jackman slowly tipped the glass back and savoured the free libation like it was his last.

“Your friends left you?” Quinn probed.

Jackman looked perplexed, and Quinn couldn’t be sure if it was the alcohol, or his oblique phrasing of the question, so he made it easier.

“When I walked in I couldn’t help but notice you at the bar with your friend. Did he and the rest of your buddies leave you for the night?”

It took a few seconds longer than it should have, but eventually it clicked.

“Oh! No, I came to this establishment on my lonesome. I just struck up a particularly engaging conversation with that gentleman for the first time tonight, we aren’t known to each other beyond the drink we shared. A quiet fellow, but he had an air to him...”

“An air?”

“Yessir, like, like a mysterious air.”

“Like he had something to hide?”

“Could be. I just detected a particular...aura around him, as if he were the type of man you could know for a decade, without knowing him, if you catch my meaning?”

“I think I do. He looked a little familiar to me, his name wouldn’t happened to be Joshua, was it?”

“Joshua, yes. No, no it wasn’t Joshua...”

Jackman trailed off as he dug the name out of his afflicted short-term memory.

“...Joseph! Mister Joseph Lee. A businessman out of Kansas City, heading to Chicago. I couldn’t tell you much more of him, he was largely enraptured by my stories of high adventure...”

Quinn held back a smirk.

“Well then, I guess he’s not the fellow I was thinking of. Say Samuel, you mentioned some rotten luck with a faro game?”

Jackman winced, as if he’d been stuck with a particularly thick pin.

“Curse of my existence, that game. Dishonest dealers aside, I must admit, I seem to be lacking any skill at the sport, outside of providing the owners of this establishment with a livelihood.”

Quinn pulled some coins from his trouser pocket, and slid them across the worn bar toward Jackman.

“Maybe try your luck at poker.”

Quinn tipped his hat at the man, and made for the saloon doors. Jackman called out after him.

“A bounty of blessings upon you, sir! Mister Taylor, patron saint of the pitiful!"

Quinn was pulled from his reminiscence by the faint sound of hooves on dirt. Using a well-practiced stealth, he crouched down, the iron cuffs tucked into the front of his belt digging into his stomach. His back pinching again, took off his hat, and peeked slowly through the bottom corner of the nearby open window. It was Curran. Quinn pulled back beneath the sill, and waited until the hoof-falls became louder. When they flurried to a stop, he quickly peeked again. Curran walked his horse to the modest barn next to his house, and emerged a minute or two later. He walked up the steps of the house, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

It was time.

Quinn put his hat back on, and quietly crouched his way out of the living room. Once in the adjoining kitchen, he rose from his squat, and crept to the door that led outside. He’d wedged it open with a broken piece of timber, in the event that he’d have to make a quick exit, or in this case, quietly move outdoors. He slowly moved around the back of the abandoned house, the dirty softly crunching under his boots; he’d torn down one of the remaining curtains from the living room and wrapped strips of it around his boots to muffle his steps as much as possible. With all this damned heat he couldn’t pray for rain to do that job for him.

Quinn reached the side corner of the house facing Curran’s, taking off his hat once more. He paused, took a deep breath in, held it, and slowly let it out. He took the quickest of peeks at the house across the way, his eyes hungrily scanning for any sign of Curran through the windows. Nothing. He’d best go now.

He knew the topography of the land surrounding the two houses well enough to move as if automatically. In front of the abandoned house was a dead garden, beyond that, the dirt road that led to town in one direction, to anywhere else in the other. Directly in line with the side of the dead garden was the barn of Curran’s house. Quinn moved toward its outer side, passing a giant dead oak tree.

Though this type of sneakery had served him well over the years, this part of the job never ceased to make Quinn’s heart begin to pound. More than likely it was the thrill of it all, of creeping up on a target unnoticed, the uncertainty of getting the drop on them, the potential of it all to go south in a myriad of ways, not to say nothing of the dance that followed. Quinn reached the side of small barn, his heart beating faster, and he crouched there a second, slowing his breathing in order to quiet the drumming in his chest.

As he calmed his body down, Quinn moved toward the back of the small barn, searching. Three-quarters of the way along the wall he found what he was looking for – one of the palings jutted out at the ground by about a half an inch, possibly kicked out by an unruly horse, or perhaps just a symptom of quick, shoddy construction. He gently placed the repeater on the ground at his side, wiping his hands on his trousers.

Quinn quietly slid his knife from his belt, and gently pried at the piece of timber. When he felt the tension in it begin to slacken, he removed his knife, replacing it in his belt, and slipped a finger behind the piece of wood. He pulled slowly. It came free, straw spilling out onto the ground below. Perfect. He pulled a couple of handfuls out, forming a short mound leading back behind the bent piece of barn.

Quinn reached into the other waistcoat pocket, and pulled out a thin cigar and a matchbox. He popped the cigar between his lips, and took a stick out of the box, stopped, listening.

Nothing. He waited.

Despite calming himself, his heart was still thumping away harder and quicker than normal. He could almost hear it echoing through his bones and into his ears. He took another slow, deep breath, and waited until his hearing cleared. The afternoon wind blew gently around him, not enough to make much more than a whisper. Birds high up near the clouds cawed, but the sound was as soft as they were far from the ground. He focused his attention on the house, listening for any sounds of movement from inside. It felt like an age, but after some time, he heard the faint sound of boots on floorboards. This was what he was waiting for.

Quinn slowly slid the head of the match across the side of the box and the stick flared, catching fire. He cupped his free hand over it, raised it to the end of the cigar, and puffed. He needed that. After a couple of drags, he guided the cupped match down to the straw pile on the ground. It took immediately, and Quinn tossed the used match away, and grabbed the repeater. He took the last few drags from the cigar, and then stubbed it out in the dirt.

Quinn slowly stood up, softly tread his way over toward the dead oak, positioning himself on the side opposite to the barn and the house. He pulled the repeater into his chest, drew himself as thin as he could, and waited. He glanced down the side of the barn at the straw, now alight, and watched the yellow flame dance with the light afternoon breeze into the building.

Thin plumes of smoke began to waft out of gaps in the walls, and the horse inside began to blow and grunt. As the flames inside consumed more and more straw, the blowing and grunting turned into squealing, primal fear of being tied up next to a fire that was growing bigger by the second. Quinn heard the front door of the house slam into the siding, followed by Curran’s boots clomping down the porch, crunching quickly across the dirt toward the barn.

“What the hell!”

Quinn flashed around the side of the dead oak and swiftly moved up behind Curran, jabbing the barrel of the repeater into the nape of the man’s neck.

“HOLD IT!”

Curran instinctively froze, his hands shooting up into a raised position. Quinn shifted the repeater into his left hand, and reached over to Curran’s belt, pulling the man’s revolver free from its holster, slipping it into the back of his own belt. He shifted the rifle back to his right hand, and then pulled a Bowie knife from Curran’s other hip, and threw it across the yard.

“You’re wanted alive - you wanna stay that way then don’t get smart on me.”

Curran spoke, his voice not entirely panicked, but not entirely cool either.

“Mister, I don’t know who you think I am, but you must got me mixed up with another man. Please, I’ll do whatever you want, just let me get my horse before he gets hurt!”

It was a good act, with a measure of sincerity to the words the man spoke. Had Quinn been green, a part of him may have believed the man.

“That horse says I don’t have you mixed up. You stole him outta Helena.”

“I took him back after he was stole from me!”

Quinn was hoping this wouldn’t get drawn out. He knew this dance all too well, and with age his tolerance for following all the steps was waning. Still, he couldn’t afford his impatience to lead to him getting sloppy.

“You stole him out of Helena after robbing from the Marshall’s own home you dumb bastard, now drop the act!”

Curran’s demeanour changed.

“Well shit, it was worth a shot.”

“Slowly bring your hands down, and put ‘em together behind your back. Slowly. And don’t get smart.”

Curran did as he was bid. Quinn’s heart began to beat faster again. He had done this more times than he could remember now, but still, the sheer unpredictability of this part of the dance continued to have the same effect on him. Quinn dropped one hand from the repeater, worked the cuffs free from his belt, and secured Curran’s hands behind his back. His heart slowed some, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding onto.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Curran again did as he was told, and Quinn hoped this meant that the man was unlikely to do anything stupid, but he wasn’t holding that breath. The dance was now in full swing, and one of the first rules of the trade was not to let the other man lead. Still, Curran chose a set of steps that many others before him had done too – interrogation.

“Who you with? US Marshalls? Pinkertons?”

“Does it matter?”

Curran finished turning, and faced Quinn, a smirk on his face.

“I guess not...”

The smirk dropped when he saw Quinn.

“You! Goddamnit, I knew there was somethin’ funny about you! I seen you sittin’ in the corner of the saloon eyeballin’ me all night and I knew somethin’ was up!”

Quinn ignored him, wanting to move through the dance as quickly as possible.

“We’re going on a ride. You’re going to continue to not be smart like you have been, and you’re going to arrive in Helena in one piece.”

“I only have myself to blame, I shoulda listened to my gut. God damn me, fuckin’ Sherriff Olson Johnson, that miserable son of a bitch!”

“Enough. We’re leaving.”

Quinn waited for Curran to bargain with him, try to pay him off or promise him some kind of reward for cutting him loose. He saw a notion ripple across the man’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose a bribe is out of the question?”

There it was, as expected. The dance was back on track. Quinn shook his head, gesturing with the repeater for the man to move, so he moved. Curran lunged headfirst toward Quinn. Quinn drew the repeater up in a move to threaten to hit him with it. And then it happened.

His damned back pain.

A tiny pinch. A moment’s hesitation. And in that moment, Curran got the drop on Quinn. His head drove into Quinn’s nose, and Quinn saw stars. Pain radiated across his face, and he felt warm blood running down his lips and chin. He stumbled back, blinded, listening for the sound of Curran running off. He’d screwed this one up. This was a sign. He was getting too old.

But Quinn didn’t hear that sound. Amidst the squeals of the Curran’s horse, he instead heard the air being knocked clean out of Curran’s lungs as he hit the dirt. Since his hands were bound behind his back, his momentum had been off, and after catching Quinn in the nose with the headbutt, had continued on his trajectory like a lead javelin, into the ground.

Quinn scanned through speckled vision for movement, saw the creamy beige of Curran’s shirt squirming on the ground. He slid his right foot towards it, felt through the leather toe of his boot for the man’s side. He brought the boot back, and kicked the man hard in the kidney. Curran wailed through a mouthful of yard, and Quinn spoke through a mouthful of blood.

“I told you not to get smart on me.”

Quinn kicked him again for good measure, breathing out the frustration of the situation getting away from him. His vision returned, and lifted his foot up, untied a bit of curtain, shook the dirt from it, and held it to his nose, pinching the bridge. In the time it took for Curran to stop crying, Quinn’s nosebleed had run its course. He tossed the bloodied rag away. Crouching down, he stuck the barrel of the repeater right up into Curran’s eye.

“Let’s try this again. We’re going on a ride. Now move.”

Quinn yanked Curran to his feet. Despite his current situation, his injuries, and what the future surely had in store for him, Curran remained defiantly smug.

“Well shit, it was worth a shot.”

“Yeah well, you had your shot, and it turns out you can’t shoot worth shit. Now move, I’m not telling you again.”

“What about the horse?”

Curran nodded over at the barn. The fire had grown enough to climb the entire back wall of the building, and the horse continued to squeal and strain on the ropes holding him there.

“I ain’t after him.”

“But he’ll die in there, you don’t care?”

“Like I said. Bounty is on you, not him.”

Curran spit at Quinn's feet.

“You cold-blooded son of a bitch.”

Quinn swung the butt of the repeater into the side of his head, knocking him to the dirt, out cold.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Half an hour later, Quinn slowly rode his horse away from the now burning house. He towed Curran’s steed with him draped over it, moaning. The first dance was done. Quinn had his bounty. A new dance was beginning, that would end in Helena. But that is a tale for another time.