Wilting on the Edge of Polite Society.

Chapter 1

1879

There is a cave in a forgotten stretch of the Americas. It’s unheard of, unexplored, undocumented. Brush grows as thick as the men who seldom wander through here; the fanged teeth of the beasts patrolling these parts keep most folks from staying long. Brown shrubbery, dead leaves, sticks, and droppings cover the ground. It’s the sort of place you’d ride past without giving it a second look.

On a blustery autumn day, Cornel Morton stumbled on this cave. He was half out of his mind. Looking down at his swollen leg, he drew on every ounce of grit he had to make it to safety. He broke from the tree line and found the cave. The entrance was small, but just large enough to squeeze through. He slipped inside, desperate for a scrap of luck and cover.

The cave had little in the way of light. The ground was hard and pebbly. The air was thick and sour, a smell the sun couldn’t burn away. Somewhere beyond reach, he heard the soft skittering of mice. He didn’t mind such an inhospitable environment. He needed to escape his predicament. He’d been hunted clear across the Appalachian country. Once a member of the Willard Gang, he’d been accused of murdering a law enforcement officer in Virginia. Whether he’d done it was debatable; only he and the dead Charleston sheriff knew the whole truth.

He set out to tend to his injury. Striking a small fire, he laid out his gear. He had a little pemmican to keep him going, along with his canteen and a poker to stoke the flames. His wound was hideous, and he was surprised he’d made it this far. As the fire caught and embers rose like the morning sun, he heated the iron and cauterised his leg. He choked back a scream of agony.

Having done what he could to stay in this realm, he settled in to wait. He wasn’t sure he’d survive much longer, but he was stubborn enough to try. He was a wanted man; his Willard boys had no idea where he’d run off to, and they couldn’t help him keep from starving, not with a pack of vengeful lawmen on his trail.

All he could do was wait.

Chapter 2

A few weeks passed. Cornel remained in the cave. Aside from the odd trip outside to relieve himself or fill his canteen from a nearby creek, he was too spooked to leave. How could he? He’d been on the run for a couple of months already. He’d had more than a few close calls with law enforcement officers before stumbling on this hole in the rock. He needed to sit tight.

One morning, he sat in silence. Somewhere out in the brush, he heard birds calling. He edged toward the mouth of the cave. He noticed a purple finch hopping along the ground, scratching around for seed. He caught himself staring at its colour, its easy, careless way. It was free to roam, a luxury he couldn’t afford. He envied the bird.

He still had a will to live, but no will to hang. He knew they’d kill him if they caught him, and he wasn’t ready to die. As he watched the finch, he reflected on his life to that point. He’d fallen in with the Willard Gang young, joining at the tender age of seventeen. Ten years he’d ridden with those gentlemen; it was all he knew. He barely knew how to keep a proper home, but he knew how to rob a small-town store with accuracy and precision. That was the life he’d gotten, not the life he’d wanted.

He pulled out a folded paper, unfurled it, and held it where the pale daylight reached inside the cave. It was the deed to a house in Pennsylvania, signed three months earlier. A tear trickled down his cheek. He was remorseful that he’d thrown away his chance for a new life. Still, he figured he had a shot to get back. He checked his leg, feeling it stronger. After fifteen nights in the cave, he knew he had to try. His hope of reaching home and starting anew drove him, despite the slim chances.

He began packing his supplies, ready to venture forth on foot. His chances of reaching home were slim, but he felt he had no other options.

As he stood at the cave mouth, he saw two lawmen working their way through the woods. He recognised one—John Mercy, the man who’d shot his leg. The danger was real now, close enough to taste.

“Bill, look, these are fresh tracks.”

Cornel froze as he watched Mercy studying his footprints. They were maybe seventy feet away. A cold, heavy dread washed over him. This was the end. Two armed lawmen in a lonely corner of the Appalachians with a man they wanted dead—surely he was finished.

He eased back into the cave, never taking his eyes off them as they combed the ground. Their guns were drawn; they were ready to kill him. He had no wish to kill them, but he knew he might have to. He watched for a few long minutes, waiting for the moment their eyes found the cave mouth. They circled slowly, looking for any sign of life. They followed his tracks, step by step, drawing closer and closer. They were within twenty feet.

Pop. Pop.

Two clean shots.

Cornel couldn’t take the chance. He was furious. If he’d been a dead man walking before, this only nailed the coffin shut. He checked the bodies quickly. They had some pemmican in their satchels, and he wolfed it down. Then he went through their pockets. From Mercy’s coat, he pulled a letter, the paper wrinkled and stained from the trail. He unfolded it and read.

His heart sank.

Dear Mr Mercy,

Thank you for your correspondence. I regret that Mr Morton has committed the sinful deeds he has. While we are obviously men of ill repute, we do adhere to a code. His decision to shoot Officer Monroe was rather foolhardy and reckless. If we can assist in his capture, we are more than willing to establish a more collaborative relationship with local law enforcement.

Signed, Erick Willard

He was incensed.

Erick Willard had been a father to him. The man had taught him everything he knew. For all his outlaw ways, Cornel had idolised him. Willard had gathered up a string of lost young men, shaped them into his gang, and preached a kind of rough-hewn revolution Cornel could believe in. An outlaw intellectual, he’d urged his men to live by a code: the law was the enemy; common folk were to be respected.

But here, in black ink, he was breaking his own code. This same man had talked about helping Cornel change his life, had lent him the money to buy that house in Pennsylvania.

How could he hang him out to dry?

Cornel dragged the officers into the cave and hid them there. He needed to get home. He needed this kept quiet. And more than anything, he needed to settle the score with Willard.

Chapter 3

A Week Later

Despite his injuries, Cornel had managed to limp a good forty miles north. He took what shelter he could find—under deadfall, by the riverbank, in hollows that barely passed for caves. Most days, he felt sick and worn thin by the elements. He wanted to reach Pennsylvania, but even more, he needed to lay eyes on Erick Willard one last time.

His mind was starting to wilt like the sagging birch he now sat beneath. His thoughts were hooked on Willard. Night after night, he dreamed of him as the devil himself, come to drag him to hell—a man who’d lured him in with the promise of a better life, a way out, now damning him to endless suffering. In his dreams, Willard had fangs, and Cornel could feel them sinking in.

As he rested under the birch, he spotted a small fawn grazing in a patch of grass. He’d always had a soft spot for the quiet things of the wild, but in his feverish state, all he could see was Willard. Willard had caused all this. In the fawn’s wide, watchful eyes, he thought he saw that same false wisdom that had once drawn him in. Was this some spell of madness laying hold of him?

He pushed himself up and staggered toward the fawn. The animal was strangely calm, not bolting even as Cornel moved closer. He got within fifteen feet before a fit of coughing seized him. Blood flecked his lips and spattered in the dirt, startling the fawn at last. In a burst of rage and desperation knotted together, he grabbed his revolver and emptied it toward the animal. His shots didn’t finish the creature, but they tore it up badly.

He didn’t rightly understand what was coming over him. Still coughing, he limped over to where the fawn lay. It was taking shallow, ragged breaths. For a moment, he saw Willard there instead—he wanted to choke it, to tear it apart, to make it suffer. He climbed over the wounded animal, shaking with fury and sickness, wanting it to feel the hurt he meant for Erick.

Then, suddenly, he snapped out of it. He saw the pain in front of him for what it was—just a young deer, not some devil wearing Willard’s face. Shame hit him like a blow. He pulled his knife, ran his hand along the animal’s hide in a clumsy attempt at comfort, and then cut its throat, putting it out of its misery.

He felt wretched. How could a moment’s madness drive him to this?

He hunched over the fawn and wept. He felt like a broken man. He hadn’t seen Betsy or any soul who cared for him in over a month. He would likely never see them again. He’d killed three men he hadn’t set out to kill. He was a worn-out, coughing wreck, slowly dying under a sky that didn’t even know his name.

Yet he still wasn’t ready to die. If he couldn’t see Betsy again, there was one thing left he could do. With a swig of the last mouthful of water lining his canteen, he ventured forth.

Chapter 4

Cornel was starting to fail. He’d been walking nonstop for days, forcing his body through harsher and harsher country. His cough was worsening, his vision blurred at the edges, and his will to live was growing dim, like the late afternoon light.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, he caught a glimpse of civilisation: a small settlement, a few homes and a general store. It was strangely relieving to see.

He was weary, of course. He knew he was a wanted man. Having killed three men of the law, he couldn’t just trust anyone for help. He needed it; he couldn’t last much longer without it. He wavered.

But he decided to take his chances. He began hobbling into town, toward the general store. He noticed a bounty poster on a post. Curious, he inspected it as he trudged past. WANTED: QUINTON QUINOLES. An old Willard Gang buddy. He had to be careful.

He walked through the main strip of town. He glanced at a lady of ill repute as she led a man into a house. She gave him a look, and he tried to remain inconspicuous. He wanted to ask for help, but he couldn’t just ask anyone. Erick Willard had connections; Cornel knew that all too well.

With a modicum of hesitation, he approached the general store. At worst, he’d be found and caught. At best, he’d get a bit of help to sustain him a while longer. He knew the risk but decided to take the chance.

He entered the establishment. He was greeted by a tall man, approximately six feet five inches, with a prominent scar on his forehead.

“Good Lord, you look horrible,” the man gasped, taking in Cornel’s state. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Cornel’s mouth. He tried to speak, but he was too weak.

By a remarkable stroke of luck—or misfortune—someone else in the store was also shocked to see Cornel in this state.

“What a stroke of luck,” the stranger exclaimed. Cornel lifted his gaze. His face went pale as he noticed who was standing there in the store.

“Erick.”

Erick quickly tried to help him up, but Cornel collapsed.

Cornel woke up a couple of hours later. He was in a bed, a comfort he’d never thought he’d feel again. A faint lantern glowed at the entrance of the room. He tried to get up, but he was too weak. He hacked up some phlegm; he was in no state to do much.

After a few minutes, Erick walked into the room. He had a glass of whisky. He set it beside the bed and started talking.

“Hey, buddy. I’m happy we found you.” Erick had an overly fake demeanour for a man of his repute. He sported a smile, almost like a mother rather than an outlaw. Cornel tried to speak, but he was too weak. He tried to sit up, but his body failed him.

“Don’t strain yourself. We’re getting you fixed up.”

Cornel looked over at the door. He could see the shadow of someone standing just outside. He wondered who it was, then looked back at Erick.

“I know you’ve gotten yourself in some trouble, but we’re gonna get some help for ye. I’m just glad we found you, because we were really concerned that you had perished out there.”

Cornel gave him a cold, dead look. He wanted to strangle him; he needed to muster up any bit of energy he had. There was none.

Erick glanced over his left shoulder toward the shadow. He looked cagey. Looking back at Cornel, he seemed to steel himself. Standing up, he leaned down towards Cornel and whispered,

“I’m gonna get you the help you need, buddy.”

With his last ounce of strength, Cornel snapped. Launching himself out of the bed, he wrapped his hands around Erick’s throat. Rage burned in his eyes, fire in his stomach. If he was going to go out, he was going to take Erick with him. He heard a voice pleading for him to stop, but the words barely reached him. He kept squeezing, all his strength focused on his former mentor’s neck. He didn’t stop until he knew he was done.

An empty feeling washed over him as he fell back.

He then looked up at the shadow in the doorway. It was Betsy.

“What have you done, darlin’?” she sobbed.

He looked down, then back up at her, and collapsed. With his last bit of vision, he notices another man walk in. He's wearing a badge.

The End.