The sun began to dip down behind the horizon taking the daylight with it.

Jake watched it with reverence as he finished his coffee. To a lot of men it just meant the day was ending, but to him it was more than that. The Chippewa believed that the veil between the land of the living and land of the dead thinned. He had seen a lot over the years and couldn’t deny any truth in that belief.

He refilled his cup and poured a second from the percolator at the fire as he thanked Sancho for a fine meal. He had spotted Russ, his older brother and business partner, up on the hill overlooking the camp — no doubt keeping a watchful eye for any threats. Russ was always most alive this time of day, but as the sun fades Jake knew his energy would fade with it.

The cowhands were gathered around the campfire whooping it up as they settled in for the night. They were telling stories of back home or what they’re going to do with the whore in the next town or what they did on a previous ride that earned them some merit — most were fabrications but they elicited a response from those listening which was good enough for them.

Cormac was coaxing a pleasing melody out of his Martin parlor guitar while he belted out something in his thick Irish accent. Most of the men couldn’t understand what he was saying, but his tone was so mournful that they soon quieted down to listen. Men were simple creatures operating off of warmth and feel, and when a man settled down he often came face-to-face with the truths of life.

After some trouble, Jake finally crested the hill and sat down next to his brother handing him his cup of coffee. “I didn’t even spill a drop,” he boasted as he wiped his hand on his trousers.

“Much obliged,” Russ chortled with a nod. His black Stetson laid low over his eyes to block out the sun and his buckskin jacket was buttoned all the way with its collars up to take the chill out of the air. Jake noticed he had his Winchester across his lap.

Russ had returned from his trip three days earlier but had been making himself scarce ever since and Jake didn’t know why. One week ago he had agreed to help the Sheriff track down Briggs Hatten, a devil of a man that caused most of the people in town trouble since his conception, including his brother.

“You expecting trouble?” Jake asked.

“Always.” His features softened as he took a sip. “That Mexican knows how to make a darn good cup of coffee.”

Jake couldn’t argue.

“How did things go with the Sheriff?” He stared into the black abyss of his cup. “You haven’t said a word of it since you got back, and you’re always running off.”

Russ looked down at the camp in silence and soon Jake turned his gaze from his brother to his men. They were as he left them.

“You remember when we were kids?” Russ asked. “When Briggs would always give me grief?”

“A real brute,” Jake remembered. “They didn’t call him ‘Brutal Briggs’ for his charm.”

They both nodded in unison. “That one day he started runnin’ you down. I wasn’t gonna have any of it so I walked up to him and smacked him across the eye.”

Jake laughed, “And all it did was make him madder than an old wet hen.”

“I tell you I gave it all I got and it didn’t even seem to register,” Russ chuckled. “He dang near made me a corpse. When I woke up you had drug me back home and I found out you had fixed everything. And using words, not your fists like I tried to do.”

“I remember. You two went back and forth over the years giving each other hell.”

“He gave the world hell,” Russ’s hand drifted to a spot on his chest just below his left shoulder making a rubbing motion, “and everyone in it.”

“What’s this got to do with….”

“The men trust you. You’re a good leader.” Russ glanced over at the dying sun before turning his attention to Jake. “You’ll lead them better than I ever could.”

Jake shook his head. His eyes were getting heavy in the dim light.

“The boys miss your voice, Russ.” Jake got to his feet. “Why don’t you come down and tell one of your stories?”

Russ watched as the last sliver of orange vanished. “Stories are for the living, Jake. And dead men tell no tales.”

A chill pierced Jake straight to his bones. He turned to ask what he meant, but Russ was gone, leaving only a memory.

---

In response to the January 11th writing prompt from Writers.com titled “Truth, Interrupts.”

“Write a piece in which the narrator (fictional or real) is relaying the details of an important event. First, let them tell the story the way they’ve always told it—smooth, familiar, yet stretched thin from the truth. Partway through, for a reason of your own choosing, allow the truth to interrupt.”

Attribution:
Cover photo by Barna Kovács on Unsplash