Memory 1428
Caleb zips around his mother’s back, rolling a wooden wheel on a makeshift metal axle. In one move she steps off the sewing machine’s pedal and reaches for the door.
Caleb! You take that thing outside right now!
She cracks the door and the boy bursts out, full speed. He skips, left-right-left, left-right-left, emulating the sound of a horse in gallop.
He storms down the road, slows when he hears a familiar voice. Father, and another man, raising their voices.
From around the corner his father marches out, almost crashing into Caleb.
"What’re you doin’ out here, my lad?"
"Ma told me to take it outside. No work again today?"
His father sighs, smiles at him. "No, no work today. And what about you? Did you do your reading?"
"No, Pop. I wanted you to read to me."
"How about this. Let’s head home and you read to me. Pop can’t read to you forever."
Memory 1976
The axe falls again, but the log does not split. Despite the biting cold, sweat drips from Caleb’s brow.
"Put your back into it, mo buachaill."
Caleb glances at his father, exasperated. He looks at his father’s own back: bent and broken from years of gruelling labour. He bites his tongue.
Caleb takes one more swing and finally splits the log. He throws the pieces under his arm, and takes his father's arm with the other. Leads him into the home.
His mother lies in bed. He checks her forehead; the fever’s finally breaking. She’s sleeping peacefully, so he tucks her in and feeds some wood to the fire. Fills the hot water beside the bed, adjusts the copper rod he’s set up to warm her blanket.
"Caleb, can you grab something for me?"
"Yes, Pop."
"Under the bed there. Leather."
Caleb looks, finds it, drags out a light leather apron. Loops cross its belt, all empty save for one, a rusty old wrench. "What happened to your tools, Pop?"
"I sold ‘em years ago, my lad. Weren’t doing me no good out here. Better to feed you than have them rotting under the bed."
Caleb passes his fingers over the wrench. "You gonna sell this one too?"
"Nah, you take it. We’ll teach you how to do some things. Maybe by the time you’re a man, things’ll change around here. Besides… ain’t nobody gonna buy it anyway."
Memory 2573
"Hang on, I had it working not five minutes ago, sir."
Bayshore looks down his nose at the strange device. "How many men do you suppose this contraption could replace on the line?"
Caleb stops oiling the chamber and thinks for a moment. "Not sure. Could be a dozen. More important is that it never makes a mistake. Gives you the same result, every time."
"Come inside, Mr. Quinn. Let’s talk in here."
Caleb follows his boss into a lavish office. He looks at the enormous desk, with its miniature train and its glass globe. Desk probably costs more than everything Caleb owns. He slumps into the seat across the desk.
"Mr. Quinn, I think you’re a bright young man. Positively bursting with potential. I’ve stuck my neck out quite far keeping you in our employ. But that’s because I expect big things from you. I want you to think bigger."
"Sorry, sir."
"No need to apologise, young man. But we won’t be buying this contraption, I’m afraid. Speak to Lee in the workshop, he’ll set you straight."
Caleb gets up and puts a hand on the spike planter.
"Actually, you can leave that here, young man. Head to Lee, quick quick!"
Memory 2639
Blood pours out of Bayshore’s stomach, spills out on to his carpet. His face is a swollen, broken mess. He spits out a tooth, looks Caleb straight in the eye.
"You’ll hang for this."
It’s enough to bring Caleb back from the rage that had subsumed him. He had come in here to confront Bayshore. It had been months now of tactical encouragement, driving him to create new inventions, only to tell him they were impractical. All to keep the patents to himself. Sell them for thousands.
Bayshore coughs, dribbles more blood onto the wound in his stomach. Grabs onto the spike that’s nailing him to his enormous desk, limply tugs at it, gives up.
Caleb tries to form words, to tell Bayshore it isn’t even about the money, but he can’t find them. Even battered and beaten, bleeding on the floor, all Bayshore evokes is more fury. All those times he said how lucky Caleb was to even be hired, given his stock. All the times he said he was barking up the wrong tree. All just manipulation.
Security finally breaks in the heavy oak door and slams Caleb’s face down on the desk, ties him up. They’ve got the local doctor in tow, who’s already tending to Bayshore.
Caleb’s face is close to Bayshore’s, and now he’s able to find words to whisper before he’s hauled out.
"If this kills you, it’ll be worth the gallows."
Memory 2781
The warden let me take the two of you with me.
The men in the cells next to Caleb have been as good as company can be in a place like this. Rory took a swing at a lawman during a labour riot at a coal mine, but is otherwise a shy and gentle ox of a man, barely 20 years of age. Declan, conversely, is as popular as they come in a place like this, his silver tongue getting him in the good graces of every gang in the prison. The two had had Caleb’s back several times, and it was time to return the favour. Declan, of course, is the first to respond.
"You’re kidding. They’re just going to let us free?"
"Not free. But we can work time off our sentences. Just gotta bring in some bad guys."
A guard cuffs them, one by one, and leads them out of their cells, to the warden’s office. They sit in the spartan room, and the warden briefs them.
"A month off each of your sentences for each man you bring in. I want them alive. Think of this as your penitence."
"What’s to stop me from just going on the run?"
Caleb turns to Declan, looks him dead in the eye.
"That ain’t how this is gonna go."
The warden hands Caleb a paper. The three look at it intently. Rory slowly mouths the words on it — it’s been slow going, but Caleb’s reading lessons are starting to take.
"Colo… Colorado? Ain’t that pretty far?"
"A few days ride. Take some horses, a few dollars for necessities along the way. Head out today. If this works, we’ll see about getting you more men."
Caleb commits everything on the page to memory, places the sheet in his pocket. The three rise from their seats, eager to get to work.
"One more thing, Quinn. I had to pull a few strings, but I was able to get you this."
The warden places his spike gun on the table. Declan looks at it, and is barely able to stifle a laugh.
"Hell you call that, chief?"
"Death to Bayshore."
Memory 6018
The Hellshire Gang rides behind him, uncharacteristically quiet, even Declan.
It had been many days on the road, and they were exhausted. The mountain paths are unapologetic. But this has to be the place.
The main street’s empty. Bunch of them are at the local theatre, which is raucous with laughter and song. Rest of them probably got reasons to hide. Caleb ties his horse at the local saloon, Rory and Declan close behind.
They feel the weight of dozens of eyes as they enter the establishment. They sit at the table closest to the door. Rory looks at Caleb, his eyes pleading. "Just one drink." Caleb closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Business first."
"You folks visiting or just riding through?"
Caleb looks at the barkeep, a frail man with a pencil moustache. "Just a quick stop, I hope. Maybe you can help make it quicker."
He conjures the crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket. "Rodrigo Sandoval. Skipped out of town on a debt." Bartender takes one look at the name on the poster, sees the massive weapon on Caleb’s back, goes stark white. He gestures subtly to a table in the back.
Caleb stands and approaches the table. Three men play cards while the other two sit back in their chairs.
"Which one of you's Sandoval?"
A couple of the men reach for their guns, but they’ve already got Rory and Declan’s pistols trained on their heads. None of them talk.
"No need for this to get bloody, fellas. Supposed to take him alive."
The one in the middle leaps out of his chair and tries to tackle Caleb. Tumbles over him clumsily, rolls to the floor, runs for the door. Rory and Declan let loose on the other men, killing them before they can even put a hand on their guns.
Rodrigo barely makes it to the door before a terrible crack rings out. The spike protrudes through the front of his thigh and he screams in pain. A harsh jerk of the chain drags him to the floor.
Declan turns to the barkeep, cash from the card game in hand. "Don’t suppose you got any vittles for the road?"
Memory 4269
Caleb and Rory ride to the edge of town, through the carnage and viscera, the radiance of a full moon their only light. They find an appropriate place: quiet, nice view, small cactus growing nearby. Caleb hands Rory a shovel and the two start digging at the hard, dry earth.
The sun pokes over the horizon as they finish digging. Caleb places Declan’s shattered, perforated body in the grave. They cover him and place a small marker on top, a pile of sturdy rocks. Rory coughs, perhaps from all the gunpowder, perhaps choking back tears. His voice comes out even smaller than normal.
"Should we say something?"
Caleb looks down at the fresh grave.
"Never was good with words. That was Declan’s thing."
The two stand in silence for a moment. Caleb counts in his head how many men they’ve lost. Seven... no, eight. Since the Hellshire Gang had grown it was hard to keep track. Not anymore, though. Declan’s body was the only one he could even find enough of to bury.
A cool gust of wind passes over the site, pushing the last of the night’s chill, making room for the sun to bake the earth again. A paper blows in, catches on Rory’s leg. He grabs it, picks it up, tries his best to read it.
"Hey chief. This say what I think it says?"
Caleb reaches for the paper and reads the headline out loud.
"Henry Bayshore Purchases Hellshire Penitentiary."
Every muscle in his head starts to clench and burn. His hand trembles as he grips the paper, punching his thumb through the picture of Bayshore.
"Saddle up. We’re riding out."
