Mark of Cain

“They killed him by that tree,” he said, pointing. “Hung him up, but slowly. His hands were bound, but his toes could just touch the ground. They were laughing, shoving him back and forth. At some point, I think they realized he was dead, or passed out. They got bored. One of them, he had a knife, he just kinda went up and shanked him. Opened him up. His bowels poured all out. The others, they looked kinda sheepish then. I don’t think they had a taste for that, for blood. Killing, sure, that was fine, but the good fun for them was a little torture. This, this gutting, this was visceral, red, messy. I never knew what he did. Probably a thief or something. Maybe nobody, just some unlucky passerby they found and pushed around. Back then, who would stop them?”

“You?” I asked. “What did you do? You saw it all? Just watched?”

“I watched,” he said, looking away and nodding. “Messed me up. I had to think, think long and hard, about that stranger, about those men, about myself. We all have to look in the mirror sometime.”

The wind went whistling through the yellow grass like the dying echoes of a mournful cry.

“How old were you?” I asked.

He wouldn’t look at me; just stood there shaking.

“You’re barely twenty. That gang, that was a while ago. You were just a kid?”

No answer.

“It’s not your fault. You can’t carry this.”

“But I can”—his voice croaked­—”I can be what I wasn’t, what I needed, what we need.” He pulled out his six-shooter and studied the worn silver decorations in the ivory handle. He holstered the gun and faced me, his eyes red.

“Do you understand?” he asked. “Do I need to explain what I can’t explain?”