BROKEN WHEEL
The oldest dream always comes first: his brother attired in the turned-out cloak of an Arabian peasant, only his head and shoulders are visible. A scenic mountain vista halos his brother's crown so that the hues of spring soften his complexion into alcohol-blurred gold. For a moment, there is only raw and unfiltered peace pouring from his brother's eyes in unadulterated altruism for the object of his attention. The halo darkens and without pause a colorless mass blots out the visage of his brother's head. This dream frequents his restless sleep.
And by his namesake, Cain, he always arrived at the same conclusion as to the meaning.
But the most recent dream he knew to be true. Just as John Hardin was rising to his own prominence in Texas, he had already made a name for himself in his own way. No matter what historians may deduce, Cain was the last traveler to visit many settlements with the Ghost Town moniker. And his methods were brutal in their simplicity: kill every living creature.
Cain never remembered his brutality and only knew of his activities by the odd places he found himself and the murderous dreams haunting his slumber. He never stole anything, as if he prided himself in preserving at least one commandment. That is, unless murder qualified as breaking multiple commandments if one considered such acts a theft of life. Possessions, those he never stole.
Though he had no coherent memory of his actions, he found himself believing in them and even slipping into daydream-dialogues that circuitously supported those beliefs. He would ride his horse and his mind wandered with the rhythmic canter across a wind-tilled field.
He was having a heart-to-heart talk with Hardin, as though the two had been tight.
Before any words were exchanged, Hardin sauntered up to the bar where Cain was drowning-down the trail dust with whiskey; the trail was always dusty in spite of the weather. Cain reflected on Hardin's remark that he could have put a shot through his head before Cain had time to draw. Cain finished his whiskey and begged Hardin to cast his eyes down at his lap where his pistol was already drawn, cocked, and aimed upwards and towards Hardin's chin. Both men shared a hardy chuckle over the exchange and Cain bought Hardin a drink. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the two men discussed their preferred methods for plying their barbarous trade. Cain made use of this time to impart his own wisdoms.
In an over-accentuated drawl, Cain said,"I've never had a showdown at high-noon, walked down the center of the town's main street, waited to draw, walked ten paces, or exchanged pithy dialogue. For example," he extrapolated,"I once poked my head inside a saloon and shot a bastard in his chair. Another time, I walked up and shot a cowpoke while he was chattering with his cowpoke crew."
"And posses?" Hardin asked.
Cain smiled, bemused. "Ambush 'em from behind and would shoot anyone who looks like they might talk." He flashed a broad smile,"Which, as it always turned out, tends to be everyone."
While the two conversed, and the drinks flowed, Hardin grew drunk and Cain detailed one of his most cherished accomplishments. "In eighteen seventy-two, I was the number one cause for the creation of Ghost Towns. But, there ain't nobody left to pin that particular medal."
Hardin raised a toast to Cain's accomplishments and bought another round.
In the depths of Cain's fantasy, Hardin seemed close to passing out and pushed himself away from the bar and retired to have a turn with Cookie Batter, or whatever the head-whore's name was.
With Hardin out of earshot, Cain felt more open to talking a little smack.
"The Earps are pansies, but I don't reckon they aren't able. Everyone thinks Hardin is the end-all-be-all bandit," and he glanced up towards the second floor of the bar. He fell silent and looked with a drunken gaze at the door Hardin had entered, belonging to Horse Radish Sue's room or whatever her name was. "But that's just it," he continued explaining to a non-confrontational cowpoke and the bartender, when he wasn't pouring drinks. "Hardin's a bandit. A marauder. A punk. Yes, he is a crack-shot, but then, aren't we all?. At this level," he gestured towards himself and also towards the door Hardin had entered,"It's a matter of degree, too. I wouldn't try to shoot the pistol out of your hand at thirty paces. No," he said leaned closer towards his audience,"I'd shoot at your knees, maybe, then walk up and shoot your hands, and maybe shoot you in a few other painful places. Then, when you were bloodied and writhing," he envisioned several squirming gunfighters on the perennially dusty street,"I might even kill you."
"Jesse James," Cain said with a smile and smacked the 'M' in James. "Jesse got caught up in believing he was some kind of hero, but at first he admitted he was just a no-good thief and murderer. I suppose you could say I like the fellow for that honesty."
"Who do you admire?" A card-shuffling shopkeeper or shifty-eyed squatter asked him. He didn't see who asked. Normally, he would never admit it, but happened to be drunk enough at that moment. "There is one man I think really identifies the era of history in which we live. And, that man is Jeremiah Johnson from Montana. Ol' Liver-Eatin' Johnson. A decent man, I suppose, until Indians up and killed his wife and daughter." Cain leveled his eyes at a sodbuster who was listening intently. "Yes sir, Jeremiah knew how to exact revenge, and he knew how to continually exact it over and over. I like to think that I live my life the same way that Johnson lived his. Figure out what really gets to the heart of humanity, and keep it up. Genocide works for me."
Cain's delirium drifted from the bar to the street where he encountered some young pup. He imparted his wisdom as though his audience begged for his words, flakes of heavenly manna, to fill their bellies through their ears.
A simple boy with saucer-wide eyes listened attentively. "I've never worn a cowpoke's sombrero," Cain said, flipping the brim of the boy's oversized hat,"or any hat at all unless the weather is so foul that Noah himself starts building another big canoe. And, I immediately remove my spurs when I dismount because they make too much ruckus and slow him down. I don't wear a pistol belt or stitch holsters to my clothes. Instead," he patted his trousers,"I keep them here, against my thighs, or sometimes against my chest. Keeps them from freezing-up, and folks aren't as jumpy if they don't see a man walking around with pistols. And," he said with a cautionary and booze-soaked tone,"I never drink whiskey, or smoke tobacco, or fornicate with prostitutes or women of lowly social status." He smiled and his chest swelled. "Have pride in yourself, boy, because that may be all you'll ever have in the world."
The boy muttered something about the local prostitutes, and Cain remarked,"In the past I've taken women by force when the time and place were suitable to my inclination. But, there are so many virtues that it's hard to remember all of them." The boy smiled and Cain elaborated. "I've never robbed a train, a bank, a stage-coach, or a cashbox, but sometimes I'll pick the pockets of someone I killed because it couldn't be stealing if they were already dead, right?"
"But," Cain warned,"if someone shoots at me, I'll shoot anyone and everyone else after I've done in the shooter because, the way I figure it, they'll might come for me next if they didn't have the decency to warn me. And, if someone warns me, well, I have to shoot them on principle because they could have just shot whoever who was aiming to shoot me in the first place."
So went his fantasy. He didn't know what was memory or dream because he didn't remember doing any of it, except one recent event.
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