Chapter 3: In Convergence with a Suspicious Stranger

1. If the man has more than three scars on his face, he’s no good.

The man had three scars on his face. One, like a piece of string, tying his two lips together; another cut his left eyebrow in half, and the third patterned a river along his right cheek. But his eyes seemed kind.

“What’s yer name boy?” He shouted up to where the young man sat perched on a small rock cropping, high enough to where he could look down on the man, but close enough to where he could count his scars. He’d been up there for hours now, basking in the afternoon sun, and looking out at the wide stretch of Texas land he’d found himself on. There was nothing but rock and sagebrush for miles, an ocean of beige oblivion. He could look out until he could see the horizon begin to curve. The earth had never felt so simultaneously round and flat before. He wondered if Texas was just like that. Irrational.

“Kit,” the boy finally shouted down.

“Well get on down here, I wanna talk to ya,” the man shouted up. After just a second of hesitation, Kit sat up and began to hike down the side of the outcropping. He walked up to the man who was seated atop a large, black gelding with deep, mahogany eyes. The animal pawed at the ground in impatience and the man kicked it harshy in the side, making it scream. It’s echo bounced off the outcropping and off the side of Kit’s head, making his ears ring.

“Yer a flinchy little guy, aren’t ya?” the man chuckled, “you’ve been fighting the war?”

“Yessir.”

“Ah. So tell me, is Texas ours?”

“Yessir.”

“God bless ya.”

“Yessir.”

2. Do not, under any circumstances, talk about where you’ve been and where you plan on going.

“Where ya headed,” the man asked, “now that the war’s over?”

“Oh north,” Kit said.

“That’s where they all want to go,” the man said, “I don’t see the big deal with the north. It’s cold up there. Besides, where up north would you get views like these?” He twisted in his saddle, gesturing out at Texas’s irrational land. Kit didn’t reply.

“Tell you what… Kit, was it? Tell you what. I ain’t got nowhere to go at the moment and this seems like a right good place to tucker on down for the night. You might call me a romantic n’ all, but I’m always in the mood for a good war story or two. Whaddya say yous stay here for the night, with me, and I’ll feed ya, give ya a blanket to keep you warm n’ all that in exchange for a few of yer war stories? Hmm? Sound like deal?”

3. Never agree to spend the night with a man who never gave you his name.

“What’s your name?” Kit asked.

“Oh hell, that’s rude of me,” the man laughed, “I’m Hock. John Hock.”

“Sure I’ll stay,” Kit said.

4. Keep the fire between you and your host at all times.

Kit helped the man set up camp. He tied his horse to a bit of sagebrush not too far away and Kit worried that it would pull it’s bridle out of the thicket and just run away. But it didn’t. It just stood with its head hung low as John Hock pulled his packs off its back. The two of them settled on a bit of space just below the outcropping where their backs would be sheltered from the wind. They kicked all the rocks they could off to the side until they had formed a nice ring of soft dirt. As Hock dismantled his belongings, Kit gathered enough dry sticks from the thickets to start a fire. Of course, he had his own belongings, a pack he kept strapped to his back, but he was too embarrassed to reveal that he had nothing more than a few rocks, a bird feather, and a hat from a fellow soldier inside. Hock came with blankets and mugs and beef jerky.

The sun was well-set by the time the both of them had nestled themselves into the dirt. Kit sat cross legged and Hock laid on his side, propping his head up with his elbow. Kit watched his face between the flames of the fire, his kind eyes reflecting the red light right back. He thought the man looked old. His skin was thick and leathery and his mustache was patchy and riddled with grey. He resembled a branch of driftwood washed up shore. Dark, porous, thick. Kit felt young.

The both of them sat in silence while the sun disappeared. The land morphed from beige oblivion to a red void, then to black nothingness. The stars appeared before the moon, and Hock offered Kit a piece of jerky. He took it with a nod, sticking it in his cheek. It became habit now. They taught him, in the war, not to chew food right away, but to store it in your cheek and suck on it. It tricked the stomach out of moaning most of the time.

“So, how many didja kill?” Hock finally spoke.

“What?” Kit said.

“Men. The enemy. Them boys fighting for Mexico. How many didja kill?” the man said.

“Uh… none.” Kit said.

“None?”

“Yessir.”

“None.”

“Yessir.”

“What do you mean none?”

“I mean I kilt none men.”

Silence.

“Well Kit, that’s not the kind of war story I was expectin’.” Hock said.

5. Never disappoint your host.

“You are a soldier aren’t you? Fighting for the war down there in Mexico?” Hock said.

“Yessir.”

“And you didn’t kill any men?” he said.

“No sir.”

“Well I’m right disappointed in you, boy,” Hock said, shifting in the dirt so that he sat upright, his eyes glowing even brighter in the fire, “there ain’t never been a good soldier who never kilt a man.”

“How so, sir?” Kit asked. The man guffawed, his voice echoing off the outcropping, startling the horse tied to the thicket.

“How so? Boy, I oughta slap you right upside the head. A soldier’s duty is to kill the enemy. Didn’t they teach you anything out there or did they just throw you into a uniform the minute you came you came out of your momma? It’s all about numbers. More of us, less of them, right? And you mean to tell me that numbers never crossed your paltry mind?”

Kit didn’t know what paltry meant, so he stayed silent.

“Jesus.” Hock muttered after a moment.

“I thought a soldier’s duty was to win the war,” Kit finally said, “we did that.”

“We? Sounds to me like you didn’t do a damn thing out there, Kit.”

“I did.”

“But you never kilt a man?”

“Not one, sir.”

“Jesus. What did you do out there boy? Stand around looking at flowers and watching the clouds roll by?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Did they give you a gun?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you know how to use it?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you use it?”

“Yessir. I shot a rabbit once. Tasted real nice. Billy even let me use some of the salt he had packed away if I let him have a leg.”

“Jesus!”

“No, Billy. Billy was the one with the salt.”

“Do you have any worthwhile stories there, Kit?” Hock finally asked.

“Yessir.”

“Well go on then.”

“Okay well… so I was stationed in this small town somewhere south of here, me and a whole bunch of boys from up north. It was a weird town, you know? It was weird because we were the only men there. The only men! It was weird because the only people that lived there were women. Women! A whole town of women, and they were right pretty women too. I think they loved us or something because everyday they would come out of their homes and come talk to us boys. They would bring us food to eat too. Corn and whatever else they made. Right friendly women, I’m tellin’ ya, we couldn’t have been treated better. Everyday they seemed to dote on one of us boys in particular. First it was Jack, they flirted with him until the sun went down and then, when it did, they led the lucky man to this little house they kept at the end of the lane. Now, the rest of us boys could only imagine what Jack and a whole buncha pretty ladies were doing in that house that night. We were all jealous, lemme tell ya! But we didn’t have to wait long. The next day, the women came back and began to dote on Earnest. Then that night they brought Earnest to the house and the rest of us boys were jealous. And so the pattern continued. Everyday, these women would dote on a new boy, and every night they’d lead him to the house at the end of the lane. The rest of us started to get real excited, hoping it would be our turn next. They took their darn sweet time, those women. It was a month before it was just Billy and me. The night Billy went, it was just me sitting out there. Just me. I guess you could say I spent a lot of time looking at flowers and clouds, wondering about the happenings in the house down the lane. I could hardly wait my own turn! But as life has it, the unfortunate only become less fortunate. The next day before them pretty women could come dote on me, the sergeant from the next town over came riding in. He wondered where the rest of the boys went, and I told him. He shrugged and told me that the war was over, he told me to pack my things and get outa there. So I did. I never did get my own dose of doting, but I ‘spose that I could sacrifice my own happiness for the happiness of the rest of them boys. For all I know, they’re still down there, doting! Man, what a life.”

Hock was silent.

6.  Never talk back to your host.

“I’m just blown away there, Kit, what a story.” Hock finally said.

“Thank you, sir,” Kit said.

“I mean, I’m just blown away. I’ve never heard a story about a more worthless soldier.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me boy, worthless. If your momma was here, I’m sure even she’d agree.”

“That ain’t possible, sir. My mother died six years ago.”

“Jesus Kit, I can’t believe they even let you into the service. I’ve never heard a story of a more worthless soldier.”

“We won the war.”

“No Kit, you did nothing to win the war. It was them boys out there who were making kill count who won the war. You were too busy staring at pretty women to pull yer gun out and shoot a man.”

“I’m sure glad for it, sir.”

“Glad for it?”

“Sure. I don’t think I even want to kill a man. That stuff just ain’t right.”

“JESUS!”

“Sir?”

“Kit, I’ve never met a boy with his head so far up his ass as you. I mean, you’re just spitting shit left and right! Never want to kill a man! Bah! Do you know what I do, Kit?”

“No sir, what do you do?”

“I’m the law.”

“The law?”

“I mean, I kill bad men for money, Kit. I kill men for a living. I chase them bastards all over this goddam land, serving them justice for all the wrong that they’ve done. You know how many men I’ve killed Kit?

7. Never ask your host how many men he’s killed.

“How many?” Kit asked.

“Thirty-six men, Kit. I’ve kilt thirty-six men.”

8. Never ask your host why he’s killed thirty-six men.

“Whyja kill em?” Kit asked.

“Ten of ‘em robbed banks. Nine of ‘em killed other men. Six of ‘em killed women. Three of ‘em killed men and women. Six of ‘em spit on the Bible, and two of ‘em robbed banks, killed men and women, and spit on the Bible all in one day.”

“Sound like an important job.” Kit said.

“It is Kit, it is. Men like me matter to this nation, men like you should tip-toe their way back over the ocean and go back to kissing the King’s feet.”

“I’m sure the King is dead by now, sir.”

“Jesus Kit, that don’t matter. Tell me, didja grow up with a father?”

“No sir, he ran away the moment momma started to bloat.”

“Well I’m gonna teach you a lesson your daddy shoulda been there to teach ya.”

“What’s that, sir?”

Hock reached in his pack and pulled out a rifle. He threw it to Kit on the other side of the fire. It landed with a clack at his feet.

9. Never take your host’s rifle.

Kit picked up the rifle and held it in his arms like it was a child.

“I’m gonna teach you how to kill,” Hock said.

“Sir?”

“That’s right, boy. I’m gonna teach you how to kill. It’ll be the best lesson any man has ever taught ya.”

“But there’s nothing to kill out here, sir. All the enemy’s down south.”

“There’s always things to kill boy. Stand up.”

Kit stood up.

“I want you to go over there and shoot that gelding, ya hear?”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, boy. Go over there and shoot that gelding dead. Shoot him dead!”

Kit walked over to where the horse was tied to the thicket, his head still hung low. He stared at Kit with his mahogany eyes. Kit raised the rifle to his shoulder and looked down the barrel. The horse’s shoulder quivered.

“Sir?”

“Yes Kit.”

“I can’t kill this horse, he’s never done anything wrong. You said it yourself, you’re the law. You’ve only kilt men who’ve deserved it. Men who’ve kilt men, men who’ve kilt women, men who’ve spit on the Bible. I don’t think horses can even spit, sir. This horse is innocent. Right innocent. It wouldn’t make sense to kill him. Horses don’t even know right from wrong. I can’t kill him.”

Hock was silent for a moment. Kit could see him thinking, his eyes glowing in the light of the fire.

“Well I’d say you’re damn right, Kit. I don’t think horses can even spit.” he said.

“Yessir.”

“You’ve got good morals there Kit, that’s good. You’ve gotta shoot something that ain’t innocent.”

“Sure sir,” Kit lowered the gun.

“Nah boy, don’t you put that gun down. You’ve gotta kill something out here,” he was silent again, thinking, “I want you to shoot me.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me boy. Out of us three, you, me, and the gelding, I’m the least innocent man here. You’ve gotta learn how to shoot a man, boy. It just ain’t right. It just ain’t right!”

“You want me to shoot you, sir?”

“Yes Kit! Shoot me dead!”

“You want me to shoot you, sir?”

“Jesus Kit!”

10. Never shoot your host dead.

Kit shot Hock straight in the heart.

Before he pulled the trigger, Hock’s eyes melted from red determination to blue realization. Kit thought they looked kind.

11. If you fail to follow rules 1-10, hide.

The man’s body fell with a hollow thump on the ground, a puddle of blood erupting from his mouth. For a moment or two, Kit stood with the rifle still hugging his shoulder, his cheek pressed tight against the stock, his finger pulled tight around the trigger. The land was silent. Oblivion.

Kit lowered the rifle stepped carefully over to the body. He squatted down and, with shaky hands, pressed his fingers to Hock’s neck. He was dead alright. Kit ran his fingers up his esophagus and tipped his chin back towards the sky. There, under his chin, Kit found a fourth scar dug like a valley into his skin.

Kit thought about the thirty-six men as he packed up Hock’s things. Thirty-six seemed to him like a devilish number. He wondered if Hock had ever felt any regret, and he wondered if he should have felt any too. He didn’t. He just felt numb. Silence screamed in his ears. He thought that he should check if the man was really dead again. He didn’t. Instead, he covered the man’s body with the blanket, tucking his own rifle in between his limp arms. He dragged the body to where the gelding stood and hoisted it up and over his saddle. He tied the body to the horse best he could.

Kit shoved the man’s jerky into his pocket and slung his bag over his shoulder. Then, he pulled the horse’s reins from the ticket and gently pulled the bridle from its face. The horse stood there for a moment, confused. Kit said to it, “if I’m as innocent as you, then we both must carry the weight of the impure.” He slapped it’s rump and, with a kick, the horse disappeared into the black.

Kit began to climb back up to the top of the outcropping, just in time to watch the sun begin to rise on the opposite horizon. He watched the land morph from black, to red, to an ocean of beige oblivion. He thought Texas was irrational, and the people inside of it were too. Irrational, like flat and round simultaneously. Like thirty-six dead men and one. Like Texas. Like oblivion. Like death.