Caleb Weinhardt

Between Hay and Grass

Hank wiped the sweat from his brow while he watched the train come in. His horse, Cash, kicked restlessly at the dirt, sending red dust into the air. Hank squinted. The sun glared off of the black locomotive that pumped a cloud of soot into the sky. 

Hank was spent. His underarms were soaked with sweat, and his legs ached from the long hours of riding. The journey back to town loomed ahead of him.

He cursed Mayor Deacon for sending him on this errand. As the town’s Sheriff and mayor’s right-hand man, Hank was responsible for maintaining order in a lawless land. But today, his task was much more menial.

He spat tobacco juice. Running his tongue over his teeth, Hank watched the train passengers step off of the platform. He tried to pick out the new schoolteacher among them. His task was to return her to town safely. Who knew what unscrupulous characters a young woman might encounter alone in this wilderness. 

A man stood at the train station examining a scrap of paper in his hand. He was cloaked in darkness, his coat swaying about his ankles. Despite the wide-brim hat casting a shadow over his face, Hank recognized the way his shoulders tapered into his narrow frame immediately. His stomach sank. 

Hank dismounted and straightened his vest, suddenly self-conscious about the dirt on his cheeks and his generally disheveled appearance. 

The man in the black coat approached him. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

Hank tipped his hat. “Howdy, Wes.” 

“It is you!” Wesley broke into a run and threw his arms around Hank, slapping him on the back. He stood back to look at him. “Would you look at that,” he mused, tapping the silver star on Hank’s chest, “Who would’ve thought Little Hank would be out here wrangling sidewinders?”

Hank chuckled. “Who’d’ve thought you’d end up a city-slicker?” He squeezed his old friend’s shoulder. It was the most affection he could muster. 

Hank got Wes set on Dixie, the owl-headed palomino, while Wes chattered about his plans for the schoolhouse. He would get those kids excited to scratch arithmetic drills on their chalkboards, he was sure of it. Hank didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d be lucky to convince parents to give up their miniature farmhands. 

Before they could start the journey back, there was a commotion on the train platform. 

Hank saw a man with a red bandana tied round his throat shove a second man to the ground. He stood, and with a flick of his wrist, drew his revolver. The man with the bandana whipped his shooting iron from its holster. 

“Put it on the ground and get out of here!” The man with the bandana demanded.

“You ain’t leavin’ here in one piece,” the other growled. He clutched a leather pouch to his chest. 

Hank dug for his cannon. Though he was out of town, flashing a little silver still had weight in no man’s land. 

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Hank called. The two men, and the small crowd that had gathered around them, took notice. Their eyes darted nervously. 

Hank raised his weapon. “Drop ‘em.”

The man with the pouch cautiously extended his free arm into the air and crouched until he could set his gun on the ground. “I don’t want no trouble, Sheriff!” He shouted. “I’ll just be on my way.” He began to inch back through the crowd.

“That’s my damn money!” The other man cried. He got off one shot that sent up a puff of dust. The crowd roiled and scattered, some checking themselves for scratches. 

The man with the pouch stumbled and then started to run. Shots landed in the dirt around him. 

Hank only needed one bullet. It hit the bandana man’s bicep, sending his arm and weapon flying back. He cried out and hit the ground. 

The man with the pouch vanished into the dust. 

Hank lowered his gun. “Don’t let me see you ‘round here again, you hear?” He called. The man with the bandana could only mutter a groan, clutching at his arm.

Hank returned to the horses after reloading and holstering his revolver. 

“Don’t look so doe-eyed,” Hank told Wesley. “Justice looks a little different out here.”

…

As they crossed the vast frontier, Hank watched the man ahead of him ride. Wes did not look back, an indication of his trust that Hank followed close behind. In the space that stretched out between them, Hank was reminded of the silent, unnamed rift that had sent them drifting apart. The coldness he’d started to feel after that day.

They were schoolboys, twelve or thirteen years old. They had chased each other down to the river. Wesley wrapped his arms around Hank and knocked him down. Wes had been taller and stronger than him then. They tumbled in the grass until they were out of breath. 

Hank lay with his head on Wes’s stomach. The sun blinded him, but it was a pleasant, lazy warmth. 

He tried not to think about that day.

They arrived in town just before sunset. The dirt road and storefronts were washed in an orange glow. A few scrappy hounds ran out to greet them. 

Abigail stumbled out of the noisy saloon with a dazed, wandering expression. She wiped her hands on her apron and squinted at the two approaching figures. 

“Well I never!” She cried. “Is that Wesley Pierce?”

Wes removed his hat and bowed his head. “Miss Abigail,” he said. 

“Don’t you talk to me like that!” She snapped a towel at him. “I ain’t never heard you call me that in my life, Wesley. It was always, ‘Abbie, Abbie my darlin’, my love!’”

It was a time long ago that they’d all been in school together. Though Abbie gave Wes the mitten, she had always been taken with him. 

“Always a pleasure, Abbie,” Wes said with a smile. He took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. 

“After all these years!” She remarked. “What brings you back?”

“I’m here to teach,” he told her. “Mayor Deacon tells me there’s been a long absence.” 

“I can’t say it’s been top of mind,” Abbie sighed. “With this drought, them kids work ‘til breaking. Won’t you come in a minute?”

“What’s all this?” Wes asked. The saloon was decorated with colorful cloths draped around the handrail and hanging from the roof.

“We’re celebrating St. Valentine’s! Haven’t you got a lady back in the city?”

“Can’t say I do,” Wes said. 

“Well, no one ought to be alone on St. Valentine’s Day,” Abigail said, waving the two men through the swinging doors. 

…

The saloon was dimly-lit and bubbling with excitement. There was fiddle music and laughter, and a gathering of men at the bar crooned an old pub song. 

Hank leaned all his weight on the bar. He nodded at the bartender, who supplied him two shots of dark liquor. 

Wesley and Abbie were absorbed by the crowd and then spit out again, spinning and clinging to each other giddily. 

They danced. Wes dipped Abbie low to the ground and then pulled her close. A couple of women clapped to the fiddler’s rhythm, to which Wes and Abbie pounded the creaking floor. 

Hank felt antsy watching them. Abbie beamed ear-to-ear with Wes eagerly holding her at the waist. Their laughter floated over to him no matter how he tried to block it out. He watched them spin, Wes’s confident arm guiding a haphazard waltz. 

Hank slammed a fist down on the bar. “Another,” he said. The bar dog obliged. 

Over the sounds of celebration, a high wooden creak split the air. Wes and Abbie whirled to a halt. Singers dropped their notes, cascading into silence. 

There he was. He stood in the doorway backlit by the setting sun, hands on his hips. Dead-Eye Billy.

He crossed to the bar, surveying the ruckus with his one good eye. The other hid behind a black patch. Despite his handicap, Billy had impeccable aim.

Hank rose to his full height. “You’re not welcome here, traveler,” he said. 

Billy opened his arms wide. “Aw, c’mon! Can’t a man sit down for a drink?”

“Sure he can,” Hank shrugged. “Just not you, Billy.” His hand rested on his trusty iron. 

“I was just hoping to enjoy some—” He spat, “—evening festivities.” 

“A thief and a varmint like you would be wise to light a shuck.” Hank cocked his gun. “Or do you want to hang around and take your chances?”

“You know,” Billy said, “I just might.” His smile was yellow and crooked. 

Billy drew the revolver from his belt and guided it around the room before landing on Hank. The saloon patrons shifted uncomfortably. He liked to remind them he held the piece of metal that could take a life in an instant.

“Think it through, Billy,” Hank said, hand waiting at his holster. “I’m giving you a chance to walk out of here.”

“Just shoot the sun-of-a-gun already!” One of the singers at the bar piped in, firing a shot into the air. 

This set off a panic. Everyone brandished their weapons, pointing them at anything that moved. Billy darted across the bar, smashing pitchers to the ground in his wake.

Bullets ricocheted around the saloon. A window exploded behind Wes. He took cover under a table, yanking Abbie down with him.

In all the chaos, Hank caught ahold of Billy. Billy spun around, knocking Hank’s gun to the floor. 

It was a fight of fists now. Billy grabbed at Hank’s collar. Hank caught the thief under his arms and thrust him backward. Billy careened through a chattering crowd, toppling chairs as he went.

He had Billy cornered against the barrels. Billy panted, catching his breath. Hank retrieved his gun. Billy’s, it seemed, was nowhere to be found.

“You should’ve run while you had the chance, Billy.” Hank raised his weapon.

He felt cool metal press into his side.

“Hank,” Wes said, his revolver buried against Hank’s ribs, “You shoot an unarmed man, I’ll shoot you.”

“Like hell you will.” Hank threw Wes off of him. He stumbled back into a table. Billy took the opportunity to scurry away. 

Hank reeled and fired quickly, but not quickly enough. A sorry stream of whiskey poured out of the bullet hole in the barrel.

Billy launched himself over the saloon tables and busted through the doors. 

…

After the commotion settled and the music resumed, Hank stepped outside. He couldn’t stand to watch Abbie’s desperate attempts for Wesley’s attention.

A few moments later, Wes followed. He sat next to Hank on the rickety porch and reclined against the post, tipping back another drink. 

“How’d we end up like this, Hank?” 

Hank gave no response. 

“Remember how we used to be?” Wes asked. “I missed you all these years, you know.”

“You talk like a damn tenderfoot. What happened to you?” Hank couldn’t bring himself to look at the other man. 

“This place really did a number on you.” Wes looked at him incredulously. “I wish you’d come with me to the city. It’s like nothing you ever imagined, Hank.” 

“‘Course you look down on the rest of us that stayed.” 

“I’m not looking down on you, Hank. I came from this dirt just like you.”

Hank was a man of few words. He traced the shapes of desert grass on the horizon. 

“I thought we could talk about—” Wes started.

Hank’s chest tightened. “We were boys, Wes. We ain’t got nothing to talk about.”

“I never met anyone else like you, Hank. Not out West, not in the city. No one, not ever.” Wes said. 

His words hung in the air. 

“Where you spending the night?” Hank asked, finally. 

“I haven’t got a place yet. I’ll figure something out.”

Hank sighed and stood from the porch. He looked out over the vast, scrubby terrain. “Stay with me, then,” he said. 

Wes nodded. “Alright, then.”

…

When they returned to the house, Hank fluffed the hen skin and made it suitable for his guest, who was no doubt used to more luxurious accommodations. He stepped out to refill the bone-dry troughs—a horse with no water was a dead horse—and when he returned, Wes stood in the doorway. 

He leaned against the doorframe. He wore Hank’s hat and the slant of a smile on his lips.

“Take it off,” Hank said. 

Wes slid his thumb and forefinger around the brim. It was so silent that Hank could hear the quiet sound of skin against rough leather. 

“Take the damn thing off, you hear?”

“Don’t you think it looks better on me?” Wes asked.

In the moonlight filtering through the window slats, Wes unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. His hand slid down to the next button, pushing it through the fabric eye with slow deliberation. He continued until his shirt billowed open. 

Hank ground his teeth. “Take my hat off and stop foolin’ around, you fucking drunk,” he demanded, “or I’ll throw you in the hoosegow with Billy.”

“Go ahead, then,” Wes said. “Lock me up.” He pushed the cotton from his shoulder and the shirt sank down around his hips. He worked his wrists and allowed it to slide to the floor. 

His bare chest was naked in the moonlight. 

Heat rose up in Hank’s chest. He lunged across the floor and grabbed Wes around the back of the neck, pulling the man toward him in a virile display of strength. Wes grinned.

“Take it the hell off!” Hank grunted. He muscled Wes to the floor. They grappled—hands shoving and gripping bare skin, elbows and knees knocking into ribs—in a frenzied, desperate battle. Hank’s elbow grated across the floor and started to bleed. 

Wes took pause at Hank’s injury. Hank caught the underside of his chin and pressed his cheek into the floor. They were both still. Wes’s chest rose and fell heavily. 

Wes let out a low, gravelly laugh. “Just like when we were boys.”

“Shut up!”

Hank hit him. A thin red line bloomed on Wes’s lip and began to leak. 

Hank stood and backed away from the man on the floor. He was furious, disgusted, and his skin was on fire. Wes lay there, bloodied and folded, and Hank wanted as much space between them as possible. He wanted to run out of the house and never turn back. 

Wes pushed himself up on his elbows. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and paused, studying the blood. Hank watched with growing horror as Wes slowly got to his feet. 

“You can’t outrun it, Hank, hard as you try,” Wes said. “The past doesn’t go away.”

“I’m not the one that ran away,” Hank growled. 

“I wouldn’t have left if it weren’t for you!” Wes cried. “It drove me crazy, Hank. I thought I was losing it.” 

He crossed the room until he stood a few inches from Hank. Hank felt his hot breath on his cheek. 

“I couldn’t stand to be here with you,” Wes said. “You never knew it, goddamnit. I wanted you so bad it almost killed me.”

He fell silent. 

Something in Hank broke. His muscles went slack and his forehead rested against Wes’s. His open mouth gasped. 

This time, it was Wes that grabbed around Hank’s neck. Not to pull him to the floor, but to kiss him. They breathed each other in. Hank tasted the metal on Wes’s lips. 

“You said you’d come back,” Hank whispered. “You left me here seventeen years.” 

“I know,” Wes said. “I’m back now.”