The 10-Gallon Tale of Alburney Jones

Chapter 8: Alburney's New Job

Alburney sat in the cart, his eyes fixed on the coiled lasso in his hands. The mere thought of using it to capture men and women, dragging them against their will, made him sick. He remembered the fear and helplessness he felt when Clint sold him. Now, here he is, tasked with bringing others into the same cruel fate he had endured.

In front of him sat the two slave collectors. He was well-familiar with their ruthless tactics and unforgiving nature, and Alburney could sense that they expected the same from him.

"So," one of them said. "You can lasso, huh? Let's hope you're as good as Cobra says."

All Alburney could do was nod. Suddenly, the sound of hooves and lowing cattle filled the air. Alburney turned his head and saw they were riding past a cattle drive. The collectors exchanged evil smiles before deciding to seize the opportunity. One of them flicked the reins and directed the horses toward the herd. With a swift motion, the second collector raised his shotgun and fired into the air. The loud blast sent the cattle scattering in a panic and alerting the five drivers.

One of the cattle drivers, a burly white man, reached for his shotgun and aimed it at the collectors. The second collector sees this, and another shot rang out, knocking the weapon from his grasp. He spins his gun and knocks him off of his horse. The first collector hopped off the cart and threw a pair of bolas at another cattle driver. Alburney felt a surge of guilt wash over him as the following chaos ensued. The second collector looks to Alburney by the cart.

"Don't just stand there! Get to ropin'!"

Hesitantly, Alburney raised his lasso. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he managed to pull one of the cattle drivers off his horse. He quickly roped up two more before they could make a run for it. As the third driver attempted to flee, one of the collectors expertly threw a bola at his feet, tripping him up and allowing them to capture him as well.

Alburney watched in silence as the collectors tied up the men and hauled them into the cart, their struggles and pleas for mercy echoing in his ears. It was a scene that took him back to the day Clint sold him. The whizzing bullets. The harsh grip of the ropes. The tightness of the bandanna. He remembered Clint faking his murder, getting thrown into the cart, and seeing him shake the hands of these wicked men.

Alburney felt a tug on his arm, shaking him from his memories. The first collector had pulled the captives away from him. Alburney's gaze hardened as he watched the men be thrown into the cart like cargo. The weight of the shame hung heavy on his shoulders. He could barely meet their eyes.

As he closed the cart, the slave collector noticed Alburney's despondent expression. "Don't take it too hard, kid." He clasps a hand on his shoulder, startling the new collector. "First catch's always the hardest. Trust me, it gets easier over time."

"Just think of them as pigs. Once you get the bastards in a corner, they'd be easy to control." The other collector chuckled in agreement, a callous smirk on his face.

Alburney shot a disgusted glare at this analogy. He looked back into the cart and saw the fear and resignation in the men's eyes, a reflection of his feelings not too long ago.

The men climbed back into their seats, and the first collector clicked his tongue. As the horses carried on towards the silver mine, Alburney's demeanor shifted. His guilt morphed into reparation. The spark of defiance ignited an idea in his mind. With each passing mile, Alburney's mind whirred with schemes and strategies as he forged a daring plan that would turn the tables on Cobra Jack and his fellow collectors.

After a long ride, the cart finally reached the mine. The collectors ordered him to get the men out from the back. Their mocking laughter rang in his ears, but Alburney paid them no mind. His thoughts were on a newfound purpose. As he made his way to the back of the cart, his eyes fixed on the horizon where freedom beckoned like a distant dream. The men inside breathed muffled gasps when the doors swung open. They huddled within its cramped confines, expressions of fear and confusion spread across their faces. A sly smile curled at the corner of Albrueny's lips as he stared at the men. If Cobra wants him to be a collector, then he would be a different kind. A collector of hope. Of liberation. Of freedom.
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Back at the Jones ranch in Nebraska, Clint and his mother were having a silent dinner in the kitchen. They heard footsteps approaching the back porch. Beau walked up the steps and opened the door. He took off his hat and sat it on the counter.

"Hi, hon." Ashley hugs him and kisses his cheek.

"Hi."

"I made you dinner."

"Later. Clint, would you mind giving us a moment?"

Clint left the table and went into the bedroom. He fell onto his bed and listened to as he listened to his parents' hushed conversation.

"Well?"

"Once again...no luck. We looked everywhere. We asked a couple of folks, and they never saw him."

"You have to go back out there. He has to be somewhere."

"Ash."

"You can't just give up on him."

"Ash- Ashley, we looked everywhere. Every town. Every farm. They all said the same thing. "He's not here." "I haven't seen him." He's g-"

Clint balled his hands into his sheets when he heard his father stop himself from finishing that last word. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately trying to block out Beau's weeping, but it only served to amplify his overwhelming sense of guilt. Hot tears escaped his eyes and spilled onto his pillow as he listened to the heartbreaking symphony that tore at his already fragile conscience.

His gaze landed on the empty bed across him. The bed that once belonged to his cheerful little brother. Now a barren expanse, taunting him with memories of laughter and shared secrets. The old lasso his father had gifted Alburney lay tangled and abandoned on the rumpled sheets. A silent testament to the bond they had once shared. Now, broken by his act of greed and deceit.

Clint sat up on his bed and, with trembling hands, reached under his pillow. He retrieved the money he had taken from the collectors. The bills felt heavy in his grasp. It burned like a brand against his skin, a mocking reminder of his deed. He stared at the bloodstained currency and threw it at the ground. The ill-gotten gains that had cost him his brother's trust and peace of mind scattered over the wooden floor.

The weight of the deed finally crashed down on him when some of the bills landed on Alburney's empty bed. He buried his face in his hands and released a sob that reverberated through the quiet house.