The heat of the early morning blinds his newly awakened eyes, blurring his vision as he blinks to adjust. Flicking his eyes across the room trying to process his sight, he looks to his bedside, taking the bottle of whiskey and taking a drinking. He winces at feeling the outer wound the bruising and minor cut are fine. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet, taking a breath in and lightly stretching. He puts on his thermals, followed by his suit, but grimaces at his torn-up waist coat and shirt from the fight.
“You have to be shitting me. Annabelle!”
The girl comes running in. “What is it sir?”
“Where is the nearest tailor?”
“Bout 60 miles to Tucson.”
“Fuck. Thank you, Annabelle, you may go now.” He tosses her a coin for the trouble.
Annabelle exits and he wears his torn-up garments nonetheless, now not only his face is scared, he frowns in the mirror but decides to suck it up. After taking his guns and the last of his equipment, he leaves his room and goes downstairs to the bar owner, buying a bottle of vodka, instead of the usual uncorking and downing, he places it on his horse. Thanking Annabelle one last time and heading northwest.
“Good girl Peanut, did they feed you good? You look pretty plumped!”
“*Huff*”
“More to love girl, I am just happy they treated you well, otherwise that Chinaman’s pigs would be eating well! But I digress, good girl, sorry we are backtracking, I need my stuff repaired girl.”
“*Hrrrrrf*”
“Fair enough girl”
Hours they ride, day by day, only stopping at any small water basin or hut to rest.
On the 3rd day they arrive at south entrance to the city, passing by many saloons and bars, seeing the worst of what the city has to offer. Peanut rears at the trains and boozers lurking amongst the dark and smog covered streets. Getting to a more swanky part of town, inhabitants side eyeing and glancing at the foreigner in his tattered clothing. He comes near the complex with the tailor, hitching his horse to the post outside.
He walks past an alleyway and gets dragged by his collar towards it, thrusted to the wall by a young urchin, he initially flinched at the grab but softened at the realisation of the perpetrators age.
“You’re just a kid?” He questions.
“Yeah what of it? Give me your cash! I- I’ll gut ye!” The Urchin stutters looking side by side.
Marcus looks at the kid sympathetically. “Look, I know you aint cut out for this, probably put up to it by one of the gangs, I don’t mind, but drop the knife.” He says calmly.
“N-No, I’m serious sir! I’ll do it!”
“Then do it.” He says flatly.
“Stab me, rob me, I’m already hurt.” He says revealing the bandaging on his chest.
“Do it, easy, one stab here, I don’t want to live, do it, go for it”
“W-what, No, I- I don’t want to.”
In that moment Marcus snatches the Urchins knife.
“Take this and get out of this city kid, work on a boat, or a ranch son. This life ain’t worth it, there’s meaner fellas’ out there.” He says handing the kid some money in a bag. “This should get you a ride East, the west is done son, they don’t want people like you or me, trust me.”
He walks past the kid and leaves him there, questioning the interaction, Marcus enters the tailor shop.
“Good afternoon, sir, how may I meet ya needs?” The Tailor asks with a southern accent.
YOU ARE READING
Never Forgotten
Historical FictionA well dressed former gang member charismaticly trying to reclaim what's left of his past as he searches for his love, whom he doesn't know whether is dead or alive.
