Page 69 of Deadshot

Two men had pulled up in a wagon stacked with burlap sacks of feed. Their hats drooped low, dust coating their boots. One clambered down, grunting as he untied the ropes. The other sat on the bench, chewing a stem of grass.

“You Buckeye?” the man on the ground asked.

“Name’s Blaze,” Blaze replied.

“Close enough,” the man said. “Got twenty sacks for ya.”

“Stack ’em by the barn,” Blaze said.

“That’s the plan,” the man said.

The other man on the bench spat into the dirt. “Hot work for a boy.”

“Hot work don’t scare me,” Blaze said.

“That so?” the man asked with a grin.

“That’s so,” Blaze replied.

The first man chuckled, hefting a sack onto his shoulder. “Boy talks like he’s twice his age.”

“Folks say he’s got reason to,” the man on the bench said.

“Folks say a lot,” Blaze said flatly.

The men glanced at each other. One raised his brows.

“You hear the talk then?” the bench rider asked.

“I hear plenty,” Blaze said.

“Not from us,” the man said quickly. “We don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

The men fell quiet, muscles straining as they hauled sack after sack. Dust swirled in the yard. Blaze bent to lift one himself, piling it against the barn wall.

“Don’t take it personal, son,” the man on the ground said after a while. “Rumors get legs, start runnin’ whether you like it or not.”

“Some say your pa was a thief,” the other muttered.

Blaze’s head snapped up.

“Easy, Jed,” the first man warned.

“What? Boy oughta know what they’re whisperin’,” Jed said.

“I know what they whisper,” Blaze said.

Jed chewed his stem of grass. “Then you know they say his blood runs in you—same as him.”

“My pa weren’t no thief,” Blaze said.

Jed raised both hands. “Didn’t say I believed it. Just sayin’ what’s out there.”

“What’s out there’s lies,” Blaze said.

The men shifted uneasily. The last sack thumped down. Silence hung a second too long.

“Anyhow,” the first man said finally, “that’s the load. Same price as usual. Your ma will square up.”

The men climbed back onto the wagon. Horses snorted, stamping in the dust.

“No harm meant, son,” the first man said.

The man tugged his hat brim. The wagon creaked forward, wheels crunching over the dry ground. Soon, only a fading trail of dust marked their leaving.

Blaze stood alone beside the sacks with his fists clenched and his jaw tight. His chest heaved with the weight of words he hadn’t spoken.

Continue reading… Fire Made Him