This is something I've been working on for about a week now, in bursts. I've yet to come up with a title for it, however. I've adopted a different approach to what I'm used to in order to write this, and my own opinion is that it's working rather well so far. Anyway, any input and feedback would be appreciated.
It was an unusually cheery looking day for the type of day it was. The sun was warm and horribly pleasant, and there were only a few small white puffs of clouds floating across the sky, like some odd kind of lamb slowly grazing across a blue field. There was a cool breeze, just enough to keep the worst of the heat away. If he had been here on different circumstances, Thomas Cole might have smiled.
A crow landed on the branch above Thomas’ head and gave out a remorseful cry. At least someone has the right attitude, he thought as he lit up a cigarette with a match struck against the tree against which he was leaning. He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly and observed the small congregation of people a little way off. There were about a dozen people standing in a little knot, with another figure standing solitary a few paces away. Another couple were making their way over the group, from the East. He took another drag of the cigarette and contemplated his loss.
It had been three days since Thomas’ brother, Buford, had died. The belief about town was that it had been a freak accident and Thomas had to admit that all the evidence that suggested such made it a very convincing rumour. However, Thomas and Buford had been inseparable ever since Thomas had been born thirty-two years previous and they knew each other better than they knew themselves. And in an odd revelation that came to Thomas faster than a rabbit bolted out of its burrow at the sound of a gunshot, he realised it was almost thirty-two years to the day. Still no smile played around his mouth though.
Buford and Thomas Cole were crooks, or more specifically; outlaws. Their parents had both died when Thomas was three and Buford seven. This was an accident, and Thomas knew this because he had had “a front row seat”, as they say, when the bridge over the river collapsed. It had happened quickly, but it seemed to last an hour to the young boy at the time, as those kinds of situations always do. One of the rotten planks had broken under his father’s foot fall, then another under his mother’s. And the next thing Thomas knew, he was watching his parents fall helplessly into the water. The weather at the time had been quite poor and the water below was rough and moving fast and it was that speed that dragged his parents downriver and over the waterfall, where their bodies were broken against the rocks forty feet later.
Ever since that day, Buford and Thomas had had to make their own way in the wide (and ever-increasing) world. They coped well enough for a time, taking a loaf of bread when no one was looking here, and an apple there. But as they got older and smarter, they decided to put their talents to a better use, so when Thomas was seventeen, they robbed their first train. At the time he had been amazed at the ease and simplicity of it and couldn’t understand how all these other outlaws managed to get caught in the act. Since then, the brothers had looted about two dozen trains and several banks across America. They had made a name for themselves, although very few people knew who they were. They never stayed in one place for too long, and always made sure they left a considerable gap between two jobs so as not to get caught. When they arrived at a new town, they donned a new alias and often changed their hairstyles and facial hair, so as to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
It had been about four weeks since they held up the bank in a small dusty town near the Mexican border. If asked now, Thomas wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone the name of the town; they had both seen countless settlements of this nature over the last fifteen years and after so long, they all seemed to look the same to him.
They had ridden north and within a few days, they had returned to San Luis Obispo, California – the city in which their parents had died. It was the first time either of them had set foot there since they left town twenty three years ago, hidden away on a cargo train heading west. Ever since then, neither of them had felt any desire to return home. But on that day in 1846, they both felt an odd sort of sentimental longing and decided to settle there for a while.
They had followed their usual routine of altering their appearance as much as possible so as to go unnoticed, and right up until the instant Buford’s life had ended, they had gone so. Hell for all Thomas knew, their cover of Reuben Tavers and Joshua Andrews – travelling businessmen - was still intact. But Thomas knew that his brother would never have allowed himself to get caught by the law so easily, with his pants down as it were.
The word about town was that some new young deputy in town had mistaken Buford for a petty thief he had caught trying to steal from Walter’s General Store in town a week ago, and while holding him at gunpoint (probably gloating at having “caught the same chicken-shit thief twice in a week. Seriously, how fuckin’ stupid can a guy get?”), had slipped on a puddle of water and shot Buford. Walter Barrows himself, and the three customers in the store had all given their own eye-witness accounts of what had happened on that day and all stories held true, and it was put down to a gruesome twist of fate for the newcomer to the community of San Luis Obispo.
Thomas had been informed by Sheriff Harman later that day, and had barely been able to sleep a wink since. No matter how many questions he asked or scare tactics he employed on the eye-witnesses, they never budged on their account of what happened at Walter’s General. But he just knew that it had been more than a slip by an inept deputy. He was sure that there was some larger conspiracy going on here, but he seemed to be hitting dead ends everywhere and it was frustrating, to say the least.
Thomas finished his cigarette, crushed the butt beneath his heel, spat in the dirt and started to make his way over to the small group of people. It was high noon and time to lay Buford James Cole to rest in the town he was born in.
Ideally, Thomas would have liked his older brother to have been buried near their parents, but the spots by Elijah and Abigale Cole’s graves were reserved for their sons who had disappeared years previously; not for random newcomers to town.
None of the people who had turned up for Buford’s funeral actually knew who he was, they all just thought he was the rather weathered Joshua Andrews, who had recently come to town to start up a new business, and who had been the victim of a horrible accident.
The young deputy hadn’t bothered to turn up for the funeral. Thomas was both relieved at this, and sickened. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to look into the face of the man who killed his brother while pretending he was mourning a friend, and sickened because he wanted to crush the man’s head beneath his boot, and he was too much of a coward to show up at the funeral of a man who he ‘accidentally’ killed.
“Brothers and Sisters,” the Priest began his sermon. “We have congregated here today to mourn the loss of our dear friend Joshua Andrews, who was taken from us before his due time…”
My main problem with it is that it doesn't become clear until later on when it's set, and I think I could probably work a little bit on describing Thomas and the surroundings, but as of yet I don't have a clear-cut image of what he looks like in my head.
It was an unusually cheery looking day for the type of day it was. The sun was warm and horribly pleasant, and there were only a few small white puffs of clouds floating across the sky, like some odd kind of lamb slowly grazing across a blue field. There was a cool breeze, just enough to keep the worst of the heat away. If he had been here on different circumstances, Thomas Cole might have smiled.
A crow landed on the branch above Thomas’ head and gave out a remorseful cry. At least someone has the right attitude, he thought as he lit up a cigarette with a match struck against the tree against which he was leaning. He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly and observed the small congregation of people a little way off. There were about a dozen people standing in a little knot, with another figure standing solitary a few paces away. Another couple were making their way over the group, from the East. He took another drag of the cigarette and contemplated his loss.
It had been three days since Thomas’ brother, Buford, had died. The belief about town was that it had been a freak accident and Thomas had to admit that all the evidence that suggested such made it a very convincing rumour. However, Thomas and Buford had been inseparable ever since Thomas had been born thirty-two years previous and they knew each other better than they knew themselves. And in an odd revelation that came to Thomas faster than a rabbit bolted out of its burrow at the sound of a gunshot, he realised it was almost thirty-two years to the day. Still no smile played around his mouth though.
Buford and Thomas Cole were crooks, or more specifically; outlaws. Their parents had both died when Thomas was three and Buford seven. This was an accident, and Thomas knew this because he had had “a front row seat”, as they say, when the bridge over the river collapsed. It had happened quickly, but it seemed to last an hour to the young boy at the time, as those kinds of situations always do. One of the rotten planks had broken under his father’s foot fall, then another under his mother’s. And the next thing Thomas knew, he was watching his parents fall helplessly into the water. The weather at the time had been quite poor and the water below was rough and moving fast and it was that speed that dragged his parents downriver and over the waterfall, where their bodies were broken against the rocks forty feet later.
Ever since that day, Buford and Thomas had had to make their own way in the wide (and ever-increasing) world. They coped well enough for a time, taking a loaf of bread when no one was looking here, and an apple there. But as they got older and smarter, they decided to put their talents to a better use, so when Thomas was seventeen, they robbed their first train. At the time he had been amazed at the ease and simplicity of it and couldn’t understand how all these other outlaws managed to get caught in the act. Since then, the brothers had looted about two dozen trains and several banks across America. They had made a name for themselves, although very few people knew who they were. They never stayed in one place for too long, and always made sure they left a considerable gap between two jobs so as not to get caught. When they arrived at a new town, they donned a new alias and often changed their hairstyles and facial hair, so as to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
It had been about four weeks since they held up the bank in a small dusty town near the Mexican border. If asked now, Thomas wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone the name of the town; they had both seen countless settlements of this nature over the last fifteen years and after so long, they all seemed to look the same to him.
They had ridden north and within a few days, they had returned to San Luis Obispo, California – the city in which their parents had died. It was the first time either of them had set foot there since they left town twenty three years ago, hidden away on a cargo train heading west. Ever since then, neither of them had felt any desire to return home. But on that day in 1846, they both felt an odd sort of sentimental longing and decided to settle there for a while.
They had followed their usual routine of altering their appearance as much as possible so as to go unnoticed, and right up until the instant Buford’s life had ended, they had gone so. Hell for all Thomas knew, their cover of Reuben Tavers and Joshua Andrews – travelling businessmen - was still intact. But Thomas knew that his brother would never have allowed himself to get caught by the law so easily, with his pants down as it were.
The word about town was that some new young deputy in town had mistaken Buford for a petty thief he had caught trying to steal from Walter’s General Store in town a week ago, and while holding him at gunpoint (probably gloating at having “caught the same chicken-shit thief twice in a week. Seriously, how fuckin’ stupid can a guy get?”), had slipped on a puddle of water and shot Buford. Walter Barrows himself, and the three customers in the store had all given their own eye-witness accounts of what had happened on that day and all stories held true, and it was put down to a gruesome twist of fate for the newcomer to the community of San Luis Obispo.
Thomas had been informed by Sheriff Harman later that day, and had barely been able to sleep a wink since. No matter how many questions he asked or scare tactics he employed on the eye-witnesses, they never budged on their account of what happened at Walter’s General. But he just knew that it had been more than a slip by an inept deputy. He was sure that there was some larger conspiracy going on here, but he seemed to be hitting dead ends everywhere and it was frustrating, to say the least.
Thomas finished his cigarette, crushed the butt beneath his heel, spat in the dirt and started to make his way over to the small group of people. It was high noon and time to lay Buford James Cole to rest in the town he was born in.
Ideally, Thomas would have liked his older brother to have been buried near their parents, but the spots by Elijah and Abigale Cole’s graves were reserved for their sons who had disappeared years previously; not for random newcomers to town.
None of the people who had turned up for Buford’s funeral actually knew who he was, they all just thought he was the rather weathered Joshua Andrews, who had recently come to town to start up a new business, and who had been the victim of a horrible accident.
The young deputy hadn’t bothered to turn up for the funeral. Thomas was both relieved at this, and sickened. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to look into the face of the man who killed his brother while pretending he was mourning a friend, and sickened because he wanted to crush the man’s head beneath his boot, and he was too much of a coward to show up at the funeral of a man who he ‘accidentally’ killed.
“Brothers and Sisters,” the Priest began his sermon. “We have congregated here today to mourn the loss of our dear friend Joshua Andrews, who was taken from us before his due time…”
My main problem with it is that it doesn't become clear until later on when it's set, and I think I could probably work a little bit on describing Thomas and the surroundings, but as of yet I don't have a clear-cut image of what he looks like in my head.