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Falling in with Orville Peck wasn’t something I did deliberately. There wasn’t a specific moment where I consciously thought, What are this man’s true intentions here? His undying charisma and sheer, canyon-wall mystery kept me utterly enthralled. Detailed, with millions of stones to turn over, yet impossible to scale.
And in a town as dusty and quiet as this one, he is a real gold mine. Unfortunately, that gold mine has a delicate ceiling.
Ever since I met him, Peck has been extraordinarily flirtatious. Previously, we’d only ever heard of each other through word of mouth. Orville Peck, the fearless gunfighter rumored to have shot down fifty men, and I, James ‘Steel Heart’ Galloway, the Robin Hood of the Southwest. I had heard that Peck had a reputation for laying on the flattery before shooting his rival during a gunfight. Even the dead civilian he was burying the day I met him, the hottest day of summer, couldn’t put a damper on his charm, something I found both worrying and strangely attractive. So I returned the favor with praise of my own. He was apprehensive at first, as any good outlaw would, but soon enough, he kicked the flattery into high gear. I tried my best not to give in to his persisting efforts, but I later found myself in the back of a horse-drawn wagon with his hands all over me, so I suppose my efforts were no match for his.
There is always a conflict, though. Us outlaws do not have it easy. Trouble was looking for us.
Literally. The sheriff’s dirty, half-rabid mutt, Trouble, trots up to our campfire and snarls a few more times than really necessary. But as brave a face as that dog puts on, he flinches and scurries back into the brush when Orville lunges in a feint attack. He sits back beside me on the overturned log, shoulder against mine, a deep laugh causing the long fringe of his leather mask to flutter up. My heart flutters along with it.
But as we’ve learned, if Trouble is nearby, the sheriff is too, and that means real trouble. Orville douses our little campfire and we part with a kiss, his gloved hand hastily pulling back the fringe to reach my mouth with his.
The ride from our secret meeting spot to town is short and pleasant. The flora of the path is worn down enough to be manageable but not enough to give away the secret, and I can see the dim glow of the village ahead under the blanket of stars that grace the sky. The little town is winding down at this time of night. I pull my bandana over my nose as my horse kicks up dust from the dirt road, the light evening breeze blowing it back up at me. Men stumble out of the saloon, bottles sloshing in their weathered hands, clutching each other as they try to walk home. Ol’ Frankie Williams trips over a pothole in the street and I dismount my horse to help him up. He smiles drunkenly when he sees my eyes.
“‘Steel Heart’, is that really you?” he slurs as I grip him under the arms and drag him to his feet.
He won’t remember this in the morning. He never does, so I whisper, “Yes, Frankie, now let’s get you home.” I haul him up onto my horse’s back, where he buries his face in her mane and giggles to himself.
I walk alongside them, down the road to Frankie’s house, where his unhappy wife reluctantly helps him to bed for the third time this week. I offer her a nod and mount my horse once more. The moon is full and bright and illuminates my way down the path I live on. I take care of my horse in her little stable and then drop into bed.
-
Waking up to a pistol under your chin is a rather nasty surprise that, unfortunately, happens a hell of a lot around here. I surface from sleep and feel the cool metal dig into my throat, but before I can panic the logical side of my brain kicks in. I relax my muscles and look at the wielder of the weapon. He wears a bandana like mine but it is almost comically obvious that it’s the sheriff.
“Up, boy,” he snarls, prodding me with the gun. I sit up slowly, keeping my hands where he can see them. He locks handcuffs around my wrist and I easily comply, even helping him cuff the other wrist behind my back. He steps back and looks down his arm at me. “Wipe that damn smirk off your face, boy!” And he swings and the butt of the pistol connects with my cheekbone. Pain crackles through my head and sparks down into my neck and I bite my lip hard to stop from crying out.
He grabs me by my elbow and marches me outside while his little minions go through my belongings. We walk all the way down the main road, blood dripping onto my clothes, and it occurs to me that the townsfolk that are gathering are seeing my face for the first time. No more anonymity, I suppose. We enter the town square and there are a few dozen people gathered in a circle around something, cheering and yelling. The sheriff drags me through to the middle and kicks my knees. I fall hard and squint in the early morning sunlight. Orville lays on the dirt, his mask crooked and his ribs clearly broken. Frankie Williams stands glowering above him, fists balled and knuckles split. The crowd chants for Orville to stand, to put up a fight, but they fall silent when they see me, still dressed in my “uniform” from last night. Murmurs flutter through the group and Orville raises his eyes to me. He looks sad and hurt, like a wounded animal, and my heart breaks for him.
“Townspeople!” the sheriff cries, stepping into the circle. “I present to you… in a sorry state of disarray… Orville Peck!”
He kicks sand into Orville’s face and the crowd cheers. The sheriff turns to me, a hatred in his eyes I’ve never seen before in a man, and spits on the ground. I lower my head out of fear.
“And this…” He takes slow steps toward me, his sharp spurs glinting in the sun. “This is your little hero. ‘Steel Heart’.”
A low gasp runs through the mob. The sheriff grips my chin and holds my face up so the townsfolk can see. “Does this flimsy little pansy look like he can save you?”
He slaps me so hard I see stars. I lift my eyes to Frankie but he’s avoiding my gaze. If he remembers how I helped him, if any of these people remember how I have helped them, they’re too scared to speak up. And I can’t blame them.
One of the sheriff’s cronies pulls me to my feet and unlocks my handcuffs. A pistol is pressed into my hand and they start shouting for the crowd to back up. The sheriff spits some words into Orville’s ear and heaves him to his feet. I can almost feel the pain radiating off of him. The sheriff gives him his gun and retreats into the crowd.
It’s a gunfight.
Orville sways, barely able to support himself, and every bone in my body wants to run to him and help him. Instead, we walk forward, him with a great amount of difficulty, and shake hands. His touch is strong and comforting despite the pain written in his eyes. We each take fifteen paces backward and cock and aim our guns. The crowd starts cheering again, some chanting my name and others simply wanting blood to spill. Orville locks my eyes and I know what he will do.
There’s a bang and I don’t check to see if he hit his target. I just run towards him.
-
The steady pounding of hooves keeps me from panicking. I hold the reins with one hand and Orville’s hands with the other. He sits slumped against my back, arms loose around my waist, and I fear he’s gone unconscious. “Orville?”
“Mmnph.” He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back.
We ride my horse away from a town mourning the recent loss of its sheriff. A town so moldable that acts of true kindness go right over their heads and corruption runs rampant and unhinged. Orville Peck may be an outlaw, but sometimes the law does not decree the right thing to do. Sometimes it’s good to be bad.