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It was a stupid mistake.
A beginner’s mistake - but wasn’t he a beginner? This was only his… second, third? robbery on his own and he’d broken the golden rule: whatever happens, whatever you have to do, no matter how much you hate it, don’t get caught.
The rope strung ‘round his throat, a dog’s collar, the tail in the man’s hand a dog’s leash, it cinched tight, tighter, and he couldn’t breathe, wheezed and had to drag himself to his knees to loosen the noose, the men laughed as he tottered, the horse shifting beneath him, and then he was tugged up until he was on his feet, wild-eyed as his knees wobbled - he’d never learned to stand on his horse like Dutch and Hosea could, to leap from it onto a train. He’d always had to start on the train, sneak on and play at being a passenger or a worker, waiting to join in until the robbery was underway.
He never would learn to do that, would he? Never learn to teach his horses those cool tricks that The Duke and Half Dollar could do, never learn to pull off any trick shots other than that one he’d taught himself over his shoulder, never learn to use a bow or sharpen a knife or have a dog or even a cat?
A pair of hands - strong, broad ones, and for a moment he thought ‘Dutch!’, they’d said they’d be nearby but this valley was nowhere near where he’d been robbing, if Hosea and Dutch had kept up with them he’d be stunned they’d ridden in such a roundabout away, foxes leading the hounds on a merry chase until the hounds got lost and then the hands were shoving and he had only a moment to scan the horizon, to hope that he’d see Dutch - black hair on black clothes on a black horse - and Hosea - blond hair on brown clothes on a brown horse - come tearing through the valley and shoot the rope and then he
can’t
breathe.
Men who’d hang a sixteen year old for trying to rob them, of course, wouldn’t be bothered to do it right.
His father stands in front of him, looks him in the eye and tips his hat. And then something brushes his shoulder and his father’s gone, through his gasping, his bulging eyes watering, he makes out a blond-haired figure hanging next to him, their arm scraping his, and his father had died the same way, he’d watched him when he was only eleven, the man staring him in the eyes as his neck snapped in a perfect hanging.
He’d sworn he’d be better.
That he’d never follow in his father’s footsteps.
That there’d be no reason for him to be hanged
And look at him now.
Every day he saw more of his father in his face and less of his mother when he looked in the mirror, every day he took his father with him in the form of his hat on his head, and maybe he’d been cursed from the start because maybe his mother was born sad and his father was born angry, or maybe they were made that way, and maybe he’d always been that way but every day he found himself growing sadder and angrier.
His head throbs - his eyes feel like they’re going to pop - his chest burns - he sees stars and Dutch and Hosea are coming down the hill, fury on their faces, and then they’re gone as quick as they came, he twists, tries to reach out for them, reaches
twists
strains
and the men laugh, cackle beneath him like so many coyotes, and one grabs his hand, laces their fingers together in a mockery of a mother’s guidance then shoves, setting him to swinging, the noose clinching so tight he’s sure his head’ll pop off.
“Hosea...”
They promised they’d always be there for him. That the ghosts that hid in his shadow would never get him, that he’d always have something in his stomach and something under his head. Maybe it won’t be something warm in his stomach, and it might not be soft, but it’ll protect his head from the dirt and the bugs and all the things that want to come for him during the night. He’ll always have someone over his shoulder, ready to step in if things go wrong, someone at his back to watch it.
“Dutch...”
He’s still strung up when they find him, but the men are long gone.