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He let his finger linger. The gun was cold, a harsh metal scarred by the past. He knew the only thing he had to do was push. One tiny push and his pain would be gone. His forever blemished body would be no more and he could be free from the constant pressure that clung to what was left of his heart.
As he began to push his finger against the trigger, milliseconds away from a merciful death, a coyote screamed far away, snapping him out of the moment. Dutch took a shaky breath and lowered the gun, putting it carefully beside him. As the realization of what he was about to do hit him, he felt a deep dread shake him. He quickly scrambled out of the tent, the cold night air hitting him as he took a frantic, desperate breath.
He stumbled from the tents opening and noticed that the whole camp was spinning by now. He could feel himself slipping away into a deep rage and disgust as he stood there, his body shaking in a cold sweat. Consumed by his own horrible thoughts, he dug into his pockets and pulled out an old photograph. He started at it for a few seconds, letting that old familiar sensation of warmth and comfort wash over him.
On the photograph a campfire twinkled in the night. Behind it was Hosea who sat on an old log with Dutch by his side, their bodies pressed together. They were both grinning wildly, their faces still full of that childlike joy they only had with each other. Dutch knew the photograph was innocent enough, but he also knew that Hosea’s hand on his thigh as well as his own hand pressed against Hosea’s shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly, was more than just a friendly touch.
He turned the photograph around to see what was written on the back.
“Hosea and I, 1979.”
In a familiar handwriting beneath, a note was left, it wasn’t old, possibly only a few weeks.
“Where’d all the time go? Love, your old man.”
A horrible sob broke out as he began to cry, his tears staining the photograph. He wailed into the night as grief swarmed him and Dutch felt his knees give out as he fell to the ground with a loud, heavy thump. There he sat for hours. On the cold wet ground he let tears stain his face as his sorrow filled the silent camp.
The photograph was clenched tightly in his fist. He glanced at it through sobs and felt that sudden disgust fill his body again. Suddenly, almost within a second, he got off his knees and ran over to the charred campfire. It was almost dead, but still a small flame lingered within the wood. Without hesitation Dutch chucked the photograph into the fire. Then, he stood there, watching as the flames slowly consumed the memory. And in that moment, Dutch knew.
He knew that he was no longer kind. Kind was not who he was, not without Hosea. No, without Hosea he was just a cold and calculating outlaw. Not a leader, not a father and not a lover. He was just another washed up criminal. Yet the countless crimes he’d committed throughout all his years meant nothing. Because he knew his biggest crime was loving Hosea.