A Change of Gonna Come
by Grace Dubicki
It wasn’t that he thought he was above keeping lookout—it wasn’t that at all. He knew someone had to, and the fact that McGrath trusted him to do it meant a lot in and of itself. He knew the train and the others were coming regardless and then he’d get in on the real fun, so there was no reason to worry. He just didn’t care for all the time waiting around gave him. It made him think too much about this business, and how much he was beginning to detest it.
The new horse shifted underneath him, snorted, took a few sideways steps to the left. It was impatient. He missed his old horse. This one was fine enough, a gelding with a proclivity for loping that was taking some getting used to. His old mount had been seasoned. He could count on that horse like he could count on the sun rising each morning—until it had shattered its leg, of course, as they were fleeing their last job. Its right forefoot had landed some one-in-a-million shot in a snake hole at a flat gallop. He and the horse went down in a screaming tangle and when the dust settled McGrath had ruled there wasn’t anything to do except shoot it.
“I'm sorry,” McGrath had said as he holstered his revolver, “I know you liked that one. But you ought to be goddamn glad your neck ain’t broke, son.”
He was glad. But it was still a shame, losing that horse.
He was sick of the bandana tied over his nose and mouth. Every time he exhaled the breath came back hot over his face, his beard. His shirt stuck to his skin, and he felt sweat collecting on the inside of his hat. Between its wide brim and the bandana, he couldn’t see very much; the moon was just a faint scratch against the blackboard sky.
He only had to be sure of one thing, though, and that was the pistol resting on his leg.
It felt heavy in its holster, expectant, and impossible to ignore. He didn’t mean to be so good with it, but if you were one of McGrath’s men you specialized in something, and he wasn’t any cook or pickpocket. They always stationed him at the end of the job in case lawmen turned up earlier than they wanted. The others handled guns well, but not like he did. He wasn’t fond of killing but only doing what you were fond of never made anyone a dime. Killing lawmen wasn’t the same as killing normal folk, anyway. He had no qualms against it. It was a lawman that had gone and shot his daddy in the street. It was a lawman to blame for what had become of his mother. If he could have his way, he’d have trekked the country and shot himself a sheriff for every day of the year. He would leave.
But see, that there—that was what sitting and waiting got him. It got him thinking crazy things, like deserting McGrath and the others. The thought itself felt like misbehavior. He reached down and fixed a stirrup to look busy despite there being no one to observe him. He straightened, restless as his new loping horse. He looked out in the distance, down the snaking line of track that twisted beyond his vision. He stared hard at the vanishing point he knew the train would appear from as if he could will it to come chugging his way. If they could just get on with it...
What if he did leave?
The idea had been in his head for about a month, ever since their last bank robbery had gone gravely off plan. McGrath hadn’t remembered to pull up his bandana as they were fleeing, and by complete accident, a woman had seen his face.
“Shoot her,” had come McGrath’s immediate order.
He had. With immediate compliance.
It disturbed him. Made him wonder things about himself. Ever since, he would have liked to get on with his own plans, plans that did not involve McGrath. He could do it. He could go. Right then, if he pleased, because he had never been more perfectly alone. He had food and water, and a horse that wanted to bolt. One nudge of his boot and he could be--
The vanishing point brightened. A stupider man might have thought the sun was coming up early and low and from the wrong direction, but he knew it was just another night’s work on its way. His thoughts of desertion crumbled around him. A hand went for the gun and its weight left his leg. Click. It sat ready in his fingers. There was whooping and hollering far in the distance as the train thundered up the track and he dared to guess it had been a good haul, or otherwise an easy one. He kicked the loping horse into action and raced to meet them. He asked God for there to be no snake holes.
He could wait until the next job. Next job, he’d ask McGrath to post someone else on lookout. He just didn’t like all the time it gave him to think about this business, and how much he was beginning to detest it.
The new horse shifted underneath him, snorted, took a few sideways steps to the left. It was impatient. He missed his old horse. This one was fine enough, a gelding with a proclivity for loping that was taking some getting used to. His old mount had been seasoned. He could count on that horse like he could count on the sun rising each morning—until it had shattered its leg, of course, as they were fleeing their last job. Its right forefoot had landed some one-in-a-million shot in a snake hole at a flat gallop. He and the horse went down in a screaming tangle and when the dust settled McGrath had ruled there wasn’t anything to do except shoot it.
“I'm sorry,” McGrath had said as he holstered his revolver, “I know you liked that one. But you ought to be goddamn glad your neck ain’t broke, son.”
He was glad. But it was still a shame, losing that horse.
He was sick of the bandana tied over his nose and mouth. Every time he exhaled the breath came back hot over his face, his beard. His shirt stuck to his skin, and he felt sweat collecting on the inside of his hat. Between its wide brim and the bandana, he couldn’t see very much; the moon was just a faint scratch against the blackboard sky.
He only had to be sure of one thing, though, and that was the pistol resting on his leg.
It felt heavy in its holster, expectant, and impossible to ignore. He didn’t mean to be so good with it, but if you were one of McGrath’s men you specialized in something, and he wasn’t any cook or pickpocket. They always stationed him at the end of the job in case lawmen turned up earlier than they wanted. The others handled guns well, but not like he did. He wasn’t fond of killing but only doing what you were fond of never made anyone a dime. Killing lawmen wasn’t the same as killing normal folk, anyway. He had no qualms against it. It was a lawman that had gone and shot his daddy in the street. It was a lawman to blame for what had become of his mother. If he could have his way, he’d have trekked the country and shot himself a sheriff for every day of the year. He would leave.
But see, that there—that was what sitting and waiting got him. It got him thinking crazy things, like deserting McGrath and the others. The thought itself felt like misbehavior. He reached down and fixed a stirrup to look busy despite there being no one to observe him. He straightened, restless as his new loping horse. He looked out in the distance, down the snaking line of track that twisted beyond his vision. He stared hard at the vanishing point he knew the train would appear from as if he could will it to come chugging his way. If they could just get on with it...
What if he did leave?
The idea had been in his head for about a month, ever since their last bank robbery had gone gravely off plan. McGrath hadn’t remembered to pull up his bandana as they were fleeing, and by complete accident, a woman had seen his face.
“Shoot her,” had come McGrath’s immediate order.
He had. With immediate compliance.
It disturbed him. Made him wonder things about himself. Ever since, he would have liked to get on with his own plans, plans that did not involve McGrath. He could do it. He could go. Right then, if he pleased, because he had never been more perfectly alone. He had food and water, and a horse that wanted to bolt. One nudge of his boot and he could be--
The vanishing point brightened. A stupider man might have thought the sun was coming up early and low and from the wrong direction, but he knew it was just another night’s work on its way. His thoughts of desertion crumbled around him. A hand went for the gun and its weight left his leg. Click. It sat ready in his fingers. There was whooping and hollering far in the distance as the train thundered up the track and he dared to guess it had been a good haul, or otherwise an easy one. He kicked the loping horse into action and raced to meet them. He asked God for there to be no snake holes.
He could wait until the next job. Next job, he’d ask McGrath to post someone else on lookout. He just didn’t like all the time it gave him to think about this business, and how much he was beginning to detest it.
Grace Dubicki is a third-year student at Texas State University. She majors in English with a concentration in creative writing and hopes to one day teach second grade while working towards completing and publishing an original fantasy series.