Short Story: Chujitsu (Faithfulness) by Dylan Day

A spin-off story from "The Falling Sun". Jonas and French are supposed to be on the run from the law. Instead, French has spent his time swigging ale and losing at cards. When they are discovered by their hunters, the two friends must decide between old loyalties or freedom. - Short Story: "Chujitsu (Faithfulness)" by Dylan Day

The Front Cover of Chujitsu

One night. French had said they would stay for one night. Two weeks later and there they were sat at the same table, playing the same card game, smoking the same stale cigarettes. It was no more retirement than purgatory.

            Jonas, however, could not leave his partner. For all French’s carelessness and lies, Jonas felt indebted to the former gang leader. He had pulled Jonas from the gutter, had given him a home when the world had turned its back, and had brought excitement to his life, so that he had not merely been surviving but living. Besides, French had control of their money. Money that he had been haemorrhaging all afternoon.

            The cause of this was a slob of a man, who had the same pasty complexion as his greasy cattle baron outfit, greasy with perspiration. This man, in fact, was manufactured of sweat. It oozed a gelatine coating to his flesh, which slipped, malleable, like a ball of snakes. A ten-gallon hat sat comfortably on his lap, almost sinking into the marsh that was his stomach. Such relaxed posture caused the chair to groan, and rolls of fat consumed the furniture. This man was oblivious to the torture he inflicted; wore an amused but sly smirk, which sat on a marshy canvas of double-chins upon double-chins upon double-chins. He was a detestable creature.  

We shall call him the Texan.

“Runnin’ a little bit thin, are we?” observed the Texan of French, who toyed with his diminished coin pile. The Texan’s voice was as heavy as his frame, overtaken with indulgence and clogged by cigar smoke; “Perhaps you should retire.”

“Man,” French replied; “I was just imagining your swail of a face when I lick ya. I like it. You look good with tears in your eyes.”

The Texan chortled, rocking in his chair and padding his fists against the arms as if the joke had made him incontinent. When he finally settled, he leant forwards, his multiple chins creasing like a leathery accordion, and said: “Very funny, Mr. French. I wonder – will you be so humorous broke?”

“Nah, but I’ll jostle you when that chair breaks.”

The Texan frowned.

The same exchanges had passed all afternoon.

Jonas had spent the time watching the saloon’s other customers, paranoid that one of them would recognise him. French thought it an unnecessary fear: they were hundreds of miles from Friston Farm, out in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It would take fanatics to find them. Jonas would have agreed if French hadn’t slain that young man.

In a secluded area of the city, they had met this victim to sell the silverware burgled from Mr. Friston. The contact had been from a Fence. A rich entrepreneur – they had not asked where he had gotten his money, and he hadn’t asked where they had gotten the silver. Anyway, everything had been going to plan: the young man had been ready to hand over the money. Perfect. Except that in the last second, French had turned on the boy. He wanted double the pay. The boy had refused.

There had been a struggle…

A gunshot later and French and Jonas were on the run, silver and cash rattling in bindles slung on their shoulders.

Jonas had been appalled by his partner’s remorselessness. Even as outlaws they had lived by a code. Convinced that they were the victims of an unjust and changing world. They had to be better than that world or else they might as well have been animals.

               French had lost his way. Or was Jonas finally seeing what he had been blind to for years?

               Jonas was certain that the young man’s death would be discovered. That they would be hunted down. The longer they stayed in one place, the more likely it was that they would be found.

               They had, therefore, deliberately chosen the worst bar in the city in the hope that suspicion came with the drink. They rented a room upstairs, and there was a stable for their horses. The barman paid little prejudice to what went on, so long as he was paid accordingly. As a result, there was gambling, violence, sex, and other illicit dealings. Jonas was also certain, by the fact that his whiskey tasted like piss, that the drinks were watered down. Despite this, French got frequently drunk on them.

               “It’s time that we play.” the Texan stated. He examined his cards. Poker.

               French pulled a pocket-watch from his illustrious red coat and observed the time. He had stolen the watch from the dead young man. It was an eloquent silver and gold, the casing inscribed with the initials J.C.

               He spoke without looking up: “Time is a precious commodity, that’s why I only use mine for profit, Mr. Harnden.”

               “Please, call me Wyatt. As in Wyatt Earp. I’m sure you know who he is.”

               French pocketed the watch; “You quick draw?”

               “I do.”

               “Perhaps we should spin a game after this.”

               “O’ course. I can clean you at that, too.”

               “We ain’t finished yet, Mr. Harnden.”

               “Wyatt, please. Call me Wyatt.”

               “Alright, Wyatt. But you can keep calling me Mister French. It has a nice ring to it.”

               Wyatt Harnden dabbed his sweating forehead with a handkerchief; “French is a strange name…”  

               “Oh, it’s more of a nickname, like a Billy the Kid sort o’ thing.” French looked up from the cards; “You see, my ancestors were French. They fled from Europe and settled in St Louis.”

               “My great-great-grandpappy was an Anglo-Saxon.” Mr. Harnden reminisced; he pocketed the handkerchief; “He brought his family here, and they spread like rabbits.” Another hearty and scoffing laugh came from deep within that atherosclerotic gut.

               French said: “We’re defined by our heritage.”

               “Well said.” With a devious smile, Mr. Harnden raised his glass and downed the contents.

               The men settled after this. A man opposite Jonas played his move decisively, placing two coins in the centre. Mr. Harnden matched this.

               Jonas had zero interest when it came to his turn, and he threw his unseen cards across the table; “Fold.” He turned his paranoia back to the door.

               The Texan withdrew the cigar from his lips; “That’s the third time you’ve folded today.” he observed.

               “I ain’t gettin’ the luck of the draw this afternoon.”

               Mr. Harnden was not convinced. He flipped Jonas’ cards over: a king, a black ace, both black eights, a seven of hearts. “Bad hand, huh?”

               The man opposite Jonas commented: “It don’t matter. He’s out.” But it did little to soften the mood.

               Mr. Harnden and Jonas scrutinised each other. This was until Jonas buckled beneath a brotherly slap from French.

               “Please excuse my amigo, he’s a fool when it comes to cards.” French shook Jonas’ shoulder in a patronising manner; “A homesick fool. I’ve come a long way to take your nickels.”

               Mr. Harnden did not rise to French’s comment. He cocked his head like a hen, those multiple double-chins dancing just like wattle, and eventually said to Jonas: “You’re a Jap, aren’t ya?” As though such a revelation condoned his suspicions.

               Steadily, Jonas replied: “No. I’m an American, like you.”

               Silence endured, along with that scrutinising glare. 

               Jonas could sense French’s anxiety – like a wound elastic band ready to spring. French’s hand twitched at his waist. His revolver awaited. Jonas subtly signalled for his companion to ease. They needed to keep a low profile.

               Just as it seemed there might be a problem, Mr. Harnden exhaled an impressive cloud of smoke and forced a pleasant smile; “Right! Let’s get on with the game then.”

               The men did just this, and the money piled alongside tactical suspicion.

               Jonas turned his attention to surveying the room for the fiftieth time. As it had been the other forty-nine times, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Apprehension remained, however. 

               “You ever walked through the desert before, Wyatt?” asked French; “The sun scorches on your back as you edge thirstily on, surrounded by an Ocean of sand – as far as the eye can see. No print of man for miles. Being alone like that clears a man’s head. You see how empty life is. How pointless. Yet, there’s a power and freedom in that. Out there, you can go anywhere and keep on walking.” French admired his cards; “Did you buy any of that railroad land ‘round here, couple of years back?”

               “I own this city, Mr. French.”

               “Of course. My mistake.”

               A further round of bidding continued. Play stalled at the Texan’s final turn.

               Wyatt stubbed his cigar into an ashtray; “Let’s make this a real flit.”

               “I’m listening.”

               “I’m putting everythin’ in.” With two large, clammy hands, Mr. Harnden pushed his pile of money onto the green tablecloth.

               It was the third man who responded first; “This be outta hand.” With a wave, he said: “I’m out.”

               Nobody paid him any attention. All focus was on French.

               Wyatt filled the silence: “Yes, I’ve walked my cattle many times through the desert, to Abilene –”

               (“Must have been a long time ago.” Jonas muttered under his breath.)

               “– Yes, there’s a lot of time for a man to think. Do you know what I thought? Disappointment. Us cowpokes – men – leadin’ our cattle through gales and dust devils and sun. No dweller in sight forever. That weren’t freedom, I realised. Not the kind any sane man would wan’. For where was the power? With no one to look upon it, my success was invisible.

               “That’s why I came here, where there’s folk to see your sweat. Folks who feast on toil. For it brings hope. This city brings hope. It survives on the impossible – all this water out in a desert. Without which, those same folks will perish. Whoever controls the water, therefore, controls the city. I control the water.

               “That is power.”

               Sharing immature looks, French and Jonas both suppressed their laughter.

               Mr. Harnden glared disdainfully at the pair: he was not aware that he had said anything funny.

               French remarked: “I hope for your sake you aren’t bluffing.” He pushed his coins into the centre. But he wasn’t finished there; “I don’t have as much to trump you, so you can accept my watch as well.” He hung the article before the horde of wealth before depositing it.

               Wyatt examined the piece. Meticulous greed flashed behind his eyes. Great pools of saliva mixed with sweat as he licked his pasty lips in satisfaction. He seemed to want to devour the piece; smothered the case with his fleshy paw to feel the intricate engravings. These caught his eye.

               “J.C, Mr. French? Mean anything?”

               Jonas flicked concern at his companion.

               But French was calm; “Jesus Christ. Gotta keep the lord close to my heart.”

               Jonas could not believe that French was being serious. However, Mr. Harnden accepted the answer. He weighed the watch in his hand and then satisfactorily let it drop back to the pot.

               That money looked dirty.

               “All in.” declared French.

               Mr. Wyatt Harnden grinned, his bloated structure shadowing the table.

               Jonas turned from the game. It was over, he thought. His and French’s fate resting in those cards. A dream ready to be squandered –

               The saloon doors flew open.

               Sunlight blazed the fetid darkness. Two men entered. One (much to Jonas’ surprise) was familiar. Though, he couldn’t remember where from. This dirty guy was talking to the second man, a uniformed figure who surveyed the saloon’s dingy populous with acute mental accuracy. He was a Pinkerton. A bounty-hunter! And he was looking for someone.  

               The first man… A crooked nose and devious eyes.

               Jonas remembered.              

               A few days ago, French had caught the ruffian snooping around their wagon and horses. French had been livid; he had leapt on the man and had pummelled him violently. Jonas had managed to throw French off, but it had come at the cost of that broken nose for the rogue.

               It had been yet another ignored signal that French had changed.

               The Pinkerton was there for them, Jonas was certain.

               “You cheat!”

               The voice roared from behind. Jonas turned.

               The first thing that transpired was French’s contorted face; indignant, with a trembling jaw.

               The last thing to transpire were the cards on the table, each one flipped to reveal their value. Jonas had not required this to know that French had lost.

               There was no time to mourn, however. Jonas’ fight or flight instinct burnt a string of dynamite within him.

               He appealed to his friend: “French, we should go.”

               But French didn’t listen. He remained glaring at the haughty Mr. Harnden.

               “Thank you for an interesting game, Mr. French.” said Wyatt. He lit another cigar; “But you should listen to your friend. It’s time that you left.” He pocketed the fob-watch.

               French snarled: “You son of bitch!”

               Mr. Wyatt Harnden appeared unnerved, but the third man gathered his money and got to his feet.

               “Thankee, gentlemen, I’ll be going now.”

               Instantly, he sat back down – French’s murderous glare had turned its attention to him. Both this man and Jonas were aware of the hand flinching at the holstered revolver.

               “Nobody is going anywhere until this high-binder gives me back what he’s swindled.” Intoxication warbled in French’s voice.

               The Pinkerton approached.

               Jonas was also aware of the barman’s fumbling beneath the counter.

               It was, indeed, the barman who spoke next, directed to Jonas: “You and your friend should leave. He needs to clear his head.”

               “He don’t mean nothin’ by it. C’mon, French.”

               No reply.

               “C’mon, French.” Jonas stood; “Let’s go run this off.”

               French just stared at the Texan.

               A selfish instinct overcame Jonas then: he could ditch French. He could take one of the horses and flee. He knew, however, that it was hopeless. Despite everything, French was his –  

               “You two men in the corner!” the Pinkerton’s stern finger pointed in their direction; “I must ask that you come with me.”   

               Jonas looked to French, hoping for a sign, refuge, something. However, his companion had not yet clocked the Pinkerton. His world was narrow, locked on the now worried and impossibly deflated Mr. Harnden. He had not known that these two men were dangerous.  

               Customers staggered to their feet and left.

               Rifle raised, the Pinkerton demanded: “You two men, I have reason to believe that you are Alastor Boucher and Asahi Koyata, going by the known aliases of French and Jonas. Show me your faces.”

               Again, Jonas looked to French.

               “Come into the light and we can settle this. Mr. Calcraft’s waiting. We can end it all with honour.”

               “You heard what he said.” The barman was ever conscious that this was his territory; “Ya’ll take this outside.” With that, he brought up the article that he had concealed beneath the counter…

               There was a gunshot.

               The barman stumbled; crashed against the shelves. Glass smashed to the floor. Crimson splashed on the counter, up the wall. It was a fatal shot to the chest. The barman crumpled, bottles and dust clouds raining down on his sputtering body.

               The shotgun collapsed from his fingertips.

               Eyes flashed around the room. They settled on the Pinkerton.

               A stark realisation flooded into his guise. He had not meant to fire. A moment’s hiccup, but it was enough.

               French reacted quicker than anyone else. In the moment of that falling body, he had drawn his Remington model 1890, the action second nature. With unfeeling swiftness, he darted the barrel to his left and fired two perfectly placed rounds.

               The Pinkerton and his companion did not know what hit them. One minute they were in full control, barely registering the need to reload or dive for cover – the next, the air whacked from their lungs, scarlet spurted from their lips, and they collapsed to the floor. Stony eyes staring at the ceiling.  

               Jonas ducked and produced his own revolver.

               The remaining customers raised a cacophony and retreated outside. They tumbled over tables and chairs – except one man, who was blindly intoxicated and so continued staring into his glass.

               Wyatt Harnden went for his gun.

               But he was not quick enough for French, who leapt across the table and stabbed his six-shooter at the Texan’s skull. He held it on that blubbery forehead for a moment, relishing the wild terror in Wyatt’s eyes, and he cocked the barrel to a cold, metallic click.

               A boulder writhed in Mr. Harnden’s many double chins as he gulped and gulped with delirium. “Now. We can talk about this. No. Please. Please, Mr. French. I beg –”

               French shot the Texan.

               He sneered at the corpse, shot Wyatt again. Then again. Again. The chamber emptied into that rubbery carcass, and still French fired. Click, click, click, click, click.  

               “Wyatt Earp…” He spat at the Texan. Saliva slipped down the corpse’s face.

               French turned to the third player, who cowered behind his chair. “Go! Get out of here!”

               The man cautiously passed and then dashed to the exit.

               Next, French scooped the pocket-watch from Mr. Harnden’s dead grip. He admired it, reunited with a lost part of himself. He rubbed his thumb over the intricate cover.

               Blam!

               Another gunshot. It passed within inches of French’s head, fired by the dirty vagabond who had led the Pinkerton to them. French’s shot had not been fatal. It had thumped the son of a dog in the shoulder. With residual energy, the creature had managed to prop up the Pinkerton’s rifle, and he had fired from where he was, sprawled on the floor. Thanks to a pang of agony in his right ribcage, the shot had scarpered.

               French presently darted behind the bar. The shingle of broken glass smattered like crippled limbs. A split-second later, Jonas reacted. He poised his colt single action six-shooter and sprayed a wild strafe in the vicinity of their assailant.

               One round pummelled the far wall; spat clods of sawdust and splinters into the air. Another erupted a window. Another a lamp, a storm of molten debris snowed upon the oblivious drunk, who remained sat at his table. There was a slight inclination of his head, lethargic, as he wondered what had plonked into his whiskey, but he was totally oblivious to what was going on. Almost a ghost.

               The acrid tinge of gunpowder whistled up Jonas’ nostrils. He girded with nostalgia. Him and French had used to play quickdraw games. French had always won. But that wasn’t point. The adrenaline was delicious; he had to accept it. He and French were born for those moments!

               Disorientated by the wild rounds that had sliced above his head, the wounded snitch was vulnerable. And French was the better marksman. He reloaded, peered from his cover, saw through all the dust and haze his target, and fired. The miserable creature contorted. Fell. The rifle clattered to the floor.

               Silenced wrestled the noir profusion.

               The drunk staggered to his feet.

               Bemusement crept in French and Jonas.

               The sticky bearded drunk stared at them. Was his hand reaching inside his coat? Then, the man vomited down himself; sluiced across the gritty floorboards. The drunk wiped his mouth and staggered away.

               The two men stared, puzzled, as the saloon door swung on its hinges.

               It settled.

               Jonas threw himself below a grotty window. He wiped the glass and peered into the street. More Pinkertons – aroused by the gunshots – had amassed. There was a reason they were called the private army. Jonas and French could not hope to take them on.

               Jonas recoiled as the Pinkertons looked in his direction. He turned to see that French was pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “There’s too many of them, French.” He tore his hands through his hair; “God! Why did you have to kill that boy?”

               French ignored him. He was frighteningly calm, continuing with his ritual. He dusted himself down. Glass and shrapnel crackled to the floor. He ran his tongue over his teeth; checked the time on the fob watch. He downed the whiskey in the same casual manner, and then retrieved the shotgun from a pool of the barman’s blood.

               “What’re you doing, French?” Jonas found that he could not move except to throw his fists; “This ain’t no card game. Why did we have to stay? We could’ve been outta here. Headin’ north. You said, French! You promised! A couple of days, that was all.” He suppressed an acidic laugh, whilst French composedly checked the shotgun’s shell count; “What the Hell do we do?”

               French still wasn’t listening. Crouching to the barman’s body, he rifled a hand through the dead man’s pocket, producing a key. It was for a cabinet beneath the capitulated shelves. There was ammunition for the shotgun. With all the destruction around, it seemed ridiculous to use the key and not smash the glass. Yet, this is what French did. The blood on his hands smeared across the doors.  

               Jonas was still shouting: “Do we surrender? Do we barricade the door? How do we get out of this one, French?”

               French pushed the shells into place; “How did they know?”

               “Know what? Are you even listening to me? We could have had a life.” Jonas’ fist thundered on the counter; “This ain’t how it was supposed to end!”

               “How did they know?” French repeated; “How did they know that we were here? How the Hell did they know?!”

               “Don’t you recognise that guy?”

               Of course, French did. He stared long and hard. But he refused its existence.

               “They knew our names,” he stabbed; “– how?”

               “They must have been there.”

               “At the railroad? Nah, it’s been two years.”

               “And then you killed that boy.”

               “I was fine until you came back.”

               “Me?! You came back. This was your idea! I was fine on the farm. I was happy –”

               “To Hell where you happy. You weren’t livin’.”

               “Like I am now? These – these men are gonna kill us.”

               “Hmph.”

               “I was fine. I was happy. Why did I listen to you?”

               “Because you never have the answers, Jo son. All you do is ask questions. Countless, countless questions. I gave the answers. Always! And I’m finally gonna get one from you.”

               “Whatcha tryna say, French?”

               “I ain’t saying nothing.”

               “No!” Jonas shook a trembling finger, his head the tambourine; “’Cos if you think that I sold us out, I wanna hear you say it.”

               “Is that what happened, then, Asahi? You sold us out. Is that what happened that day?”

               “I can’t believe this. I told you what happened that day. The day you found me, I told you. Only – I don’t know how you tracked me down. You might’ve been the one who sold us out – you might not have realised it. You were drinking long before the end.”

               The shotgun shuddered in Jonas’ direction, French’s grip at white-knuckle intensity. “What happened that day was not my fault!”

               Jonas marched at him. His head pressed against the gun barrel.

               “Go on, French. Do it! Do it!”

               French’s fingers twitched.

               “C’mon!”

               A part of French wanted to shoot Jonas. A part of Jonas wanted him to. Jonas wanted to embrace the cold steel as it shredded through his misery. He would be grateful for the peace, he thought.

               But they were both cowards afraid of change.

               French lowered the shotgun and hung his head in utter dejection; “What have we become, Jo son?”

               Purposeless. That was what they had become.

               The sound of footsteps on gravel thwacked them from their melancholy.

               Jonas said: “They’re coming.” He added; “What do we do?”

               When French looked up from the counter, he was a different man. There was a new fight in his old eyes. He commanded: “Upstairs.” He made his way to the corner of the counter before staggering to a pain in his abdomen. He stumbled; those blood-drenched hands slipped on the counter-top, and he slumped to the floor.

               Jonas flew to his comrade’s side. He offered support.      

               It was the old French who shrugged Jonas away and helped himself off the floor. It was the French from before the failed heist, when the new world had just been beginning, when their family had been alive. It gave Jonas hope.

               “The stairs, come on.”

               “Alastor Boucher and Asahi Koyata. Come out now.”

               The two outlaws ducked for cover: French behind the bar, Jonas crawling between chairs.

               The voice had been that of another Pinkerton, presumably the leader: “We know you’re in there. There be nowhere to run. Put down your weapons and exit the building.”

               Jonas whispered: “What do we do, French?”

               “We talk.”

               The Pinkerton continued: “Our employer made no specification whether he preferred ya’ll alive or heads on a spike, so I’d think real carefully about your situation.”

               French shouted from behind the counter: “What situation is that?”

               “Who’s this I’m talking to?”

               “Your butcher.”

               Jonas cringed. Here he was on the brink of death, and French was making jokes. The former gang leader was back.

               “Mister Boucher, French, is that you?”

               “As sure as a horse can run.” French pulled the shotgun down from the counter; gestured for Jonas to head for the stairs; “Now, what situation are you supposing us to be in?”

               “Sir, I’m sure you realise that you’re surrounded and have nowhere to go.”

               “What I’m realisin’ is that you’re out there and I’m in here.”

               “That can change, Mister Boucher.”

               The two companions crawled towards the stairs. Jonas held his breath.

               “Come on out. We can talk.”

               “I’m just fine talking from here, thanks.”

               “French, where’s this taking us?” Jonas whispered.

               “To the gallows.” he replied. Then, louder so that the Pinkerton could hear: “Ain’t that right?”

               “What’s that, Mister Boucher?”

               “You wanna put a nice rope round my neck.”

               “That need not happen, Mister Boucher.”

               “Oh, it does. I killed a man. Make that three.”

               More than that, Jonas knew. It occurred to him then that perhaps he and French deserved this fate. He, too, had slain. Had his victims been necessary? Not all of them. Many had just been men trying to survive like him. He couldn’t remember all the faces. He felt nothing when he did. The hatred in the Pinkerton’s voice made him realise that he was a monster.

               “Are you coming out, Mister Boucher?”

               “Why don’t ya’ll come in?” French said; “I’ve got drinks.”

               “You’re a funny man, Mister Boucher.” But the Pinkerton wasn’t laughing; “Whatever turned you to a life of mishap?”

               “Same as you.”

               A pause, in which the Pinkerton was angry.

               Jonas was nearly at the foot of the stairs, but he saw that French had stopped. The veteran leader was looking at the window. Did he spy movement?

               The Pinkerton ventured: “Is Mister Koyata there? Can we speak?”

               Jonas shivered at his old name. The name that he had forgotten until today.

               “He can’t talk right now.” French responded; “Come back later.”                Jonas stopped as he heard movement outside.

               The Pinkerton tried to disguise it: “This is the last warning – come out, or we will use force.”

               Apparently, the Pinkertons hadn’t counted on the highly dangerous outlaws using their own force, for French fired a shotgun shell through the window. The shadows that had been moving there either dispersed or collapsed. There were cries of agony as lead shrapnel embedded in their flesh.

               French shouted to Jonas: “Upstairs. Quick!”

               And they ran.

               They made it halfway before the saloon door flew open and the Pinkertons filed in.

               “There! Up the stairs!”

               Both outlaws ducked as clods of sawdust ejaculated from the wall. They darted behind the cover of the landing. Again, French whimpered with sudden agony; he shot Jonas a brave look and hid the hand that nursed his abdomen.

               It was only a momentary reprieve. They were halfway upstairs. There was still a gap to cross, where only matchstick banisters would defend them.

               Jonas peered round the corner.

               A salvo erupted. Chunks tore from the wall in Vesuvius eruptions, forcing the two men to hold their breaths, as if they might accidentally inhale a bullet.

               “Reload!” Yelled one of the men intent on murdering the outlaws.

               Under his command, the Pinkertons had chosen not to rush the staircase. They stood regimented, rifles raised, as if facing an enemy across a barren field. A chattering silence as, in unison, the men tilted their rifles and poured more ammunition into them. Their contemptuous faces lighted brilliantly in the gunpowder effervescence.

               But that was a hopeful break in their bombardment.

               “On the count of three,” began French, rasping through an undiagnosed pain mingled with all that sawdust; “I’ll make a break for it. You cover me. One–”

               A concerned hand slammed on his shoulder.

               “French, I can’t do this.”

               “We must.”

               “No. I ain’t got ammunition.”

               With something of the ceremonial, French passed Jonas the shotgun. Their gazes locked. If by some miracle they could shoot their way out, then what? Dusty street after dusty street of lawmen. It was hopeless.

               Despite this, Jonas nodded to his comrade.

               Three… Two… One…

               “There!”

               French sprinted from cover. Bullets shuddered after him. Banisters crackled and popped with debris; their guts sliced open. French knew that one slip would send him along with them.

               Jonas attempted to draw the fire from French. He pointed the shotgun round the corner and shot blindly at the Pinkertons below. His numb senses filled with the musty smell of cordite; tinnitus clanged in his ears.

               And then French fell.

               Miraculously, he had made it to the upper landing. He crumpled behind the wall.

               “You alright, French?” Jonas bellowed.

               He could see that French’s left arm dangled limply by his side; his face was gnawed by exhaustion. Gone was the illustrious quality of this leader. Just an old man in the sordid shadows. Yet, he scrambled from the floor and grimaced: “I’m fine… Now get your arse over here…” A shivering hand produced a six-shooter. French blasted intermittent rounds at the reloading Pinkertons.

               Jonas’ turn to cross the no-man’s landing. He braced himself; shut his eyes grievously as he stepped out.

               Just as the rifles raised, Jonas made it. He held out his hand to his comrade. The Pinkertons thundered the steps in pursuit. 

               “Come on, French. We need to go!”

               French staggered to his feet. He swayed like an emaciated lamppost. That red-skinned coat engulfed him.

               “We don’t have to take you alive!” An idiotic report from the Pinkerton. 

               Hobbling as fast as they could, the wounded French led Jonas towards their rented room. Jonas was not sure why. Perhaps French hoped that it would offer a better exit strategy. After all, they couldn’t stay on the landing and fight: there, they were cannon fodder; exacerbated by the bullet-holes that had smattered the walls. Daylight sliced through each one, as if the afterlife was calling them.

               French unlocked the door, and the pair crashed through. He gave Jonas the key and grabbed furniture to use as a barricade.

               Jonas locked the door. It would buy them a few precious seconds.

               Holstering his revolver, French crossed to the window.

               Jonas followed.

               The room was fetid with cordite, which had seeped through the floorboards. When French smashed open the window, it was replaced by a gush of hot dust and industrial smoke. Both men loomed over the sill and glanced down. They saw two different images.

               Jonas puzzled: “You want us to jump?”

               (“They’re in there, men!”)

               “You go first, Jo son.”

               The drop was two stories to land on hostile shingle; the gap was barely wide enough to stand in sideways. A small alleyway crushed between ugly apartments that blocked the sight of the streets beyond. A drop that offered the chance to run into the courtyard and grab their horses, or to dart through the guarded streets. Even if they did manage to escape, the desert would get them. And if they caught a train…

               The first volley of shoulders crashed against the door. The Pinkertons were going to barge it down.

               Jonas hesitated, so French lifted himself onto the window ledge.

               Jonas slammed a quivering hand on his shoulder. “I can’t, French.” His head shook and his features were raw with distress; “I can’t follow. I can’t.”

               “You must jump, Jo son. Do you want to be hanged?”

               “They’ll get us anyway. I can’t do this…”

               The door splintered.

               “I promised I would protect you. There’s no other way, Jo son.”

               And French jumped.

               The door flew off its hinges. The Pinkertons marched into the room.

               “Step away from the –”

               Jonas fell.

               He slipped from the well and landed on the soft grass.    

               He was in a forest. Maple trees. Yes, that’s what they were. Their red leaves foregrounded against that ebullient blue sky. Purple blossom fluttered from the branches above, where also a ghostly sunshine percolated through the leaf cover. The petals twirled and came to rest on the thick Japanese forest grass. Yes…

               He was eight years old again; in his village.

               A bucket of water materialised in his hand. An impulse urged him to trace it. The rough wood grain brought remembrance – he saw himself younger and younger, performing the same chore, making the same action – and the texture felt real. Yet, what he saw before him surely could not be. It was too perfect. Too distant.

               The breeze whispered in his ears. His troubles and pains were vanquished.

               He walked in the direction of the genial sun. The bucket was heavy, and he had to juggle it with both hands. His path was traced by puddles.

               It was New Year’s Day, 1875. It returned to him.

               So, when he looked up from watching his feet pillow into the vegetation, he was startled to find someone there. He recoiled and gripped hard on the bucket, but it was not enough to stop his feet and front getting wet, as a tidal wave crashed the cool water over the bucket’s edge.

               Standing there was Mr. Koyata. His father. A hard-working man whose many ailments were smoothed by his faith. Mr. Koyata spoke halfway through a conversation – but Asahi was unaware that he had said anything. “Me, my little ebi?” he smiled; “I’m enjoying the fresh air. Take a walk with me, my son.” Mr. Koyata slipped past and gestured for his hesitant son to leave the bucket.

               Asahi did as he was told, and he wondered how that language he had not spoken in decades had come back to him so clearly.

               Following his father deeper into the forest, those maple trees gave way to cherry blossom and oaks, each figure welcoming; a pink cloud where the blossom spread its feathers; even the naked hands of the ancient oaks weaved their way between this cover, as if they were tending to the young. All around was the serenity of the forest. Just father and son.

               “Where are we going?” Asahi asked his father.

               Mr. Koyata did not answer. He kept walking; his son shadowed him in taking two steps to his one.

               It was strange to be seeing his father, a man he had said goodbye to a long, long time ago. There was not the awkward revelation that he thought there would be – he felt instantly at home. He could smell stale terracotta, the scent of his father’s work. He loved that smell. Found himself yearning for it.

               Asahi lingered as his father continued. He stopped and stared up at a great sequoia tree. Asahi then flew at his father, embracing him with such force that Mr. Koyata nearly stumbled over.

               “What has gotten into you?” his father asked, laughing, smiling, and returning the embrace.

               “I missed you.”

               There, father and son stayed for a moment, framed beneath that benevolent monolith. Then, Mr. Koyata pulled from his son, chuckled, and continued leading them on that tranquil walk.

               As they went deeper into the forest, the emerald sheaves faded, and the sunlight became more sporadic, and it graced only the forms of the most fortunate shrubs – the most beautiful shrubs. Patches of virgin snow could be spied in the shadows, like a rare, pure flower. Moss covered rocks peppered the path.

               Asahi noticed that his father walked silently. Those calculated yet thoughtless steps – as though he had traced them many times (moving like the geishas who often performed in the village) – in perfect balance. Asahi watched his father’s movements carefully, mimicking them. Fascinated. But he was soon impatient.

               “Where are we going?”

               This time, his father answered: “We have all grown a year wiser, ebi. Now that you are older, you can appreciate the secret wonders of life. For this path is walked by all great people, ebi. Especially today, when the kami of the rivers, trees, and mountains are one. You know what that is, don’t you?”

               He glanced down at his son, who nodded: he meant the spirit that flowed through everything.

               Mr. Koyata continued: “The trees, and the rivers, and the forest, they’ll be here long after we’re gone. One day, you will be big and strong, like them. One day, my little ebi.” He stopped and took Asahi’s stringy arms in his soft hands, girding them for the strength that they would one day possess.

               As the path grew steeper, the head of a mountain appeared through a thin veil of cloud. Asahi was amazed by the sight, until he came across a bamboo structure. It took Asahi by surprise because it was the first made thing that he had seen since the well. A structure that had been bound together by reeds and twigs, the bamboo painted a deep red. It looked like a tomb or temple camouflaged in the thrush, with no clearing having been made to make space for its construction – it stood within the forest as if it were a rare and strange breed of tree. Asahi wanted to ask his father what it was, but he found himself so fascinated that no words came. Tranquillity and benevolence filled his lungs.

               Not far from this shrine was their destination. Mr. Koyata stopped and inhaled the fresh air, with his son standing beside him, who was awe-struck at what preceded them.

               The mountain they had seen like a face in the fog stood imperiously before them; its snow-capped tip shimmered in the blaze of the rising sun, whose yolk had spilt over the sky as if cracked on the mountain’s point. The sky shattered into a swirl of yellow, blue, and red; the clouds stationary, as though painted on. That benevolent guise stared right at them; Mr. Koyata inert, tiny, and shadowed, a humble servant to the grand. For Asahi had always seen his parents as his world. There was now this massive place that he wanted to explore.

               “This is Odake. Everyone you know will stand here one day. This can be your place to rest, ebi, or find inspiration.”

               Asahi noticed that his father was whispering.

               “It’s massive.” He said, “And scary.”

               “There’s no need to be afraid, ebi. This is your place now, just as much as it is ours.”

               The one thing a shrimp wants is to feel big and important. Yet that spectacle reminded Asahi of how small he really was.

               “You might not believe it,” his father began; “But there is a mountain much higher than Odake.” He pointed a finger at the mist of the distant horizon. Melting into the backdrop was the faintest silhouette of another peak. “There is Mount Fuji. Our guardian.”

               Asahi was breathless with pride.

               Mr. Koyata smiled; “The world is full of sights like this, son. You need only open your eyes and notice. I have been to Miyajima Island, a sacred place. God lives there. It is the most beautiful place in the world. One day I will take you.”

               But he never did. Maybe that was why Asahi Koyata felt isolated; conflicted between living or surrendering, for he had never found faith like his father. Had never learned to admire but had wanted to tame.

               “You have found peace, my son.”

Miraculously, Jonas was alive.

               He was uncertain whether to celebrate or be disappointed.

               Roman candles danced across his vision; as he coughed, an agony seared in his lungs and infected every part of him. He could feel his organs collapsing, and he groped a desperate hand into a ball, taking a fist of gravel from somewhere that he was yet to see.

               He awoke in an alleyway, punched by the putrid odour of urine boiled by the sun. Nevertheless, he could not feel the sun or the heat – he was icy and was anaesthetised by pain. His left foot was bent in an unnatural fashion. He tried to move it, but agony shot through him. He pushed himself against the wall and resided in exhaustion. The window that he had jumped from leered above. The Pinkertons had fled from it seconds before. Jonas’ neck ached from craning upwards at this; he hung it in despair.

               There was the sound of groaning and bones cracking. Jonas jolted.

               To his right, led French. Jonas had almost forgotten that his comrade existed, but that red-skinned coat was unmistakable.

               French staggered to his feet, creating the illusion that he was undamaged by the fall; except that as he rose, he that red-skinned jacket consumed him as if he were a twig under a parachute. He harboured his bullet-gashed arm meekly, and his face was drained to a pasty, unfeeling grey. He approached Jonas and held out his good hand.

               Jonas took it, but he did not move. He held French there so that the veteran leader was forced to listen. “It’s over.” he said. But Jonas could both feel and see his friend’s resistance. Part of Jonas wanted to drag French down with him into the sand. Instead, he allowed French to lift him. He balanced against the alley wall to take the pain off his broken ankle. 

               French coughed into a handkerchief, speckling the white silk with blood. There was also blood in his moustache. “You weigh a ton.” he remarked facetiously.

               “You’re falling apart.”

               “Think they must’ve decided to take us alive.” French spat on the floor; “Shame.”

               “I’m tired of running, French.”

               “I’ve been here before. That land they were selling – I tried to get some. Imagine if we’d been landlords, hey, Jo son?”

               Jonas didn’t respond. He was tired and a long sleep would do him good.

               “I can’t just sit here, Jo son. I refuse.” French pushed away from the wall as though he was ready to enter a boxing ring. He paced towards the light of the guarded street.

               Jonas called after him: “Stop, French. It’s suicide.”

               Staring back; “We’re already dead. This country – it ain’t the same. There ain’t a place for us no more. But – But I fight for what I believe in.” He unholstered his revolver and gripped it in his weak fingers, turning to face the light; “I can get the horses and – and we can go north.”

               Jonas hobbled, gritting through pain as his broken ankle dragged in the sand. He wanted to reach out and put a hand on French’s shoulder, but he did not have the energy to make it.

               “Please, French. Accept it, for me.”

               “I guess I’m a selfish son of a bitch.”

               The walking corpse, led by that revolver, shuffled into the light.

               Jonas knew what would happen.

               At first, however, no-one fired. A deathly silence. Contemptuous guises staring at French.

               Then, the corpse thumbed the hammer of the revolver. French stumbled as the velocity of a train thwacked into him.

               But Jonas had heard no gunshot or cry of pain because grief had shut him down. He just saw the dead-man-walking waver like a branch in a torrential gale, and the optimism was knocked from him.

               French swayed. He did not seem to realise that he had been shot. With a surprisingly steady hand, he raised the revolver.

               Nobody did anything.

               The Pinkertons were somewhat stunned by this man who refused to die. Jonas, too, was fixed, tortured by the hope that remained for as long as that man stood.

               And French, using the remainder of his energy, fired off a round.

               Jonas did not know if it found a target, but it did rile the enemy. More shots pummelled at the swaying corpse. Jonas half-expected French to fire another shot; to continue that fight. It never came. The revolver sagged in his gnarled, petrified fingers and then dropped to the floor. The body remained standing for a second more. Life fading on that three-way crossroad.

               Then, the dead man crumpled to a heap in the sand.

               No cry escaped Jonas. No tears of fury or grief. He was numb. Numb with pain. Numb with relief. He could finally stop running.

               He hobbled from the shadows on his broken ankle, staring at the heap that had once been his best friend.

               “You’re under arrest.” called one of the Pinkertons.

               That was not satisfactory for Jonas. He did not want to wait to be hanged.

               “Stop where you are, right now!”

               Asahi Koyata didn’t listen. He approached the body of his fallen comrade and picked up the revolver.

               The hailstorm began.  

Thank you for reading the short story, "Chujitsu (Faithfulness)". You can learn more about "The Falling Sun" here.