Walter & Sam

“Wait, stop here.” Sam slides off his cream-coloured thoroughbred, ‘Arizona’. He kneels down next to a lush tobacco plant and begins to strip it of its leaves. “You don’t think we got enough already? Or are you planning for the end of days?” says Sam’s companion, Walter. He remains mounted on his deep brown warhorse, ‘Tex’, staring down at Sam. The brim of his hat casts a wide shadow across his face. Sam squints up at him.

“I’m making sure I don’t run out like last time. You remember what I’m like, Walt.”

“Oh, do I.”

“That should be enough,” Sam says, stuffing the leaves into the bag on his side, “I just need some ginseng, I know a spot just west of here.” Walter dismounts his horse and walks over to Sam, who is diligently surveying the area. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth, strikes a match on the bottom of his boot, and passes another cigarette to Sam. He lights them both, flicking his wrist until the flame dies out. He looks at Sam for a moment, before sliding the piece of burnt wood into his satchel. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, arms folded. 

“You sure know your way around here, I’m kind of impressed.”

“I rely on nature for everything. I would be a real fool if I didn’t know it by now.”

“I barely know what year it is, Sam. Your mind is a special one.” 

“Why thank you, and frankly, I don’t know how you’ve survived this long without me.” 

Walter lets out a quiet exhale of amusement, smoke escaping his nose. “Neither do I.” 

The air is sweet and filled with moisture this far west. The mountains are flush against the sky, snow caps shimmering radiantly in the setting sun. Sam and Walter, side by side, trot along a winding dirt path. A small stream carves through the lush meadow next to them, and the field is dappled with bright stalks of lavender. A layer of mist rests atop the surrounding area. Walter breathes deeply, letting the brisk evening air burn in his chest. Sam hums a song he heard in the local saloon a few nights ago. 

“Home, sweet home.” 

Walter and Sam slow their horses as they approach a quaint, wooden cabin. The exterior is immaculately cared for, with bursts of blue and purple wildflowers lining the path toward the home. A considerable vegetable garden takes up most of the space left of the path, and a deer hide is stretched across a wooden rack on the right. Sam ties Arizona to a hitching post outside and makes his way toward the door, pushing it open and lighting the oil lamps on the inside of the cabin. Walter gets off of Tex and walks toward the door. Sam leans in the doorway, a welcoming, warm glow emanating from behind him. 

“Want a drink? I took your whiskey suggestion to heart and got the kind you like.”

“I can’t, Sam. The gang needs me early tomorrow for a job.” 

“What kind of job?” Sam stares narrow eyed at Walter, who reluctantly meets his gaze. 

“Don’t give me that look. You know what kind.” 

“Christ, Walt.” Sam rolls his eyes, “You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.” 

“What am I supposed to do, Sam?”

“Make an honest living! Selling plants and skins isn’t riveting, but it’s enough.”

“I’m meant for a life like this.”

“Who says? Your heart isn’t in this. I know it isn’t.”

Walter considers the words for a moment. He takes a deep breath. 

“...I should be going, Sam.”

Walter backs away, turning on his heels. He walks back toward Tex, planting his foot in the stirrup and throwing his leg over the large animal. He sets off toward his gang’s encampment further East, unable to bring himself to look back into Sam’s eyes. 

--

“What’ll it be this time? Bounty hunting? Stealing from more unsuspecting folk?” Sam rants to himself. He plucks a few sizable strawberries off of the bush in his garden. “Oh Walt, you’re such a fool, but I fear I am a bigger one.” He stands, quickly looking over the drying deer skin before walking back inside his cabin. The interior is just as charming as the exterior. A beautifully woven, orange rug brightens the centre of the space. Sam traded an old woman a few buck skins for it further West, he proudly tells anyone who mentions it. Bright, painted rocks sit atop the mantle--and a flame burns comfortably beneath. The firelight flickers across the plethora of framed photographs lining the wooden walls, most being a beaming Sam and an annoyed--secretly amused--Walter at his side. Sam starts to prepare the freshly picked strawberries, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, until his door flies open. 

--

“Walter, you ready?” Walter blinks a few times, bringing himself back into his body. He has been mindlessly staring at the back of his horse’s head for five minutes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.” He spurs his horse forward towards the homestead, and the two other men follow. One had picked up information about a large sum of money, possibly an inheritance or some fellow law-breaking, stashed inside this farmhouse. An easy stickup. As they approach, they pull their bandanas over their faces. A young man working in the garden stands and turns curiously. His face drops as he raises his hands, “Please, my wife is inside, don’t hurt us.” “We’re just here for the money. No one needs to get hurt.” Walter pipes up, keeping his voice relatively monotone. The man pants, glancing quickly between the three mysterious men and his front door. He points towards a small shed next to the house. As soon as they turn their heads, the man takes off. “Hey! He’s running!” one of the masked men yells, pulling his gun from his holster and firing without hesitation. 

Walter dismounts and rushes over to the man, who is coughing and shaking uncontrollably. Blood pools from the gaping wound in his chest. He studies Walter with an indescribable terror in his eyes. To this man, Walter is subhuman. A monster. And he was right. The man exhales deeply, before falling motionless. His vacant, blue eyes pointed up towards the sky. “We agreed, guns stayed holstered!” Walter whips around to berate his companions, but they’re nowhere to be found. 

“Hey! Stand up! Now!” A female voice booms from behind him. 

“Goddamnit…” Walter stands, his hands raised, uncovering the body in the grass.

“You… you killed my husband.” Her hand tightens around the revolver pointed at Walter. 

“Ma’am, I swear I didn’t do this, but I know who did. Please, put the gun down.”

A gunshot fractures the tension in the air. Searing pain floods through Walter’s shoulder. He presses a hand against it, letting out a shaky exhale at the sight of blood. He looks over at the woman who shot him, now draped over her husband. Walter swears under his breath, pulling himself to his feet through gritted teeth. He throws himself over his horse and digs his spurs into the animal, willing it forward. 

The sun begins to set as Sam’s cabin comes into focus through the trees. Walter breathes a sigh of relief as he approaches, clumsily dismounting his horse and hobbling towards the front entrance. His vision spins. With a pained grunt, he swings open the door. 

--

“Oh god, Walt, is that blood?” 

“Wish I could say it isn’t mine.” Walter tries to chuckle, gripping his shoulder.

Sam helps Walter to the small dining table on the other side of the cabin. He shoves a few rags in Walter’s direction, ordering him to apply pressure to the wound. He sets the blade of his hunting knife in the fireplace, grabbing various medicinal plants and store-bought treatments as he passes them. He sits down next to Walter, pouring a disinfectant onto the last clean rag he owns and pressing it into the afflicted shoulder. Walter hisses.Sam stands, grabbing his hunting knife from the fire and returning to Walter’s side.

“Hold still. This is gonna sting...real bad.” 

Sam presses the red-hot metal to the gunshot wound, and ‘sting’ was an understatement. The metal sizzles against Walter’s flesh for a few seconds, before Sam quickly pulls it away. 

“Y’know, I think you were right. About this life not being for me.” Walter says. 

He hesitates for a moment when he meets Sam’s blue eyes. 

“This happened because I watched someone die needlessly, and I couldn’t handle it.”

“So, the brooding outlaw has a heart?” Sam smiles, “If only someone had told you that.”

--

“You always release the arrow on an exhale, and don’t ask me the science of it.”

Sam and Walter trudge through the woods surrounding their cabin, a plentiful hunting ground that Sam uses often. Walter awkwardly adjusts the bow over his shoulder, still sore from being shot a few months ago. Sam puts his arm out to stop Walter, shushing him.

“There. Look.”

He points at a doe, grazing in the small clearing ahead of them. Walter readies his bow, but the wood still feels awkward in his hands. He notches an arrow, inhales deeply, and lets it go as he breathes out. The arrow goes long, spooking the deer into the distant woods. Walter huffs, both in frustration and embarrassment. Sam sets a firm hand on his shoulder with a smile. 

“Hey. You’ll learn with time. And now that gunfights aren’t daily, we have plenty of it.”