the good book for bad men.

Vincent Bertolini-Felice / 3.28.25.

Two adobe farmsteads lie adjacent beneath an unnamed hill in an unnamed region of New Mexico and the old country. The last inklings of light fled the one caressing the foot of the plateau weeks ago. In the waning frames of dusk, the boy saw the drift of a single lantern leave the farmhouse and illuminate a sunken silhouette steering a wagon beyond the horizon.  

Weeks prior, Wilson Waters had stumbled the half mile from the hill to his neighbor to mutter something about the railroad and buffalo before disappearing down the same path he rode his wagon through that night. 

That next morning, the boy wandered over to the property to collect anything left behind. The property was thoroughly scrubbed, fragmented cans of provisions and gasless lanterns were the solitary clutter strung around the broken wood floors.  

The boy returned home empty-handed to an uneasy expression from the woman in the doorway. Flaxen strands of curly hair aimlessly waved across the left side of her face, her hands emotionlessly caressing the fabric adorning her chest. 

“Any luck?” 

The boy silently walked past her and through the open doorway, his empty hands sufficing as an answer. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what she expected or wanted but he was more frustrated at the request his mother made more than her disappointment. 

“It’s a shame. I was hoping he would’ve left some salt around.” 

The boy sat himself down on the chair closest to the door, the carved wooden stilts sliding back and halting as they met the familiar indent from the continual bumps in the wallpaper. 

She watched as the boy wrestled off his boots to inspect a wound. 

“I’m worried we’ll have to buy another crate in the coming weeks.” 

He paused from removing the boot and returned his foot from his lap to the floor, undoing all the efforts made before. 

“What do you want me to do about it?” 

“Nothing, dear.” 

“Why bring it up then?”  

She breathed a shallow sigh and moved her arms to her side. The boy watched as her figure shrunk, her shoulders visibly dragging her spirit further to the floor. 

He stood up suddenly and in a few brisk paces, exited through the kitchen in the back. He entered the enclosed pin housing the solitary cow that was supposed to have died years ago. 

The boy walked to the far side of the pen, resting his elbows at a slightly upward angle against the wooden post, careening his chin into the intersection between his crossed wrists. 

He heard the door swing behind him and the rivet of the swinging saloon door to enter the pen. It would do no good to look back, these encounters that frustrated him so always ended the same. Mother would silently trail a few steps behind him for the following hours to prevent his mind from fixating on what happened, forcing his thoughts to the present. 

For better or for worse, any frustrations associated with their prior conversation fled his mind, often manifesting in an array of confused and agitated conceptions of what his mother was doing in the present. 

This was not the matter on this such occasion. The slope of the valley provided an ample view of the road from the elevation of their property. It was rare to see much pass through; traveling salesmen leaving expositions, military convoys, and wayward drunks flashed in quick glances once every few weeks. 

The road that directed one to their property was sparsely defined, with exposed rocks and seldom noticed divots in the silt creating a sort of minefield only navigable to those who had the necessary experience with it. 

To see a convoy of any size turn onto this road was even rarer a sight. The last time this occurred, his father was still alive. The boy was in a similar position within the pen with his father replacing chipped oak planks on the pen thirty or so feet away from him. From the fork in the road, the boy could see a man in an oversized, military coat diverge onto their path. The man was a younger Mexican, the coat was a collection of warped lint and dust disguised as a fully formed fabric.  

He halted his horse suddenly at the sight of his father. As if he was in a trance, his father silently relinquished his hands of his tools and walked to intercept the man before he made his way to the front of the property. 

The Mexican remained on horseback, cupping his hands and pointing as he spoke to his father. Their conversation was quiet, fingers flipping sporadically in opposing directions, exchanging several confused and frustrated hand gestures.  

They continued this dance for several minutes before the man threw his arms in the air and rode off in the direction from which he came. The boy dismissed this as a lost traveler not understanding his father’s Spanish and tracked back to his father’s tools to assist him in the remainder of the chore. He quietly extended his hand, full of nails, to his father, only to see the face of an embattled man growing pale in the face. 

He gestured once with his hands, presenting the nails with open palms and swinging his elbows out to ground his father to reality. The usual furrowed brows of perturbance were replaced by a despondent awe rendering his father entirely motionless. 

“Pop.” 

His father aggressively closed his eyes and shook his head in a few quick motions as if to rid himself of whatever was afflicting him. 

The remainder of that day was spent in a grim silence, with the only words exchanged being the variable shout of directions, responded with an affirmation from the boy. 

He had been so focused on the previous instance of an unexpected traveler visiting their road that he had neglected to view the convoy cascading through thick clouds of dust towards the farmstead. 

They veered slightly off course, careening through uneven stretches of patchy weeds. The man at the head of the convoy was now almost entirely visible to the boy. He wore a thick overcoat a size too small, the definition on his shoulder pressed firmly through the cotton of his jacket, nearly protruding the seams. He was the only member of the party without a visible firearm strung across his chest; the remainder of the party appeared to be largely Mexican, with one smaller boy shortly following the rear.  

He followed the small boy for a minute, noticing he turned his neck laterally every few seconds as if to spot anyone behind them in pursuit. The front man yelled and gestured something to the party, waving his arm along the direction they were following. As he turned his head, strands of inky black hair swayed across his nose. He was the only one without a hat and his hair appeared drenched, as if he had just escaped a torrential downpour. 

By the time they passed the property, they straightened their course to the farmstead at the foot of the hill. The boy left his position at the post and watched as they dismounted on the division splitting the two adobes. 

Whether morbid curiosity or a need to stamp out a possible intrusion, the boy looped around the pen towards the front of the property to face the men. He chose to intercept them in a similar way his father had, unknowingly being met with the same expression of dread his mother possessed that day. 

He stopped a few paces outside Waters’ former estate, the small boy was keeping watch with a repeating rifle trembling in his frail fingers. 

“Scram.” 

“There’s nothing there.” 

“Who are ya?” 

“Neighbor.” 

The boy relinquished his rifle, allowing it to drop below his knees, his arms holding either end.  

“How did you know it was empty?” 

“Guy came into town half-drunk talking about big sky country. He seemed proud to be packin up. Damn near told us what he left and where to find it.” 

The boy crossed his arms and leaned back in his stance. 

“Who are the others?” 

The small boy remained silent. Kicking imagined rocks beneath the surface at the imposition of the question. 

“I told you there’s nothing there.” 

“He said something about some feed he had.” 

“Empty.” 

The small boy turned around and let out a whistle with more gravitas than the other boy imagined him capable of. Within seconds, the party came spilling out the front, three empty boxes in hand. 

“Son of a bitch lied!” 

The man leading the convoy earlier snatched a box from one of the Mexicans hands and threw it on the ground.  

“He didn’t have much more when he was here.” 

The man stared at the small boy and back at the other, mimicking disgust at the fact someone could be allowed so close to him. 

“He’s the neighbor.” 

The man flipped his palm over in frustration. Confused as to why that mattered. 

“He’s no harm.” 

The small boy’s voice fluttered upwards towards the end of his statement. He braced for repercussion, his voice reflecting the panic he carried in attempting to interject. 

The man placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, tapping his fingers up and down and tapping his palm repeatedly on the boy’s bony shoulder blades.

“You need feed?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“You head three miles that way, there’s a stable.” 

The man laughed and turned to the Mexicans, the men behind him joining in a quiet, sardonic chuckle. 

“That can’t happen, mister.” 

The boy wrinkled his nose, rubbing his callused hands against the scruff of his chin. He turned towards his property; his mother was no longer in the doorway. 

“We have a surplus. I can give you no more than a day or two.” 

The small boy looked at the man with wide eyes, hoping this solution would free him from the sense of ignorant shame he felt at the interaction. 

The man turned to the Mexicans, whispering something in Spanish and pointing towards the horses growing increasingly angsty near the shrubs. 

The man shook the boy's hands and appreciated the gesture. The party hung back as the two walked towards his stable fixed a few meters to the west of the house. 

“He won’t make it far.” 

“Who?” 

“Your neighbor.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“The man’s gotta death wish.” 

“His wife died last year.” 

“Shame.” 

“He had some gold buried somewhere. Traded it all in for provisions and firearms. Locked himself up in the house for months. We thought he killed himself.” 

“The lord wouldn’t hold that in regard.” 

The boy chose not to reply. He harbored a sort of introspective silence on the topic of religion that the man picked up on rather fast. 

“You a man of Christ son?” 

The man was a lanky figure, well over six feet, with a rugged, yet kept visage. He swooped his head downwards to meet the boy’s glance, his head positioned almost entirely towards the ground. 

“My father was.” 

“Good man.” 

“He was.” 

“Dead?” 

“Three months.” 

“Mama?” 

“In the house.” 

“She follow the lord?” 

“Did.” 

The man came to an abrupt halt in his walk. The two were nearly around the porch, when the man turned his glance to the bible verse scrawled on the wooden headpiece above the frame of the second story. 

The wicked earns deceptive wages, but one who sows righteousness gets a sure reward. 

The boy joined the man in stopping. Standing a few paces ahead, the writing no longer being visible to him. 

“Proverbs.” 

The boy nodded his head in apathetic affirmation. Slowly continuing his walk to usher the man back on their walk.  “I’m not a good man, but I am still a man of God.” 

“I don’t mean disrespect sir, but I do not intend on following you.”  The man developed a sort of malicious grin on his face. The angular cut of his beard and bushy tilt of his eyebrows illuminating a despicable air.  

“What is missing from your life son?” 

“A whole lot, sir.” 

“How did your father die?” 

“He shot himself.” 

The man clicked his tongue and murmured something about “the lord, the lord, the lord”. He hunched over and whispered a bible verse, placing his hand on the perplexed boy's shoulder. 

“Son, there is no bigger hole in your life than the one living without a father has.”  “I know.” 

“Do you want to die?” 

“No sir.” 

“My folks died when I was real little. Haven’t forgiven them for that.” 

He broke into a laugh that he was expecting the boy to share with him. His expression had not changed over the course of their conversation, yet the man did not take offense at the boy’s lack of emotion.  

“I thought my life was over. Do you feel that way son?” 

“It is.” 

“You see Kienan over there.” 

He pointed to the small boy. He was sitting on the ground with his legs spread in opposite directions. His fingers were tracing something in the dirt with the rifle flipping up and down in the crevice of his pants as he did so. 

“Watched his mama get killed by Indians.” 

It was at this statement that the boy’s eyes shot up. He was unaware of what would make the boy join such a group but could not fathom such a cruel fate compelling someone to put themselves in so ambiguous and foreboding a community. 

“But the good lord knew he had something more for him. He’s been doing real good with us.” 

“What does he do?” 

“What we all do.” 

“You sound like criminals.” 

“The law may call us that.” 

The men now continued their walk towards the stable. Arching French doors latched together with thick bounds of twine covered the dusted, unkept interior. A malnourished Tennessee Walker lied on a thin array of twigs and fabric, peeking its head just beyond the wooden slat, neighed through its wire cloth headguard. 

“Name?” 

“Sangre.” 

“You name it?” 

“Name when my father bought it.” 

“My first was my father’s as well.” 

“Walker?” 

“Thoroughbred.” 

“You come from money?” 

“No. My father stole it from someone who didn’t deserve it. He ran oil throughout the Southeast. Ran my town for years.” 

“What happened to him?” 

“Dead. Started to lose it and convinced himself he was a gunslinger. When someone challenged him on it, that delusion cost him his life.” 

“Your father killed him.” 

“Yes.” 

“Is your father the reason you live the way you do?” 

“How do I live?” 

“As a criminal.” 

“I’m a criminal in the eyes of the feds. I wouldn’t call taking from those who don’t deserve it criminal.” 

“You killed before?" 

“Never in cold blood.” 

The boy began piling feed into crates lying dormant, flipped in various positions, around pitch-black corners of the stable. The man stroked the horse’s snout, treading the skin around his knuckles softly through the fur masking brittle bones. 

“You want money?” 

The boy was taken aback by the question. He wasn’t sure if he was insinuating money as in compensation for the feed, or if he wished to possess wealth. Given the nature of their conversation, he assumed the latter. 

“I want to belong.” 

“That’s a better answer.” 

The man stacked the crates, near overfilling with feed, much more than a day’s worth. The pair walked back out to the group, the boy carrying the load while the man sharpened a serrated blade. He hummed Amazing Grace, only emphasizing every fourth word before returning to his usual melodic mumble. 

The party hopped quickly to their horses, one of the men walked to the boy to dispossess him of the crates and loft them onto a compartment for storage. 

“Vuelvan al campo. Necesito hablar con nuestro amigo nuevo. Estaré allí después de la noche.” 

The men nodded and fired out past the horizon that Waters fled earlier. Kienan trailed a few paces behind, yelling at his horse to catch up and clutching the reins tighter, adjusting his posture to compensate for the complacency of his speed. 

The boy pictured himself amongst the party. Wondering where he would stand amongst the horde of experienced riders, comfortable with the rough terrain before them. He found himself believing he would reside closer to the small boy bringing up the rear. In the endless scape of open earth and connection yet still mired in the muck of a compensatory dread. 

“My friend, you’ve been charitable in more ways than you can imagine.” 

The boy nodded along solemnly. A westerly breeze began to kick up. Small morsels of sand and miniscule rocks collected towards the man’s scalp. He swung his forearm to shield himself from the oncoming blows, revealing a surgical scar below his wrist in the shape of a snake. 

The previous flings of particles from the wind became an onslaught. The boy quietly retreated towards the property, sliding his warped fabric hat across his eyes. 

“Come inside.” 

The boy was not sure what compelled him to say this, it was neither a neighborly outreach nor a worry about the man’s well-being, rather a sunken hope that he could learn something from the man in the comfort of his domicile. 

His mother was asleep. On a second sweep through the lower level of the house, he noticed the kept animals outside bracing against the barriers of the pen, expecting a storm. Silently, the man wandered outside and ushered the animals into the covered deck. Through the thick planes of glass, the boy noticed the way the man conducted himself with the animals. He spoke softly, using hand gestures and a posture indicating a sort of quiet authority to guide the animals to safety. He returned inside and draped his jacket over one of the chairs closest to the door, the sound of various metal trinkets collecting within the jacket whooshed through the acoustics of the house. 

“Food?” 

“Please.” 

The two dined on overcooked venison seasoned with smoked salts that had collected into an impalpable rock; more than once, both men nearly chipped a tooth on the course protrusion of the mineral.  

“How young were you when your parents died?” 

“Maybe a year younger than ya.” 

The boy nodded along as he swallowed aggressively on an oversized chunk of thigh. The veins in his neck wincing as the gelatinous block of meat glided through his throat.  

“How did they die?” 

Metal on ceramic. The fork from the man’s hands slipped and caught itself on the lip of the plate. He turned his head in all directions, almost pointing his ears outwardly. He leaned in with his shoulders fixed on the table, the snake wrist draped over the other. 

“I got rid of them.” 

In a way that confused the boy, he was not taken aback at this comment. He continued to process the final scraps of meats as they lost the final drops of their natural juices. The man leaned back, running his palms through his hair. 

“You see. They lost it. My pop was a good man, a great man. But he became a tyrant. The drinks and the devi’s game, you know. When I told him who he was, he couldn’t understand. Keep pouring, keep dealing, you see, the Lord knows.” 

Any composure kept throughout their prior interactions were gone. Pools of sweat collected at his forehead, dripping onto his plate. He moved sporadically in his chair, adjusting his posture several times, his hands flying in separate directions. 

“My mother was no better. She read the good book, but didn’t listen to God’s word. She gave to God what Caeser was owed and allowed a tyrant to rule us... like.... like Babylon.” 

It was not the first time the man had to explain this to someone. Whether it was the house he sat in or the reaction of the boy, something had caused him to lose the recited narrative he was so used to telling. 

“But you see, the Lord understands. Every ounce of the good book is in me. I have it in me. The Lord wanted me to be free and I couldn’t while those tyrants were still breathing.” 

“Do you regret it?” 

The boy abandoned his cutlery and turned his shoulder to the side of his chair, eagerly awaiting the man’s response despite the apathetic facade. 

“Do you want to be free?” 

The boy shook his head once silently in the affirmative. He pursed his lips as if to convey a degree of skepticism, but approval, nonetheless. 

“The Lord knows we have tasks before us that we have to do before we can be free. Slaying the tyrants was mine.” 

The idea that there was some unperceived obstacle the boy was closed off to that would provide him the freedom he desired, resonated. His perspective changed from a dejected curiosity to a negligent open-mindedness. 

“You know, I get who you are. You don’t get what you need to do. You want to be free, but you aren’t listening to what the Lord is calling you to do.” 

“How do I do that?” 

“Find me.” 

“You’re right in front of me.” 

“No, no, no. You need to slay your tyrant. If you trust the Lord, you would trust me. Your ticket is what you haven’t done.” 

The man dragged on the final words of the sentence, tightening his facial muscles, speaking slower, and wagging his finger upwards. 

“I have to be going. You ought to forgive me. My men also need me and I must be getting back.”  He stood up aggressively, speaking to the window, without fully acknowledging the boy. The pair walked to the front hastily, the man not wasting a step, analyzing every aspect of the house before stepping out the front. 

“Pueblo Norte. You go there, spend a day or so and you’ll find us.”  “Ok.” 

The man tapped at the boy’s heart aggressively. 

“Freedom, hahah. Don’t forget that.” 

He returned to his previous smile and retrieved his belt from the stoop before drifting off into the enigmatic flow of rain, only his silhouette visible as he neared the horizon. 

The boy retrieved a second portion of the venison. Eating slower and drinking from his father’s collection kept in a locked cupboard. 

The stairs creaked on every second step, louder, yet more harmonic, as he approached the second story. His room housed a lockbox kept open at most hours of the day. The foray of fishing gear, loose jewelry, and collection boxes obscured a rusted revolver lying cold in dormancy. 

He caressed the barrel of the revolver, feeling the composite metal warming at his touch. The sight was scrubbed down to an uneven diagonal of aluminum, no more effective than a dim lantern, When he aimed the weapon, it swung heavier in his hands than he remembered, failing to apply the adequate amount of force to raise to eye level. 

The floorboards seemed to creak louder, creating an array of sounds reminiscent of the echoes of an arena upon the arrival of a warrior. Bellowing chants that filled the house died with the hollow squeak of the door hinges to his mother’s room. 

She was exhausted, failing to remover her day dress and lying above her wool sheets. Her head was slightly off kilter from the pillow, her hand propping her head into the flimsy slump between the pillow and the case covering it. Through the washed inflection of moonlight, her jawbone running along the left side of her face were the most illuminated part of her face.  

The first shot landed inches above the exposed jawbone, the second replaced the eye socket, and the third under the bed, discharging one final time as the gun hit the floor. 

There were no birds outside to flee. No room for the animals to move. The winds persisted. The expected trumpets and sunlight had not reached the boy upon the ring of the final shot. 

He walked to the stable, removing the rest from Sangre and palming meager ounces of feed. Leaving the stable on horseback, the rain had stopped. The echoes of the night were quieter, but more defined. He fixed his eyes on the horizon, the path he had seen many leap towards. He knew what was beyond it, but in the moment, all conceptions of that were lost. Beyond the horizon, there now stood light, a gaseous bulb of a luminescence not visible. But a light that drew you closer, tantalizing, and unforgiving, the eternal Icarus.