Barnaby and Brooks stood momentarily dumbfounded, staring at the door after Wexler had left. “Well Art said, you heard the man. Go find Callais.”

Brooks needed a moment to gather his thoughts, but it was a moment that Art was unwilling to give. “Daylight’s burning, get out there now.” This was one that Brooks just couldn’t let go. “Daylight can’t be burning in the middle of the night,” he corrected.

Art’s expression turned dangerous. “I’ve got a loaded gun nearby if you’re looking to get shot, Brooks.” Brooks stiffened. He was used to threats, but this was serious. “Go find him,” Art said. “Yes, sir.” Brooks responded, quickly finding and using the exit. But just before the door closed Art called out. “Wait, before you go, get me another bottle of whiskey. This one is almost empty.”

“I wonder why.” Brooks said under his breath as he begrudgingly walked back inside. He disappeared momentarily, fetching another bottle. He really did deserve a raise. Brooks emerged a short time later and set the bottle down, quickly heading for the exit. “Wait,” Art said. “Aren’t you going to pour it?” Brooks paused, he wanted to offer some sort of witty response and stroll into the night like Wexler had done, but he was no hardened hunter. He was just a lowly assistant.

No, he was Art’s man servant. There to fulfill his every beck and call without question. Which wouldn’t be so bad; there was a certain dignity in service. But Art wasn’t about dignity. Not for those he considered beneath him. Brooks was not afforded the proper respect of his station or even the proper compensation. He was treated more like a pet. No, even the foreman’s animals were treated with greater dignity. He was below their station. He had hoped that his impeccable service would one day lead to a position of honor. Of prestige, but while that was a worthy goal, it seemed increasingly out of reach.

He poured the glass and placed the cork back in the bottle. “No.” Art said. “Not just mine. Pour one for yourself.” Brooks looked at him, confused, but Art stood expressionless. Then Brooks poured himself a glass. He stopped when he’d reached the halfway point, glancing at Art. Whose face remained unchanged. Then he filled his glass to the top. “After you,” Art said. Brooks gingerly lifted the glass, savoring the whiskey with a sigh. Art held back a smile. He joined Brooks in his drinking.

The tension had subsided to a degree, but he needed to take the anger that had been building in his direction and channel it elsewhere. He needed a scapegoat. A common enemy. “I am very much looking forward to getting my hands on Eric and watching him suffer.” “It’s Ezra,” Brooks corrected. “Whatever. Once they bring him back, he’ll wish they had granted him the mercy of a quick death.” Brooks, studied him questioningly. “Alive?” Art shot him a look. “Of course. I can’t let him get off that easily, with a quick and simple bullet.” He titled his head, filling his mouth with the remainder of his glass. Brooks blinked rapidly, doing his best to reconcile the thought.

“But they never bring them alive. Unless otherwise specified.” Art choked on his whiskey, spraying the carpet and table nearby. Brooks took a step back, staring back warily. “You didn’t get a chance to tell him… did you?” Art was still in a fit of coughing and Brooks could see his face turning dark again. He couldn’t tell if it was from rage or from choking. But he was quite certain that soon it would be both. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he anticipated an explosion of rage from Art.

“It was that buggering bounty hunter’s fault.” Art choked out. “He kept trying to rush out the door before I could even get a word in. You have to tell him now.” Brooks moved to finish his whiskey before rushing out the door. “Now!” Art said, slamming his fist onto the table. Brooks rushed past Art and through the front door, slamming it on the way out. He rushed to find Wexler, running toward his quarters. He found them empty. He sprinted as fast as he could to see if Wexler’s horse was still hitched, but he was gone. It was too late…

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Once the door had shut and all was quiet, Art took another pull on his cigar and stood rubbing his temples for a moment. He was at his wit’s end. He’d been robbed, publicly humiliated, extorted, and even yelled at by Brooks. Brooks! for cryin out loud. And now this. Things were about as bad as they could be.

Art could feel himself spiraling out of control. The world was trying to throw him to the ground and stomp on him, but he had to find a way to get back up and get things under control. There had to be a way to turn the ship around, but how? He needed something to take the edge off, to clear his head, but the cigar alone didn’t seem to be doing the job. He picked up Brooks’ glass of whiskey and began to drink. He had plenty of problems and they seemed to have compounded rapidly as of late. His biggest problem was Eric and the bounty hunters, but there wasn’t much he could do about that now. He already had one on the job and Brooks was in route to get the other. He could only hope that Eric wouldn’t receive a clean death.

Art needed his horse, he needed his hound, and he needed Eric to suffer. Not just for his own benefit, but to show these filthy miner scum who was in charge. He needed to show them what would happen to any who dared challenge him. This way, he could strike fear into their hearts and get things back to the way they were supposed to be. With himself back on top and the wretches on the bottom.

But this wasn’t something he could just mull over for days or weeks at a time. His window of opportunity was fleeting, and he needed to act fast before the infection of independence and freedom had the time to set in. He knew what he needed to accomplish, but he was at a loss for how to accomplish it. There was no way for any of them to unsee what they had already witnessed. This was typically his first method. To take the issue off the table. If there were no witnesses, it didn’t happen. Simple as that. But his current problem was on far too great a scale to apply this effectively so that option was off the table.

His next go to method was to punish those responsible. Eric would receive his punishment in due time, but there was no knowing how long that would take. It would be delayed past the point of his liking at best. By the time he had Eric at his mercy, it would likely be far too late. Assuming he made it back alive at all. His next best option would be to publicly and brutally punish Eric’s accomplices, but he didn’t know who they were. He knew there were hecklers in the crowd, but he couldn’t pick them out amongst all the commotion and his own panicked state. He didn’t have the time to properly investigate to find out who it was. He would know eventually, but there was no telling how long that would take either. He could simply make accusations and punish at random, but this could backfire.

He could punish any who spoke of it from this point forward, but that was just as likely to fuel the fire and have the unintended consequence of pushing their newfound courage into outright rebellion. He couldn’t afford to let things get that far. Even if he did manage to force them to stop speaking of it in public, they would almost certainly continue in secret. It had to be squelched permanently. He had to strike so decisively that his authority could never be questioned again. He could fire every last one of them and start from scratch. If he didn’t deal with it in one fell swoop this would be his only option. Even if he managed to get an influx of new people, some of the old crew could pass the poison of disrespect on to newcomers. The only way to ensure that everyone feared him at that point, would be to remove all the men involved in the incident. As much as he would have relished that, it was far from practical. It would require a huge expense and cost far too much time to train an entirely new crew.

No, he had to beat them back into submission. Or wipe their memories… that was impossible, but he felt he was onto something. "Make them forget." He whispered to himself. Or he thought, feeling the spark of a good idea strike him… make his humiliation irrelevant. He smiled his wicked smile.

He knew exactly what he had to do.