Brooks burst through the door again. He’d lost count of how many times he had run back and forth in the past hour, but he was beginning to feel like a chicken with its head cut off. “I have some good news, and some bad news…” he said. Sounding reluctant.

“I’ve had enough bad news for one night, Brooks.” Art said. His response closer to a grunt than an intelligible sentence. Brooks shuffled, looking even more reluctant than before. Art gave him a suffering look. “Well, get on with it. I need to hear what’s happening whether I like it or not.”

Brooks gulped. “Yes, sir. The good news is that I found Callais.” “It’s about time.” Art interjected. “And what’s the good news?” Brooks squirmed for a moment, looking as if he were trying to find the right words. “He’s… shall we say, incapacitated at the moment.” Art’s expression grew weary. “I don’t have time for games. What do you mean, incapacitated?”

“He’s rather inebriated. I didn’t recognize him at first, but he’s been passed out at the bar.” Art’s expression became irritated. “So, he’s a little drunk. What’s the problem? Get him sobered up a bit and get him on the trail.”

Brooks shook his head. “No sir, he’s out cold. Passed out at the poker table. They haven’t been able to wake him for hours.”

“I don’t care how drunk he is. Stand him up and shake him. Have some of the men slap him around a bit. Whatever it takes.”

“We’ve already tried that.” Brooks said defensively. “Nothing worked.”

Art scoffed. “Then slap him harder!” Brooks drew back instinctively, staring back at Art with a wary expression.

“I don’t know of any man foolhardy enough to try that with Timothy Calais. That’s a good way to end up in a wooden box.”

Art frowned bitterly, shaking his head. “Worthless sluggards.” he said.

“It’s only natural the men would want to avoid danger.” Brooks argued.

Art grunted. “Any man who’s afraid of a little risk, is no man at all. Good riddance to them. You can’t trust anyone to follow through anymore. They’ll betray you just as soon as you turn your back.”

Brooks felt a surge of electricity as a perfectly timed comeback came to mind. “Only if your backside is exposed, it would seem.” He said, feeling triumphant. Brooks half regretted the words as soon as they escaped his lips, but another part of him relished it. It took everything he had to suppress a smile.

Pure shock flashed across Art’s face, but he was quick to suppress it. His expression quickly becoming flat, and unreadable. But Brooks could see the hatred burning in his eyes. Art was on the verge of crushing Brooks’ nose with his fist. The man was growing bold recently. Much too bold for Art’s taste. “Useless, all of you.” He said with disdain. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

Brooks opened his mouth as if to defend himself but fell silent, looking wounded. Art wanted to storm off right then and there. If only to get Brooks out of his sight. But with great effort, he managed to force out the words he knew Brooks wanted to hear. Sometimes he had to play the game.

“You did well in finding him Brooks. If they can’t get him up, I’ll just have to slap him silly myself. But I have other matters I need to attend to first.”

Perking up a bit at the compliment, Brooks met Art’s gaze with curiosity. “Other matters?”

Art nodded slowly, looking distant. “I need to get those bottom feeders back in line.” He stubbed out his cigar and strode for the door.

Brooks watched him leaving with surprise. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He asked.

“What?” Art said.

Brooks nodded to the towel he was wearing. “I think discipline might go over a little better if you were properly dressed.”

Art smiled that wicked smile of his. “You know what Brooks? You’re right.” He said, his voice low and silky.

He grabbed the towel from around his waist, held out his arm and dropped it to the floor. Then turned toward camp and strode confidently into the night. Brooks stood stunned, his jaw hanging open, long after Art had gone.

###

The men gathered around the fire, laughing and singing. A melodic shanty drifting on the soft, cool, breeze of the moonlit night. An odd sight to an outside observer to be sure. Most would expect to find camp celebrations taking place at the bar. However, this particular outfit was rather sparse concerning the modern conveniences of the civilized world. With a vast majority of the men lacking permanent housing. Most of them counted themselves lucky to have a tent, a blanket, and a bedroll on which to rest their heads at night.

The search for gold was not always a stable or reliable line of work. In truth, it was rarely so. It took a certain kind of man to be successful in this profession. But it also took a certain set of qualities. A prospector had to be hard working, tough, and incredibly self-sufficient among other things. But sometimes it took a man with only a single distinct trait… desperation. These coarse, hardy, and -- perhaps even grungy -- individuals could be ordered to pick up and move camp at a moment’s notice. Which meant that the camp perpetually found itself in a rather primitive state.

Traditionally, gambling would take place in a saloon of sorts, but for the same aforementioned reasons, various types of gambling took place outdoors. The saloon -- if you could call it that -- was quite small and quickly became unreasonably cramped. As such, admittance was divided into shifts. This meant that more often than not, the real party took place in the heart of camp, near a large crackling fire. Whether it be cards, dice, or contests of bravery and skill. Scarcely a night passed at the mining camp without the raucous commotion, rage, and elation of stories, games and gambling.

Alcohol of course, acted something like fuel for these celebrations. Monies would be collected and delivered to those who were scheduled for admittance at said saloon, and these individuals would act as a proxy for purchase of drink. Sometimes these proxies were assigned for long distance travel to the nearest towns for goods like tobacco, soap, and other necessities. But the universally despised foreman rarely made license for these special trips. He considered it a luxury. One that the camp couldn’t afford.

Never mind that the foreman himself seemed to be able to afford every luxury that struck his fancy. Hot water, fresh soap, endless tobacco and even the finest whiskey. But it didn’t stop there. He also had unfettered access to the finest meats, pastries, clothes, and bedding that the frontier had to offer. Meanwhile, the men were left in a sad state of squalor. Sometimes living off of scraps. Perpetually at the mercy of their own ability to hunt and successfully bag a kill just to enjoy a fresh meal.

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It wasn’t uncommon for the men to be left without provision. Often living no better than animals. They weren’t given an endless supply of strong drink to drown out their sorrows like the foreman. And the little refreshment they did receive, was utter swill in comparison. Barnaby was a curse among the camp more than a name. But it was well known that one had to tread carefully when voicing such disdain. Barnaby ran a tight ship. And though hating him had almost become part of the culture over time, and a rite of passage in some respects, it was widely known that openly criticizing the foreman was tantamount to a death sentence.

Barnaby was certainly not loved. But he was feared -- and even respected. At least that had always been the case -- until tonight. Everything had changed in an instant. When one man had decided to go against all sanity, all reason, and all good judgment, to openly defy Barnaby for all to see. Ezra had done the unthinkable. He had brazenly stolen from the foreman -- metaphorically spit in his face -- and most importantly, gotten away with it. Ezra Holloway was the man of the hour. And the typically jovial celebration was twofold greater tonight.

They drank in his honor and danced with delight. Even though Ezra was the one who had committed the act, it felt to each of them like a shared victory. It wasn’t just Ezra who had defied the foreman. They did it. It wasn’t just Ezra who had a laugh at his expense, they had relished it themselves. Participated in the hazing when the tyrant had found himself exposed. They had gotten one over on Barnaby. And that, was something worth celebrating. The heartache of yesterday had no hold on them. The troubles of tomorrow ceased to exist. All that mattered now, was basking in the revelry of Barnaby’s downfall. Things were different now. They could sense it. And they all dared to hope that this was the beginning of a new era. One where the foreman lost a measure of his power – and with it – the stranglehold on their lives.

One of the men near the fire turned his head in surprise when he caught something strange moving toward them out of the corner of his vision. He squinted, straining to focus; the mysterious object just outside the reach of the firelight. For a moment he thought he had spotted whatever it was, moving out there beyond the glow of the flame, but the smoke bellowing up from the firepit suddenly shifted, stinging his eyes. He turned his head away with a cough. Vainly attempting to dodge the smoke. After about thirty seconds, the barrage of smoke and debris ceased, returning to its original state. He scanned the area, attempting to detect the movement he’d seen earlier, but he found nothing. He carefully studied the area a moment longer until he was satisfied that he had only imagined it. He shrugged, turning his gaze back toward the dancing flame.

The shanty being sung by the men came to a beautiful crescendo, ending with a final burst of flare and fervor. Abruptly, there was silence. Struck by a sudden void left by the completion of the song, someone from the crowd brought out a violin. They began to play passionately and some of the men took to dancing. Driven by the raw emotion and excitement, two of the men locked arms and performed an impromptu Dosey-Doe. The violinist smiled, feeling inspired to invent a few lyrics to accompany the dance. “Swing your partner round and round… keep your britches off the ground.” This earned a roar of laughter from the crowd.

“To Ezra!” someone shouted. “Here! Here!” Men lifted their bottles; some lifted their glasses, and they drank a toast. “Careful boys,” Somone shouted. "You wouldn’t want to go exposing yourselves to the entire camp! That would be humiliating.” One of the men participating in the Dosey-Doe stuck out his rear in an exaggerated manner. “Kiss my lily white behind,” he said with a cackle. The camp erupted with laughter again. The man beamed. Proud of the response he’d garnered, he continued. “Did y’all see Barnaby’s face when the whole camp saw his shame? I’ll never forget it as long as I live!” This earned an even greater bout of laughter than the previous jab. Morale had never been higher. The revelry had reached feverish heights. As far as the men were concerned the celebration couldn’t possibly be any better. Then a familiar voice rang out from the edge of the gathering.

“Did someone call my name?” The jovial mood died immediately. Dread filled the air. They all recognized that deep, gravelly, voice cutting through the darkness. Everyone froze. The atmosphere grew tense. A sickening sense of dread spreading through their bellies. Barnaby strode silently toward them like a ravenous predator stalking its prey. His naked silhouette standing out in stark contrast to the blackness of the night. He was like a pale ghoul, haunting their home. His presence like the kiss of death, carrying a chill on the air. There were gasps as he moved into the edge of the firelight. Maybe it was the fear that made it seem so, but he appeared frighteningly tall at that moment. His presence accentuated by the fire. His shadow stretched out like a hungry beast, ready to devour them.

He seemed almost a giant to some, towering above six feet. He had the body of a brawler. His arms, legs, and torso, even his back, all rippled with muscle. His body covered with hair. It was dark and thick, covering his arms, chest, face and back. The exception was his sleek bald head, that somehow made his hyper strong features, seem even more masculine. The hair wasn’t excessive, but it was enough to lend his physique a more brutish, animalistic quality. Scars marred his body. They each told a story - and a brutal one at that. He had seen far more than his fair share of violence. And yet, here he stood, unphased. His brawn was on full display. His nakedness imposing, his presence beyond mere intimidation.

Every man remained silent, many holding their breath. Some even gulped due to sheer discomfort. All thoughts of independence had instantly been squelched. The delusional hope of a new era fell away like dead leaves in a winter storm. It was nothing but a distant dream now, as the familiar presence of dread blanketed them in an almost palpable fog.

Barnaby grinned, but his expression didn’t seem human. It was more animalistic, like a wolf baring its fangs. “Ya’ll thought you’d have a little soiree at my expense, eh?” He asked with disdain. His voice more like a growl than human speech. Barnaby placed his elbows out and swayed his body back and forth in a mocking dance. “Thought you’d do a merry little jig? Have some laughs behind my back. Is that it?” He cast his menacing visage over the entire gathering. Sweeping his gaze slowly over each man. Nobody said a word. The silence stretched on, becoming painful. It was so quiet; you could hear a pin drop.

Then Barnaby began to pace. He sauntered among the gathering, silently staring them down. Oozing confidence, seething with rage. As he approached, the crowd reacted involuntarily; visibly cringing. “What’s the matter boys? Never seen a real man?” He stretched out his arms, on full display. He continued to saunter. Then halted suddenly, balling his hands into fists, and pulling them in toward his chest. He flexed his considerable muscle, demonstrating his immaculate physique. The discomfort of the men reached a fever pitch. Then, he paused, singling out the man who had been shouting jokes at his expense.

“What’s the matter, don’t feel like telling jokes anymore?” Barnaby quickly closed the gap between them, leaning in uncomfortably close, glowering down at the pitiable man. The man staggered back, spilling his drink and tumbling to the ground. “Who’s in charge?” he shouted. No one dared to speak. “Who’s in charge?” One of the men spoke out, his voice shaking. “Yu- you are… sir.” Barnaby gave a curt nod in response. “that’s right. Whether I’m in uniform, my skivvies, or naked as the day I was born. I’m in charge. Period.” He resumed pacing. “And being on my good side or my bad side can be the difference between drawing breath and rotting in the ground! Do you hear me?” No one spoke, but some nodded.

“Anybody want to laugh now?” No one even dared to move. “Make no mistake. I will resort to killing. And the man who did this will be made an example of. I swear it. His suffering will serve as an example to the rest of you just how serious an act of disrespect against me can truly be. Anyone who harbors fantastical ideas about changing things around here or following in his footsteps, will quickly find themselves drawing their final breath… much sooner than they had anticipated." He paused allowing the threat to sink in.

“I will see men hang for their crimes. Whether it be for theft, treason or insubordination. Mark my words. I will watch you squirm, like a sniveling worm on a hook as you gasp desperately for even the tiniest bit of air. I will watch you piss yourself, twitching pathetically as you die. Then shove your cold dead corpse into a wooden box and bury you in the hills."

He paused again, allowing the threat to hang in the air.

"And when all is said and done, I'll lie down and sleep like a baby, as if it were any other Tuesday... and for anyone who thinks I may be bluffing. Know that I’ve done it before. And I won’t hesitate to do it again. Do you understand me?”

Again, the men were silent. But Barnaby knew without a doubt, that the message had been delivered loud and clear. With that, he stepped forward and took a leak on the fire, unleashing the veritable flood he’d stored up from the exorbitant quantities of alcohol he’d consumed, snuffing out the flame.