Brooks shuffled uncomfortably among the crowd, watching the spectacle. A part of him wanted to get away as fast as his legs would carry him, but another part of him felt like he wasn’t allowed to move. If he’d been thinking rationally, he would have realized just how ridiculous the idea was, but there was something about the atmosphere that held him locked in place. He turned away as Barnaby finished relieving himself on the fire. Unsure how to feel. A torrent of emotions stirred in his stomach, and he felt the sudden urge to have a drink and turn in for the night.

The men stood frozen in place, same as Brooks. Anxiously awaiting the foreman’s next move. Once Barnaby had finished, he took a moment to saunter around the snuffed-out flame. Staring intensely at the men as the silence stretched on. Then he sighed. “Well, boys. It looks as though the fires’ gone out. I guess we’ll have to cut this little celebration short. Such a shame.” The men didn’t dare grumble, at least not audibly. But Brooks could sense the collective wave of disappointment thick in the air. For a bright, fleeting, moment morale had soared. Now it was mingled among the mud. “All good things must come to an end.” Brooks thought, feeling melancholy. Worse still, was the fact that Brooks hadn’t even had the chance to join in the celebration before it had abruptly come to a close. He lamented the fact that he always seemed to miss out on the fun. Admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of it to go around, which should have made him feel better, but it somehow made it worse.

He didn’t take solace in the fact that he’d only missed a handful of cheerful moments that had taken place within the camp. He lamented that the moments were so few and far between. “A shame indeed.” Art said, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “But in the end, it’s for the best. In case you boys have forgotten there is plenty of work to be done, so it would behoove each and every one of you to get a good night’s rest.” At this, some of the men began to move. Taking this as their cue for dismissal. This, however, was a grave mistake. One that Barnaby corrected in an instant.

“Did I say you’re excused?” He said, his grizzled voice, clear and commanding. The men who had thought to exit prematurely, stopped cold. He stared the group down for a moment longer, then continued. “As I was saying, tomorrow I’ll be your personal task master. And you’ll learn what it’s really like to put in a hard day’s work.” A fresh wave of dread spread through the camp as images of the horrors that tomorrow would bring settled in their minds. “And in case you thought that my promise of extra work had slipped my mind, let me assure you. My mind is as sharp as ever. You best prepare yourself gentlemen. Because out here, I am Pharoah and you’re about to learn what it means to be a Hebrew slave.”

###

Satisfied with the sniveling response that the men had displayed, Art considered his plan-- and its execution-- a resounding success. He had waved them away and as the men dispersed, he lingered next to the smoldering remains of the bonfire, basking in the triumph of the moment. He had been defied and openly humiliated. And briefly, he had believed that he’d suffered a defeat too devastating from which to make a comeback. But from the brink of defeat, he had snatched a decisive victory.

He savored it. The memory of their fear, their wide eyes, trembling bodies, and shaking voices, brought a smile to his lips. All was as it should be once more. They were safely at the bottom and he rightfully towered above them. Now that he’d seen just how easily things could fall apart, Art was even more convinced that his diligence in applying his brutally conventional, sometimes, harsh methods of discipline -- and his effort to maintain the unquestioning rule of authority -- was more than justified.

Some may call him a tyrant. And history would likely not look kindly on him, but the lofty values of an idealist were for dreamers with the luxury of such naive views of the world. Though none would admit it, reality was much harsher than the good intentions of the moral idealist. In life, harsh truths had to be confronted and unpleasant, even brutal actions had to be taken for the benefit of all. The weak would give in when met with these challenges. But there were a rare few. Men like himself, that were willing to take the hard road. Willing to do what needed to be done. And as long as he lived, he would gladly make that sacrifice. Even if the whole world hated him for it.

Still stunned by what he’d witnessed, Brooks slowly began to realize that the men had mostly already left. Suddenly he felt incredibly exposed. With the crowd so thin, he realized it wouldn’t be difficult for Barnaby to spot him. This horrified him more than he would have thought possible. For the most part Brooks had no fear of the strong-arm tactics and the fearmongering that Barnaby typically applied. He’d always been in a more lenient position. A greater familiarity and rapport with the foreman had served him well and had allowed him to be more comfortable in the foreman’s presence.

Yes, he still worked for the foreman, but he liked to think of himself more like a friend, or trusted right-hand man than one of the underlings. As he pondered the thought he realized for the first time, that even if he did manage to arrive at the start of the celebration, he would likely be unwelcome. His greater status and standing with authority put him invariably at odds with the men. He was an outsider. He didn’t understand what it was like to live under the boot of the tyrant. Sweating and bleeding in the dirt.

There was a distinction of class that would forever make him a stranger. A pariah left on the fringes. Forever on the outside, looking in. The realization struck him profoundly and the crushing weight of sorrow fell upon his shoulders like never before. Maybe that’s why he had done what he did. If he joined in with the men in a collective mutiny against Barnaby, there was room for him among them. It was his one and only opportunity to show them that his loyalty lay firmly with them, rather than the foreman.

He had taken that gamble when he’d spoken out against Barnaby, but he had missed the opportunity to leverage it. Now he stood alone, having no place among the men and having severely bitten the hand that fed him. The sheer rage and propensity for payback that Barnaby had displayed, frightened him.

And now that he was out in the open and exposed, he deeply regretted his foolish, hot-headed decision. He strode quickly away from the camp in an attempt to get out of Barnaby’s sight before he was noticed, berating himself all the while.

“Why did you have to open your mouth, Brooks? You fool! Was it worth it? Stupid, stupid, st---” He was unceremoniously interrupted by a strange noise. It was Barnaby clearing his throat.

“Aaah, Brooks… where is that you think you’re going?”

Brooks froze, unsure what to do. His muscles grew tense, his breath held in suspension. He took a half step forward and then paused, blinking rapidly. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he could have continued walking and pretended like he hadn’t heard, but it was too late for that. He had already paused for too long. What excuse could he possibly make now? He wanted to do anything but turn around. Anything but face the foreman. He suddenly wished he were locked up. As much as he hated the idea of the filth and squalor of prison, at least he would be safe inside from the foreman’s grasp.

It was a pleasant, fleeting, fantasy but it wouldn’t help him out of his current predicament. He wracked his brain, desperately searching for an excuse that would be even the least bit convincing. Any pitiful reason to make himself scarce. He’d almost given up hope when it suddenly hit him.

“I’m sorry, sir but I really need to be running to the privy.” The foreman scoffed, the sound more like a cynical laugh.

“Well, there’s a spot over here I just warmed up for you.” Brooks glanced over his shoulder, then quickly turned away.

“N- No thank you. I’m afraid I need to take a load off.”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

With that Brooks began to awkwardly move forward, relieved at the clever lie.

“Brooks!” Art shouted.

Brooks froze again, flinching at the sudden sound.

“You can mess your pants for all I care. Get over here! Now…”

The utter contempt in Barnaby’s voice sent a stab of fear into Brooks body that tightened the muscles in his back. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly. The sound escaping his lips one of resignation and despair. He hung his head for only a moment, then fearing further anger from the foreman he reluctantly turned around.

He walked toward Barnaby very slowly. Becoming more tense with each step. He desperately wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Anywhere but here. The best he could do was delay the approach and when he arrived to where Barnaby waited, he stopped several yards away. Deliberately putting as much distance as he reasonably could between himself and the imposing figure.

Barnaby didn’t say anything at first, but from the movement of his eyes and the expression on his face, Brooks knew he was taking a mental note of the distance between them. Barnaby smiled. A condescending, self-satisfied smile. For a moment it made Brooks want to slap it off his face, but then he reminded himself that this was precisely the type of thinking that had led to his predicament in the first place. He did his best to bury his emotions and maintain a neutral expression.

“What’s the matter Brooks? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Brooks’ eyes darted uncomfortably around the foreman’s pale, brutish, body - unsure where to rest his gaze. Brooks squeezed his eyes shut for a moment - and when he opened them again, he wisely opted to stare down at the ground.

“Not – not exactly.” he said with a stammer.

The condescending smile that had been on Barnaby’s lips earlier, was now present in his eyes.

“Did you just stammer Brooks? You’re not scared, are you?"

Brooks gulped and cleared his throat.

“No.” he said as confidently as he could manage.

Barnaby stared back at him for a long moment, unblinking. “What did you think of how I handled the situation? He asked, sounding amused.

“It was… educational,” he said carefully. The foreman snorted.

“Well, I’m glad I could learn you something Brooks. Here’s another teaching moment for you…”

He suddenly reached out, grabbing Brooks by the throat and squeezed slowly. His hand was like a vice grip and Brooks could feel himself rapidly becoming lightheaded.

“If you ever disrespect me again. I will kill you… understood?"

Brooks nodded, his face turning purple. He waited for eagerly anticipating his release. The foreman continued to crush his windpipe until Brooks began to panic. Just as he was beginning to lose consciousness, Barnaby let go. Brooks fell to his knees, gasping for air. The foreman stood by, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“And just so we’re clear… you’re not getting off that easy. Your punishment is still forthcoming. I just haven’t thought of it yet.”

With that, he turned and strode away from the campsite and toward the saloon.

###

It was getting late, and the bar was relatively quiet. The bartender sighed with relief. Fights didn’t break out often in the small saloon, but he’d seen enough trouble over the years that he still counted every day they made it to closing time without an incident. The restricted numbers, and tightly controlled schedule, helped in this regard and he counted himself lucky that he found himself here, rather than one of the other bars he’d managed in the past. If he was being completely honest with himself, the bartender was lucky that he’d survived as long as he had, considering how many fatal incident’s he’d been a part of.

In his early days, he'd trusted people to be civil, but he quickly learned that this was a foolhardy way to run a saloon. Ever since the first incident in which he'd experience a brush with death, he made a point to keep a reliable shotgun stocked and loaded where he had easy access. In case some drunkard got too rowdy or a hot-headed tough guy with a death wish, decided to stir up trouble.

He’d been a young, bright-eyed, boy of fifteen when he’d first entered the business - and at the time, he’d been greener than a spring pea at harvest time. But with each passing year, he gained more wisdom and experience in his trade, and he’d survived scuffles, scrapes, and even a few massacres.

He’d been in the business for twenty years now, and he was one of the savviest, most headstrong, bartenders in the state. And a savvy businessman to boot. Bartending wasn’t his dream. It had started out that way, but as he matured, he developed new dreams. Less raucous, violent ones. For many years now, he’d set his sights on the peaceful, satisfying, life of a farmer. He’d saved up for a nice piece of land, some cattle, and other standard farm animals. And with everything he’d managed to save, he was only a few years away from retirement.

Technically, he could have hung up his hat already and been living out his dream on his own slice of heaven, but thirty-five was fairly early for retirement and he liked the idea of holding out for a bigger nest egg so he would have more money left over as a cushion for a rainy day or for the purposes of investing.

Maybe he’d even settle down and have a family. Maybe the extra money he put away could be an inheritance for his children. The possibilities were endless. All he had to do was tough it out a while longer and then it was off to sweet, sweet, paradise to live out the rest of his days. Happy and healthy and carefree.

He was just finishing cleaning up the bar and polishing the glasses, when trouble arrived. The front doors swung open and there stood the foreman, stark naked; a death glare on his face. The bartender cursed his misfortune wondering why on earth somebody had to go out of their way to ruin his night. Like most of the residents of this shanty town they called home, the bartender wasn’t exactly fond of the foreman, though he had no personal grievances or bone to pick with the man, he was all too happy to maintain his distance.

Whatever madness this was, it couldn’t be good, and the bartender mentally prepared himself to discharge his trusty weapon at the first sign of trouble. Ignoring the open-mouthed stares of the people around him, the foreman walked right up to the table where Callais was slumped over and called out to him in a voice loud enough to cause sudden silence throughout the room. When Callais didn’t respond, the foreman waited for a moment, then called out again.

“Callais, wake up!”

The bounty hunter was dead to the world. His patience quickly spent, the foreman resorted to pulling Callais out of his chair by the front of his shirt and violently shaking him, in an attempt to revive him. Callais did not respond. His body hung limply, his head lolling to one side. The anger in the foreman’s eyes grew in intensity and determined to have his way, resorted to slapping Callais. First one side of his face, then on the other. The first few slaps seemed relatively mild. Meant only to wake him, but they quickly became more brutal, until it was as if the foreman were beating the man.

He awoke with a jerk, instinctively going for his weapon. The foreman grabbed the gun before he had a chance to fire, and then battered Callais' head with the butt of the weapon. Callais called out in pain, grasping his bruised head and nursing his reddened cheek with his other hand.

“I’ll kill you, you blue bellied bugger! Who do you think you are?”

Callais blinked, clearing his vision. His eyes slowly coming in to focus as he stared at the foreman. A moment later he recognized who it was.

“What’d you do that for? Nobody disrespects me like that and gets away with it!”

In response, the foreman pulled him up by his shirt and glared at him with a wild-eyed stare.

“What did you say?” he asked menacingly, lifting Callais' feet of the ground. Callais stared back, hatred burning in his eyes, then after a moment he begrudgingly responded. His voice low.

“Nothing.” He said through gritted teeth.

“That’s what I thought.” Barnaby said coolly.

Callais was furious. If it had been anybody else, they’d be a dead man.

“I have a contract out and I need you on it right away.” Barnaby said.

Callais shot him a look of disdain.

“It’s my time off. I don’t need to put up with this kind of treatment.”

Barnaby tightened his grip in response. “I pay you to be on call when I need you. That means, that if I say I need you on a job right now, you best get on the job as soon as humanly possible.”

Callais wore a look of disgust but said nothing.

“Brooks has the details of the contract. I need you to leave in a few minutes.”

Callais stared at him incredulously. “In a few minutes? I can barely see straight.”

Barnaby let go of his shirt, causing him to stumble back. He barely caught himself on the table preventing himself from crashing to the floor.

“Well, then you best get sobered up quick.”

Barnaby cracked his neck as he rolled his shoulders. Then glanced around the room and strode out the way he had come.

The room was marked by stunned silence for a time. The men in the saloon staring at Callais, dumbfounded. Callais angrily nursed his wounds for a moment, before turning crimson with rage at the people around him.

“What are y’all staring at. Mind your own business.”

Callais had never put up with that kind of disrespect from anyone and having a whole room full of people staring at him and witnessing his humiliation put him in a murderous rage. He rubbed his reddened cheek, casting his vitriolic stare around the room.

“No one disrespects me like that. No one!” he shouted.

He studied the faces surrounding him, searching for a target to focus his rage on. He met eyes with the bartender for a moment.

“What are you looking at?”

The bartender quickly looked away. Making his way to the portion of the counter that held his trusty gun.

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me,” he said.

The bartender didn’t respond. Focused on retrieving his weapon. Callais drew his pistol and unloaded it on the bartender. Shooting him in the back and murdering him in cold blood.