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I. He was riding south from Boise, having split from the other men, they’d got together for this job, would not see each other again. It was much safer doing that, thought Reg as he sat on his horse, made it harder for the lawmen or Pinkertons to take their score. And even if that were not sure, Reginald King wouldn’t go back, he’d seen a lot in his young life, but never anything like that. He’d been hitting stages three years, since the orphanage turned him out, it had been his way to survive, before now he hadn’t felt doubt. But looking at that preacher’s eyes as all the life drained out of him… hearing the man’s damning last words, and seeing the bloody-teeth grin… “God’s wrath with find you, stupid boy,” that phrase had been etched on his heart, Reg hadn’t cared that much before, but now it all gave him a start. He’d never like to kill that much, but had done it when there was need, two fools who had tried to fight back, that was all he’d ever made bleed. He hadn’t shot the preacher, no, the ring-leader had done that job, a man named Jones that always killed the people that he chose to rob. He said it was, “Cleaner that way, no one can talk if they are dead…” Reg supposed that it made some sense, but that image stayed in his head. He was only nineteen years old, and so far he knew just this path, Bilyl the Kid had been like him, and that man was not coming back... He didn’t know much of this world, but he knew that he feared the grave, they’d look for him if he stayed here, so he had to be one his way. Besides a new country would be a place where he could rethink things, maybe try a new track in life, honest men survived by working. If they could do it, so could he, push a plow or clerk in a store, it might seem dull but at least he’d not see dead preachers anymore. So he rode to Arizona, he hadn’t been this way for years, not since he’d left the orphanage, he had done no crimes around here. Picked out a town named Ironwood, not that far from where he had grown, enjoyed familiarity of the few places he had known. He found himself a nice saloon, but drinking was not on his mind, such places were where people went, and some sort of job he must find. The barkeep saw him swagger near, saw his dark eyes and his long chin, saw his face with its scrubby bear, and said, “Hey, stranger, come on in!” CONTINUES IN PART II.

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The Tragedy of Reginald King, Part I

I. He was riding south from Boise, having split from the other men, they’d got together for this job, would not see each other again. It was much safer doing that, thought Reg as he sat on his horse, made it harder for the lawmen or Pinkertons to take their score. And even if that were not sure, Reginald King wouldn’t go back, he’d seen a lot in his young life, but never anything like that. He’d been hitting stages three years, since the orphanage turned him out, it had been his way to survive, before now he hadn’t felt doubt. But looking at that preacher’s eyes as all the life drained out of him… hearing the man’s damning last words, and seeing the bloody-teeth grin… “God’s wrath with find you, stupid boy,” that phrase had been etched on his heart, Reg hadn’t cared that much before, but now it all gave him a start. He’d never like to kill that much, but had done it when there was need, two fools who had tried to fight back, that was all he’d ever made bleed. He hadn’t shot the preacher, no, the ring-leader had done that job, a man named Jones that always killed the people that he chose to rob. He said it was, “Cleaner that way, no one can talk if they are dead…” Reg supposed that it made some sense, but that image stayed in his head. He was only nineteen years old, and so far he knew just this path, Bilyl the Kid had been like him, and that man was not coming back... He didn’t know much of this world, but he knew that he feared the grave, they’d look for him if he stayed here, so he had to be one his way. Besides a new country would be a place where he could rethink things, maybe try a new track in life, honest men survived by working. If they could do it, so could he, push a plow or clerk in a store, it might seem dull but at least he’d not see dead preachers anymore. So he rode to Arizona, he hadn’t been this way for years, not since he’d left the orphanage, he had done no crimes around here. Picked out a town named Ironwood, not that far from where he had grown, enjoyed familiarity of the few places he had known. He found himself a nice saloon, but drinking was not on his mind, such places were where people went, and some sort of job he must find. The barkeep saw him swagger near, saw his dark eyes and his long chin, saw his face with its scrubby bear, and said, “Hey, stranger, come on in!” CONTINUES IN PART II.