mountain rain by James Callan
We packed our shovels before saddling up. Pa shook his head and swore under his breath. I offered prayers, but he wasn’t in the mood. He took more than one good glug of whiskey from the canteen before passing it to me. I kissed its rim, pretending to drink. He had this look in his eye, while standing over the black square of dirt. And I knew it by his face —knew it as sure as it was raining (and it was damn near pouring)— there'd be more than one grave come morning.
Pa poured some whiskey over Charlie’s grave, wetting the headstone, a rock plucked from the river. I was finishing my prayers, but he cut me off with a whistle. We mounted and rode down from the mountain rain. The setting sun poked through a band of clear sky on the horizon. The rays were warm across our faces, blinding us. With our hat brims low, we left the mountain behind us; Charlie behind us; sorrow, for now, behind us.
Down below, among the windy plain, our buckskins dried. The rain was miles back, weeping on the mountain. Wasn’t long before the dusty town rose up, a clutter of wood shingles and shoddy siding. My hands were sweating and my heart was pumping, drumming in my ears. I was scared. Truth be told, I wanted to go back, all the way back up the mountain. I saw Pa eyeball the Henry rifle nestled behind the saddle. And I saw, too, in the final rays of the dying sun, the barrels of his scattergun go red, like blood. I wanted to speak to him to settle my nerves, but I held my tongue. There was that look in his eye again; I didn’t dare intrude upon the darkness.
The sun retired for the evening, with dusk draping the dry hills in blue shrouds and purple bruises. We dallied, bypassing the town, letting darkness ferment before we circled around, drifting in the alleyways and shadows. We took canned beans from the broken window in the grocery store. We filled our bellies around the back, hitched our horses and loaded our guns. Pa told me it was time, and I nearly lost my beans. I swallowed back my nerves, my fears, and followed his command, covering him from the grocery door. Pa watched from the saloon window and motioned for me to cross the street. He nodded, squeezed my shoulder. Hell, I saw him smiling.
Together, guns first, we walked right in, connected like we never had been before. I saw the backs of heads, and hats, and faces, too, half-covered by the cards they’d drawn. The barroom poker game was hot, but the heat was just beginning. The playing stopped when Pa called the dealer’s name. He pointed his gun, and I did the same. Time stood still, and it crossed my mind: I’ve never killed a man before. There was silence in that room I’d never known; the absolute quiet of fate hanging on a thread. At the table, no one so much as lowered their cards. It was the barman who made the call, shooting first, and badly, before Pa’s rifle laid him down to rest behind the oaken counter. Then the madness, the mayhem. I heard it, but did not see it. I’m ashamed to admit it; I was back outside, nose to the dirt. Didn’t think I’d see him walking. I was sure of it—I’d be next to join the dead. But Lord, when the saloon doors swung open, my heart near burst with relief to see Pa standing. He looked at me and shook his head, but hugged me tightly and tousled my hair. He nudged a body on the street with his boot. It was stone still and covered in blood. Pa threw a dollar at the dead man’s feet.
We rode for the mountains, galloping across the plain. Behind us, the saloon was steeped in blood, the dusty town engulfed by the night. We said nothing until the trees consumed us. We didn’t even share a glance until we tasted the mountain rain. We were back with Charlie, his spare patch of earth, his unadorned headstone. Pa kissed me on the head and it startled me. Son, I know you’re not the killin’ kind. But there comes a time when blood’s the only way. He kissed me again, and I started to cry. I couldn’t believe it…so did he. We lit a fire, resting on either side of Charlie, holding hands across the black patch of earth. It’s a dyin’ crime, Pa said, lying under the stars, when a gambler slays your firstborn son. He fingered the money we had taken from the saloon —each crisp paper bill— and, one by one, fed them to the flames.
James Callan is the author of the novels Anthophile (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and A Transcendental Habit (Queer Space, 2023). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, Reckon Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, Aotearoa New Zealand.
X: @JamesCallanNZ
