Familiar Heroes, part I of V

[The Good Reverend Roger]

The old Indian sagged against the bar, nursing his whiskey.  The place was damn near empty, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to cadge any drinks tonight.

He wasn't always like this, dammit.  He was once a brave, and he performed many acts of valor in battle.  He was a master tracker, and could sneak up on a rabbit and pet it before it realized he was there, if he wanted to.

But that was in the good old days, back in the 1870s.  But here it is, New Years Eve, 1933, and he knew that nobody had known him as anything other than a washed up drunk for 50 years.  He blearily gazed into the mirror and saw himself as the world saw him now: a shriveled, toothless old man with burst veins on his face and a tremble in his hands.

He really wanted to die.

At about that point, 3 roughnecks from the oil fields walked into the bar, shouting and laughing.  One of them pointed at the old Indian.

"Hey, bartender, buy the chief one on me!"

The old Indian nodded his thanks, but seethed inside.  Chief?  He wasn't a chief.  He HATED the chiefs.  They sold out his people for trinkets and promises worth less than trinkets.  That's why he abandoned his tribe to travel with his white partner in crime, though he told the man the word he used meant "trusted friend".  

His friend, John Reid, was typically condescending, but tolerable.  Condescending, in that he viewed the Indian's trial-craft as a trade off for civilized skills, but tolerable in that while Reid gave orders, he never assumed the Indian was stupid just because his skin wasn't White.

"Chief, indeed.  Why, I ought to get up and tell them of my adventures, tell them of the men I'd tracked and the life I led.  But they wouldn't believe me, would they?  Worse, they wouldn't care.  They'd pity me as a drunk old liar."

The old Indian began to weep just a little, as he thumbed the last memento he had of his old partner, gone these many decades.  The tarnished silver bullet, of course, had no opinion.  Then the old Indian turned back to his drink, and got on with the serious business of his life, the only business he'd had since his only friend died so long ago.

Or Kill Me.

[Adios]

That took me back and made me 

[LMNO]

I am ashamed I had to look up "John Reid".


Now I want to drink whisk(ee)y.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I am ashamed I had to look up "John Reid".


Now I want to drink whisk(ee)y.

I thought the silver bullet would have given it away enough.

Christ, I'm getting old.

[Whatever]

Damn.  Just...... damn  

It's fucking beautiful and terrible and awesome all in one and now I need to go get me a box of tissues.

[Adios]

I am ashamed I had to look up "John Reid".


Now I want to drink whisk(ee)y.

I thought the silver bullet would have given it away enough.

Christ, I'm getting old.

Did the Gov. of New Mexico issue Billys' pardon yet? I can't seem to find anything.

[Adios]

It reminded me of Ira Hayes.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

It reminded me of Ira Hayes.

Yeah, I'd considered ending the story the way Hayes died:

As a result of Rosenthal's photograph Hayes and the others became national heroes in the United States. He was instrumental in confirming the identity of one of his fellow Marines in the photograph, Harlon Block. Hayes was never comfortable with his new-found fame, however, and after his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps he descended into alcoholism. He died of exposure on January 24, 1955 after a night of drinking, and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

[Adios]

It reminded me of Ira Hayes.

Yeah, I'd considered ending the story the way Hayes died:

As a result of Rosenthal's photograph Hayes and the others became national heroes in the United States. He was instrumental in confirming the identity of one of his fellow Marines in the photograph, Harlon Block. Hayes was never comfortable with his new-found fame, however, and after his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps he descended into alcoholism. He died of exposure on January 24, 1955 after a night of drinking, and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

Damn. We are now officially Old Men™. He died just 2 years after I was born.

[Richter]

Well done, but sad.

Still can't remember how to spell that word for that part of a horse though.

[Adios]

It reminded me of Ira Hayes.

Yeah, I'd considered ending the story the way Hayes died:

As a result of Rosenthal's photograph Hayes and the others became national heroes in the United States. He was instrumental in confirming the identity of one of his fellow Marines in the photograph, Harlon Block. Hayes was never comfortable with his new-found fame, however, and after his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps he descended into alcoholism. He died of exposure on January 24, 1955 after a night of drinking, and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

I liked the ending, and it took me there anyway.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

This is some good shit. Damn.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Also, "trusted friend" made me   

[Kai]

I really liked this in a sad way.

[Phox]

:sadmittens: