The Cabin

By Paul Lawless

The loud and sharp noises are coming from a brown chicken that is running around and around the fading green grass, exploring, frankly, for some food. The noises beat into the front room of the grey, happy, cabin without politeness. There is a light that is forcing itself into the front room from the corner window. It is bringing some light into the darkness. There is so much dust that is gathered on the windows edges like restless children, as if it is some form of modern art. Four men nonchalantly sit around a battered brown table with raw intensions and steal thoughts. While sleep leaves their eyes, and their thoughts and bits of dreams still stroll in their memories. While their minds are still partially ruled by last night's whiskey. A certain amount of boredom plagues the place like discovering the start of the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227068279

Paul Lawless

Paul Lawless was born in Liverpool, England in 1958. He spends a lot of time volunteering for charities in Liverpool. He's a lover of animals, reading, writing novels and poems. He's also member of an Unitarian Church in Liverpool which takes up a lot of his time.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: RED

The loud and sharp noises are coming from a brown chicken that is running around and around the fading green grass, exploring, frankly, for some food. The noises beat into the front room of the grey, happy, cabin without politeness. There is a light that is forcing itself into the front room from the corner window. It is bringing some light into the darkness. There is so much dust that is gathered on the windows edges like restless children, as if it is some form of modern art. Four men nonchalantly sit around a battered brown table with raw intensions and steal thoughts. While sleep leaves their eyes, and their thoughts and bits of dreams still stroll in their memories. While their minds are still partially ruled by last night's whiskey. A certain amount of boredom plagues the place like discovering the start of the universe. Each man is holding a cup of stale coffee in their strong, devious and quick hand. The flesh of the metal of the cups is so worried about their futures. Men’s eyes are full of controlled and calculated violence that can start without provocation. Their eyes watch the front door with sleepy interest. Their breaths reek of stale whiskey and calculated violence. Their shirts are rancid and cold. Each is wearing a gun belt. Their stolen guns are packed neatly and deadly into their dishonest holsters. There are empty plates resting on the table so overcome with nerves. The romance of bacon and eggs still reeks from the plates. There is no food to be discovered anywhere in the place, now.

What’s up with Red, making so much noise, this time of the day, it’s starting to put me off my coffee. Gore says so suddenly, as he presses his back against his chair, drops his cup onto the table, nearly forcing the cup to tip over. While his breathing increased as the other men merely try to smile.

Oh, it's only Sing, chasing Red around and around the grass for food, due to lack of food in this place. While Red runs around and around the grass searching for some food. Olson plays, out, dull like lifeless music while his fingers consciously rub against his cup. As his stomach wishes for more bacon.

And Det drinks some of his coffee as his eyes focus on the open yellow door with raw tension. Dark rubs his left hand over his unshaved face, squeezes his cup and spies on his empty plate, wishing there was more food in the kitchen and not just empty, dirty plates, not one bit of food left on any of the plates.

If I didn’t know how fond you're of Red, Gore, my sound advice, would be take your gun out, but be careful, for that all the whiskey you indulged last night, and stagger outside, empty your gun into Red, that if you could manage to shoot it for all your swanking about how skillful you're, oh yes, your rifle, we must not forget that.

Dark beats out, full of mellow, and still feeling the effects of the whiskey on his breathing, as his last few drops of coffee swims around his cup. While his eyes wish for more coffee, but he knows there is no coffee left in the pot that is resting so lonely on the cold stove or in the cabin.

Even if you didn't drink so much whiskey last night. And next time you bring three bottles from The Crook Saloon, make certain that Jackson does not give you the cheap whiskey, for I keep telling you, Jackson keeps the good whiskey upstairs in Drake’s office where Drake likes to entertain Mrs. Smart.

Gore merely rubs his chin in disbelief and Nih stretches his hands upwards, and coughs and Det rubs his left leg against his right leg.

You still figure you're a better shot than, me. Gore merely rejects out in a playful manner, as the last drop of coffee infiltrates Dark’s mouth and then the cup waits on the table next to Gore’s empty plate like miserable old friends reminiscing. And before you go casting rumors about Sheriff Smart’s wife to all who will listen, please have some evidence, and some respect for Sheriff Smart. Oh, just because Sheriff Smart has no guts for gun play anymore, remember one time he had a reputation with his gun, in violent and Dark towns.  Dark merely conjures a bitter smirk.

Well, me being a better shot than your, aid’s the point. Dark bleats forwards as his fingers tight around Gore’s cup. And they're not just rumors, I caught Drake and Mrs. Smith in his office, when we rode into Lodge to celebrates Det’s birthday.

If that’s not the point before you go stealing my last drops of coffee, do enlighten me, Sheriff. Gore teases out, so all grown up as Dark drag Gore’s cup up to his mouth and there he discovers no drops left. The look on Dark’s face makes Gore beam.

Now listen here Mister Gore, I don’t like to be remind of my days as a Sheriff, because. Dark throws forwards without violence, as he presses the empty cup onto the table, making the empty plates cry. Those days of me being a sheriff seem a long time ago, now. And that’s the way I like it! Does that satisfy you Mister Almighty Gore, the robber of the dead and the dying soldiers?

Oh, not so enthusiastic of being remained of your back shooting days because your conscience is still bothering too much and your sense of guilt still plaguing you like an old lover. Gore retorts so full of energy. While Det and Nih are so bored by their playfulness. As for me robbing from the dead and the dying soldiers, have no painful conscience or guilt about my actions, because the things I stole would have do them no good whatsoever, and I figured I was entitled to the items as anyone. Dark merely smiles and regrets it immediately. And ah so what if you caught Drake and Mrs. Smart in his office, so what it could have been something completely innocent. But you would by some dirty in it.

I never back shot anyone back when I was a sheriff. Dark replies squeezing his fingers together to ride out the storm of anger trying to beat inside his mind even louder. As you well know, because I told you so many times, but I guess you don’t remember so good now, must have been all that gun play in your stealing days of the dead. And as for completely innocent, Drake and Mrs. Smart were completely naked in his office, does sound completely innocent to you! Gore looks shocked but tries not to show it.

And? Gore replies so mocking.

And? Dark answers full of fire in his word. Nih and Det simply inspect the table.

And Mister Hicks was your former deputy. Gore asks so casually as if his words are friendly fired, watching the look on Dark’s face.

That was an accident, terrible accident, I was merely trying to get him to be reasonable. Dark replies while his fingers rest on his chin, so defiantly. As he wishes he had some whiskey to drink right now to smooth his growing anger.

It’s hard to be reasonable with a bullet or two in your back. And I’m certain the people of Red Shaw appreciate it was just plain old accident, nothing to go hanging someone for! Gore rushes out as sarcastically as Dark meets the words bravely. Naked! Well, I wonder if Sheriff Smart knows, not that would make any difference, because Sheriff Smart as no guts to do anything about, no matter how many times, nakedness screams in Drake’s office. Nih and Det feel their stomachs protesting quietly.

You’ll go too far one day with your acid word, mark my words, Mister Gore. Dark replies with a mocking smile, As Gore forces back, his chair without anger, and stands up and searches the room, in an ignoring manner. While he can feel and sense more words in his mind longing to come out to play, he rejects them.

Words never can do no harm, that's if your mind is made of steel and not jelly, too many weaklings in this country, this great country, for my liking. Dark bleeds out, his words so full of pride and arrogance. Gore strolls away towards the grey rocking chair that sleeps at the left side of the door leading to the kitchen and there he picks up two caps, shakes the dust from them and inspects them with cold boldness and regretful pride. Dark forces back his chair attempting to stand up so swiftly before changing his mind and taking his time. While his eyes keep spying and analyzing the two caps, with bemusement in his eyes.

Ah! Gore ponders restlessly. Dark runs his tongue over his lips with bemusement.

The grey or blue day is Mister Gore? Dark sounds out enjoying his battling words. As he manages to stand up, making his chair squeal and cry. And he stands there ready for an inspection like a toy soldier.

I figure it's a grey day, Mister Dark. Unless you have some objections to the grey. Gore pokes out partially challenging, so full of restlessness and boredom as he forces and presses the grey cap onto his long red hair as if the grey cap feels so shameful. "My hair badly needs washing and shampooing, when I was among the women of Folk, I would never permit my hair to get like this.

Oh, I fought for the confederacy as well you know, and I didn't feel the need to steal anything. Dark remarks, so full of provoking as some drops of sweat rush down his back.

Did you believe in their ideas or was it just fun for you, oh, I ask just to keep boredom amused, until you return to back shoot enjoyment. Gore replies, not really interested in the answer, rubbing his chin in such an agitated bored state while his eyes never leave Dark’s fingers. Did you wear the uniform with pride or did it merely mock you. Oh, just to satisfy my morbid curiosity, you understand! I was involved in the war, ghastly as it was.  But Nih was lucky enough to escape the war, ugly as it was for so many unfortunate creatures, yet for some, so joyful like mad monsters. Although Nih did tell me sometimes He did read about the war in the newspapers in Paris, that is to say one of his clients buying for breakfast would sometime read the newspapers to him, so romantic of money. Dark simply pretends not to be listening 

Some had noble ideas for fighting for the confederacy, and some just stolen whatever they could. Dark answers in such a rush manner as Gore removes the grey cap and puts the blue cap into his head and keeps repositioning the blue cap on his head until it feels comfortable and then he rubs his unshaved face, so thoughtfully, while memories of robbing the dead and dying in fields of full innocent blood and discarded hope like broken toys off a spoilt child.

Your sense of noble as polluted my thought of a grey day, so I much decorate my head with the blue. Gore retorts with cunning respectable words and the words feed into Dark’s war emotions and so sad feeds itself on Dark’s tears. "I saw many dead and dying grey and blue in fields of blood and broken bodies, and their faces all with the same look of why me, why me in this God forgotten places as their blood soaked into their uniforms and into their emotions and into their death or their dying.

And you steal from the blue more than the Grey, Mister Gore Blue. Dark questions mildly, not real interest just way of scoring points in their childish game. As Gore feels his face to dilute the memories of the dead and dying.

Interesting, maybe someday, I may sit and try to calculate which benefitted me the most blue or grey. Gore breathes out, as unemotionally as Dark comes to stand right behind him as Det and Nih have finished their coffee off and so force their chair backwards. And the chairs moan in loud protests for all the murdered animals at hands of man. 

While you two are talking Sing is still trying to kill Red for some food. Nih rings out, as he takes his gun out of his holster and swiftly inspects his gun before putting it back into the holster and now, he starts to search for his hat.

Ah, there’s no need for worry Gore, for Sing will never catch Red, because Red is most cunning and wise chicken in all existence of chickens, aid no human going to murder Red so easily, because it can always sense death coming for it, and its rejects the notion that some human as the dog damn right to eat it. Det walks out in a sweet, mellow voice as he pulls on his yellow boater hat on bald head as he watches Nih putting on his Grey Topper hat, onto long black hair. As Gore charges towards door, with his eyes calculating hunger.

Gore rushes out of the door, hoping the Red has not been caught. His breathing panicked more with each crawling second. There outside the cabin his eyes watch the sweat calculating down Sing’s face. And Red is merely sitting and watching Sing with bemusement. This makes him laugh so loudly. Dark picks up his Blue Gambler hat from the dusty and brown muddy floor with his eyes full of temporary gladness. While Nih and Det join in the laughter. Dark shakes his hat before pulling on his thin, short red hair and then he comes out of the cabin in somewhat of a state of worry.  Now, only to see Sing sitting on the thin field of thin, fading green grass next to the battered brown fence with drops of sweat covering his face and blue shirt. Red waits and spies on Sing with a mocking joy behind the fence

Oh, yes Sing and his thirst for food, fresh meat! Det says while waving his hands about a like child in a funfair.

That Red should get faster and cunning in his old age. Sing rings out as he takes his Brown and Red Bowler hat of his thin, long blonde hair and squeezes hat in his stronger fingers. And rub his hand through hair as he can sense his stomach demanding more food. Or maybe it's me just getting too old, now. Det feels the top of his gun.

Too old, what nonsenses is. Nih says. Why you're a year younger than me. And I still feel all of vigor and energy and I can still draw my gun fast and fire so fast and so accurately. I mean thirty-one is not so old.

And that Red is getting old, one day he is just going to drop dead, and what're you going to do Gore bury him and say some prayer over his grave. Sing asks out of curiosity as if one day it will too of them." 

It would be the decent thing to do. Gore replies, while thoughts of getting old jump in and out of his mind, and he is not certain how he feels about those thoughts. As Nih inspects his own body for sense of getting old.

The decent thing, you figure Red would care to have human prays force onto it. As if was some human slave. Sing asks so certain with his words.

Oh, mean bury him, no prayers over his grave, just some flowers. Gore replies has he takes his cap off and holds it so lovingly in his fingers. I never did care for prays for human, never see the points of them, but my grandmother was always beating on me for me not saying my prays, until one day when I was fourteen, I got off kneels without praying, in my bedroom, and Grandmother look at me with hardness and puzzle look in her eyes and she said get to praying or I’ll beat the tar out you, and I replied no more praying for me, because it’s just plain stupid, and there was more anger I have ever see her eyes and I felt would stop breathing and wonder if I should apologies as Grandmother raise her left hand high up and then it spring down towards me, so quick and so full of unguarded and mean anger, but I caught her hand in my hand and said so sharply there will be more prays and no more beating from you Grandmother.

We could just cook him and eat him. Det beats out as he can sense his stomach desiring to rumble.

You mean just kill Red just because he is getting old, that’s just plain barbaric and inhuman! Gore almost roars out. And who going to do the killing off Red?

Maybe you can Dark Nih dugs out the words so calmly. While Dark tries not to look at Gore.

Yes, I dominate Dark for honor killing of Red. Sing answers as he kneels and runs his fingers through the grass and search the grass for a piece that will satisfy Him.

What all this talk of killing Red. There’s plenty of life still breathing in Red, so let have no more talk of killing Red, is that clear, Nih, Sing, Det, Dark. Gore says so loudly while he rubs his face in agitation as Sing feels shame in his face and stomach.

No more talk of killing Red. Dark rush out, to placate the anger in his Gore’s eyes. And I need some food.

Ah, no talking or dreaming of Murdering Red, so that one animal will not be murdered by a human, that’s our guilt satisfied, so cheaply. Nih manufactures out. I'm still crying and need some coffee and dare I suggest some food. 

Oh, oh yes, no more talk of Killing Red. Det replies. But even Red is looking hungry.  And it’s a hot cup of coffee for me, if only there some coffee left, at last I knew coffee so well.

What do you mean, Red looks hungry? Gore asks if he would even think of neglecting Red’s needs.

Red can’t just survival on grass. Det replies.

What! Gore roars.

What Red is looking too thin? Det retorts wishing to end this talk.

It's only been three days since Red was feeding on pellets, so there’s no thinness in him, now stop making me feel guilty, Mister Det. Gore begs as his fingers are locked together to combat guilt.

Listen, the only reason I thought for a moment to kill and eat Red, then I enjoyed the chasing Red, and it made me forget the hungry in my stomach. Sing twist out, almost childlike.

We should ride to Lodge. Det says so full of thoughts of food and whiskey. "

For food. Nih asks.

And some shirts. Gore enquires.

And those people in the town of Lodge figuring we're getting too old. Sing relays so softly as if he is addressing a ladies social meeting.

Who Dark asks gearing up for anger.

Mister Jenkins, for one. Sing answers. 

That rat! Dark questions, as his fingers land on top of his gun He needs cheating a lesson. He is too big ideas for his small-town mentality. As the metal flesh of his gun feels comfortable like a mother comforting her children in the dark.

It's the time of reconstruction, and our president as called for men of vision and enterprise to lead this country out of economic turmoil cause by the war. Sing replies so proud of his words. I heard Mister Dolland saying that to Miss Redditch, while I was drinking some coffee. 

Are you implying that Mister Jenkins is a man of great vision? Det demands. And reconstruction will merely die, if Mister Jenkin does not join the noble cause.

And the factor that Sing would not be stupid to even think that about Mister Jenkin in that noble sense, for one Mister Jenkin is a foreigner not an American. Gore earnestly replies.

Mister Jenkin is an American. Nih yells. "As much as American as you and me, Mister Gore.

Mister Jenkin is an Irish man, from Dublin, Mister Nih. Gore roars so challengingly enjoying the new game.

Mister Jenkin was born in this country, in Virginia city, and lived there until his foolish parent got gold fear and bought a wagon and head for San Francisco during the California Gold rush era. And His parents struck it rich. Nih quips so proud of his voice. As his game plan is formulating And instead leaving their camp with wagon and gold, they elected to wait until the next morning to leave, but fortunate while they were sleeping that’s Mister Jenkin, his younger brother, Bill and his older sister, Rose and their mother, as his father sat up against a tree, cradling a rifle and dreams of spending the money. And trying not to fall asleep and into the land of dreaming. As the large red and blue flames, shout out their thoughts. But, come the morning as the fire was dead, and some cold was playing, Mister Jenkin woke up and immediate felt the pain in his legs and shoulders and there at once like a fairy tale notice the blood on his shirt and trouser, then realization read into his mind, that he had been shot, and now some metals of the guns were becoming too friendly with his human flesh and there he was with mouth wide open and about to scream and beg for mercy. His eyes dutifully informed his thoughts, Bill, Rose, mother and father were dead. Nih is full of dreamy seriousness, and proudness and takes his cap off his head and squeezes his cap in a sorrowful manner and some tears are thinking inside his eyes. And all the gold had been stolen. Oh, despite father keeping their gold secret. So, Father must give into sleep and dream, permitting the robberies to enter their camp without an invitation, so killing was permitted to dance around their camp, only the dance was not perfected, and Mister Jenkin was rescued by two passing hunters. Gore breathes more energetically, Dark slows down his breathing, Sing feels like he cannot breathe, and Det merely looks unimpressed.

So, as I preached not American, as seeing his parent were from Dublin. Gore jeers.

How many generations does it take before you're an American, in your wise opinion, Gore. Det mumbles.

Oh, at least three or four generations, for your information. Det. Gore boats out so full of authority and certainty like a wealthy and privileged officer certain of himself.

Three or four generations to be an American. Dark yawns.

It depends how much one is clever enough to swim in the American culture, some people take more time, than others. Nih answers. 

And do them, indeed Nih and did they. Sing asks.

Did them what, Sing. Gore enquires.

And understand your reasoning, Sing. Nih declares.

Did they catcher the ones who robbed and kill father, mother, Rose and Bill and try to kill Mister Jenkin. Sing presses.

"No, eight years later, Mister Jenkins was in the Bounty saloon, drinking coffee and eating some eggs and when two drunk men sat down at his table without any asking permission. Their unwashed bodies and thinking plagued Mister Jenkins, no end, until Mister Jenkin was