Welcome To The Bullpen
The Snake
Scott Wyatt
Big John Sullivan had never felt such pain. It seemed to grow worse by the minute. The enormity of the situation smoothered him like a wet blanket. He took a couple deep breaths, but began to choke as waves of nausea rolled over him. He hadn’t felt this scared since he stepped off the boat from Ireland at nine years old.
“Just bad luck, “ he boasted, yet knowing this harsh land tolerated no mistakes, large or small. Those who made them ended up in a 2 by 6 foot hole in the ground.
He looked down the hill to the river a hundred yards away. He could see where they approached the river and heard the rattle causing the young horse to bolt before Big John could react. The horse went down when it hit the loose shale, throwing him off. He remembered landing on his back and feeling a stabbing pain. I must have passed out, he thought.
He looked over to his right and saw his horse was dead. Although he bought the young mustang only three months ago, they worked together well. He named it “Henry” after the plow horse in Ireland because it was just as stubborn, if only half the size..
Suddenly, he realized his body was covered in sweat.. Looking up at the sun, he growled, “I got to get into the shade or I’ll fry!” When he rolled over on his stomach, his lower body felt like it was branded by a red hot iron. He lay for a couple minutes, his face in the desert sand, praying the stabbing pain would subside. When it did, he raised up on his elbows and forearms. He saw a small shaded area about a few feet away. Grabbing a small stick laying within reach, placing it between his teeth, and forcing himself to ignore the terrible pain, he crawled, forward, inch by inch to the shaded area. He got his upper body in the shade before the searing pain caused him to pass out.
As his mind drifted in and out, hallucinations of his life played out before him, showing him as a child in the Irish Ghetto of New York City. Big for his age, raised by an abusive uncle after his folks died, helped prepare him for the living hell of the ghetto. His only companion was fear, an unholy guardian angel that kept him alive. It was as much a part of him as the filth and violence.
Next, he saw himself, at eighteen, joining the Calvary, riding patrol out West, searching for renegade Indians. He enjoyed the hard life, but when his hitch was up, he moved on. Like so many, he couldn’t stay in one place. Most of his kind moved from place to place, searching for a land free from the whims and commands of some ruler.
They dreamed of a life where they were measured not by their family status, but by what they accomplished with their sweat, skills and faith.
He saw Irene, the woman he loved, talking to him, surrounded by their children, as they stood looking over the land., their land. The land was what truly mattered, it always had, land for them.
He saw himself in the country store where he met the old man who had told him about the gold strike. Big John had known this cagy old prospector from his Army days. Occasionally, the man showed up at the Post, trading a few gold nuggets for supplies. He would stay around for a few days, getting drunk and swapping news and stories. Then he would disappear for a few months, later showing up with a bit of gold. He was not interested in the land, but moved from here to there like a puppet, controlled by the ‘gold fever’ that held so many in it’s grasp.
Big John had picked up a bit of the ‘fever’ in his travels. He figured if they found gold, maybe he could buy the land, Irene and he dreamed about. Without a stake, without some more money, he knew he would end up broke or worse, dead before his time. He and the old prospector talked and agreed to meet in a few days up at Bloody Basin, in the mountains north of the Phoenix in the Arizona Territory. This area was rumored to hold the ‘mother lode‘, the source of the gold nuggets and dust found in the streams that ran off the mountain.
“Of all the times to get thrown off”, someone cried out. Big John came around slowly, like waking from a bad dream, vaguely realized that he had shouted. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the pouch filled with nuggets.
They weren’t enough to buy the land and get married but the vein was rich and with more work, he would have his stake. Digging in the rocks and panning the stream bed from dawn to dusk for six days left him exhausted, but on the last day he had found a small vein of the golden metal.
He had used up the last of his food this morning and being the old man was two days late with the supplies, Big John knew he had to do something. Anything could have happened to the old man. He had to do it soon because finding the gold was the easiest part of the job. Getting the claim filed and safe-guarding it from those who took what they could from the weak prospecting the dangerous job it was. If he stayed, in a couple days, he’d still have to leave if the old prospector didn’t show up. As it was, there was a good chance he meet the old prospector on the trail. Once decided, he covered up the diggings and started back down. Two hours later the horse fell when they approached the river.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head and wearily admitted, “All my life, I was strong enough for anything. Well, that little snake sure showed me the error of my ways.” Looking around at the steep, desolate terrain he could see why they called this area, ‘Bloody Basin’. These mountains were some of the most rugged terrain in the South West. Countless men and women had died, many disappeared without a trace.
As he leaned back against the flat rock under the overhang, he felt his life draining into the sand. “My dear Irene, our dreams are as broken and twisted as I am,.” he whispered.
Admitting this seemed to bring a kind of peace, a strange kind of acceptance. Although he had walked hand in hand with fear every day of his life, it was gone. In it‘s place was peace for the first time in his life.
He wiped his mouth and smiled. “I reckon I’ve earned my passage through them Pearly Gates. I hear them streets are made of gold“.
Hey, it was looking for gold that killed me, he thought.
He tried to laugh but it came out in a deep, hacking gasp. He coughed and spat out blood. He wiped his mouth with his palm and looked at the thick, stringy strands of blood..
The next day, the old prospector saw the buzzards circling. Twenty minutes later, he found him. Big John. looked alive, his eyes open with a half-smile on his lips. As the old man laid him down, six fair sized nuggets fell from Big John’s hand. The old prospector shook his head and knowingly smiled.
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REVIEW 1
Interesting idea for a story and while working in the present the yarn moved well. You might want to look at consolidating some of the back story and adding some description to the present to keep the action moving. You have talent as an imaginative story-teller - keep working on your craft.
Bob Burnett
Review 2
This makes very good reading. It flows at a good pace and holds the interest of the reader.
Congratulations on a fine piece of writing.
I am known as a nit-picker. I check writing like a hawk and try to suggest ways of improvement.
You have quite a number of small errors that I have taken the liberty of pointing out for you to remedy. Please take my comments for what I intend to assist you in presentation.
I never tire of reminding writers that editors prefer a perfect m/s sent to them and I feel all you need to do is edit your work closely.
Good luck.
L. Roger Quilter.
Typo - Smoothered smothered.
Just bad luck, he boasted,
Lose the space. Quotes become reversed after a space.
Just bad luck, he boasted,
as they stood looking over the land., their land. The land was what truly mattered, it always had, land for them.
Too many repetitions of land.
as they stood looking over the land., their land. That truly mattered; it always had for them.
controlled by the gold fever that held so many in its grasp.
Lose the apostrophe in its.
Looking around at the steep, desolate terrain he could see why they called this area, Bloody Basin.
Comma required after terrain.
My dear Irene, our dreams are as broken and twisted as I am,. he whispered.
Double punctuation after am..
My dear Irene, our dreams are as broken and twisted as I am, he whispered.
I hear them streets are made of gold.
Punctuation outside of quotes. (Quotes reversed.)
I hear them streets are made of gold.
He wiped his mouth with his palm and looked at the thick, stringy strands of blood..
Double period.
As the old man laid him down, six fair sized nuggets fell from Big Johns hand. The old prospector shook his head and knowingly smiled.
There is no mention of the old man lifting up the body, so this sounds wrong to me. Try this -
As the old man dragged him into the newly dug grave, six fair sized nuggets fell from Big Johns hand. The old prospector shook his head and knowingly smiled.
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