The Johnson Boys (A Short Story)

Halfway up the sheer mountain face, under the drift of spilt stars, three small, makeshift tents slept before a smouldering fire.

Holt Johnson lay awake under the pitched canopy. The cool night breeze, rich with earthen scent, wafted through the open tent. He felt his heartbeat rising. Holt breathed deep, letting the chilled mountain air fill his lungs, forcing down the swell of excitement.

His brother Danny snored loudly from the next tent. It was a soothing sound, one Holt had grown up with, but not even that could create the usual lull of calm tonight.

Holt watched the speckled navy sky lazily float by, the moon leisurely carried by the current. The glowing disc soon clung low to the mountains, tinged with the promise of coming dawn.

There was a vein up this mountain, and today, Holt was going to find the elusive crevice that harboured it.

Danny had heard about the crevice from a blue blotter miner more than half-seas over, who swore he had taken enough gold for a lifetime already.

Danny had questioned why a fellow of such riches was knocking back red-eye sticks in a ramshackled deadfall of a bar. The man was already carrying a load, and had waved him off without an explanation.

He hadn’t thought much of the encounter, he had mentioned the lapper to his brother, who had equally scoffed at it. Until near a week later.

Holt happened to see the stumbling old pod, hooking the arm of the most expensive painted lady at Madam Mollies. Pearl wasn’t cheap, in fact, he hadn’t seen Pearl with a client in a couple of weeks.

That was how Mollie ran it, she always kept one high end girl. Pearl charged more for a night than most of the painted ladies made in a month, and the rich whoremongers paid for the exclusivity.

That night, they had asked around. The old fellow wasn’t a high-grader or a gambusino, nor was he know for fanciful taradiddles. In fact, he wasn’t known at all. Not a single lapper hanging off the bar of the run-down thirst parlour knew him.

No one, except Clayton.

The rambling man had hired the young lad to meet him on the rocky outcrop their tents now clung to. Clayton had lugged great packs down the sheer, crumbling hill, strapping them to waiting horses. Between the passing comments made at the bar, and the titbits Clayton had picked up, the three of them had drawn a rough map of the mountain.

---

The early air buzzed with the song of mountain life. Holt sat, half straddling the fire he was stoking back to life as Clayton crawled from his makeshift tent.

Doubt trickled like cold sweat down the back of Clayton's sober neck. The Johnson boys had a reputation, and halfway up a dew-dripped mountain, with not another soul in sight, he began to wonder if he made the right decision.

A lone bird ricocheted down the slope, skirting the edge of the camp. Clayton watched the brown dappled feathers glinting in the sun. It was too late to go back now. Holt wouldn’t hesitate to let slip, he sooner leave Clayton belly-up on the mountain than risking him scooting and coming back with others.

Sausages began to spit over the stoked flames, the pop and sizzle of dripping fat filling the air with it’s enticing aroma.

Danny eyed Clayton with a hint of mistrust. He was retrieving the stale biscuits from his pack, casting Clayton the look he would throw a horse he suspected of going lame.

A chill rose inside Clayton as he returned Danny’s suspicious glare with a friendly smile. He knew better than to show fear to the notorious brothers.

---

It was a gruelling hike, slogging up the tree-strewn mountain with their pickaxes strapped to their bags.

Danny was the one who spotted it, the dusty spill of fine stone catching in the wind.

The crevice.

It was a tight squeeze to get in, but it soon opened up in to the pitch black inner sanctum. The crackle and fizz of a struck match rang in the air as Holt lit the torch. As it spluttered to life, the light barely glancing the walls, and they saw it.

There wasn’t a gold vein in the cave, no, the cave was in a gold vein. The small hollow with deep pockmarks glimmered in the shining glow.

Holt dropped the torch, the flame blowing out with the fall. In the same instant, the brothers drew their six shooters.

The room flashed in golden glory as shots punctured Clayton's fleeing form.

The young man didn’t manage to squeeze between the opening in time, hot fire burnt through his flesh as the plumb leads torn through him.

A silent ringing filled the cave, deafening them.

Long moments passed, the light remained extinguished. Clayton spluttered, coughing with his dying gasps. Neither brother moved.

Each had only slipped the lad two pot shots, they each had four bullets left. There was enough gold in there to last both of them a lifetime, wasn’t there...

This started as an entry to @mctiller 's regular monday #twentyfourhourstory contest, but I didn't get much written in time. It isn't the most original tale, although it was still fun to write. I didn't get to the alien aspect and of the prompt, and ended up getting side tracked going another way, so this wouldn't have counted anyway. It was interesting to look up old west facts and turns of phrase. I haven't really been feeling great recently, but still trying!

Photo Credit by Pixabay User Skeeze who has so many photos in the public domain I could not even begin to try and tell you about them. They have a lot of popular photos, and have a few editors awards for good reason!