Post by Weldon Campbell on Sept 10, 2012 15:36:18 GMT -8
Bang! There goes the neighbourhood.
April, 1870
The Campbell Ranch
Cal Banks struggled with his bonds, the ropes biting at his wrists with his vain efforts to free himself. He panted gulping for air with the exertions, with the urgent need to break free, with the aching pains that racked his beaten body and with the unbearable heat that beat down upon the cart to which he was trussed. Sweat beaded his brow but it was not just the heat and the struggles that brought a sweat to Cal as the shadow of the man fell across him.
Weldon Campbell cast a large shadow as his figure blotted the harsh overhead sun. The man’s face was hard to discern in silhouette with the sun to his back but Cal reckoned rightly that the man bore a malignant scowl that twisted his bearded lip and narrowed his steel grey eyes.
Cal smacked his torn lips and tried to plea with the formidable figure of his ranch boss. It was said that in his youth Weldon Campbell had once been a prize boxer. That he had made a small name for himself as a brutal fighter with skill before he earned a name as a just a brutal slayer after two opponents died in the ring. Weldon Campbell certainly had the bulk to attest to such a past and the mean, lethal glint to his eye that attested to the potential for such malice and violence.
But no plea emanated from Cal’s lips, instead a barely discernible moan escaped as fear took grip of him. He dreaded the fate that awaited him. He cursed his fool brain and bad luck to have thought to have crossed his boss. The rumours of Weldon’s past only affirmed what those who worked for Campbell or those unfortunate to cross Campbell knew. Rather than the legitimate business man, railroad prospector and rancher that he portrayed to society, they knew the dark depths, the menacing power and the merciless brutality of the man.
Weldon’s hand touched the brim of his hat before dropping again to his side where it tugged on the opulent waistcoat he wore. The tug of the waistcoat the only sign of discomfiture from the broad man dressed impeccably in his three piece suit in the high noon heat of the day and at the sight of a badly beaten, broken and trussed up man.
Cal wanted to whimper as Weldon just looked down upon his spread eagled form as if inspecting him and finding Cal unworthy of the very act. Weldon sniffed, retrieved a snuff box from his waist coat pocket and took a swift pinch before returning the tin box to its place.
Stones crunched as another man came up to Weldon’s side. The black suited figure of Campbell’s trusted right hand came up alongside his boss. The hooked nose of Hollander Burgess flared as if it smelled something distasteful but it certainly was not the visage of such violence visited upon a man as it was Hollander who had overseen the ministrations delivered to Cal’s broken and bloodied body with expert direction and cool aloofness.
Hollander spoke, his voice carrying a strong Nordic accent even after decades in America. “The pony and trap is readied and awaits. The three thirty is said to be on time. You should go now.”
Campbell nodded his head even as he kept his cold, beady eyes on Cal. “In a moment.”
“Sire, you should go to be certain you are seen in town.”
“I said,” Weldon’s tone brokered no argument and was filled with restrained menace, “in a moment.” Weldon turned from Hollander back to studying Cal. Suddenly his hand caught Cal’s jaw in a vice like grip, crushing the already broken jaw and sending fire throughout Cal’s body. Tears spilled and piss pooled at his crotch. Cal was a broken man and sobbed incoherently through blood, knocked out teeth and a broken jaw. “You dared to steal from me boy! Steal! From me.”
Cal tried to mumble pleas of sorrow, to beg forgiveness but his words were as much a mess as that of his face. And they would have fallen on deaf ears anyway. Weldon Campbell brokered no second chances. He was a man who courted opinion and influence to gain power and wealth for himself. In society at large he portrayed himself as a respectable business man and in his other dealings he projected fear and control over his illegal empire.
“You thought you could steal from Weldon Campbell. All you needed to do was ask ... here you go.” Campbell opened a small wooden crate at the foot of the cart and slapped down a stick of dynamite. Those crowded around the cart flinched visibly; even the stone faced Hollander opened his mouth a fraction in abject horror.
“You wanted to take this, did ye not? Here! You can have it!” Campbell snarled, spittle flecking Cal’s face, as Campbell stuffed the stick of explosive into Cal’s breeches. Cal screamed inaudibly, thrashing against his restraints as he fought to stop Campbell from exacting his bloody vengeance.
Campbell grabbed Cal by the jaw again and bent over to look into the frightened man’s eyes. His face was thunderous anger and murderous. “I’ll not be crossed. Do you hear me boy? Never. I think it only fair that the punishment fit the crime. Time to go Hollander.” He scooped up his hat that had fallen in the scuffle with Cal and as he stood, put it back on his head and fished out a cigar and matches and lit the cigar. He gave several angry puffs to get the cigar lighted and then gave a satisfied puff of satisfaction.
Then Weldon called some of the nearby ranch hands to him. “Be sure to clean up the mess before I get back.” With that Weldon approached Cal one last time. Blew smoke into Cal’s sobbing face and then pulled the cigar from his mouth to catch the long fuse end. “Don’t ever fucking cross me.”
Weldon walked away fixing his hat and put the cigar back to his lips and puffed greedily on it. Hollander stepped in step with Weldon as he walked towards the waiting carriage only pausing once to look back at the lone figure of Cal tied to the cart with the ranch hands running clear of the position. Hollander turned his attention back to his boss as Weldon demanded, “The three thirty’s on time?”
“Yes sir, it’s on time,” Hollander replied as he opened the carriage door to allow Weldon to enter.
But before stepping up to the carriage, Weldon checked his pocket watch for the time. Behind him, the cart with Cal at its epicentre exploded into bloody splinters with a roar and a small gout of flame. At the broken timber and shorn limb parts showered to the ground, Weldon snapped the pocket watch closed and smiled. “On time. Good.”
((To town))
ofthefire1.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=saloon&action=display&thread=2104&page=1#1347660278
