Boldly Chapter Three

Chapter Three

How Sweet the Sound

The flickering firelight cast eerie, ominous shadows across the dark landscape. Somewhere, far distant from the campfire, a lone coyote howled mournfully. It was a rather assorted group of figures that sat hunched or sprawled around the fire, each minding his own particular business and ignoring all the others. A rather incredibly tall, thin, sallow man with a drooping brown mustache played a slow, haunting tune on his rusty harmonica. A short and stocky character with a bristly shock of red hair and a bushy red beard to match it, rested his patched elbows on his stained jeans and puffed away disconsolately on a stubby corncob pipe. A dark, broad-shouldered man with black Stetson pulled low over his eyes, stretched comfortably out to his full length on the ground and snored comfortably. The boss of the outfit, Slade himself, was leaning back on the stump where he sat, crossing his arms and narrowly surveying the "boys", as he was apt to call them. Jason McCulloch, the youngest recruit, was sitting now in his old place in the corner. Always apart from the others... just like he had been the first time around. He never once glanced at any of the others but sat quietly mending the stock of his rifle.

"Dagummit, Sam, yer cookin' is as turrible as ever," the red-haired man spoke through his clenched teeth, not bothering to remove his pipe from his mouth.

The thin man glanced up, pausing his harmonica in the midst of "Laredo".

"Think ya could do any better, Charlie?"

"Least I wouldn't a' been burnin' the beans t' ashes."

Sam shrugged and resumed "Laredo". The dark man snorted loudly, grunted something unintelligible, and fell to snoring peacefully again. Charlie glared at the sleeping figure as if he had committed some sort of offense.

"Fool Bill," he snarled. "Won't stay awake long enough fer even one game o' blackjack. Will you play, Jason?"

Jason glanced up from his rifle and shook his head briefly.

"Can't ya settle down a minute, Charlie?" Slade muttered.

"Dull as tombs out here," Charlie ignored the boss's admonition. "Iffen ya won't gamble, Jason, git yer fiddle out an' play fer us. I'm sick an' tired of Sam's hermonica."

At first the request was ignored. But when repeated, more forcibly, Jason set the rifle aside and dug a well-worn violin from among the scraggly assortment of camp equipment in the one wagon.

"Give us a good rollickin' one." Charlie urged. "How 'bout Jerusalem Ridge?" So saying, he gave Bill a savage kick with the toe of his boot. "Say Bill, ya'd better snap to it iffen ya want t' hear some real music fer a change."

Bill had made many sad attempts at fiddling himself and bitter was the reward for it. The boys simply wouldn't stand to hear his "squawking". Bill "snapped to it", all right, but only lasted through the beginning of Jerusalem Ridge and soon the music was accompanied by a percussion of snoring.

Jason was a master musician, although few ever heard him play. No one seemed to know where he had acquired this talent. It seemed to just have been born within him. No one... except maybe Bill... could listen to his music without being touched in some way by it.

The supply of old fiddle tunes was quite exhausted that night. When Jason had played every one that the others could conceive to throw at him, he suddenly and without warning changed course. When he began to play that last song, the others didn't even recognize it at first. Most of them hadn't heard the ageless old tune since they were young children. And with toughened old outlaws like these... childhood was many lifetimes ago.

Slowly, softly, drawing out each beautiful note and spinning it into pure musical magic, Jason played the old song. All was quiet... the song echoed into the darkness of the prairie night and hovered on the night wind.

Amazing grace... how sweet the sound... that saved a wretch like me...

Jason played through three verses. When he got to the fourth, he only played halfway through, then stopped suddenly with a jerk of the bow that rattled even Bill. Abruptly he laid the old fiddle down and turned his face away from the little group by the fire. No one said a word.

From somewhere far distant, the lone coyote howled again. The crickets were chirping... a night owl called out. The stars were shining down coldly and the night wind blowing. And in one heart... only one... the desperate prayer was once again silently given.