AMERICAN WIDE PLANK FLOORING

THE OUTSIDER (CHAPTER ONE)


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A MOMENTS RESPITE .

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A man only gets to see the real soul within himself, the true essence of his being when he stares the devil in the face and discards the masks that each of us hide behind in the natural course of our lives. When your life becomes a battle to survive, and you are driven towards the horizon of your goals by blind rage and hatred, by a will so deep and strong to avenge that you can scarecely think of a single god-damn other thing than the bloodlust that drives you onwards, you tend to peel away the layers like an onion until you reach your inner core, your true self. Of course, there ain't no guarantee that what you find will be to your liking, and a man could surely come to hate himself for what he is, what he has become, what he is turnin' into. But that face staring back from the mirror will be the most truthful that he'll ever see in his entire life. If you have a mind to listen, then I have a story to tell you. Can I promise you a happy ending? I guess not from my own point of view, though you might just see the outcome as something remotely resembling justice enough to make you relieved or delirious with happiness. Of course you mighten care a hoot for the outcome or the destiny and fate that awaits my Heathen bones, but neither one of us'll sweat none to much over that I'm guessing.

Ya know, time has a peculiar way of affording a man the opportunity of picking over the bones of his very existence, like a bird of prey picks over the carcass of a downed critter laid out in the dirt and the dust after it's final breath has expired. In the hustle and bustle of everyday life, it's moments like this when a man has a chance to consider the character, the inner most recesses, the very blackness of his heart and soul. The twists and turns of fate's fair hand, the rights and wrongs, the ups and downs. I ain't ever been a feared of no one or nothin' who meant me or my kin harm in all it's shapes and guises, and I can live in harmony as good as the next man if I'm left alone and people have a mind to keep their noses outta my business. But sitting here now underneath the desert sun that burns my eyes and dries my skin like church parchment, I guess I can see how my life went astray, the error of my ways, and the turns I ought not to have taken. Hindsight is such a wonderful gift that's not afforded you until it's too late. Mistake, hell, that's my middle name.

From the reflection staring back at me from the glistening steel of my blade as I hold it up to the sunlight, my face has aged twenty years in as many days, as life in the saddle and the harsh realities of life and loss take their toll on my sorry ass. I'm a walking corpse, deprived of sleep, hungry for food and revenge and living on borrowed time. Up above me the buzzards swoop and swirl in the thermals, scratching a life out of the baron landscape and relentless heat which threatens to kill any fool who dares to move from the cover of shady rock forms when the sun is high in that big ole sky.

Far below my weary limbs in this haven of a vantage spot, high up on the mountain rock face, I can see the tiny figures slowly making a trail towards me. The posse grows larger by the day as the bounty on my head rises. A man's gotta eat and the lure of silver dollars is as good as any incentive I can think of to track an outlaw down and put a world full of lead in his worthless gut. And who am I to complain, I used to do the same myself, in those dark days before I quit being a gun for hire, a cheap thug who killed for money and took his orders from anyone who would put food in my belly, a whiskey glass in my hand and a whore between the sheets of my discontent . Time is on my side right now, and I'm a day at least in the sun drenched saddle ahead of them, but by the cover of nightfall as the prairie dogs howl and search for food, I'll be on my way again. They'll be heading me off wherever I try to go, hunters hunting the Outsider.

There's a man I need to see right now. A destiny with fate, and there ain't a man alive who's gonna prevent me from fulfilling these needs wrenching from within. Sometime's the truth is plain harder to take than fiction, and my world lost it's meaning and truth a long time ago when my soul died, only I didn't even know it back then.

It's hotter than hell, and my limbs grow weary. Wa-Ka Liva, my one true companion, has found a shady spot to rest his legs and glances back at me with such a knowing look. He talks to me with those concerned eyes, a gift from an Injun fella back a while, he's all I have left in this miserable world right now, and the only one who I confide in. He flicks his ears and nods his head trying to fend off the pesky flies that try to feed from what little moisture there is around his eyes, but like me he's exhausted, like me he doesn't know when to give in. For some god-damn reason he trusts my wretched heart and accompanies me willingly on this, our final

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

"The Cremation of Sam McGee"
by Robert Service