The Hellhole

By jfclover

~*~*~*~

Sunlight shimmers against the cold, stone wall.  Morning has come, and I’m alive to face another day of hell.  For sixty-seven days, I’ve watched the morning sun creep into the cell and a new day begin.  My life.  A life that’s been thrown away by no fault of my own.  I know the truth, but I have yet to convince anyone else of the facts—the true facts—but I will.  I have nothing better to do than prepare my case.

A gray rodent scurries across the dirt floor and shimmies through a narrow crack in the wall.  He and his friends bring me hours and hours of amusement in this hellhole they call a jail, and I keep my feet propped on the bed so they can use the whole 6×9-foot cell as their playground.

A family of roaches isn’t shy about slinking their shiny, black torsos through my hair or climbing the walls or flinging themselves on my cot, but I’m just as talented at flicking them across the room or crushing them with my boot heel.  It’s a game of sorts.  It passes the time, and because time moves deathly slow, I enjoy those special moments with my friends.

I’ve worn the same clothes for over two months.  My hair curls at the nape of my neck, and I can’t help but think of my father and the words he’d have to say.  “Joseph.  Don’t you think it’s time you took a trip to town?”

Of course, I know what that means, and he’s not offering to buy me a beer at the local saloon or a big juicy steak at the Gentleman’s Club.  It’s a polite way to tell me that my hair is too long for his liking, but there’s a very good reason I like my hair long.  Women like to run their fingers through those little ringlets that curl at the nape of my neck.  It’s not only the women who enjoy that feeling, it’s me, too, but Pa doesn’t understand, and I’m not about to enlighten him on the subtleties of romance.

Though I haven’t seen a woman for a very long time, I haven’t shut down my mind.  I can still dream of a near-perfect night of passion with a beautiful young lady.  Even though the sheriff took everything else, he can’t take away my dreams.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The reason I’m confined to this stinking hole is that after I picked up the payroll, I took the shortcut home.  Staying off the main road was something I usually thought about when I carried that much money, but two of our hands got wise, and that was the beginning of the end.   Those two boys didn’t want to work for a living.  They wanted easy money—my father’s money—and they weren’t terribly fond of me.  Their own words clued me in on the way they felt.

“I don’t like no kid ordering me around.”

I hate to say it, Dumbass, but that’s my job.  Of course, I didn’t say those words out loud, but they understood the meaning they saw burning in my eyes and decided on a plan to steal Pa’s money and leave the youngest Cartwright worse for wear.

“Hold it right there, Cartwright.”  I had no choice.  With their guns drawn, I pulled Cooch to a halt and waited for the next set of instructions.  “Hand over them saddlebags, Boy.”

Pa wouldn’t want to see me dead over a single payroll, so I did as Carlton—the older of the two—asked.  When I had Cochise step forward so I could hand over the money, that’s not the way the younger boy—Sammy—had visualized the exchange.  He dragged me from my horse, and the two of us battled it out on the ground.  Sam was bigger than Adam, and he’d gotten the best of me before I could fight back.  When all was said and done, I’d been draped over Cooch’s saddle and carried down to a little town called Mount Montgomery.  Sheriff Barfly Taylor was in charge, and when Sammy said his name was Joseph Cartwright, and the man draped over the saddle tried to rob him, the sheriff—who’d heard of the Cartwrights—grabbed me, dragged me through his office, and tossed me into a cell.  

I’ve called Mount Montgomery home for the last two months.  No telegraph office.  No pony express.  No circuit judge.  The little mining town is isolated from the rest of the world, but why would the good citizens want to feed and house a prisoner for this long?  Why was I  still allowed to breathe?

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You ever going to tell me your name, Boy?”

“I’ve told you every day for two months, Sheriff.  Those fella’s lied to you.  My name is Joe Cartwright, and if you’d send a letter to Sheriff Coffee in Virginia City, he and my father will ride down here and clear this whole mess up.”

“You got any money for postage?”

“Oh, come on, Sheriff.  I was robbed, remember?  My father will be glad to pay you a penny for the stamp when he gets here.  I’ll even tell him to double the amount as a reward.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Boy.”

“Will you write the letter?”

The sheriff turns his back and walks toward his office.  We have this discussion at least once a week, but it makes no sense.  He doesn’t plan to write my father.  He never has and never will, but we still play the game.

Does my family think I’m dead?  Have they given up hope of ever seeing me again?  I’ve lost weight.  I’ve lost muscle.  The sun-drenched skin I had when I left home that morning to fetch the payroll has faded to a pasty-white that is normal during winter months, but I look and feel like a ghost.  Maybe I am. 

A long-tailed rat stops midway across the room.  He stares.  He has nowhere important to go.

The End

5 – 2026