Carrying the Weight by Michael Knost

William Massie stole a glance at the imposing figure just to his left before placing his four sevens and a deuce on the table without a word. He’d worked hard at keeping the value of those cards off his face, but now perspiration beaded his forehead something terrible.

Hickok grunted and turned toward the barkeep. “Bring me fifty dollars’ worth of checks, Harry.” He flung his own cards to the table while glaring at Massie. “The old duffer broke me on that hand.”

With a queasy stomach, Massie reached for his winnings and jerked back when the roaring of a revolver sent excruciating pain into his now bloodied left wrist.

Gasps and grumbles erupted throughout the saloon, as well as a piercing ring that impeded everything as though underwater. Even the cadence of Massie’s riverboat pocket watch seemed to be affected.

Tick.

He gazed up to make sure he wasn’t about to be shot again and noticed a young man standing just behind the slumping Hickok with a reddened face and a smoking Colt.

Tick.

“Damn you, take that!” the man yelled at the legendary pistoleer before waving the revolver toward the crowd as a warning.

Tick.

Massie pressed a handkerchief to his wound and flinched at the pain as the body of Wild Bill Hickok tumbled from stool to floor.

Tick.

The crowd took chase when the gunman bolted through the back door while Massie collected his money, finished his whiskey, and exited through the front entrance, still holding the sodden handkerchief to his burning wrist.

Doc Pierce returned from his desk with bandaging and bourbon. “I couldn’t help but notice they called you captain when they brought you here.” He slid a chair closer to Massie and handed him the bottle. “Would you be retired from the Army? Furloughed?”

“I’m a riverboat captain.” Massie winced at the pain and took a quick drink before wiping his mouth. “Just as my father before me. God rest his soul.”

Doc Pierce took the whiskey and drizzled a portion of it over Massie’s wound before handing the bottle back to him. “Everyone recounts that there was just one gunshot,” he said, now drying the arm with a towel. “They say Hickok was struck directly in the head, and yet, right here in your wrist is the very ball that killed that man.”

“I honestly thought it was Hickok who had fired on me.” Massie downed another drink and released a sharp breath. “Afore I took notice of that fervid boy with the Colt in his hand.”

Leaning closer to inspect the wound, Pierce lifted his eyebrows. “It’s in there good. That much is certain. Better drink up before I start digging it out.”

“Could removal of the ball render the arm useless?”

“I suppose there’s always a possibility. However, the bullet does not seem to present a threat in its current location.”

Flickering lamplight cast lengthy shadows across the walls and floor, leaving sulfurous fumes throughout.

“And what would become of my limb should I merely leave the blasted thing where it is?”

“Other than nagging reminders of its presence?” Pierce shrugged. “More than likely no different than had the bullet never entered the wrist.”

Massie took out his pocket watch and held it momentarily in his palm while peering into its face.

“Are you to be somewhere soon?”

Massie studied the doctor. “Now, why would you ask that?”

“You keep checking your timepiece as though you have a harrowing schedule to keep.”

“My apologies.” He returned the watch to his vest and made an attempt to smile. “It’s an old habit, I’m afraid.”

Pierce rose when a knock came from the door. “Try not to move your arm.”

The night air swept through the room, sending a prickly shiver down Massie’s back and a sourness into his stomach.

“I’m looking for Doctor Ellis Pierce.”

“I’m Doc Pierce. What can I do for you?”

Removing his hat in spite of the blustery winds, the stranger grimaced. “My name is Charlie Utter. I am a friend…” He dropped his gaze with a pause. “Was a friend of James Butler Hickok.”

“Wild Bill?”

“That is correct.” He gestured toward the doorway. “Would it be possible to speak within the warmth of your residence?”

“Of course.” Pierce stepped aside. “Come in.”

“I shall keep you but a moment.” Utter stole a quick glance at Massie before turning back to the doctor. “I wish to seek your services in preparing my friend’s body for the upcoming funeral.”

“But of course. Whatever I can do to help.” Pierce gestured toward Massie’s wrist. “In fact, I have been examining the bullet that killed your friend.”

Utter stepped closer, eyebrows converging over the bridge of his nose. “Are you saying….”

Pierce nodded. “Mister Massie here was gambling with your friend when the shooter struck.” He pulled back the towel, revealing the wound. “And that’s where the bullet ended up.”

“I’ll be damned.” Utter placed a hand on Massie’s shoulder. “Sir, I would be willing to purchase that ball once it is removed.” He shrugged. “Hell, I’ll even pay the doctor’s fee if you are agreeable to such terms.”

Massie took the towel from Pierce and returned it to the wound. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m leaving the thing right where it is.”

“You’re not getting it cut out?”

“I am not.”

“Wouldn’t that pose a danger to life or limb?”

“No more of a danger than falling from his horse,” Doc Pierce said with a shrug. “Now let me finish him up and I shall visit your camp directly to care for your friend’s body.”

Massie drew on his pipe, allowing the tobacco smoke to linger in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling. Coldness bit at his hands and feet, but the solitude of the vacant alley brought a much-needed warmth to both head and stomach.

The river was calling him, there was little doubt of that. What felt like the gills of his soul yearned to get back to the waters where he belonged. The mere thought of returning to the stern brought even more warmth and comfort.

“Give me the slug.”

Massie’s stomach clenched when the filthy man stepped from the shadows with an outstretched knife.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I followed you from the doctor’s residence,” the man said with a raspy voice. “And you look to be far too smart to allow the old pill to keep it.”

“Are you talking about—”

“Surely you know the slug that killed Wild Bill Hickok is bound to fetch a handsome sum.”

Massie raised his bandaged wrist. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I did not have the ball removed.”

“Out of luck?” The man’s smile became grotesque as he stepped closer. “Why on earth would I need luck when I have this knife?”

Coldness bloomed through Massie’s chest. “Now see here—”

“Do not make me slit your throat before cutting out that slug,” the man said, reaching for Massie’s arm.

“Drop the Missouri toothpick, or I’ll paint this alley with what little brains you’ve got.” Charlie Utter was standing at the assailant’s back, holding a revolver’s muzzle against the poor fella’s head. “I said drop it.”

“No need to get worked up,” the man said, tossing the weapon to the ground.

“I’m going to give you a piece of advice, mister.” Utter’s words came through clenched teeth. “Run away now. Don’t ever let me see your face again as I will not be as gracious on our next encounter.”

The man glanced at the knife.

“Leave it.” Utter shoved him. “Go now before I rethink my decision.”

Massie picked up the blade as the thug hurried off into the night. “That man was about to cut the bullet out of my wrist with this dad-blasted thing.” He held out the weapon for Utter to take. “He was going to do it!”

Holstering his revolver, Utter shook his head. “Keep it. You obviously need the thing more than I do.”

“What I need is whiskey.” Massie searched for a place to stow the knife. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me to the Shoofly Saloon, I would be happy to purchase a bottle to share.”

Massie drank back his whiskey and immediately poured another. “I suppose you want the bullet so that you may profit from it, just as was the ruffian’s hope.”

“That is not my intention at all.” Utter took out his makins and rolled a paper of tobacco. “My intention is to prevent any profiting from the ball that killed my friend.” He lit the quirly and blew smoke toward the rafters.

“So you wish to keep it for yourself.”

“If wishes actually came to pass, I’d wish for my friend to still be alive.” Utter drew again and released the smoke. “But since that is not possible, I would wish to bury the bullet with his body.”

Massie took out his watch and stared at its back cover before downing another drink. “I assure you, I have no plans to profit from the ball.”

“I do not doubt that. And I shall respect your decision of leaving it be.”

“Thank you.”

Utter drank what remained in his glass and gestured toward Massie’s hands. “That appears to be a riverboat engraved on your watch. Was it a gift?”

“Hardly.” Massie flipped the timepiece over in his hand. “I’m afraid there is a long story behind it.”

“The good doctor asked to be alone while preparing Hickok, therefore, I currently possess the time required for such a story.”

Placing the watch onto the table, Massie took out his pipe and packed tobacco into its bowl. “My brother and I grew up on the Missouri River. I was barely thirteen when the two of us steered just past the Hermann wharf in a skiff and found that the steamer Big Hatchie had blown up, maiming and killing dozens of the crew and passengers.” He lit the pipe and drew. “We spent hours taking those who survived to shore. It was the most horrific thing I had ever witnessed.”

“I can only imagine.”

“John boarded the burning wreck to gather folks while I transported them to shore. One of the crew members was in dire shape when I got him on the skiff. He tried putting the watch in my hand, asking me to give it to his wife. I made him hang on to it and promised he would give it to her himself as I was determined to make sure he got home alive.” Massie placed his hand on the watch and paused for just a moment. “Unfortunately, the man died before I could get him to shore, and without him telling me his name or any details of his wife or family.”

“Were you able to find the wife?”

Massie shook his head. “We were recovering bodies for days before I had a chance to seek her out. And God knows I must have spoken to every woman in that area without finding a clue at the time.” He dropped his gaze to the watch. “And it eats at me to this very day that I failed that man so horribly, that his death was entirely my fault as I did not get him to shore in time.”

“You were thirteen. You saved dozens of lives and helped many others.”

Massie looked up. “And one man died because I couldn’t get him to help in time.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t even fulfill his dying wish.”

“You can’t go on blaming yourself for something that was never your fault.” Utter filled his glass and stared into it. “I’ll never forget the time someone asked Hickok how he felt about killing all the men he’d shot in his past. You know what he told that fella?”

Massie shrugged.

“Hickok said he realized he had to let go of those thoughts to survive.” Utter finally drank back the whiskey and sighed. “He said releasing guilt isn’t about erasing mistakes, but it’s about releasing the weight of regret that was never yours to carry.”

Massie stood inside the trading post going through a pile of socks. “I’ll need a shirt as well,” he said to the proprietor. “Nothing fancy.”

“You say you’re heading back to the riverboat in Missouri?” The man pulled a shirt from near the top. “And so soon after the shooting?”

“So soon? It’s been more than three and a half months since it happened.”

“Has it been that long?”

A tall fella with a horseshoe mustache entered at the front door and made his way toward the two men. “I’m looking for William Massie.”

“I’m Massie.”

“My name is Ben Ash. I am the deputy marshal of Bismarck,” he said with a blank expression. “I understand you were at the table when Jack McCall shot James Butler Hickok.”

Massie nodded.

“I also understand you are carrying the evidence in your very arm.”

“That is correct.” Massie touched his wrist. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you are being summoned to testify at McCall’s trial.”

A laugh slipped from Massie before he could prevent it. “You’re a little too late for that, aren’t you? They found that boy not guilty over three months ago and set him free.”

“Deadwood isn’t recognized as a legal territory and has no jurisdiction to hold court.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “So McCall is set for a real trial in Yankton in a little over a week. And we need you, as well as the others who were present, to testify.”

Massie dropped his gaze to the floor.

“We can count on your testimony, correct?”

Massie closed his eyes and released a deep breath. “I apologize, but I won’t be able to do it.”

“What do you mean you won’t do it?”

“Think of the disgrace it would be for my daughters to have it in all the papers that I’d been in a poker game where a man was murdered,” Massie said. “Besides, I could lose my job if Commodore Coulson heard about it.”

“Your testimony is crucial. Without your evidence, that murderer could walk free.”

“I understand, and, again, I apologize.”

Ash’s face reddened. “I will come back with a bench warrant forcing you to appear if I must.”

Massie turned back to the socks. “You shall be sure to find me on the Missouri River.”

Massie was pouring himself another whiskey at the Shoofly Saloon when Charlie Utter burst through the door and rushed to his table.

“What’s this about you refusing to testify?”

Massie downed the whiskey and pushed back his chair to put distance between himself and Utter’s glare. “I told the marshal—”

“I heard about what you said to Ben.” Utter pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “I heard all about it.”

Massie refilled the glass and slid it toward Utter. “You have to understand—”

“I do understand!” Utter swatted the glass from the table, sending it across the room and crashing to the floor. “I understand all too well that the man who murdered my friend could very well go free… again! That’s what I understand. Do you understand, Massie?”

Silence filled the room as Utter leaned into the back of his chair, released a heavy breath, and stared into the rafters.

Perspiration beaded Massie’s forehead, but he dared not move to wipe it.

“Don’t you think you’re carrying enough as it is?” Utter’s voice was calm and controlled now, the redness in his face leaving him. “Think about it. By refusing to testify, you could very well send that man back out to kill again. All the while, you put yourself in a position where you will carry around more weight than what you’ve already burdened yourself with.”

Massie silently stared at his hands as warmth moved into his neck and ears.

“But in this case,” Utter whispered. “By not doing what you can to make it right, you are forcing so many other individuals to carry that weight right along with you.” He rose to his feet. “And we do not deserve that.”

Massie reached for Utter’s arm. “Please,” he said without touching him. “Sit down.”

Utter eased back into the seat and fixed his gaze to Massie’s.

“It is not my intention to bring more pain to your grief.” Taking a drink directly from the bottle, Massie closed his eyes. “I assure you that is not my intention.”

The silence slipped away as conversations and activities slowly resumed in the saloon.

“About a month after the Big Hatchie incident, John and I were called upon to testify as to what we witnessed from the disaster. Keep in mind, we were but mere lads who knew nothing as to how the world ticks.” Massie removed his Breton and wiped his forehead. “We told it just as we’d seen it, not giving a thought as to saying the right things or avoiding the wrong.” He took another drink from the bottle.

“An hour after we got home, our father, a riverboat captain at the time, learned he was losing his job.”

Utter sat forward. “Because of your testimonies?”

“Aye. The owners of the companies and vessels were thick as thieves and punished our father for truths he had no idea we were going to speak.” He touched his chin to steady it. “Our family suffered greatly.”

“Those bastards.”

“Then I heard the tragic news of the woman who hung herself after learning her husband, First Engineer Bernard Mahan, had died in the explosion.” Massie held up the pocket watch. “Had I put this in her hands at the beginning, she very well would still be alive today.”

“Or it would have changed nothing. One can only speculate as to what might have come about in these instances.”

Massie lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “I suppose that is true.”

“Grief is but a storm that drowns all reason, my friend.”

Dropping his gaze back to the watch, Massie swallowed hard. “Aye, it most certainly is.”

The stage station was quiet as Massie had arrived early, as was his nature. “Should the coach make it here before scheduled, would it wait until departure time before leaving again?”

“Certainly,” the man at the counter said. “But you have nothing to worry about, this stagecoach is never early.”

Glancing at his watch, Massie caught himself smiling. “It will be more than an hour before its arrival by my estimation. Were I to conduct a few errands, would you be able to stow my things until my return?”

“That would not be a problem.”

The day’s sunlight did very little to bring warmth to the December air. It was as though Deadwood’s pulse was slowly fading with each passing season.

Heading toward the Shoofly, Massie noticed a familiar face near the entrance. It was the back-alley ruffian who tried to hack the bullet from his wrist. Would you look at this? He realized the man did not see him coming and removed the knife from his vest pocket.

“You must be as stupid as you look,” Massie said, putting the blade to the man’s throat. “You were warned to leave this territory, were you not?”

“Hold on, hold on,” the man said, raising his hands. “I was just standing here minding my business.”

“Not long ago you were all about my business, do you not remember?” Massie pressed the blade closer into the man’s flesh. “Even threatened to slit my throat.”

“I apologize. That was a mistake on my part.”

“Indeed, it was.” Massie pressed the blade until a small portion of blood surfaced. “Egregious mistake.”

“Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Massie noticed Utter at the saloon door. “My friend let you go before.” He leaned close to the man’s ear. “And I will let you go this time. But when I pull the knife away, you had better run as hard as those chicken legs can carry you. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes.”

Massie pulled the knife away and shoved the fella from the porch. “Go!”

The man’s boots slapped the street as he fled away without looking back.

“Impressive.” Utter stepped closer. “Quite impressive.”

Returning the knife to his vest, Massie nodded. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”

“I hope you’re not planning to pull the knife on me.”

Massie grinned. “I’ve given what you said quite a bit of thought. And you are correct.”

Utter furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’m leaving on the next stage to Yankton to testify.”

Smiling, Utter offered his hand. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you,” Massie said as they shook. “And I apologize for being difficult with the whole thing.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Massie glanced down the street at nothing. “You’ll never know what you’ve done for me.”

“You traveling to Yankton and testifying is the best way to show your appreciation.”

“Actually, I have something for you.” Massie nodded as he rummaged through a pocket. “A gift that is ultimately more for me than for you, if I’m being honest.

“Really?”

Massie handed him the pocket watch and cleared his throat. “I’m done with carrying this.” He smiled again and briefly dropped his gaze to the ground. “And I cannot think of anyone I’d rather release it to… than you.”

Utter stared at the watch for a moment before reaching out to touch Massie’s shoulder. He started to speak and paused. “You have time for a drink before you leave?”

“I most certainly do.”

Michael Knost is a two-time Bram Stoker Award®-winner and has written in various genres and helmed dozens of anthologies. His latest novel, Trail of Madness: Jack McCall and the Killing of a Legend, is a traditional Western with foreword by Johnny D. Boggs. His Writers Workshop of Horror won the 2009 Bram Stoker Award® in England for superior achievement in non-fiction. His Writers Workshop of Horror 2 won the 2021 Bram Stoker Award® in Denver for the same category. His critically acclaimed Writers Workshop of Science Fiction & Fantasy is an Amazon #1 bestseller. Michael received the Horror Writers Association’s Silver Hammer Award in 2015 for his work as the organization’s mentorship chair and was recognized as the 2021 Mentor of the Year from the organization. He also received the prestigious J.U.G. (Just Uncommonly Good) Award from West Virginia Writer’s Inc and will be inducted into the inaugural class of the Imagination Hall of Fame in July of 2025. His Return of the Mothman novel has recently been filmed as a movie adaption. He has taught writing classes and workshops at several colleges, conventions, online, and currently resides in Chapmanville, WV with his wife and daughter.