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Calloway
Calloway
Calloway
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Calloway

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Set in the town of Littlemont in Tennessee, the story centers on a young ranch hand tormented by the murder of his mother and scarred by a history of abuse stemming from his childhood.
His life is forever changed when a man with a dark reputation, persecuted from his own town rides into Littlemont looking for work and searching for information from his own unresolved past. It is not long before the fragile pieces of his life fall irrevocably apart and he finds himself embroiled in a world of violence he so abhors. It is a raw, powerful story of one man living his life whilst dealing with his past and being caught by circumstance, in a web of bloody events beyond his control.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 2, 2013
ISBN9781301227396
Calloway
Author

Sebastian H. Alive

Sebastian H. Alive is a Purchasing Manager by day, controlling and manipulating the world’s economy while brainwashing the gullible masses. By evening he is father to two demonic minions that the devil is too embarrassed to be associated with and by night he writes stories.

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    Calloway - Sebastian H. Alive

    Calloway

    By Sebastian H. Alive

    Published by Sebastian H. Alive

    License Notes

    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Copyright 2015 Sebastian H. Alive

    Prologue

    Littlemont, Tennessee

    His name is Jon Calloway but people call him the Preacher. No one knows why they call him that because he doesn’t preach sermons and as far as I know never stood in front of a congregation and spoke the word of the Bible.

    Maybe it was because he introduced many folk to God by way of his twin Colt single action 45’s or because he delivered the same message on his travels. Then again, maybe it was merely nothing but a name given to him like a whisper in the wind. In my mind preaching and teaching walk hand in hand and he certainly taught a few people here in Littlemont a lesson, but in a hard way, and of mortality and of how to live and how to die.

    Little was known of his origins, but some people say he hunts a man, a man responsible for the deaths of his wife and his two children. That same man is also accountable for why the left side of Jon’s face is charred and burnt like a piece of barbecued chicken.

    But I know the truth. He carried those scars on his face like a perpetual reminder of an unfulfilled journey. There were many times I caught him raising his hands and gently touching his face, treading carefully along the sensitive raw remains like he was stepping carefully over the edge of darkness.

    Those who have seen his face and cussed at him can be counted on one hand, and that much is true.

    There are moments in my life that I’ll always remember and moments that changed the direction of my life irreversibly. One such moment was the first time I laid eyes on Jon Calloway. At the time the small town I lived in seemed to be my whole world. I was young and full of that youthful energy only the young or stupid tended to have and life was full of possibilities. But I soon discovered I’d rather live in this world alone than live with him in mine.

    He came to town looking for information and work, but became embroiled in a bitter war with the Rhody gang. That’s a story I can recount later. I remember he rode into town on a huge brown gelding he named Buce. It was an apt, ugly name for the beast as the horse was a mean-tempered and surly creature, prone to kicking and nipping and I disliked him instantly.

    I must admit that I didn’t take to Jon much the first time I saw him. From the look in his eyes I knew my life would change forever. They were cold and deadly, grey as winter storm clouds and when I looked into them my heart pounded a beat. He was tall, about 6 feet, carried a thin nose and narrow cheekbones with a cigarette jutting out of the corner of his lips. On his head he wore a high crowned hat with a wide brim and his hands were covered by soft deerskin gloves. Jon wore his pistols on his hips with the butt pointing backwards and he glided across the ground when he walked, sure footed and cat-like.

    I had mixed with rough hardy men all my young life but this man was a different breed entirely. There was something unmistakably deadly about him, and you knew when you stared into his eyes you were staring at the edge of madness. I am ashamed to say that was my first initial reaction of Jon, but turns out he was friendly and personable at times, kept himself to himself.

    You see, folk that didn’t know Jon saw the haunted eyes and scarred face and frankly had already condemned the man as evil, and they did what the righteous usually do which is to try and cure evil with evil. That dogged perception of Jon followed him around wherever he went. It was the same as the stupid perception that Jon was right handed, but I knew he was equally fast at drawing his left pistol as he was his right.

    Legends grow over time they do not just materialize out of thin air and I learnt who the man truly was, and do you want to know what I have learnt?  You really do?  I learnt that the truth sometimes, just sometimes, is equally as scary as the legend.

    The year was 1884 and it was a sunny spring day. My name is Abe J. Brady and I have lived in a small western town in Tennessee named Littlemont all my life, but on this day everything would change. This is my story.

    Chapter 1

    The town of Littlemont can trace its origins back to the late 1700’s when gold was discovered in the high ranges and rugged terrain of the mountains bordering North Carolina. This discovery, not surprisingly, created much excitement and caused a massive influx of people to pour into the region. The area prospered and the town, nothing more than a small hamlet boasting 700 residents, swelled at the height of the gold rush to 15,000 occupants.

    When even the deepest section of mines had been excavated and the veins dried up in early autumn 1815, the town lost its attraction and the population of the settlement dwindled steadily, dipping to below 5,000 and lay dormant for a while. A few individuals with ranching inclinations saw a future in the area, ready and waiting for business where the land was cheap and fertile and the grass tall and plentiful.

    By 1838 the town had re-established itself as a point for livestock. With a rapidly growing ranching industry it again attracted new settlers and large ranches took root. A number of new shops and saloons sprang up and the town of Littlemont enjoyed cattle trade from Kentucky to Missouri and as far out as Wisconsin and Minnesota. I guess folk were just attracted to the high quality Tennessee beef.

    In 1849 a young twenty year old man named Jedediah Brady settled in Littlemont with his wife Martha. Jedediah dreamt of earning enough money to run his own ranch and started off helping a local farm selling milk and butter to settlers for a little coin. Martha would entertain locals in the town with her dancing and singing and someone once told me years after her death that her voice could quiet even the even the most boisterous of revelers. The ranch never materialized and his dream eventually gave way to working in the local bank for a meager pittance. Word was that when Jedediah wasn’t working he was throwing the money away in the gambling halls playing three-card Monte and poker. Martha became frustrated and sank a little into depression at Jedediah’s behavior, but then one day she fell pregnant and it brought them back together where they knew they belonged.

    Elated with the news of Martha’s pregnancy Jedediah swore to curb his gambling ways and for a while they did dissipate temporarily. Martha gave birth in 1862 to a healthy, yet early young boy they named Abraham Jedediah Brady. So I’m told, she screamed bloody murder during the birth and lost her voice for days afterwards.

    I used to think that my arrival sealed the fate of my parents as I remember them arguing quite a lot as I grew up in that town. Ma used to make me go hide until she found me while they argued. It was a game we'd shared since my earliest memories. Occasionally, and only when I was old enough, I would listen in to their arguments. By listening I’d hoped to understand their problems, but some of the things Pa repeated that Ma got up to in the saloons were too offensive for a six-year old boy to believe and I never listened to rumor mind.

    Growing up I distinctly remember not seeing my father much and we stopped going to church every Sunday and drifted away from God altogether. As a young child it was instilled in me to believe my parents and if my Ma said father was at work then that was that.

    Then one day toward the end of summer, Pa just didn't return home. I can’t recall the date but I'll always remember Ma crying as that was the day the singing stopped. We struggled for a while; in fact it seemed much longer than that. Some days, we would go hungry with no money to buy food, one day, two days like this. I remember once we were that hungry that I went and found the carcass of a rabbit left in the broiling sun. I came back with the meat and we cooked it and ate it such was our hunger at the time.

    Upon hearing the news that Jedediah had left, his brother and my uncle moved to Littlemont to help out. He seemed real friendly at first and appeared genuinely fond of me and my Ma, but there was something in his eyes that I never did like, something cold and shifty and it was all I could do to keep his gaze. Turns out he had a real liking for alcohol and turned into a violent man when drunk. He became verbally and emotionally abusive and after a while this manifested into physical abuse, but not towards me, or at least not at first.

    At the beginning she hid the bruises well and would often wear long sleeves or be found wearing the same long dress she wore the day before. More often than not she carried a bruise, but not to her face, never her face. When I did finally notice the marks on her arms and legs she passed it off as accidents caused from dancing in the saloon and I believed her, even when her face was flushed with tears and the look on it was so frightened and vulnerable.

    Then one fateful day a drunkard pulled a pistol on my Ma in a tavern and without hesitation fired the gun. He had aimed for her head but because he was inebriated the shot was off target. The slug had entered the front of her neck and she choked on her own blood. Unfortunately, I wasn't with her at the time and not a day goes by where I don’t wish that I’d have been there to ease her passing and tell her I loved her. I was told she went peacefully and didn’t suffer any horrible pain.

    Present at the man’s hanging were a few of the regulars she knew and had been friendly with as well as my uncle, Lawman Bob and myself. Some said it was the most heinous crime ever committed in Littlemont but what did I know, I was a ten year old boy, motherless and abandoned by my father.

    The actual hanging was so routine, so emotionless and over within seconds and I remember thinking whether or not I would hear a crack to indicate that his neck had been broken. It never snapped like a twig, but his body thrashed and twitched a lot and his head was left hanging limply looking at me as he gurgled and fought for breath.

    I remember when he finally stopped moving and the only sound that remained was the drip-drip of urine that flowed down his trouser leg that I felt a hand on my shoulder turning me away, but I had resisted.

    Look away, son,

    My heart was thudding but I didn’t dare look away from the hanging corpse a few feet away from me.

    No, I had said through gritted teeth.

    I'm very sorry for your loss, Abe, said Lawman Bob. Your mother was a special woman,

    Bob was somebody who just exuded warmth and offered a reassuring smile, but I was in no mood to be mollycoddled by a stranger.

    I don't know you, I don't trust you, I said bitterly.

    Distraught, I turned and ran towards my uncle who swept me into his arms as tears flowed down my cheeks.

    I barely had time to mourn or grieve when the beatings began. The first time he did it I watched unblinking and confused as he unbuckled his belt slowly, spittle hanging from his bottom lip and a hazy look in his drunken eyes. I screamed and cried a lot the first time. It had been like a white hot pain and I still see his savage face with belt raised above his head as he struck me, blow after blow. Over time the beatings got worse and he would shout things at me, horrible vile things about my Ma or Pa. One time he hit me right smack in the eye and the world faded from view. The only thing I remember was him standing over me with his lips curled, almost feral like, and staring at me.

    Your father ran away with a young Tennessee whore, he sneered.

    He would change his thrashings occasionally to keep me guessing as after a while the beatings became routine, almost expected. Soon he realized that the buckle hurt me the most and would on many occasions take it to the fleshy back of my naked legs. I remember one particular night quite clearly in that he hit me that hard with the belt buckle that it broke. I have never seen this before and suffice to say this made him even angrier. The marks that I carry crisscrossed like white lines on the back of my legs are a daily visible reminder of a dark period in my life that I’d rather forget.

    The cruel beatings continued unmercifully on me until one day whilst in a store collecting groceries for my uncle a large bearded man with flecks of gray in his hair approached me. I don't know what he saw in my eyes at the time, whether it was the sadness in them or the haunting emptiness, but he came to me all the same.

    I knew of your mother, he said. She had a fine singing voice, indeed she did,

    His voice was deep and melodic and I looked up at him rather defensively.

    Thank you, sir,

    Virgil, he said extending a huge meaty hand. Virgil Thomas,

    His hand swallowed mine and he pumped it vigorously a few times.

    Abe J. Brady, I replied.

    I know who you are, Abe, he said smiling broadly.

    Something in that smile comforted me and I felt a weight lighten on my shoulders in his presence.

    Listen Abe, he began. I’m on the lookout for a couple of good ranch hands, someone who can follow orders and never mouth off. Do you want to come work for me?

    I must have hesitated in my reply because he looked momentarily disappointed and stepped in quickly.

    Pay isn’t great mind, but you’ll have a bed to sleep in, food to eat and in return I’ll teach you all about the ranching business. Can you ride?

    A little, I stammered.

    I had jounced around like a sack of potatoes on a sway-backed mare once.

    I need a hard worker not a shirker mind, said Virgil frowning deeply, his brows furrowed in uncertainty. You’re not a shirker are you boy?

    No sir, I can’t say that I am,

    Good, good, good. See I’m getting too old for all this, it’s not easy. Suffer pain in my joints you see and my Mary is growing into a young woman and she's a little resistant to getting her fingers in the soil these days. You should come down and have a look around,

    I listened to him talk freely about his ranch and about the daily rigors he experienced. He spoke about farming, his plans for the future and his ideas for increasing his herd size. While he talked to me I listened and quickly realized how deeply passionate about his ranch he was, so I graciously accepted his invite.

    Mary, I found out later was his daughter, and was a lovely girl, although I confess she wasn’t overly pleasant to the eye and was quite buxom, but was kind and always had a nice word to say to me. She could make the most wonderful apple pie and Judd and I would eat them as fast as she could pull them out of the oven.

    We’re just outside of town, just follow the road you can’t miss it. How about it son, do you want to come and work for old Virgil?

    "I think I should be honest and tell you up front that I don't

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