The Trial of Arthur Forsyth

The wind whispered through the trees, caressing the grass and soothing the grain. White fence posts lined the fields, from which the low sounds of talk could be heard. Through the rows of wheat, a shadow of a man flickered, holding a cocked pistol. His clothes were ragged, his hair tangled. His bloodshot eyes darted back and forth. After a few long minutes, a group of riders on horseback came thundering past, shouting and hollering. They went past the field and away, over the hill. The ragged man watched the path, making sure they were gone. He moved forward slowly, shifting his gaze to a small house just ahead of the field.

As he crept through the field, he smelled the cooking fire burning behind the house. He had not eaten in days. The smell of stew made him ravenous. Supressing his hunger, he focused on the back door of the home, slightly ajar. He edged out of the tall wheat and up to door, peeking inside. He heard voices out the front, he would been to be quick. Darting inside, he only made it a few steps before he came across an old man in a rocking chair. The elderly fellow did not move, he was staring blankly at the wall. The rugged traveller waved his hand around, the old man stayed still. Figuring him to be braindead, the traveller moved to the front door. He scanned the porch, saw the cook fire, but no one else.

The traveller did not see it coming. He turned on his heel to find the rocking chair empty and the old man gone. Before he had even looked away, he felt cold metal press against his head. The old man slowly walked around until his gun was cocked in front of the traveller’s eyes. “Arthur Forsyth” he said. “A foolish idea it was to come back into this county. They’re hunting you like wolves out there”. The traveller Arthur looked down the barrel of the gun, into oblivion. “I’ve escaped places like this before. Old folks like you are always looking for redemption.” Arthur said. “Old folks like me?” retorted the old man, spitting on the ground. He pulled back his old coat, revealing a worn sheriff’s badge. “You must be as dumb as a rock. I had you ready to hang, boy. You stole a stagecoach right off the road in front of nearly a whole town. You didn’t think you were going to get caught?”

As the old man spoke, Arthur heard horses pulling up behind him. Shadows began to flicker into the house, men’s voices barked. The sound of boots and the chime of spurs grew closer, and the door flew open. A barrel of a rifle came through first, followed by a man with a large, bushy moustache. His forehead beaded with sweat, he eyed Arthur. “Vermin. You had us chase you nearly all the way to Saint Marianne. My horse is all but dead.” He grabbed Arthur by the scruff of the neck and dragged him outside. The tall lawman’s group were all standing upright, looking at Arthur with a wild hunger. He tied a rope around Arthur’s feet and hands. “Thank you” the lawman said the old man, standing in the doorway. “This one will meet his maker’s hands yet.”

The journey back into town was short, and Arthur’s view was upside down as he hung off the back of the lawman’s horse. The dust coming off the hooves made him cough, his vision was hazy. Blurred outlines of people watching the group of lawmen moved past. The stores and signs in the town came into view, and the thick mud flew into his eyes. At the end of the road, the hangman awaited him.

Reviews

[Frankie]

It takes a very special person with a god given gift to write so naturally like this. You write so effortlessly, with huge empathy, every word paints such a clear decscriptive picture. It makes me excited to come back and read your work. A huge pleasure well done!