By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Eight: The Test of Hands

The morning came with a shift in the air.

No whistle. No commands.

Just silence.

Peter sat on the edge of his cot, arms limp, legs heavy from the ball and chain still welded to his ankle. The collar remained tight around his neck — by now more a part of him than an intrusion.

Then came Wade’s boots. Slow. Deliberate. Dust-streaked from dawn patrol.

“On your feet, chain boy.”

Peter rose.

Outside, Colt stood next to a second prisoner. Younger. Pale. Dressed like he’d been dragged out of a dorm room and dumped in the desert. His eyes were wide, darting. He trembled at the sight of the twins.

“His name’s Reed,” Wade said behind Peter. “Trespassed same way you did.”

Peter nodded slowly.

“He needs to learn what happens to trespassers on Sheriffs’ Land.” Colt added. “And you’re gonna be the one he teaches him.”

Wade stepped forward, slapping something heavy and black into Peter’s palm.

The leather prison strap.

“I…I don’t want to,” Peter muttered.

“Here’s the deal,” Wade said. “You will do it, so he learns his place. Under you.”

Colt’s arms were folded. “You don’t — and we take it as weakness. And you don’t want that.  Especially not that we’re just beginning to think you might move up…”

Peter looked down at the strap. The weight of it felt familiar in some weird way. Honest. Like a hammer in a blacksmith’s hand.

He looked at Reed.

The kid shook his head. “Please — don’t. You don’t have to do this. You’re not like them. You’re not even one of them.”

Peter’s grip tightened.

A few weeks ago, maybe he wasn’t.

But now?

The Decision

Colt stepped in front of Peter, his voice low. “You think we’ll let you keep moving up without knowin’ for sure where your head’s at?”

“You think you can ever be one of us.  Walk among us without using a strap or a branding iron or a gun…?” the other one said.

“Be one of us” rang in Peter’s ear like an alarm.  Had he really ever wondered if he could. If he would.  Was it possible? Peter looked between them.

No one moved.

Then, slowly, he walked to the frame post. A crossbeam. Weathered from sun and time. The twins pulled Reed’s arms up high and wide. Stretched tight.

Peter stood behind him. Strap in hand.

Reed whispered, “Please.”

Peter closed his eyes.  Then opened them again.  He focused in on the prisoner’s back spread eagle before him.

And then—

Crack.

The first lash landed like thunder. Reed screamed. The desert listened.

The second blow was heavier. Measured.

Then came the next.  And the next.  And again.  Blow after blow with mechanical precision.  Peter thought he might lose control, become some strap wielding Berserker. But he didn’t. He actually had started to enjoy it. To measure it out.  Plan each strike.  Reed stopped crying out as he slumped forward, yet Pete continued.

When it was over, the twins undid the strap meat’s wrists, and he crumpled to the ground.  Wade had to peal back Peter’s fingers in order to take the strap from his grasp.

Colt looked him square in the eye and seemed to know the ecstasy Peter was feeling.

“Yup.” is all he said.

Peter said nothing.

“You’re well on your way to becoming one of us.” Wade whispered.

That Night

They gave him a cup of real coffee. Hot. Strong.

He sat on the porch steps beside Colt. Wade leaned against the post.

No words were said for a while.

Eventually, Colt muttered, “Wasn’t about him. It was about you.”

Peter stared into the dark.

“I know.”