Ain't Talkin'

Both of the Corporation soldiers had fallen in funny positions. Men often did when the kill shot went to the brain. Legs all askew and fingers curled in different positions each one. Roche scuffed a boot in the dirt and kicked some dust into the blood pool.

Cigarette still hanging from the corner of his lips, Roche bend and slipped open one of the soldiers coats with a gloved hand.

Cris-crossed gun belts and layered leather clothing. A knifebelt around his waist and another one over his breast. Few bank notes in cash, less so than when he went into the Old Hen most likely.

The other soldier proved just as fruitless. Standard fare wares for gun-toting hired hands. All save one thing.

In the back pocket of his trousers, Roche found a leatherbound address book, tied tightly with a small length of twine.

Wasn’t much, but the bygone days of men carrying identification were something out of ancient history. Roche pocketed the book, thought again and broke the sawed-off below the handle. One barrel was still loaded. Roche stripped a half dozen shells from the shotgun’s previous owner and slid the gun beneath his coat.

He puffed on his smoke and wandered back down the alley, leaving the bodies where they lay. Dead men didn’t tell stories or point fingers. The wind picked up and the dust started blowing, slowly beginning to cover the limp forms.

The world turned and two more dead men made no difference.