The Blacksmith

He had a hammer, nothing else. He never owned a gun, never had a reason. Sure, during the war he had been issued a gun, but he gave it back after the battles had ended. Turned out Edgar didn’t need one to kill, and kill he had. Blood pooled and cooled on his dirt floor. Gory hair, bits of bone, and perhaps brain stained the hammer’s head. It had only taken one blow. Now a dead man crowded his shop.

‘How could one body fill so much space?’

Edgar looked at his hammer. It was his favorite. He had many, some bought, others he had made himself. This one though, the one he held was important, it was the first one he had ever made. It contained so much sentimental value. With it he had created tools, he had welded steel, shaped iron, it had a useful purpose. It had been an extension of his arm, an instrument of his will. But now- now he would see a death whenever he swung it. With it he had created, but now, he had unmade. This was the first time he had destroyed something with it. It had become tainted. Every blow on metal, every strike to the anvil would ring out the wet crack of the dead man’s skull.

Edgar dropped the tool. It felt wrong in his hand. Like the hammer had drunk down the man’s soul when it had crushed bone. A cursed ghost forever living in the hickory handle, always seeing through the polish head of the hammer.

He was reminded of the ended life by the gory bits clouding the refined metal. For a moment he reached for it, thinking he needed to clean the hammer, wipe away the sin. But he stopped himself, unsure it would ever be clean enough.

The hammer had taken a life. It had killed a man. But it was Edgar’s anger that had powered it, his will had aimed it. The hammer delivered the blow. Blood covered them both.

He looked at the dead man, Sheriff Deputy Blake. The stupid son of bitch had threatened him; Edgar Jones, the town’s blacksmith. He had a respected position, more important than some tin star. More necessary than some Deputy puffed up with power and drunk on money squeezed from his charges. This wasn’t the first time that Blake had attempted to get money out of him, nor the second. Both those times had resulted in anger, but not death.

This time was different, this time Deputy Blake had gone through with his threat. He had showed up, smug and taunting. The Lawman made it a point to show off his new pocket watch. A watch that was not always his, it had first belonged to Edgar’s brother.

Someone dear to Edgar who had left town a few days back and had yet to return or send word. Turned out he couldn’t.

This cooling corpse now rotting upon his floor was a fabricated lawman, never true to the law he was supposed to uphold, false to its power. He stared at the body wondering what to do with it. He was uncertain how far the corruption went. 

'Did the Sheriff know? Was the town Marshal in on it? Can I trust any lawman?'

'Did they know my brother was killed?' 

He was certainly ambushed when he left town, waylaid by the dead Deputy and murdered to make a point.

He knew then he could not tell anybody. This was his secret to hide. His lie to tell.

Edgar needed time, the day had started, and the sun was spreading its light about. He could not move the body now, the town would see it. He had to stash it somewhere in his shop in the meantime and dump it in the woods later. The coyotes would make short work of it, there would be nothing left to find.

He cast his glaze about the work space. Most of his storage was open, hanging on walls, hooked to benches, or materials piled on the floor. The only thing big enough to hide the body was the coal bin.

He grabbed the dead man’s foot and pulled him to the large wooden box, it just happened to be made of pine.

‘Looks you’re going to be buried in a pine box.’ Edgar chuckled. ‘For a short time at least.’

With his wide faced shovel Edgar moved the small black rock and dust out of the way. Making a man sized furrow.

Some quick work had the corpse in the bin though still visible. Blood seeped from the broken skull into the coal it rested upon making it look shiny and slick.

He covered the body with the black earth, those tiny chucks of coal capable of so much. Fuel for fires, whether they be for warmth or work. Fuel powerful enough to push trains speeding across countries. A substance buried within the earth, hidden beneath mountains, now it sheltered his sin.

It was a shallow grave. It would not conceal the truth for long.

He kicked his boots at the dust, doing his best to cover the drag marks and the pool of blood.

Could he smell it? Or was the scent of spilt blood his in nose because he knew it was there?

No, he was safe. No one would know. He could easily lie; say he never saw the false lawman. At dark he’d move the corpse and hide it in the ground. The earth would eat up the body and make it disappear. He might have uncovered the lie in the lawman, but no one would uncover his.

Edgar looked at the man sized lump in the coal and wondered which fate was more befitting his brother’s killer, ‘Should I dig deep and break sweat and my back to bury you? Or my dear Blake, shall I leave you stripped and naked in the woods, nothing more than food for the coyotes?’ The latter seemed more fitting. The idea of Blake being torn apart and shat out at a later date held a certain appeal.

He laughed at that. ‘Blake always was a piece shit, why change?’

Both ideas were troublesome, both held the potential of discovery. The coyotes could prove to be fickle in their food choices leaving the naked dead Blake for anyone to find. While digging a hole was a bit more work than he was willing to spend on the dead man, and the grave could be discovered. ‘Or I be could stumbled upon making it.’

His mind was racing about; he had to rein it in.

He needed to calm himself. He needed to work. So he went about making himself busy. He decided to create a new hammer head, perhaps a cross peen. He picked up the bloody tool. The ender of life. With a rag he wiped off the proof of the killing and decided to use it one last time to make something. He wasn’t too studious with his cleaning, after all blood was on his hands as well, he figured the coal dust, smoke, and metal scale would cover what was left. They would both be dirty and stained in their work.

Edgar stacked fresh choke into his fire pit. He then filled a bucket with coal from the bin, carefully; he didn’t want to show off its other occupant.

Some work of cranking the blower had the tiny sputter of flame turn into a raging inferno. Once Edgar was certain the fire was well on its way he added to the coal and wet it down.

His heat set he went about grabbing the other tools he needed, tongs, brushes, drifts, and his flattener. He already had his hammer. Finally he grabbed a chunk of steel worthy of becoming a worker of metal, strong enough to shape iron once finished.

The labor was slow going, get metal red hot, pull from fire, beat and encourage into shape, place back into the coal, stir the coal, crank the blower, and repeat.

Edgar was so focused on what he was doing, fixated on forgetting what he had done, intent on becoming one with his hammer, he didn’t hear Sheriff Reigns enter his shop. Once he caught a glimpse of the Lawman he started. Edgar’s heart hit the ground and was off at a gallop and he felt bile rise into his throat.

Sheriff Reigns smiled, it was a lie. Anger roared behind his eyes. Those eyes cast themselves about the shop, searching. They seemed to settle upon the dirt floor, where the dirt was discolored and looked wet. They followed the drag marks that couldn’t be there, that had been covered. They fixed upon the coal bin, that large pine box.

Those eyes shot back to the Blacksmith, anger supported by smugness. He asked some simple questions, did his Deputy come by? Had Edgar seen Blake’s new pocket watch?

The blacksmith shook his head no. Edgar didn’t trust his mouth to pass the untruth.

Reigns smiled and walked toward the coal bin and began rooting around. Edgar approached him, fear running ahead of him, knowing what was to be found.

The Sheriff moved the black earth and uncovered an arm. He had proof of the lie. The Lawman’s back was still to him.

Edgar gripped his hammer. Blood and gore stained them both. They were tainted. He and his hammer shared a sin. Together they had killed. One more would not matter.