CHAPTER THREE

The man who thought of himself as a phoenix… something rising from the ashes, as… as… Lazarus stood motionless, the brim of his weathered hat casting a shadow over his furrowed brow. The Texas sun bore down on him, unforgiving, as he contemplated the expanse of land stretching out before him. Dust swirled around his boots, the only sound for miles the whisper of wind through the grass.

He turned, his eyes softening as they fell upon the small figure beside him. His son, no more than a sapling in this vast field, looked up with wide-eyed innocence. Lazarus bent low, the rough skin of his hands brushing against the boy's hair, his lips pressing a silent kiss to the crown of his head. For a moment, time held still, the act bridging the gap between the hardened man and the gentle soul he protected.

Straightening his back, Lazarus faced the land once more. He dropped to one knee and plunged his hand into the earth, the soil cool and gritty against his palm. He stood, clenching his fist, then slowly opened his fingers. A cascade of dirt slipped through the gaps, each grain a silent testament to generations past and yet to come. The land was life; it was legacy.

"Remember this," Lazarus said, his voice barely louder than the rustle of dry leaves. The boy nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the falling dirt, a puzzle yet to be solved. Silence reclaimed the space between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Lazarus' gaze lingered on the horizon, where the sky kissed the earth, an unbreakable line that held both promise and peril. The weight of the revolver at his hip was a familiar comfort, a constant reminder of the fine line he walked. He turned, leading his son away from the scattered dirt, his steps deliberate, leaving deep impressions in the parched ground.

Lazarus walked, his son trailing behind like a shadow at twilight. The land stretched out before them, vast and unforgiving. Each step was a claim staked with the heel of worn boots. They stopped beside an overturned bucket, its metal surface dented and sun-bleached.

"Pa, why we do this?" The boy's voice cut through the silence, small yet stark against the expanse.

Lazarus did not turn to face him. "This land feeds us, son. We walk it to know it. To respect it."

The boy's head shook, slight, a wisp of hair falling over his brow. Understanding eluded him; the earth beneath their feet held no secrets to his young mind.

"Fill the bucket," Lazarus commanded, pointing to the barren ground beside them. His words fell flat, a hammer driving a nail into wood. "Only way to learn is to do."

The child hesitated, then moved. Small hands grasped the bucket's rim, dragging it across the dry soil to where Lazarus stood, a silent sentinel. He scooped up the dirt, each handful deliberate, filling the void within the metal. Dust clung to his fingers, coated his skin—a baptism in earth.

"Good." Lazarus' approval was terse, a nod more felt than seen. He watched the boy work, muscles learning the motions that would shape his life. This was a rite of passage, unspoken yet understood. The land demanded participation, and they obliged.

"More," Lazarus urged, the single word hanging between them, heavy with expectation.

The boy complied, his actions growing steadier with each repetition. Dirt filled the bucket.

Lazarus led the way, his boots etching a steady path through the scrub and overgrown grass that whispered against their legs. The boy trailed behind, his small frame dwarfed by the expanse of the Texas landscape that stretched on, a sea of rugged beauty. He clutched the metal bucket, its contents a testament to the day's labor.

The edge of the paddock loomed ahead, marked by a wooden fence weathered to gray. A deep hole interrupted the ground near the fence line, gaping like an open wound. Lazarus paused at the rim, his shadow falling across the void.

"Stay back," he said, voice low.

The boy obeyed, eyes wide, gripping the bucket tighter. He didn't understand the hole, its purpose. But he sensed its importance in his father's stillness, the taut set of his shoulders.

A faint whimpering broke the silence, a delicate sound muffled by earth. It rose from the depths of the hole, plaintive and persistent. The boy's eyes searched Lazarus' face for answers, found none.

"Listen," Lazarus instructed, his gaze fixed on the dark below.

The boy listened. The whimpering continued, laced with fear. It was human, a voice straining against circumstance. The boy's grip on the bucket faltered, knuckles white.

"Remember this," Lazarus said, turning to look at his son. His eyes were steel, unyielding.

The boy nodded, dirt slipping from the bucket's rim. The sound from the hole clawed at the air.

But Lazarus felt no pity.

"Pour it," Lazarus said, his voice a low rumble against the rising wind. He stood over the hole, eyes unblinking, hands firm on his hips.

The boy hesitated, his small fingers tightening around the metal handle of the bucket. Dust and dirt clung to his palms. The weight of his father's expectation bore down on him, heavier than the bucket he held. The whimpering drifted up from the darkness again, more urgent this time, a human sound that twisted in the boy's belly.

"Pour it, son."

The command was simple. Steadfast. Lazarus's presence commanded obedience, an unspoken law as old as the land they stood upon. The boy swallowed hard, the taste of fear sharp on his tongue. With a trembling effort, he tilted the bucket.

Dirt cascaded into the hole, a steady stream of earth falling to darkness. Each granule seemed to cry out as it tumbled away, joining the symphony of whispers below. The boy watched, wide-eyed, as the dirt hit something soft, something alive. The whimpering crescendoed with each shovelful, now laced with pleas, muffled cries that begged for air, for light, for mercy.

"Keep going." Lazarus's voice cut through the pleas, relentless.

The boy poured, the contents of his bucket dwindling. The cries grew louder, desperate. They clawed their way up from the pit, reaching for the boy, pulling at his heart. But he did not stop. He could not. His father's will was immutable, a force as unyielding as the earth itself.

The gun appeared in Lazarus's hand, a silent specter that had materialized from the folds of his jacket. It was an extension of his resolve, its barrel aimed down into the abyss of the hole with an unflinching steadiness. His thumb pulled back the hammer with an ominous click, a sound that echoed against the walls of the pit.

"Quiet," Lazarus ordered, his voice no longer a father's gentle instruction but the cold, hard edge of authority. The words fell like stones, absolute and final.

A stifled sob caught on the raw Texas breeze, then nothing. The air grew thick with the silence that followed, punctuated only by the distant caw of a crow. The whimpering ceased, snuffed out like a flame under a boot heel. The presence in the hole, once so vocal in its despair, now held its breath, as if the very ground it lay upon commanded submission.

Lazarus stood motionless, the gun unwavering in his grip. The sun bore down, casting stark shadows that sliced across the land, segmenting it into parcels of light and dark. The heat radiated off the dirt, carrying with it the scent of sagebrush and the hint of something else—something feral.

In the hollow quiet, the boy's chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes wide, locked onto the figure of his father. He looked for signs of the man he knew, the tender gestures now replaced with the grim tableau before him.

The earth around the hole lay disturbed, clods of soil displaced, their jagged edges sharp and accusing. The gun remained pointed downward, a silent sentinel over the unseen captive below. Lazarus's face was etched with the harsh lines of necessity, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the void he guarded.

The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But for now, there was only the gun, the man, the boy, and the grave-like silence that enveloped them all.

The whimpering quieted.

Lazarus lowered the gun. The metal cooled in his hand, a stark contrast to the heat that clung to everything else. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the weight of the morning's work. Without a word, he turned his back to the hole, the dark abyss that had swallowed their secret.

The boy hesitated, his small hand still gripping the empty bucket. Lazarus reached out and took it, his touch firm but reassuring. They began to walk, boots pressing into the parched earth. The land stretched out before them, an endless tapestry of scrub and dust.

"Come on," Lazarus said, his voice low, almost lost in the vastness around them. The boy nodded, his steps falling in line with his father's. Together, they traversed the rugged terrain, each footfall deliberate, pressing evidence of their presence into the ground.

The sun climbed higher, unrelenting. The air grew thick with heat, shimmering above the fields. Lazarus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes scanned the horizon, taking in every detail—the way the barbed wire fence needed mending, the cattle grazing listlessly in the distance, the dry creek bed that hadn't seen water in months.

They reached the edge of a paddock. Lazarus stopped, squinting against the glare. He pointed to a distant oak tree, its branches gnarled and twisted from years of standing sentinel over the land. "That tree's been here longer than any of us," he said. "Seen droughts, floods... even blood."

The boy followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. Lazarus watched him, searching for signs of understanding, of acceptance. But the child's face remained innocent, untouched by the harsh lessons the land taught.

"Let's go back," Lazarus commanded. It was not a suggestion. He turned, expecting the boy to follow. But as they retraced their steps, Lazarus's mind lingered on the hole, on the secret.

Silence enveloped them, a cloak woven from the threads of unspoken thoughts and unasked questions. Each step carried the weight of the unknown, the burden of what had been done, of what might yet come to pass.

As they approached the house, Lazarus paused, looking back over the land they had walked. The hole lay out of sight, but its presence was felt—a silent witness to the morning's events.

"Inside," Lazarus instructed. The boy obeyed, leaving the door ajar as Lazarus remained outside, staring into the distance. And then he grabbed the shovel leaning against the house, marching back towards the hole in the ground.

Some men, some lucky few—like him—resurrected.

And others?

Others remained buried.