The sizzle of the match igniting broke the silence of the Texas desert. Jessup Barnum inhaled deeply as the end of the cigarette met the flame and began to burn. The exhale of smoke came from his nose and escaped through thin slits at the side of his mouth. The cigarette tasted good, damn good, he thought. The flavor reminded him of something from Kentucky, perhaps. Or maybe the tobacco was from Virginia—unlike the sun beating down upon him, the smoke wasn’t harsh.
He breathed in again, drawing the flavor over his tongue. The cigarette rested gently on his cracked lips. He swallowed a few bitter specks of loose tobacco. Smoke billowed into his eyes, causing him to squint. The ropes biting into his wrists prevented him from removing the cigarette. It took careful balance to exhale through his mouth without dropping the slender stick of tobacco. The amount of concentration the skill required surprised him. So he inhaled and exhaled as slowly as he could.
The buzz hit his head with a kick of familiar comfort. His shoulders sagged in response, and he felt relaxed despite his current circumstances. He closed his eyes. A natural reaction to the pleasure ricocheting in his brain. He focused on the wave of euphoria overtaking him and held onto the feeling as long as he could. In that moment, it was as though the scenery had been erased and he floated in a white void. It was just him and his cigarette. His eyes jolted open at the clicking of cocking hammers. As he exhaled once again, he mumbled out after the captain as though he were a terrified child being left in the dark.
“I ever tell you about that old bandito we caught in Laredo?”
The question lingered without a response, but for the moment the captain stopped his retreat. The captain turned his head ever so slightly, which gave Barnum the courage to continue with his tale.
“He told me this story about how he survived a hanging once. He said right before the floor gave way, he saw his whole life flicker before his eyes. Like some sort of picture book of memories. He had compadres too that had gotten out alive from scrapes just like his. He said that they all had experienced something similar.”
Barnum gazed down at the tan desert dirt as he finished his thought, “It’s funny, though, all I can seem to think about right now is how damn good this smoke is. What do you think that means? The fact that I don’t see anything? Think maybe it’s because I don’t have a life worth remembering?”
The captain hesitated as though he were going to respond, but thought better of it and grimly turned his attention back to the rest of his men. As Barnum watched the captain take his place amongst the line of soldiers, he could feel the heat of the burning ash nearing his lips as he drew another deep drag. The captain spoke sternly while the soldiers to his left began to raise their rifles to their shoulders, “Your crime is desertion. Do you have anything else to say?”
After word spread about the massacre near San Antonio, Barnum had settled on the idea this fight wasn’t for him any longer. He had run off one moonless night. The regiment had found him two days later, half dead and delirious from dehydration. As he stood now under the sweltering sun, he struggled one last time to extract a memory. None came to him. Resigned to the falsehoods the old bandito had told him, he spit the spent smoke to the ground and muttered, “Thanks for the cigarette.”
A final plume of smoke escaped his lungs.
“Fire,” said the captain.
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