Dust and debt

The door creaked open with a slam of dust and summer heat. Eli Cotton’s thick, bulky body filled the frame, but his downturned eyes and stooped shoulders made him look more like a man sneaking into his own funeral. Sweat clung to his throat, his brow, and even the hollow of his chest where his shirt gaped open. He clutched his hat in both hands, twisting the brim nervously, eyes darting to the floorboards before glancing up. 

“Mr. Mercer,” he said, his baritone voice sheepish. “Crops are failin’.” 

At his desk, Silas Mercer didn’t look up right away. He was seated behind a desk so polished it practically gleamed in the light spilling through the lace-curtained windows. His perfectly fitted black leather gloves creaked as he turned a page in his ledger. Neatly stacked beside him were a dozen IOUs, some already signed in Eli’s scrawled penmanship, others still pristine and waiting. 

“I just need a bit,” Eli continued. “Enough to get through the week. Maybe two.” 

Silas finally looked up, gray eyes steady beneath the arch of one eyebrow. He took in Eli’s disheveled state, appraising him like a horse at auction. Dust-caked boots, a sweat-stained shirt clinging to his broad frame, face tanned and flushed. 

“That’s what you said last week,” Silas said, twirling his mustache with a gloved finger. “And the week before that.” 

Eli’s grip tightened on his hat. “I swear I’ll pay it back. Soon as—” 

“How’s your sweeping arm feel today?” Silas interrupted. 

Eli blinked. “My…?” 

”Strong, I imagine.” Silas rose unhurriedly and crossed the room to a small side table. His black, polished boots clicked on the wooden floorboards with each step. He peeled off one glove, finger by finger, slow enough to make Eli’s mouth go dry. Then the other. 

“Please, Mr. Mercer,” Eli pleaded. “Don’t make me clean the saloon in front of everyone. It’s humiliatin’ havin’ everyone watchin’ me. I’ll do anything else you want, just not that.” 

“You’ve proven that you can’t repay me in cash, Eli,” Silas said. “I want to help you, but I never let a debt go uncollected.” 

Silas retrieved a folded paper from a drawer and laid it open on the desk. “Dollars don’t seem to stick in your hands too long. It’s time for a new agreement.” 

Eli gulped as Silas dipped his pen in the inkwell and started writing. He feared the banker would come for his mule, or worse, his entire homestead. The debt was already more than he could repay, even if the year’s harvest was good. 

Silas slid the paper across the desk. Eli stepped forward, reading the single line penned in Copperplate script. 

IOU. One full performance, per Mr. Mercer’s discretion. 

Eli’s throat bobbed. “What kind of performance?” 

Silas merely slid a second, much cheaper pen across the desk and waited, gloves resting beside him. Eli hesitated, then scratched his name across the bottom, the sweat from his wrist leaving a faint, dirty smudge on the paper. 

Silas smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good. Now take off your boots. You won’t be needing those to dance.” 

“Dance, Mr. Mercer?” 

“You heard me.” 

Silas gestured toward the open space near the fireplace, where the rugs had been pulled back and the wooden floor shone as if polished just for this. Eli lingered at the edge, hat still in hand, eyes wide. 

“Go on,” Silas said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “I want my performance.” 

Eli shifted awkwardly as he stepped out of his boots. He glanced around like someone might be watching, even though they were alone in Silas’ upstairs parlor. With the lace curtains drawn, no one could see what they were up to. His socks, thin and riddled with holes, barely held on to his feet as he shuffled forward. He set his hat on a side table, rubbed the back of his neck, and took a breath, silently wishing he’d have accepted the offer to sweep the saloon instead. 

Then, he started to dance, if it could be called that. Awkward footwork, jerky sways of his hips, and shoulders moving like he wasn’t sure where to put them. He looked ridiculous, and he knew it. 

Silas, meanwhile, poured himself a glass of whiskey neat. He lowered himself into his chair with a soft creak of leather and sat, legs crossed, elbow resting on the arm. He smirked over the rim of his glass as he watched Eli. The noticeable bulge in Eli’s trousers made Silas’ smirk widen. 

“Slower now,” Silas murmured. “Let me see the effort.” 

Eli’s cheeks flushed. The sweat on his brow slid down his temple. His shirt stuck to his chest, damp and clinging. He loosened it, then peeled it off altogether, finally tossing it aside. His broad, muscular torso, tanned golden from toiling under the sun, gleamed in the lamplight. Trails of sweat traced down his spine. 

Never thought this would happen to me when I left Indiana, Eli thought grimly, trying to keep his rhythm, trying not to fall flat on his face. 

“Do more,” Silas barked, eyes half lidded. “Show me what that body’s capable of. Sure isn’t farming.” 

The insult stung, but Eli kept moving. Humiliated but weirdly energized, he began to gyrate his hips, half mocking, half committed. He spun around, giving Silas a full view of the firm glutes shifting beneath his trousers. 

The banker said nothing, just watched, occasionally sipping his whiskey. Eli laughed nervously, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Ain’t this the stupidest thing you’ve ever seen?” 

Silas gave him a slow nod. “Don’t stop. Keep going.” 

Eli continued for ten more minutes, although it felt like much longer, until Silas finished his whiskey and held up a hand. Eli slowed to a stop, chest rising and falling with each breath, sweat glistening across his bare upper body. He stood in the middle of the room, half naked and waiting, but for what, he wasn’t sure. His eyes flicked to Silas, who set down his empty glass with a soft clink. 

Silas rose from his chair and crossed the floor, boot heels clicking with authority. Standing close now, he looked Eli over, not unkindly, but like he owned him already. 

“Kneel,” Silas said. 

“What?” 

“My boots need blacking. And after that pathetic little show, I’d say you owe me more than just a dance.” 

There was no bite in Silas’ words, just playful command. Eli hesitated, but his knees bent before he could argue. The floor was cool against his knees, and he sat back on his heels, awkward and exposed, sweating more at rest than when he’d been dancing. Silas reached for a small drawer in his desk and pulled out a pair of gloves, weathered from use and cheaper than the ones he’d been wearing when Eli arrived. 

“Don’t want you ruining my shine with those grubby hands.”  

Eli took them reluctantly and pulled them on with clumsy fingers. The leather felt cool and tight at first, but warmed quickly against his skin. He flexed his hands as Silas stepped back, offering his boot like a king granting a favor. 

“You—You wantin’ me to spit shine ‘em, Mr. Mercer?” 

Silas withdrew his boot from Eli’s reach, feigning disgust. “Of course not. Get the brush and the blacking out of the hutch.” He pointed across the room. “Over there.” 

Eli started to rise, earning a sharp, admonishing whistle from Silas. He dropped back to the floor like a guilty pet. 

“Crawl.” 

Eli did, returning a moment later with the polish. Silas extended his boot again. Eli bent forward, gloved hands moving over the leather. He wiped and polished, his breath shallow. A bead of sweat from his brow dripped onto the toe of Silas’ boot. He wiped it away quickly, embarrassed. 

“You know,” Silas said, “some men pay me just to let them do this.” 

Eli glanced up, lips twisting into a wry smile. “Reckon I’m already payin’, just not in coin.”  

Silas chuckled and moved to his desk, Eli following on all fours. As the homesteader continued to polish, Silas dipped his pen and scribbled a fresh IOU, the paper curling slightly in the warm air. 

Eli looked up when he heard the scratch of the nib. “What’s that, Mr. Mercer?” 

Silas held it up, letting the ink dry. 

IOU. One public favor. 

Eli stared at it, his heart beating faster, but he didn’t object. He just nodded once and returned to his task, leather-gloved hands working silently. Already, he was getting used to the feeling of serving. He sat back on his heels, wiping his brow with the back of his gloved hand. He could see his reflection in Silas’ boots now, and the satisfaction of having done something right—for once—filled him with a need to please. His chest rose and fell, sweat still slicking his skin. He grinned. 

“Reckon you’re gonna need a whole ledger book just for my dignity, Mr. Mercer,” he said, breathless and amused. 

Silas chuckled. “Drink?” he asked, already pouring. 

Eli didn’t answer, but he reached for the offered glass. The whiskey burned smooth, better than anything he could afford, and the parlor suddenly felt much smaller. The only sound was the faint creak of Silas’ boots as he crossed the floor again. 

“You ever think about just… staying here?” Silas asked. “Letting me keep you squared away. No more praying for rain that won’t fall.” 

Eli blinked, startled. His fingers tightened around the glass. “You jokin’, Mr. Mercer?” 

Silas didn’t smile. “No.” 

Eli gave a nervous chuckle, trying to shake off the weight of the words. “Ain’t much use to anyone else, I guess,” he mumbled. “Can’t even grow potatoes.” 

Silas stepped closer. His gloved hand landed gently on Eli’s shoulder, firm and grounding, the leather cool against overheated skin. 

“You’re worth more to me than a harvest of potatoes.” 

Eli looked up, stunned into silence. For a moment, the air between them shifted. The dance, the boots, the debts—they all meant something now, more than just teasing and IOUs. Eli’s lips parted, heart thudding in his chest. 

But then a knock downstairs, loud and insistent, broke the spell. Silas didn’t flinch. He stepped back, composed himself, and moved to his desk one last time. He took the new IOU, added a line beneath “One public favor,” folded it, and sealed it with a wax stamp. 

“Bring this to the general store tomorrow,” he said, holding it out. 

Eli stood, boots in hand, and took it. “What’s it for?” 

“You’ll find out tomorrow.” 

Eli hesitated, then slid his socked feet back into his grimy boots, tipped his tattered hat, and slipped out the door, the sealed IOU clenched tight in his hand, heart hammering. 

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Mercer.” 

Eli descended the back stairs and stepped out into the late afternoon air, the door clicking shut behind him. The sky was streaked with hints of orange, and the street lay quiet. Dust curled at his boots as he walked. The sealed IOU felt heavy in his hand, like it represented more than just coin or credit. A promise. Or maybe a claim. He glanced down at it, thumb brushing the wax seal, then slipped it into his pocket with a strange mix of pride and unease. 

He walked slower than usual, head a little higher and shoulders squared, not because anything had changed out there, but because something had shifted in him. Owned? Desired? He couldn’t name it. 

Above, behind the lace curtain, Silas watched from the window. His leather gloves were clasped in front of him, gaze fixed on Eli’s retreating figure. 

“Coin or pride,” Silas said, voice low, “they all pay me back in the end.”