Disclaimer: No ownership

Gossip

The story reached the stable-buck on a sunny afternoon, an afternoon too hot to be winter and too breezy to be summer. Night was a long hour away, and the negro was busy cleaning after a horse when the talk outside the barn started to get real audible and real interesting. Something that brought the aging Crooks back to when a dream transformed into a nightmare.

"—shot right through the skull is wa' I hear." Said a new hand. Must have been a new hand, 'cause Crooks didn't know him. The boss was getting thrifty, firing old workers and hiring younger ones—for a lower wage.

"Oh God, must'a been horrible!" One of those young hands, no older than twenty. The voice cracked as it reached higher levels. "Gee, how much hurt that wud'a felt."

Crooks wobbled over to the stool near the door, dragged it to wear the horse stood waiting to be groomed. If he were to be listening, he'd do it comfortably.

"I bet."

"Wha'dya think he did Marco, to…" Crooks heard a violent fit of coughs from the second man, the young'en. Some bug was going around the ranch—a new kind of disease the doctor's calling 'tee-burkee-yolosis'. Old Candy was the first to submit to it, maybe this child would be the next.

"You a'ight, kid?" Coughing. "Jesus—have a drink."

A popping of a bottle, then a loud gulping.

Weak and raspy, "Thanks Marco."

Flies swarmed the horses' tail, Crooks swatted at them. "Get on now, get on," he scolded them.

Meanwhile, the voice outside seemed to raise in volume. "So... whad'ya think he did, Marco?"

"Who, the big guy? I hear he shot dead the boss's daughter-in-law." Pause. "God's just giving what was owed if ya as't me."

The sun-shades in the barn drooped and changed at angles, and the light fell into the negro's eyes. Noise went from the dogs baying to the crows cawing to the white men celebrating the end of the week with a swig of the litter. Still, the stable-buck worked. Ain't nothing else he was here for, after all.

"Ol' boy was stupid anyway—wan't right in the head." The gruff voice continued, "He had it coming, I tell ya."

The horse snorted as Crooks' brushed harder than was needed.

"And what of the other feller?" the second voice asked, "what of 'im?"

And the other voice responded, "Jesus kid, what of 'im? Just a ranch hand like the rest of us. Must be spendin his lot right now—like he always does. On a bottle o' jack."

One last, big swig of a beer bottle. Then a little mumbling.

"Tragic, tragic, tragic."

Then Crooks stopped his listening, 'cause he's had enough. The men outside didn't understand a thing, he thought, and he knew he was right in what he thought.

Lennie was a good guy, which ought to have counted for something. And also, the God Crooks reads about is all-forgiving and all-loving—there was no exceptions, not even for someone as different as Lennie. The big man had problems. Problems could be solved.

'Course that was just what he thought.

So there he sat; the crook-backed stable-buck, grooming and whistling and pretending like he ain't got a care in the world—because he was untouchable. Because no one cared what he believed or didn't believe, and no one asked for his opinion or standing or nothing.

Tha's just fine, he thought.

Colored men weren't much for gossipin' anyways.

A/N: I apologize for any offense or anything, I made sure to not use the real offensive word though ^.^

All spelling errors were on purpose. It was the Old West after all. People actually talked like that.

xoxo~panini999