Gunslingers, pt II
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The woman narrowed her eyes, chin raised as though she were half torn ‘tween not believin’ the boy, though the crumpled letter held between weakened fingers was more than enough to pique her curiosity. They were far enough away from Shady Pines that the climactic goings-on of the area weren’t yet audible, though she’d been trackin’ the blackened line of clouds across the desert for the better part of the day. She was off the horse in one sweeping motion, the rifle cocked in a semi-v shape over the bucksin’s withers- a gesture of peace if there ever was one. This one wasn’t goin’ to be shootin’ at her anyhow. Kathleen’d always had that sense about people. Horse-sense, as it were, but she always liked to point out that she wasn’t a horse. She could pick apart the good and bad from a person’s soul and size you right up within moments of meetin’ you. She already knew that Jack wasn’t any trouble. Least not to her. Seemed as though he could be- he was strong and just a touch too pretty to be taken anything but seriously.
Still, she moved slowly toward him, eyes focused more on the bleedin’ wound in his belly than the letter shaking in his hand. The fringe on her deerskin jacket moved gently with the wind. Cold air was rushing toward them from the front end of the storm and she could smell the rain as well as somethin’ else. Was that smoke? The woman took it from him but didn’t open it. She whistled, a sound that was somehow soft and sharp at the same time as it came zipping between her teeth.
There was a rustling sound in the scrub brush and a child emerged, his face just as browned as the gritty dirt around them. His eyes were so light they seemed almost clear, framed by the same translucent lashes and brows of his mother. He had a dark smear where his nose had run and he’d wiped it with his sleeve, marring his round face with a muddy slashmark. He was a slight, waif-ish thing and he slipped right up out of the ground as though he’d simply appeared out of thin air, settling in right behind his mama and she laid a heavy had on his straw-like hair.
“Isaiah,” Kathleen started slowly. “This letter needs t’ find it’s way t’ the hands of the doctor in Bright Bend. You remember him? Dr. Quick?” She spoke confidently and her tone hadn’t changed- it wasn’t immediately evident that she was speaking to a child who wasn’t quite twelve years old.
Isaiah nodded, his eyes darting between the blossoming stain on Jack’s clothes and the letter in his mother’s hands. Dr. Quick. He remembered the man’s mustache- it was large and hooked at the ends, carefully manicured with beeswax to keep its form and he was amazed that on even the hottest days it didn’t droop. Not that they saw the man all that often. Just here an’ there, like most folks. The bleeding stranger and his horse were the first two living souls they’d seen in nearly a fortnight. David was caught staring at Jack and thinkin’ about how he’d never seen eyes so blue when Kathleen moved her hand over the back of his skull, tilting her head so that her braid fell over one shoulder, the envelope waving in his face.
“Take it straight there. Dr. Quick. Remember his sign? It’s square and got a big white cross painted on.” Isaiah nodded but was still looking at the sheriff’s deputy as he tried valiantly to stay upright in the saddle. Kathleen was hurriedly tucking the letter inside his clothes and straightening out the suspenders over the boy’s stained white shirt. She hadn’t yet turned her back on the stranger, but she finally tore her gaze away to wipe at the smudge of dirt on her boy’s face. “You can ride Sly, kick him hard and he’ll go fast, so hang on. And pull hard on the reins when you want him to stop, elsewise he might take y’ off the end of the earth.” Kathleen smiled a little, but even though she was teasing him, there was some truth to the statement. Sly might not stop til his heart gave out. She ruffled the boy’s hair and then straightened, moving back toward the buckskin and lacing her fingers together.
Isaiah placed one leather-soled shoe on his mother’s hands and she lifted him quickly. The boy settled atop the oversized saddle as easily as most kids took to anything, really. He’d been on a horse before, of course, but there was a sense of duty in the way he held his head, now, that made him look entirely natural atop the tall, muddied buckskin gelding.
“White cross,” Kathleen repeated solemnly, and Isaiah nodded, his hands tense on the knotted, worn leather reins. She took the rifle from the horse’s withers and cocked it, flipping the switch on the safety before handing it back to her son. He turned the horse and she gave its rear a hard slap with the calloused part of her palm. She didn’t watch them go- she had faith in her boy.
Ms. Lawrence had already turned even while Isaiah and the horse were becoming a whirling cloud of dust in the distance.
“Think y’ can sit for a while longer? I’ve got a house just over the ridge there. Can patch you up, dry you off.”
She didn’t think he’d last much longer, judgin’ by the amount of blood seeping through his clothes and down his leg. The side of his horse was stained, rusted and wet where it’d intermingled with sweat. She spoke calmly, though, and moved back toward them, slipping her fingers beneath the horse’s bridle.
–
The fire had slipped out over the street as though liquefied, quickly burnin’ up the alcohol fodder that’d been in the bottom of the bottles and catchin’ on to the dried out planks that made up the front steps and porches of nearby buildings. Ratty old bushes and warped, parched trunks that’d been fashioned into hitchin’ posts quickly went up in flames as the fire leapt hungrily from place to place, eagerly devouring the town while folks who’d been hunkered down inside came streaming out- the lucky ones, that was. Voices, strangled cries of desperation began to rise from the furthest corners of the uppermost floors- the ones that would burn the quickest due to the rising heat and open windows, allowing unobstructed airflow to feed the flames as they licked sweetly at drapes and bedclothes, dusty rugs and worn-out mattresses. They could be heard, emanating through the town like an eerie chorus and the horse that Annie was on shifted uncomfortably, dancing like a leaf in the wind. The Hawk lurched forward and grabbed tight on the reins when the horse looked as though he were ‘bout to dance skyward, and when he looked over his shoulder and down the street, he could see why.
Framed by the splinters that were dug into the flesh of his shoulder was a twisting column of wind, black and fierce and dotted with flecks of orange as though the soul of hell itself had found a crack in the earth’s surface through which to escape. He shuddered and immediately winced at the small movement that upset the wound in his chest. Blood had been seeping steadily into his clothes and was only just now beginning to permeate his deerskin.
Sam was bobbing at his side, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet. He had his piece in one hand, the one wrapped in a bloodied scarf that still smelled heavily of perfume. His eyes darted nervously between the taller man’s shoulder and the frantic woman atop the skittish brown horse. The Hawk shook his head, despite not ranking higher than Nichols in the strange sort of hierarchy their little band of outlaws had decided upon. But Sam wasn’t looking at him- he was looking at the twister that ripped its way toward them, listening as the whistlin’ sound of the wind began to drown out the sounds of the dyin’. Sam gave the girl a morose look and shook his head slowly. “Got a crew here that needs me.” They may be feral, strange creatures, but the men weren’t nothin’ but loyal. To an extent, o’course. Nichols was reminded still of that hunk o’ gold sittin’ heavy in his pocket. He’d’a liked ta send that home before he died, and as the storm drew nearer, it appeared more an’ more that he’d be headin’ off to the afterlife a rich man.
“Now’d be the time ta git,” the Hawk said solemnly, his words directed at Annie. It wasn’t her choice, however, and before she’d had a chance to protest, the man had slapped the horse’s rear hard, sending it sailin’ off in the opposite direction. Run to that horizon an’ don’t you stop til you get there, he thought, wonderin’ why it was he cared so much about her well being. Maybe it was that girl he’d seen upstairs, that little bird who’d so willingly accepted death like a long awaited friend. He hadn’t missed the pain in her eyes or the worry in Annie’s. He weren’t stupid. It’d be an insult to the little bird’s life if he let that girl die in the fiery whirlwind from hell that approached. He’d been standin’ too long, watching the horse’s tail that fluttered like a flag in retreat and Nichols was grabbin’ at his arm. The splinters in his shoulder jabbed in protest and he opened his mouth to snap at the boy, but his words were ate up by the sound of thundering hooves at their backs.
“Look,” Sam said urgently, fumbling for the pistol at his side. A slew of Dalton’s men had crested the hill and were almost upon them, the flamin’ cyclone at their backs. They were wild-eyed, war-blazen and caught in that perfect stasis of fear and hunger, the kind of brilliance that every commander looked for in his soldiers. It was the thing that would cut them from their loved ones and make them throw themselves into the flames of war for their general. It was only too bad that Dalton hadn’t lived to see it, but no one needed to tell them that.
James and Gallagher had taken aim and were firing. “It’s the skinwalkers!” Gallagher squeaked, fumbling with the slugs that came spillin’ from his pockets an’ it was clear at once that he’d been holdin’ out on them. His eyes narrowed further when he composed himself, calmly beginning to take out the men on horseback one by one. Aim, fire, discharge the shell, reload. Repeat. He’d even made it halfway through the next round ‘fore his body registered the piece of metal that’d entered near his temple. The body crumpled unceremoniously to the ground like a puppet without its master. “Get up! Get up y’ idiot!” James spat gruffly, though he knew what’d just happened. Sooner or later they’d all catch a bullet. Least that’s what Wiley said.
The Hawk stepped forward and took his place standing over the fallen boy, aiming his rifle at the oncoming storm. He fired until his pockets no longer jingled with bullets and he loaded the last two, his eyes slidin’ left to Nichols as he flinched against a shot that’d zipped too quick by his ear. His fingers spun the empty casing of the gun. He’d run dry too. James fired blindly, taking steps forward and when the first horseman drew within twenty yards of them, the Hawk readied a prayer on the tip of his tongue ‘cause he was for sure the boy was the next to hit the dust. The sound of a body hitting the ground was expected, but the Hawk had to blink when he realized that it was the man that’d just been astride the horse an’ not James that’d gone down. His comrade’s pistols clicked and clicked, but he’d run out of ammo jus’ like the rest of ‘em.
His sharp-eyed gaze followed a thin line down to the center of the victim’s chest. A single long arrow was buried there, it’s end adorned with three jet-black feathers that glistened slightly- several snowflakes still clung to the surface. How that was possible, he wasn’t rightly sure. The rushin’ wind at his back hadn’t been wind at all, but the sound of wings. If he were any sort of religious (‘sides from the respectful prayer here an’ there), the Hawk mighta thought they were angels. A wincing glance over his shoulder told him otherwise, and arrows filled the air, catching Dalton’s men by surprise (as if the shiftin’ of crows to men hadn’t been enough of a shock) and strikin’ them down without much effort. The skinwalkers moved forward- like shadows, Nichols thought- and drew even with the outlaws. Sam lifted his hands, as did James, but the Hawk stood, scowlin’ an’ bleedin’. The tallest, with cold, black eyes like twin stones of onyx, looked hard at the wounded man, his mouth set into a straight line. He was old, easily past his prime, but he moved like a young man.
“We are not here to kill you.” The old native spoke slowly, as if the cyclone that roared ever closer wasn’t of any concern. “But Sister,
“– she’s dying.”
–
She’d have liked t’ slump against the good Sheriff and fall asleep right then and there, lulled by the curious chill to the air and the rock of Brother’s gait as he ran. It didn’t seem as vicious as it actually was, almost as though she were experiencin’ the world from afar. Wiley reached out a hand and tried to touch it, the globe, only to realize she was sittin’ in it. It was a strange, otherworldly feeling, shattered only when the horse slowed and she felt herself slipping back to the earth with Brandt’s hands near or on her torso. He was speaking, assuring her in that calm, cool voice o’ his that everything was alright. That they’d won.
Sure as hell didn’t feel like winnin’, she thought, eyes flashing back and forth in sweeping motions along the plain, finally lighting on the whirlwind that swept toward town.
“Can I tell you somethin’?” she asked quietly, even though it was pretty clear she wasn’t lookin’ for him to answer. She’d go right on talkin’. “A story. My– my pa used to tell me all sorts of stories,” Wiley said, her voice breathy and quiet beneath the fading howl of the twister. She took his silence for a yes- not like he’d be able to afford a no at this point anyhow. Not with the outlaw bleedin’ all over his porch boards. She looked down distractedly at the splotches of crimson on the dust, how they pooled all liquid-y but collected grime around the edges that made them bubble up like droplets of condensation. It hadn’t occurred to her to be startled by the fact that they’d moved such a distance in what seemed a short amount of time. That was all irrelevant, now. She felt his hand somewhere at her back and on her stomach as they moved up into the house, but the pressure of his palm was nothin’ compared to the hammer that seemed t’ be goin’ at the wound. Throbbing, mind-numbing pain. It hit hard and didn’t even wait for y’ ta take a breath ‘fore it was at it again. Wiley inhaled sharply, forgetting for a moment what she’d said before, waiting ‘til the words flooded her mouth. It was almost as though she could hear the Old Man’s voice again, just like she had the first time, wet with the residue of all the rain they’d had and dark as the mud itself, as if he’d risen up out of the silt and been kneaded into life by some ancient power.
“This’s really meant ta be told ‘round a fire or something,” she said, slurring only slightly and gesturing apologetically to the blood that they’d smeared across Brandt’s kitchen. She’d been boosted up onto the table, one hand still clutching weakly over his at the point of the wound. Her other hand was curled around the spray of feathers she’d scavenged from the old Native.
“In th’ beginning of the world, there was no death. Did you know that?” Her attention is slipping, and she’d at some point been leaned back onto the surface of the table, lying flat and gazing up at the ceiling, picking out flaws and pockmarks like stars and suddenly she’s transported back to a night from a long time before, when the grit of the desert was digging into her bony shoulder blades and the warmth of a fire crackled and warmed the left side of her face. Somewhere out in the blue-black, a coyote cackled to them and she started in fright. Her newfound guardian assured her she shouldn’t be afraid, his words slow and calm as he prodded at the piece of driftwood in the flame. “Coyotes are sad, lonely creatures. You should not fear him,” he’d said. “He is more frightened of you.”
The child was quiet for a long time, frowning up into the dark sheet that’d been pulled over the day. She hadn’t spoke a lick since they’d sort of fallen into step with each other, now companions, but finally the little thing turned and stared at him with round, lunar eyes. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you, Sister.”
Another jab at the fire and it sent a shimmer of sparks into the air.
“In the beginning of the world, there was no such thing as death. Everyone continued to live until there were so many people that the earth had no room for any more. The chiefs of the world held a council to determine what to do. One man rose and said he thought it would be a good plan to have the people die and be gone for a little while, and then return.”
“Return as what?” the child interjected.
“As people.”
“Oh.”
“Do you see the dilemma, Sissy? This does not solve the problem, does it?”
She shook her head ‘no’.
“So as soon as the man sat down, Coyote jumped up and said he thought people ought to die forever. He pointed out that this little world is not large enough to hold all of the people, and that if the people who died came back to life, there would not be food enough for all. But all of the other men, they objected. They said that they did not want their friends and relatives to die and be gone forever, for then they would grieve and worry and there would be no happiness in the world.” A soft sound drew his attention and he looked over at his charge, eyes glittering like two black beetles. She’d been peering at him but trying not to, quickly looking away and nestling her chin into the crook of her bent elbow.
“Everyone except Coyote decided to have people die and be gone for a little while, and then come back to life again. The medicine men built a large grass house with it’s door facing the east. When they completed it, they called the men of the tribe together and told them that people who had died would be restored to life in this medicine house. They would simply have to sing a song calling a spirit of the dead to the grass house, and when the spirit came, they would restore it to life. And you see, all of the people were glad, because they were anxious for the dead to come and live with them again.”
The old man paused, growing quiet and observed the girl in the light of the fire. He’d seen the pain on her face as clear as any sundrenched day, but he would not ask her about it. He never would, unless she offered her story. Someday, maybe. Until then, he’d happily share the tales his grandmother had spoken to him as a child, woven as brilliantly as any blanket. “When the first man died, the men assembled in the grass house and sang. In about ten days a whirlwind blew from the west and circled about the grass house. Coyote saw it, and as the whirlwind was about to enter the house, he closed the door.” The girl inhaled suddenly, as close to a gasp as she’d get. The man continued: “The spirit of the whirlwind, finding the door closed, whirled on by. In this way Coyote made death eternal, and from that time on people grieved over their dead and were unhappy. Now, whenever anyone meets a whirlwind or hears the wind whistle they say: ‘Someone is wandering about.’ And ever since Coyote closed the door, the spirits of the dead have wandered over the earth trying to find some place to go, until at last they discovered the road to the spirit land.”
He grew quiet again, settling in on himself and listening to see if there was, indeed, anyone wandering about.
“What happened to him?”
“To who?”
“Coyote.”
“Coyote ran away and never came back,” the old man replied succinctly. “When he saw what he’d done, he was afraid. Ever after that, he has run from one place to another, always looking back first over one shoulder and then over the other to see if anyone is pursuing him. And ever since then he’s been starving, for no one will give him anything to eat.”1
Wiley sat up, face contorted against the pain that she felt but couldn’t quite register. It wouldn’t be long now. She looked at Brandt with wide eyes.
“Someone’s wandering about…”
–
The man standing on the front porch of the worn little house on the edge of town shifted uneasily. There’d been a helluva storm ridin’ in. Winds and hail had tore up most everythin’ for a square four miles. Town’d been all but decimated when they rode up, an’ the Doc was afraid they’d have to dredge the main street ta make it to th’ only building that’d been left standin’. He’d brought a few men with him. Upstandin’ boys, older and slower than they were in their prime, but he trusted ‘em enough to handle whatever it was he might be facin’. As a member of the medical profession, he was granted true neutrality, but he’d brought along a law deputy and his boys, just in case. The letter clutched in his fist was brown- dried blood tainting the parchment on which it was scrawled, and he’d noted the trail of blood leadin’ from the pony in the yard up the stairs and through the doorway. Still, aside from from the destruction and the blood on this man’s- the Doc looked down at the letter again- Sheriff Brandt’s front porch, there was no other evidence of any foul play.
In fact, it seemed as though the town had been empty. He hadn’t seen a single soul or corpse. But the letter had indicated that the town was in dire need of help. His eyes flicked down and skimmed the paper again, even as he lifted a hand to rap his knuckles sharply against the door.
Outlaws. Mayor Dalton. Renegades.
He wasn’t sure what it all meant, and he was hopin’ someone’d be around to offer an explanation. On the other side of the door he could hear a loud crash, and voices seemed to burble up as if from the depths of some great body of water. Somethin’ rustled in the weeds to his right and he looked over just as a coyote slipped out, barely offerin’ him or his men a passing glance before it skittered away, limping partially for some reason or another. The Doc watched it go and then looked at his boys over his shoulder, nodding to either side of the house and they split up to flank it. A murder of crows settled upon the eaves and one of them cawed.
–
“Wiley?!” Nichols shouldered his way into the house using the kitchen door. James came next, all quiet and somber, still clutching his pistols. The Hawk was last, bleedin’ through his coat and lookin’ mighty pale. “Where’s Wiley?”
“She’s dead,” the Native remarked, and Sam gave a sharp bark of surprise because the man was standing right in front of him- he’d turned his head for a second and then there he was! How’d he do that?
“She?” James mumbled darkly, stalking inward and settling in a chair at the table, his hands balled into fists over the grips of his guns. It didn’t seem to concern him that there was an incredible amount of blood atop the surface, still warm if he were to touch it and pooling outward until it’d dripped off the edges. The edge of a boot could be plainly seen, tracking crimson across the floor to where Brandt stood, silent. He’d heard the knock but didn’t seem too keen on answerin’.
“That true?” Nichols asked, his eyes narrowed, still watching the Native who stood just about as still as Brandt.
“To this world.”
A second knock resonated throughout the house. Outside they could hear the crunch of boots on gravel. “You should get that looked at,” James drawled, cutting through the silence and nodding pointedly at Hawk. He was talkin’ a bit louder than normal- the firefight had taken the hearing in his left ear, but he hadn’t yet noticed. “I’ll get right on that,” the older man grunted.
“Where is she?” Sam pleaded with Brandt, but before he could answer, the door was kicked in- the latch they’d broke in their initial entrance did no good to hold up against the incoming aid. A flurry of wings and a crow exited through the open window and flew off in the same direction as the coyote. After a few beats, the rest of the flock followed suit.
“Sheriff Brandt- which one of yous is the Sheriff? Don’t lie, now. We got no dog in this fight. We received word that he might be in need of some aid.”
Nichols was standing there with his hands up, palms out. The scarf on his hand was bled through. He jabbed a finger at Tyler. James hadn’t even bothered to stand, and he looked as though he might fall asleep sprawled out in that chair. The point man looked uneasily at the puddle of blood and then to Brandt. The Doc had entered through the front door and was striding inward. “You the Sheriff? Christ, did someone bleed out in here?” His eyes went wide and he looked over the men. Only the one with the braid and the splinter injury looked to be the culprit, but he was still standin’. Barely.
“We’re here to provide the assistance requested. One of ours met up with your boy, Romulus. He gave word that you all were in some sort of trouble. May I look at that?” he asked, moving closer to the Hawk, who didn’t move ‘cept for his eyes.
“Might as well.”
Nichols put his hands down after it was apparent that the men were not their enemies, and once everyone settled in, he drifted away from the main conversations, listening, but only halfway.
“–that cyclone, Lord, did you see it?”
“We didn’t hear no reports of a twister, just a real bad storm-”
“–with the fire an’ the screamin’, surely y’ had t’ have heard somethin’! I wonder what happened to the town…”
“It’s gone.”
His eyes were fixed on the horizon, wonderin’ if Annie ever found it. Wonderin’ where Wiley’d gone an’ if she really was still alive an’ kicking. He didn’t want to doubt it. Even as he sank into a chair near the windowsill, he couldn’t bring himself to believe she’d died. Outside, in the fadin’ day, he heard a crow’s call pierce the thick, post-storm air, and after that, the cackling laugh of a coyote.
1Story adapted from “American Indian Myths and Legends” ed. Erdoes, R. and Ortiz, A., pg 470-471
