Animal (part 10)

John awakens to the soft sound of Jane’s voice. A sweet melody flows from her lips. John opens his eyes. He lies atop the sheets of his bed. He quickly sits up. Jane sits atop the large widow sill, her face pressed against the warm glass, her eyes closed. She stares off into the sunrise, watching the clouds drift across the sky. Her eyes sparkle.

John crosses the room and places his hand upon her shoulder.

“You feeling well?” he asks.
“Yes. I’m fine.”

Jane smiles and turns to face him.

“How’s your arm?”
“It’s better, how’s your face?”

Jane rubs her hand across her bruised face, wincing slightly.

“It’s a little sore. But I’m ok.”
“Ok.”

Jane stretches out her arm and takes John’s hand.

“Come watch the sunset with me.”

John sits atop the windowsill, his face against the glass, staring off into the sunset. Jane stares at him, never glancing towards the rising sun.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes,” Jane whispers, “yes it is.”

***

Prince wakes. His eyes open slowly. He smiles. The warmth of the rising sun beats down upon his skin. He stretches and stands, letting the heat flow through his form. He wipes his eyes and begins to gather grass and wood for a fire. He makes his way through the field, stooping to grab the wood that cracks underneath his feet. Just ahead stands the town of his youth, his old home. He has finally found the strength to face the darkness that lies within, buried deep within his soul.

A cry echoes high above. A rustle of wings pierces the silence. Prince stops and waits, unmoving. Far above the vulture circles, its stench overpowering him, the rotten smell of old flesh, torn from the carcasses of creatures unknown. Prince waits. The creature cries into the sky, diving down. It lands quietly upon a dead tree, its talons scraping against the aged wood.

Prince stands to face the creature. He smiles

“Have you come for me? Have you come thinking I hold no fight within me? Did you think I would lie down and die? Vile creature, I am the shadow of the night. I am the blind prophet! And you, lowly creature, are nothing. I shall not fall to the likes of you, nor the God whom you serve.”

The vulture stretches out its wings, its head turned up, shrieking towards the sky.

“No help will come. You have escaped me once. No more.”

Prince draws his black, shining revolver and fires once. The vulture’s chest bursts in a cloud of feathers and blood. It stutters once upon its perch and falls with a soft thump to the ground. Prince holsters the weapon and approaches the creature. He stands over its corpse. The vulture lies in a mat of blood and feathers, twisted in death. Its gaping maw stares up to the empty sky, its eyes forever dulled. Prince stoops and clutches the creature’s talons in one hand. He turns and carries the dead bird towards his small camp with the bundle of wood and grass tucked tightly under his arm.

Prince drops the bundle of wood and grass onto the ground, scooping them together in a small pile. He tosses the dead birds body onto the pyre and strikes a match, throwing it on the pile. A small fire soon blazes, burning away the dead vulture. The stench of the bird drifts high into the sky. Prince covers his face with a rag, trying not to gag. He coughs once and drops to his knees, vomiting in the dirt.

Prince gasps and wipes his mouth. Sweat drips from his chin. He sits up and covers his mouth again, feeling the warm glow of the fire upon his skin. He lies back and laughs, knowing that the black messenger of death is forever gone. He cackles into the air, tears trickling down his face. An immense sadness overtakes his joy and he cries beneath his laughter, his hands buried against his useless eyes.

***

“Tell me about your family.”

Jane glances up. She sits upon John’s bed, simplemindedly pulling a white string from its side. She lets the thread fall to rest upon her lap and turns to face John. He stands beside the window. Rays of soft light spread through the curtains across his face. His hair shimmers in the afternoon light. A small muzzle has grown under his chin. He rubs it softly.

“You need to shave,” Jane whispers.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I never intended to address it.”
“Why do you hide your past?” John asks.

Jane sighs and lies back upon the bed, her back turned to him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

John shakes his head and quickly crosses the room, pulling a small razor blade from his bag and a tin can of cream. He opens the door to the bathroom but Jane’s soft voice stops him.

“I lived with my mother, my father, and my older brother Tom. We had a small house a few miles out of town. We were happy. My brother was kind. He taught me how to fly fish; how to work. I taught him to sew.”

Jane chuckles quietly.

“My mother. My mother could have been a chef. I remember how we used to rush to the porch steps whenever she called us in for dinner. She had a small bell on a string that she tied above the doorway. She’d give us a ring instead of shouting. She had a weak voice. She taught me to cook. Now and then I make dinner for Jed and Billy, they wish I’d cook for them more often. I’m still nothing compared to my mother. She was a good woman, but sad. She didn’t speak often, and even more rarely did she laugh. But she loved me and my brother, loved us with all her soul.”

Jane swallows once and continues.

“My father was a strong man. A mountain of a man. His laugh was hearty. He could always find happiness even in the darkest of times. He was also fond of the drink. Sometimes he would hit my mother, and he would hurt so much when he became sober, try so hard to make things right. Sometimes when my brother and I came home from school we would find him sitting on the front porch with his shotgun across his lap, sitting in his rocking chair and staring at us. His eyes would be sullen and red. And every time we saw him we’d fear he’d done the worst. But he was still a good man. He loved us and loved my mother, and whatever hardships befell him in the past we’d forgive him.”

Jane shakes as a tear plummets from her eye.

“It was night when they came for him. He’d been a captain in the war and had abandoned after Custer and his men were slaughtered at Wounded Knee. They dragged him out into the dirt and shot him once through the skull. The tall man watched him die. Then they took my mother, held her down and took…took turns…”

She sputters and sits. She stays silent for a minute before speaking again.

“My brother managed to get me out of the house. He hid me in the tall grass. He tried to save my mother but the tall man shot him down, shot him in the knees, and made him watch. Made him watch everything. Then they slit his throat.”

John moves silently across the room and takes her in his arms.

“I remember sitting in the field until night, watching our house burn. Because of the light from the fires I could barely see the glow of the fireflies as they passed through the grass. I loved fireflies. At night I would run through the field with a small glass jar and catch as many as I could. I’d never keep them though. I could never let something so beautiful be locked inside a small cage. Every night before bed I would release them and watch as they twinkled into nothingness. Jed found me a day later. He was my father’s best friend and his business partner. He knew something was wrong. My father never missed work. Never. He found me hiding and took me into the cavern, raised me as his own.”

John clutches the girl to his chest, smoothing out her hair.

“It hurts when I talk about them, John. It hurts so much. Don’t make me talk about them again. Please,” Jane whispers.

John nods and holds her close, comforting her through her tears.

***

John and Jane slowly make their way down the wooden staircase. Below Jed and Billy stand, waiting for them. Several bar tables have been pushed together to form a small dinner table. A small dinner is laid out for each of them. John glances to the corner where the piles of broken glass and tables have been swept. The blood from the fight last night has been washed away.

Billy pulls two chairs back. John and Jane take their seats. Several small china plates sit with gracious bounties of food piled upon them. Jed slowly whispers a small prayer and the four set about eating.

John stares at the two men, smiling. Billy’s arm is bandaged and sewn. A large white pad covers his cheek. A thin line of blood blotches its surface.

“You did well on your son,” John says, facing Jed.
“Thank you, John.”

They continue to eat in silence. Outside the sun blazes bright through the tavern’s front door. Jed sets his fork down and glances at John.

“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long until he arrives?”
“Sunset,” John whispers and continues eating.
“You could just leave.”

John shakes his head.

“No. I can’t. He’ll know where I was staying and he’ll kill all of you. Then he’ll hunt me down. I have to face him.”
“Please, John.”
“No.”

Jed sighs.

“You’re a stubborn man. A quiet, kind hearted man though. Why do you do this?”
“Someone has to, otherwise the riders will never stop.”
“And you think killing a few will end the slaughter? Violence only begets violence.”
“Someone has to try.”
“But why you, John? Why you?” Jed asks.

All eyes lock upon John, he shift against his seat,

“Because I was chosen.”

John stands, pushing the chair back, and sets his fork down.

“Thank you for the meal. It was excellent.”
“John-” Jed calls out, but he’s already made his way up the stairs. Jane follows closely behind.

***

John is back inside the bloody room. The bed is matted and torn, but several seams are haphazardly stitched together. The hanging bulb remains as dim as ever but the dust that once engulfed it has been washed away. One of the small picture frames is back on the wall. John turns and faces the darkness. His reflection enters silently from the shadows.

The reflection remains broken yet he has healed. His legs no longer sag under his weight, twisted in their frame. His face no longer misshapen, instead pieced together like a shaky jigsaw puzzle. Its arms remain mangled and half shattered. The reflection smiles as he crosses the room. Smaller pieces of glass dribble from his lips as he speaks.

“Hello, John,” the reflection whispers.
“Hello.”
“Do you know why I am here?”

John nods.

“He approaches. Prince is nearly upon us. Now is the time to strike. Do not fear for I will be alongside you. You can defeat him, John. Just believe.”

John stands and draws his revolvers, checking the chambers. He snaps cylinders back in place with a quick twist of his wrist. He steadies the gun without shaking and breathes in and out. He holsters the weapon.

John slowly sits down on the bed. The reflection approaches him and sits beside him. The two men, mirror images of one another, one shattered, the other whole, stare out across the room. The reflection places its misshapen and mangled hand upon John’s shoulder.

“Wake now, John. Wake!”

The reflection does not burst into shards of glass. Instead his form is yanked back into the darkness like a limp rag doll tied by a string, its eyes wide and staring.

***

A figure stands over John. He wakes in a fury, his revolver drawn. He pulls the person down across the bed and pushes the barrel of the gun against their throat.

Jane lies back, her arms raised in feeble defense, locked in his grip. John leaps back and releases her, stumbling up to the window. His breaths come out in sharp gasps.

“I’m sorry,” he says, struggling to speak.
“Don’t be.”
“I am.”

Outside the sun dwindles into darkness. Sunset approaches. John glances out across the town. From the distance Prince emerges, riding his trotting black horse through the town, his head raised in the air, glancing wildly into the sky. He turns the corner and begins to approach the tavern.

John turns and snatches his shirt from the bed. He hastily pulls the shirt around his body.

“He’s here.”
“The rider?” Jane asks.
“Yes.”
“The man who hunts you.”
“Yes.”

Jane stares at him as he dresses quickly, checking his revolvers.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” she whispers.

John glances up and meets her eyes. Her haunted stare pierces through his heart. The words hang upon the atmosphere, drifting through the room.

“What?”
“It’s from a famous poem. My father read it to me when I was a little girl. It tells the tale of a boy pleading with his father not to surrender to death’s cold hand. Do not surrender, John. You do not have to fight.”
“This is my fight,” John replies, his voice hallow.
“It doesn’t have to be.”

From the first floor, below their feet, a gunshot issues. A shatter of glass echoes through the tavern. John grabs his hat and turns. Jane reaches out and takes his hand.

“It is not your fight,” she whispers, staring deep into his eyes.
“Yes it is. It was made my fight, our fight, when they took everything we had from us. Don’t you see? They have orphaned us, Jane. We wander the world searching for hope to find only chaos and pain. It must end.”
“Please.”

A second gunshot echoes from below. A scream follows. John turns but Jane takes hold of his hand, grasping it tightly.

“Let me go,” John says.
“No.”

Jane begins to sob, holding his arm. John pulls her close. A third shot returns.

“Look at me. Look at me.”

Jane glances up, her face shining from fallen tears

“I will be fine. I will come back for you.”
“I want to believe that, John.”
“Then believe it.”

Three more shots issues from below. The pitter patter of broken glass reverberates through the room.

“I must go.”

John turns and flings the door open, his pistol drawn. A hectic confusion of voices spews from the floor below. Jane calls out to him, her soft voice piercing the chaos.

“Do not go gentle.”

John turns to face her.

“I won’t.”

And with that he turns, speeding down the steps, revolver drawn, ready to face his Prince, the hunter who has finally cornered his prey.

***

Prince enters Haven. His horse slows to a walk as he navigates the town. He breathes John’s scent, taking in the aromas of the town. He passes an empty butcher’s store. The harsh smell of dead meat, rotting and fresh, meets him. He trudges on.

The streets are empty. No one roams the empty town. It’s as if they foresee the violence that shall soon be spread throughout the street, smell the blood that is not yet spilt. Prince turns the corner and slowly approaches the two story tavern. John’s scent is strongest here. He waits inside.

Prince dismounts and guides his horse to the hitching pole. He ties the black steed to the post, securing it. He softly strokes the animal. Far ahead the sun has begun to set, slipping slowly beyond the horizon. Soft hues of wild colors splash the evening sky. Prince knows that he will never see the sunset, has known for so many years, yet the memory of their beauty still pains him. He turns away and mounts the steps, quickly shuffling his way to the tavern entrance.

Prince enters the small tavern. The bartender stands behind the bar, slowly wiping a small glass, watching him. A large row of liquor bottles stand behind him, carefully arranged with their labels facing out. The individual odors of each bottle reach Prince’s nose. He breathes their intoxicating aroma. The harsh smell of dried blood and soap spills across the floors. Prince pulls his Stetson down over his eyes to avoid being recognized. He makes his way to the bar, guided by the harsh smell of alcohol. He takes his seat, lazily placing his hands upon the counter. The bartender sets the glass down.

“Can I help you, mister?” Billy asks.
“Whiskey.”

Billy nods and disappears under the bar. He comes up with a small bottle of clear yellow liquid. He pops the cap off and pours the liquid into the dried glass, pushing it towards Prince.

Prince slowly sloshes the whiskey in the glass. He places it against his cheek and shudders, closing his eyes. The glass is cool against his skin.

“Looks like you boys had a fight here not too long ago.”

Billy glances up from the bar and meets Prince’s gaze.

“How’d you know?” he asks.
“Call it intuition.”
“Intuition.”

Prince nods.

“I’m looking for a man,” Prince whispers, setting the glass down.
“Everybody’s looking for something, mister.”

Prince chuckles quietly.

“Cute. But I do not search for love. The man I search for is business. His name is John. He’s here. I’m sure you know that.”

Billy swallows hard. Thin beads of sweat begin to dot his forehead.

“No one by that name here.”
“Don’t be coy. I’ve searched the roads. Every inch of this piss water town. And I have found his scent. He is here. Now for your own safety, I suggest you hand over the keys to his room, otherwise I’ll have to take them by force.”

Billy’s hand slowly drifts underneath the bar, reaching silently for the revolver behind the whiskey bottles. Prince smiles and raises his head, removing his bullet shredded hat. His dead eyes lock upon the bartender.

“Don’t do it, son.”

Billy reaches for the weapon. Prince draws his revolver and fires through the top of the bar. A haze of splintered wood flies forth. The gunshot’s power is matched only by the intensity of Billy’s shrieks as he stumbles back, clutching his bloody hand. A large, ragged hole lies in the center. Blood fountains down his arm as he shrieks in pain. Billy quickly pulls a rag out from a cabinet and wraps his hand. Prince stands over him, staring down, his grin as wide as the cat from the fabled looking glass.

“Where is John?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about…” Billy mutters.

Prince fires once. One of the bottles above the bar bursts in a cloud of liquor and shining glass. The alcohol drips slowly on Billy’s body. Billy’s covers his face with his hands, protecting himself from the shards of falling glass. He shrieks in terror.

“Where is John!?”
“Go to hell!”

Prince fires again, a second bottle shatters in a spray of warm whiskey. Billy sputters as the whiskey stains his clothes. Blood mixes with alcohol in a small pool beneath his feet. Prince laughs a harsh, cackling, hyena laugh.

“Pray…” he whispers.

Billy stares up at the wrath with confused eyes.

“What?”
“Pray for your salvation!” Prince shrieks, firing again.

Prince draws his second revolver. Billy shakes against the bar, his body thrashing, his face pale and drained. Blood drips slowly from the wet, crimson towel. Billy slowly recite the words to the lord’s prayer.

“Our father, who art in heaven-”
“Louder!” Prince shouts.
“Hallowed be thy name-!”
“Pray!”

Prince fires three times. Three whiskey bottles burst in a harsh spray, spilling down the bar, drenching Billy in wet alcohol. Billy weeps through his screams.

“Thy kingdom come-!” he screams and stops, shaking harshly.

Prince smiles and holsters one revolver digging into his pocket. He removes a matchbook and pulls out a single match. He strikes the match which bursts into a sudden blaze. He smiles, listening to the cries of the cowering bartender. Billy glances up and sees the match. His eyes open wide. He stares down at his whiskey soaked hands. He mouths a quiet plea of ‘no’.

“Thy will be done,” Prince whispers, raising the match high above his head.
“Stop!”

Prince turns, Jed stands beside the bar, his rifle raised. His gnarled hands clasp tight around the trigger. He shakes with age and fear and rage, but his eyes are calm.

“Drop the match, Prince. Blow it out and step away from my son.”

Prince smiles and glances from the bleeding bartender to his father.

“This worm is your son?” he asks.
“Enough.”
“This sniveling creature is the fruit of you loins? God, you must feel so much shame.”
“He turned out a far greater man than you.”

Prince’s smile fades.

“I remember you, Jed. I have not forgotten. You cared so much for me. Compassion was your weakness. It is nothing but a curse. You would have made a great rider. A strong man.”
“Strong? You call yourself a strong man? A murderer of the innocent and damned?”
“Enough-” Prince spits.
“A worthless byproduct of sin.”
“Enough!”

Prince raises the match.

“Mark my words, Jed. You will watch your son burn.”

A single shot rings out in reply. Jed turns. John slowly makes his way down the steps. A hole above the ceiling where the warning shot hit spits broken wood. Prince smiles.

“John, my boy, I thought you’d never make it.”
“Blow out the match, Prince, or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
“Such a hard heart in you. Where’s your sense of adventure?” Prince asks, laughing.
“It died long ago, now blow out the match.”

Prince sighs and blows out the match. The head sizzles slowly in a plume of smoke. He lets the blackened stump fall softly to the ground. Jed drops his revolver and moves quickly to where his son lies, holding him in his arms.

“Such sweet sentiment.” Prince mocks.

Prince turns and makes his way out of the tavern, the small door swinging in his wake. He calls out for John, his voice echoing in the street.

“Come now, John. Let this end.”

John nods and approaches the door. Jane hastily makes her way down the stairs, following him. She overtakes him and pulls him back, beating his chest with her small hands.

“Don’t do this!” she begs.
“I must.”
“Please don’t! I can’t lose another person I love! Please!”
“I must.”
“If you do, he will kill you. You will be lost in the dark!”
“I will be with my love.”

Jane’s eyes leak silver tears. They fall quietly to the ground. Her body shakes with emotion. Her voice is racked with harsh sobs. John holds her close but she pushes him away in her fury.

“Please!”
“I’m sorry,” John whispers, his face as placid as the unmoving mountains that litter the barren earth.

John turns once, his hands slipping away from Jane’s grasp. He stands watching the sand drift outside and breathes deeply. He hurls all his memories of loved ones aside, clearing his mind, and places his hand upon the shaky door handle.

John exits the tavern, stepping out under the falling sun. The wane evening moon shifts slowly overhead. The last rays of sunlight die in the distance. A slight chill recedes through the town, carried upon a small gust of wind. John makes his way out into the center of the road and turns, facing Prince.

The two men stand twenty feet from each other. Prince watches him with shallow eyes.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Prince stares down at John, his dead eyes focused intently upon the slow shudder of John’s heartbeat. He shifts lightly in the soft dirt, raising his head towards the sky. He breathes in deeply, feeling the soft breeze ruffle his tangled black hair. He smiles once, his teeth forming a quiet grin, never faltering. His hand drifts slowly down, stopping beside his black revolvers, hovering inches over the handle.

John’s body remains steady. His eyes lock upon the tortured rider. A small tumbleweed drifts lazily behind him, bouncing quietly against the soft ground. The world is silent. His mind clears, blocking out all sound. His hand rests against his revolver. The cold steel burns against his palm. He hears no sound. His eyes are ready, his ears deaf. He doesn’t see Jane approach. She bursts out of the tavern doorway, stumbling down the front porch steps, rushing towards him.

The wind dies. The two riders draw. Prince squeezes off a single shot.

Jane’s body rocks from the impact as she reaches John. She clutches his frame, her arms locked around his shoulders. Her back spasms, her body stiffening against him. She breathes in a harsh intake of breath and lets it out in a slow burst. Her eyes cloud and she falls limp against his arms. John shakes slightly, holding her close. He hears nothing. He can’t hear Billy and Jed as they shout from the porch steps. Can’t hear his own piercing cry.

“Jane? Jane, no. No, God, no. Jane!”

Prince stands still, his dead eyes wide, feeling the single heartbeat fade. John raises his weapon and fires once. Prince stumbles back as the bullet buries itself in his gut. He chokes once, gasping for air. His revolver falls quietly to the ground. He stands unmoving, his hand over his gut. Blood seeps quickly underneath across his shirt.

John sinks to his knees, holding Jane close. Her body lies limp in his arms. Her bright blue eyes are now dull, the blinding light they once held forever faded. John kisses her forehead once and lays her in the dirt. He stands and stares out at Prince, his eyes silver caverns in the shadow of the moon.

Prince has turned away from him and is slowly making his way towards the horse. John follows the wounded rider, his revolver raised. Prince slowly undoes his belt, letting the holsters fall to the ground. He is unarmed, unmatched. He slowly approaches his horse and stands beside the gentle creature.

Prince strokes the horse’s side once and unbuttons the saddle bag, removing the china doll from its depths. He smiles and clutches the doll to his chest, breathing in wet, choking gasps. He removes the reins and saddle from the horses back. The horse blinks stupidly, neighing softly. Prince smacks the horse’s side and it takes off, disappearing around the corner and out of sight. Prince places his hand against the tavern’s side and slides to the ground, his back against the hard planks.

John stands over the rider, his revolver trained on Prince’s heart. The rider stares up at him, his dead eyes focused not upon his heart, but staring deep into his eyes. Prince breaks the connection. He holds the doll to his chest and slides his bloody hand across its perfect, unhurt eyes. A single tear makes its way down his cheek. He glances up at John, his mouth forming a string of words.

“I-am man. Noth-nothing more.”

Prince breathes out once and a small smile splays down his face. He closes his eyes and finally embraces the darkness that has hunted him for so long. His hand falls slowly to the ground, the china doll tumbling out of his arms. The doll lies unmoving in the dirt, stained with his blood.

John lowers his revolver, staring down as the dead rider. Jed and Billy call out for him. They kneel beside Jane’s lifeless body, crying out for some sense of hope. John holsters his revolver and turns away from Prince, leaving his corpse forever behind, ready to comfort the grieving tavern owner and his son.

***

The tall man stands unmoving, his revolver raised, trained upon the pitiful runaway. His breath flows out and he wipes his eyes. He feels a sudden weight lifted from him, like an anchor snapping away and plunging to the bottom of a deep sea, leaving a boat to tremble before the might of Mother Nature. He swallows hard.

Prince is dead. The tall man knows it. He feels his general fade from this world, his golden string finally cut. The tall man has lost not only a general, a right hand man, but a friend. The one man who knew him, knew who he truly was, knew the full extent of his being, is now lost. The tall man stares off into the desert through the porch entrance, his eyes glazed.

The runaway below him moans his pitiful cries, tears and snot spilling down his face. He weeps with ragged, choked sounds, his hands held up in useless defense. He glances wildly around, staring at the solemn faces of the riders. Only the tall man has averted his gaze.

The runaway lunges forward and grasps the tall man’s shirt in his bloody, filthy hands.

“Please,” he begs, “Please don’t kill me! Please! I beg of you!”
“Go.”

The runaway stares up at the tall man’s averted eyes.

“What?” he sputters.
“Go,” the tall man repeats, his face set in stone, his voice emotionless and flat.

The runaway leaps to his feet and scuttles down the hallway, pushing his way through the crowd of men. He turns and takes one last glance at the bloodied, mangled corpses of his brother and his family, the people who took him in out of the good of their hearts. He turns back and scrambles out the front door, down the porch steps, dust kicking up in his path.

The riders stand unmoving, eyes locked upon their leader, struck dumb by this act of kindness. A lanky rider breaks the sullen silence. His eyes are wide and his brows arched. A blank look is splashed across his face. His pasty skin clings tightly to his form. He speaks quickly, his brilliant white teeth sparkling in the glow of hallway light.

“That’s it, sir? You’re just gonna let him go?”

The tall man turns in a smooth motion, drawing his black revolver without a sound and fires. The rider’s shining teeth shatter in a burst as the bullet exits his temple through the mouth. A soft gurgle escapes his lips and he plummets to the floor, his body convulsing slowly. The men watch until he is still. A long puddle of black blood spills across the surface of the hallway.

The tall man holsters his revolver and steps over the lanky rider’s corpse, pausing to observe. The dead man’s eyes are flung open, his face frozen in a look of humorous shock. The front set of teeth are missing, scattered across the wall beyond. The tall man turns and makes his way out of the hallway and out into the porch. The runaway has vanished. He mounts his horse and takes off, his men still frozen where they stand.

***

John kneels before a wooden cross. His shirt flutters under his vest, clinging loosely to his chest. Jed and Billy stand over Jane’s freshly dug grave. Their clothes are mismatched; hastily thrown together in a search for something appropriate. John crosses his heart. He bends once and rubs his hand against the cross planted into the soil. He sighs and stands.

Jed and Billy follow in his wake as he makes his way through the field to where his horse stands. His hands brush lightly across the leather satchel and he pulls the straps tight, securing them. John carefully finishes tying the knots, immersing himself in his work. He stops, clutching his chest, holding the crucifix against his skin. He does not weep. He does not flee from the memories. Instead, John lets the woman go, lets her embrace the light beyond. Jed slowly approaches, standing behind John and placing his hand upon John’s shoulder.

“She was proud of you, John. You made her happy. In all the years I’d known Jane, she’d never been so alive while you were here. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, I couldn’t save her.”

Jed shakes his head.

“You’re wrong, John. You touched her. Just as you touched our lives. We owe you.”

John smiles and turns, facing the withered tavern owner. He grasps Jed’s hand in his own and shakes slowly, taking Billy’s in turn. John speaks.

“We all gave something to one another.”
“I’ll miss your company,” Jed says.
“And I yours. But we’ll never forget one another, so long as we walk this earth. And let us never forget Jane, the woman who sacrificed herself for us. Let us always remember the child who went running through the plains, catching fireflies in the night.”

John pulls his hat down and turns, making his way to his horse. He pauses as he passes Jane’s grave, breathing deeply, then he continues on. He mounts the steed and stands still, staring at the tavern owner and his son. He may not have saved his family but he saved another. John smiles and pulls the horses reigns. The horse takes off in a steady gallop. John glances back and watches the two figures until they fade from sight, disappearing in the darkness beneath the evening moon.