Animal (part 3)

The tall man’s rifle glitters silently in the light. The silver glint shines off into the desert. The handle, expertly crafted, is grasped tightly in his left hand. The tall man marches through the plains and up the sloping plateau. His leather boots leave soft prints in the dirt behind. He approaches the top of the plateau and stops, staring out across the plains, towering above the miserable animals below. Mere mortals. And he, a god. A bed of grass shifts below. No wind flows. The tall man drops to his knees. Behind him Thomas Prince mimics his movements.

“It’s a wolf, sir,” he whispers.
“You can tell, Thomas?”
“The heartbeat. Its breath. It’s breath is so slow. He’s dying.”
“Dying?”

Prince nods. His long black hair shudders in the wind. The Indian blood in his veins tans his skin. His gray eyes stare off into the distance, never seeing but always watching. Multiple scars slope through and around them. The black that Prince sees has become his home over nearly all the thirty two years of his life. By his side lies two black pistols, the pistols of the tall man’s elite. A general. His dusty boots make quiet crunches in the dirt below.

“I may not be a man, Thomas, but no man has eyes like you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“He’s already dead, Thomas.”

The tall man raises the rifle and steadies the site. The brown end of the barrel juts out from the weeds. He closes his left eye and focuses, feeling the wind, waiting for it to stop. The wolf steps out from the grass and stares up at the tall man, its yellow eyes magnified beneath the sun. It stands tall. The tall man opens his left eye and hesitates, the wind gone. He fires. The wolf drops into the dust.

“You hit it sir,” he whispers.
“Is it dead?”
“No.”
“Let’s go.”

They make their way down the plateau and into the plains. The wolf lies in a clearing. Its body is scarred from a previous encounter. Part of the front paw is missing. A curved scar runs down its eye. It draws in shaky, rattling breaths. Its uninjured eye stares up at the tall man. A quiet growl issues from its throat.

“The coach is coming,” Prince says.
“And?”
“It’s faster. The driver has wet himself. I can feel his fear. The others are gone. Dead.”
“And John?”
“I’d imagine he’d be alive somewhere, or dying. But by that smell, the awful smell of the driver’s fear, I think we have a problem, sir.”

The tall man sighs.

“Tell the men. Tell them to search the fields. Kill the driver.”
“Yes sir.”

The tall man raises his rifle and steadies the barrel. The wolf’s growls intensify. He cocks the trigger and fires once into the wolf’s chest. Its final cry pierces the air.

* * *

John wakes. He lies in a soft feather bed. The ceiling is plain, white and faded. He tries to sit up, but he can’t. A bandage loops around his stomach. His body burns as he shifts under above the covers. John studies the room. A small fireplace lies across the room, a brick wall behind it. Along the wall hang framed pictures of unknown men. John’s eyes catch the last, dirtiest and oldest photograph. Three young men stand alongside each other, posing for the picture. The two on either side smile but the man in the middle does not. John recognizes the curve in the man’s cheeks, the narrowed eyes. The tall man sits between the two men, on the right sides stands John’s father. The man on the left he doesn’t know. They stand shoulder to shoulder the way old friends who’ve not seen each other in many years stand. Near embrace. John’s father is barely older than he. From the three men’s belts hang the silver pistols that John knows so well. All engraved with the wolf.

The door opens. John breaks out of his trance and sits up, his fists raised. A man a few years older than his father enters.

“You mustn’t sit up.”
“Who are you?”
“The stitches might break.”
“Why do you have my father’s guns?”

The man sits beside the bed. His fading gray hair covers his eyes. He pushes it back. His shoulders sag with the burden of age. His blue eyes shine with glory and lost youth.

“I was always the oldest of the band,” he whispers
“Who are you?”
“My name is Paul. Paul Darwin.”

He offers John an outstretched hand. John slowly accepts it. Spots darken his skin but his grip is tight, strong. He smiles.

“You still didn’t tell me who you are.”

Paul shakes his head.

“Your father was always impatient. You’re very much like him. You have his eyes.”
“And my mothers ears, but who are you?”
“Like I said my name is Paul, and these are the guns of a rider. Your father rode too.”
“A rider?” John asks.

Paul nods.

“We fought together. He was a strong man. We were hunters, John.”
“Hunters?”
“I will tell you more. But for now, John, sleep.”

* * *

“How long did you ride together?”
“Many years. Longer than you’ve been on this earth.”
“How many of you were there?”
“In all? Over fifty, but only four of us traveled together.”

John shakes his head. His stitched wound throbs quietly. Paul passes him a bottle of brandy.

“It helps, son. Trust me.”

John takes a large drink. The liquid burns his throat. He coughs and sputters as the drink warms his body. He swallows hard.

“The tall man?”
“Who?”
“The man in the photo.”

Paul turns slowly, his body rocking in the seat.

“Oh yes. We called him Anton. He never cared for the name. He never had one.”
“No name?”
“He told us he was born and left to die in the desert. His mother died during the birth. He was one with the sand. The Cherokee found him and raised him before he left their tribe. He told us he found the father who’d abandoned his mother. He told us he murdered him.”

John stares at the hanging picture. The tall man’s eyes match his gaze.

“You were friends?”
“Partners. Me, Anton, your father, and Charlie. Charlie was wounded when we took this picture. We snuck him out of the hospital a week later to avoid paying the bill.”

John watches the frame.

“You hunted men.”

Paul sighs and picks up the brandy, downing what is left in the bottle. He grimaces as it slides down his throat.

“Aye.”

* * *

Prince approaches the clearing where the two guards lie. Two riders follow close behind atop their horses. The bald man lies with his throat slashed, eyes staring up into the sky, his boots and revolver stolen. The young boy lies dead with a bullet in his forehead, his hair drifting across his eyes. A look of peace is splashed across his face. Prince kneels in the sand, letting the mysteries of the event spill through him. His useless eyes stare up towards the heavens.

“He was wounded. Badly.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes.”

Prince shifts against the dirt, dustbowls spin beside his form. Sand flutters against his skin. He breaths deep into the night. The crowing of a vulture high above echoes in his ears. The rustle of a scared jack rabbit that rushes for the safety of its burrow enters his mind. His body rocks in the wind. He slams his fists into the dirt, letting the scent of dead blood and sweat drift up.

“He went on. North. The blood has dried. The two of you head through the clearing, into the woods. Split off as you pass them. Head in opposite directions. Search every house and every hole along the way. If he’s dead, bring him with you. If he’s alive, then make sure you don’t hesitate.”
“Yes sir,” the two men mime.

The riders spur their horses into a trot as they approach the field. Prince calls after them.

“Hurry. Rain’s coming.”

The closest rider stops and stares up into the sky, the clouds lay unmoving. Quiet. The air is cool. No wind draws breath.

“How are you so sure?”

Prince smiles.

“I can smell the rain. Now ride.”

* * *

Rain patters the window beside John’s bed. Paul opens the door and sits down.

“How’s the wound?”
“It’s better.”

Paul nods, handing him water in a tin cup.

“Drink.”

John raises the cool water to his lips and drinks slowly. It isn’t as good as the brandy, but it does the trick. He lowers the cup.

“You were friends? You and my father?”
“We were almost brothers.”
“Did you enjoy the ride?”
“We were young John, we were alone. We did what we did. But we changed.”

John’s breath rattles as he watches Paul rock in the chair.

“He’s dead, you know that?” John asks.
“Yes. I’ve been watching you for all your life, John. You may not know me but I’ve watched you grow.
“Do they search for you?”
“Yes, but they won’t find us.”

John shakes his head.

“Do you still watch the sunsets?”

Paul nods.

* * *

John wakes shuddering in the night. He gasps and reaches out for Rose. But Rose is gone. Forever gone. He lies shaking and sweating, holding the pillow to his chest, crying in the night. He rocks back and forth, clutching the sheet to his chest, imagining that it is Rose’s soft skin. Her body. His child. He cries out her name. He cries out for Samuel or his father. Anyone to save him from the cold that rocks his lungs.

He places his head against the pillow and cries into the sheets, screaming. He screams through the house, thrashing against his pain. The stitches on his side have broken, blood has stained the sheets. Paul bursts through the door and grabs hold of him. John cries against Paul’s chest until the shaking stops.

* * *

“I want you to teach me,” John whispers.
“Teach you what?”
“To shoot. To fight. I’m going to hunt him.”
“You can’t.”
“I will.”

Paul shakes his head and cuts the string on the needle that has re-sewn shut John’s wound.

“You’re too weak.”
“I can train.”
“You can’t even walk.”
“I can stand.”
“No,” Paul says, firmly.

John grabs hold of Paul’s hand, pulling himself up, steadying his shaky legs.

“He took everything from me. Everything. My father. My brother. My love. He took my child, Paul. My son. He has taken everything from me. All I can do is die.”
“You’re too young.”
“You fought younger.”
“I’m too old, John. I haven’t held a gun in fifteen years.”
“Neither had my father. But he fought,” John replies.
“No.”

John pushes himself away and crosses the room, struggling to keep his balance.

“Then what use is this place?”
“John, stop!”

Paul rushes after him, grabbing his arm. John pushes him away. He reaches the front door and steps out onto the front porch. He slips and hits the ground, gasping for breath. Paul exits the house and kneels beside John. He stops, staring out at the lawn. A rider sits atop his horse, face drawn back in shock. He goes for his gun. Paul draws his silver revolver in one smooth motion.

“Don’t move. I keep them loaded, son.”

The rider watches him with squinted eyes. His hand hovers over his belt. He swallows hard and looks from John to Paul. A thin smile spreads across his face.

“You won’t.”

Paul fires three times, the rider’s horse drops to the ground dead. The rider topples to the ground, his face in the dirt. He stares up at them. Paul’s hand tightens around the revolver.

“I’ve killed far better men than you, boy. “

John places his hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul stops. He looks down at the rider.

“Get up.”

The rider slowly rises on shaking legs. He glances down at the horse. It’s tongue lies splayed out, its black eyes empty. The beast’s brown hair shudders in the wind.

“You saw nothing.”

The rider nods.

“Good. You better lie well. Because they’ll kill you if they think you are. You tell the truth and I’ll hunt you myself. Bullets won’t stop me, son. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Now go.”
“The walk will take me two weeks!”
“You have water. Save your strength. There’s a town twenty miles away. I feel a man like you can make it if you save your breath.”

The rider stands still. Paul’s eyes darken and flash. He raises the revolver.

“Go.”

He takes off into the field, sprinting in fear, glancing wildly back. Paul fires a round into the air. The rider doubles his pace and is gone. John stares up at him.

“Fifteen years?” John asks.
“Fifteen years.”
“Teach me.”
“You need your rest.”

* * *

John can hear Paul cough at night, hear him struggle to breath. He pretends he doesn't notice it. The closest thing to his father lies two rooms away. John can’t lose that. Not now.

John stands and makes his way through the darkened house. He enters Paul’s bedroom. Paul sits up in bed, coughing. He stops as soon as he spots John.

“John?”
“Yes sir.”

Paul sighs.

“Take a seat.”

John sits beside Paul. Beside the bed lies a picture of a young woman. She sits in a grainy photo, holding a flowery umbrella behind her head. Paul picks it up.

“This is Lisa. She was my daughter.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. Long ago. I would have liked for you to have met her.

He sets the frame down, hovering over the memory of her a little longer and turns away.

“You’re not the only one who lost someone, John.”
“Yes sir.”

John shivers under his bandages.

“Without Rose, I feel I’m wandering in the night. Like I’m lost in the dark.
“Not all who wonder are lost, John.”

Paul glances up, curtains of moonlight spill across his eyes.

“You’ll eat in the dining room tomorrow. We’ll start the training in the morning. I don’t think we have long.”

* * *

Paul paces around John, his blue eyes blazing in the light. He watches John with fire in his heart.

“Focus. Steady your aim. You have all the time now, John.”
“Not in a firefight.”
“No, but now we train. Steady the gun, keep your shoulder locked in place, absorb the force of the weapon.”

John squeezes the trigger, the bullets hits the target circle outside the bulls eye.

“Good. You know how to shoot, but we need to teach you how to focus. Your father taught you well, son, but well isn’t good enough. Again!”

Paul stands behind John, maneuvering his shoulders and arm.

“Keep your finger on the outside of the trigger, it gives you time to check that it is a foe. We can’t have you shooting friends. Your legs should be level, don’t bend your knees.”

John turns slightly.

“Good! Keep that stance. Now for the hard part; aiming the gun. Keep your trigger level at all times. Never hesitate. You hesitate, you die. Breath in deep slow breaths and fire when you’re breathing in. Remember that!”

“Yes sir.”

Paul spun around.

“Don’t interrupt! Keep the weapon level. Keep yourself strong. Very strong. Now, wait for the wind, if the wind blows you need to adjust your aim. Now wait. Fire when you’re ready.”

John lets his breath flow in steady streams. Above him the sun beats down mercilessly. He squeezes the trigger three times. The bulls eye explodes from the impacts of all three shots. Paul smiles.

“Well done.”

The weeks pass. John heals. John trains.

* * *

Prince and the tall man sit beside the campsite fire. The embers of the fire blaze into the night sky. Ash falls upon the sand in quiet death. The men drink.

“The rider approaches,” Prince whispers.
“I know,” the tall man replies.
“There is no body. No stench. His horse is gone.”

The rider appears. He marches his way to the fire, his clothes torn and covered in dust. He gasps, glancing wide eyed around, searching for a drop of cool drink.

“Where is the boy?” the tall man asks, his eyes cold.
“Couldn’t find him. Water.”
“Why do you return so late? Where is your horse?”
“Bit by a rattler, please, water.”
“A rattler.”

The rider nods in frantic exhaustion. The tall man turns to Prince.

“Thomas, fetch me the water can.”

Prince tosses the tall man a small canteen, it hangs by a metal chain, wire-like in its frame but strong. He approaches and kneels before the rider, passing him the canteen. The rider drinks greedily from the flask.

“Thomas?” the tall man asks.
“He’s lying.”
“I know.”

The rider’s eyes open wide and he shakes his head, water spilling down his lips. The tall man loops the chain around his throat, tightening it against his flesh. The rider shakes as his hands flail, beating against the tall man. The tall man pushes his knee into the boy’s back and pulls the wire into the skin. His jugular bursts in a jet of warm blood that washes the tall man’s hands, bathing him. The rider’s face turns a nasty shade of black and he spasms as his bowels loosen. The stink of his death fills the camp.

The men are silent. The only sounds that echo in the night are the crackle of the fire and the choking gasps of the dying man. He falls limp against the chain, blood dripping from his shirt. The tall man turns to Prince, letting the dead rider fall to the dirt. Prince stands.

“Sir?”
“Find him,” the tall man whispers.
“Yes sir.”
“Kill him.”
“Yes sir.”
“And don’t miss the train.”

Prince turns and approaches his horse, mounting the animal. The horse neighs as he spurs its sides. The tall man watches as Prince disappears into the night.

* * *

John and Paul sit at the dining table, eating fresh ears of corn.

“Why does the tall man hunt you?” John asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long night.”

Paul smiles.

“It was after the war ended. Charlie, your father, and I, we’d grown tired. We were older. You were almost three. Charlie was married. Me? I was just old. Lisa had died earlier that year. We were hunting war criminals and abandoners, murdering our own men. Anton led the pack, he’d found more loyal men, none better, but men willing to die. His pistols were already black. It was sometime in the summer, we stormed a house and pulled out the family inside. Just a family. One man who was guilty of nothing but running from death.”

“They had many children. Seven in all. An infant. Anton told us to shoot. We just couldn’t. He killed them all. The woman with the baby, how she wept. They pried the baby from his arms and threw it up into the sky for a target. Oh, how she wept. We turned our guns on each other soon after. And we split. We killed every man Anton had before he let us leave. We turned to go and he shot your father in the back. He barely survived. We left Anton lying in the dust, bleeding. I remember his screams as we left him to die, the raw sounds. The voice of an animal. I knew he’d come back. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie isn’t dead as well.”

John sits in silence before returning to his mind, setting about devouring his food. Paul watches him. He sets his food down.

“John?” Paul asks.
“Yes?”
“How’s the wound?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good.”

Paul frowns.

“John,” Paul whispers.
“Yes sir?”
“This is your last day here.”
“What?”
“I’ve packed your horse. You have food and ammunition. Horse shoes and feed. Water. Everything. You’re leaving tonight.”
“But-”

Paul waves his plea aside.

“I’ve taught you, John, all I know. I want you to stay so badly but you can’t. I never told you John, but I was there at your birth. Anton never knew, neither did Charlie, but I was there. I remember how small you were, how you smiled when you saw me. Babies that young aren’t supposed to smile. But you did. Your father asked me to be your godfather. And I said yes.”

Paul smiles, wiping his eyes.

“I want you to stay so much. Because I love you as if you were my own. But I can’t. You have to go. I’m dying, John. I can feel myself waste. I cough blood in the night. I forget where I am when I wake. I sometimes think Lisa will come running into my room and jump upon my bed. Like she’s just hiding in the next room. And it hurts. It hurts so much, John. And now I need you to go. I want you to start a new life and leave this behind you. Because you won’t survive this, John. You won’t.”

John shakes his head.

“I can’t stop, Paul.”
“I know, but you can’t stay.”

Paul reaches down and undoes his holster, placing the silver pistols on the table.

“Take them,” he whispers
“I can’t.”
“Take them.”

John pulls the shining revolvers to his chest. He stands.

“Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye, John.”

John turns from the dinner table and exits through the back door. Paul sits there for sometime before he starts to cry.

Copyright 2008
Michael Carr