Animal (Chapter 10 - Part 2)

Prince makes his way through the makeshift alleys lined by tents and booths. The traders and their customers pay him no heed. Beneath his heel lie the imprints of dozens of boots. The shouts and cries and laughter and shrieks of hundreds fill his mind. Smells of tanned leather, cooked meat, bottled whiskey, and burning torch overwhelm him. He wants to scream.
He sinks into the shadows as a group passes between the stands, led by a man of massive height. They shout a few words and split up into smaller packs. The search for Prince has begun, faster than even he expected. Prince waits until the echoes of their footsteps vanish before moving.
John’s path crosses many times throughout the carnival. But ahead the trail doesn’t mix with that of so many others, because ahead lies a tent separate from the others, a black tent with no words to grace its sign. Alexander’s tent. Prince rises up from his cover and steps into the fray. He lifts the flap and enters the coffin maker’s domain.

* * *

John enters the makeshift tent. Framed photos sit stacked across a fancy desk, each picturing Orson standing beside an equally established-looking man. A tray of fresh fruit lies in the middle of a polished oak table. John glances from Orson to the food and back.
“By all means.”
John removes an apple and places it in his pocket. Orson smiles. He takes his seat in front of John. Two giant men stand on either side of him, their hulking backs wrapped in stained ponchos. They stand at attention, rifles slung across their shoulders, tracking their employer’s guest with beaded eyes.
“You may leave us,” Orson says.
The men nod and exit, one after another, without protest. Orson shifts against his chair as he makes himself comfortable.
“You’ll have to forgive me that little tussle you had to bear witness to. The workers don’t much care for newcomers, gets them riled up. And as much as I hate to say, one must respond with appropriate force.”
“Like a dog jumping up on strangers?” John asks.
Orson laughs. “Yes, something like that! Now what might I ask is a young man such as yourself doing out in this desolate place?”
“Just passing through.”
“Surely you must be going somewhere.”
“I am. I’m meeting someone.”
Orson laughs and scratches his bushy beard. He glances around the room before returning to John.
“Who might that be?” he asks.
“A person of interest.”
Orson eyes flash. His voice rises slightly.
“Who are you meeting, son?”
John falters. Orson stops, noting the tension. He brushes himself off and smiles. His homely demeanor returns.
“Well, you must be tired. Perhaps you need a good night’s sleep?”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I insist,” the entrepreneur says.
Orson’s eyes glaze. He speaks softly, his tongue dancing with each carefully chosen word.
“It’s been sometime since we had a guest.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
“My pleasure, John, is it?” Orson asks with raised brow.
“It is.”
Orson retrieves a kettle from the fire pit behind his desk. He places two cups down upon the table.
“Would you care for some tea, my boy?”
“No thank you, you’ve done far too much.”
He pours his tea. Steam rises from the cups.
“Don’t be so distant,” Orson jokes, “It’s not as if I’m trying to poison you.”
Orson laughs loudly and raises the tea to his lips. John manages a crooked smile. Orson drains the last of the liquid from the cup and stands. An uncomfortable grin spreads across his face and doesn’t seem to fade. He studies John for a moment, gaze travelling over his holstered pistols. He makes no mention of them.
“Well that’s good. Now let us find you a place to sleep for the night.”
Together the two men exit the tent. John gestures towards the massive rig that pumps the earth.
“Quite a set-up you’ve got here.”
Orson flashes him a practiced grin.
“Why thank you, son, always nice to hear someone complement the work I do in my business.”
‘And what exactly is your business?”
“Oil, son! Can’t you tell? I move from one patch of land to the next, buying up land, searching for oil, setting up stations like this one. Been here for a couple months now, one of the best sites I’ve ever pumped. Lots of crude here, many wells to drill too.”
John points a thumb back at a set of workers who shout in a fevered language foreign to John’s ears. A guard with a rifle slung around his broad shoulders shouts back in the same tongue.
“What about the men who work for you?”
“Low men, worked field and rail and mine.”
“I wasn’t talking about the guards,” John remarks.
“Neither was I.”
“Moving them from site to site must be quite a daunting task, let alone feeding and clothing them.”
Orson leans forward on his cane and slaps his knee as though John had made a childish joke.
“Who says I move them?”
Before John can inquire as to the man’s meaning, a young Asian child emerges from a workers shack and approaches at a brisk pace, not bothering to step aside and avoid collision. The child hits the ground, jumps back to his feet, and sprints away. John notes the child’s speedy departure. He checks his pocket: empty.
“Hey!” John calls out to the kid.
“What’s the problem?”
“Kid stole my billfold.”
Orson reaches into his suit and pulls out a silver whistle, blowing twice. A man standing atop the guard tower with rifle in hand takes aim and fires once. The boy drops into the dust. John gasps. He glances from the guard to Orson’s smiling face then sprints to where the boy fell.
The child lies twitching in a puddle of blood, screaming and clutching his left hand where three stumps stand in place of his fingers. John stoops beside the boy and holds him down in a sad attempt to calm him.
“Stop fighting,” he says, keeping hold of the desperate child, “Stop fighting me! I won’t hurt you, just lie still.”
Orson watches John as he removes his bandana and ties it around the boy's bleeding hand.
“He’ll never work the same again. What a waste.”
John gathers the child up.
“Where’s your medical station?”
“Medical station?” Orson asks, his head quizzically cocked.
“Where’s your damn doctor?”
“We have one, but he can’t be troubled for the likes of this.”
John stares into Orson’s grinning eyes.
“You listen to me, just get the supplies, I’ll treat him myself.”
“Very well,” Orson replies, “first let me take you to your room.”
John follows the man as he casually makes his way down the camp, stopping on occasion to greet a fellow supervisor, laughing and trading jokes with his men. They stop beside a small tent. John enters after the oil trader. He lays the boy on a sturdy mattress and rubs his hand through the child’s filthy hair.
“The doctor will be around eventually,” Orson says as he exits.
John removes the soaked bandana from the boy’s hand and pulls out a set of matches. He strikes the head and holds the boy’s shaking hand over the flame. The bleeding stumps brown under the heat. The boy screams until his consciousness is lost. John finishes and sits alone, holding the child to his chest, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

* * *

Prince enters the tent to the sight of an unfinished casket and no coffin maker. Along the floor lie the three covered bodies yet to be placed inside the caskets before them. Prince kneels beside the first man and pulls the sheet back. The dead man lies with his face slightly bloated. The hole left by the bullet John put into his skull stares back. Prince lifts the sheet further. The holsters are empty, but he recognizes their craft.
“Can I help you?”
Prince glances up to spy Alexander standing beside the unfinished coffin. He doesn’t pull back the sheet and stand the way a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar would. He simply sits with the sheet still clutched between his fingers.
“This man a customer of yours?” he asks.
“Well, he’s certainly in need of my wares.”
“What happened to the guns he was carrying?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Alexander replies, “wasn’t there for when the ruckus kicked up.”
Prince pulls back the sheet neatly over the dead man and stands. He offers his hand. Alexander takes it.
“Name’s Prince.”
“Alexander.”
“You in the business of doing charity work, Alexander?”
“Pardon?”
Prince nods towards the three dead men.
“I doubt anyone these three were riding with paid for a funeral, no offense intended towards the dead.”
“I doubt the dead would take offense over that. No, this is a courtesy. These men came to our show expecting to incite some violence, only the larger part of it landed on them.”
“And yet you still made their caskets? Quite honorable of you.”
“Honor’s got nothing to do with it, Mr. Prince, it’s just the way things go,” Alexander replies, bending to retrieve a sander from below his workstation, “Now what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a man.”
“All the men I got are right there, and that’s an oddity. Usually I go to my customers, not vice versa.”
“Man I’m looking for ain’t around here anymore, Alexander, and he ain’t dead. But he was here and I have an inkling you might know where he went.”
Alexander taps in one last nail and sets the sander against the first edge of the casket, guiding it across the surface in smooth drags.
“You talking about John?” he asks.
“I am. Good to meet a man with no call for beating around the bush.”
“I like things simple, Mr. Prince. And to answer your next question, no, I won’t tell you where he went. Not even sure myself.”
Prince cocks his head. His arms swing from side to side and he hums a tuneless song.
“You planning on pulling out that pistol anytime soon, Mr. Coffin Man?” he asks, drawing his own and setting it atop the coffin’s surface. He gives it a little twirl for show. “Despite my polite demeanor I’m sure you’ve sensed a capacity for violence.”
Alexander slides the sander one last time across the casket’s side and lies it down. He leans forward and loosens the collar of his black suit.
“You know, I’ve met your kind before. Maybe not in life, but I’ve met plenty of your kind in death. Every man of every creed, color, code, I’ve seen buried. I’ve made a coffin for every type of man who’s ever walked this earth and every man who ever will. And a man like you, Mr. Prince, you’re no different. In the end we go to earth and in the earth we go to dust. It doesn’t matter how strong, how prideful, how glorious you think you are: we all have to be weighed and measured.”
Alexander draws a pistol from the back side of his belt and lays it beside the black revolver that rests atop the casket’s unpainted surface. The slide of metal on cloth, steel on wood reaches Prince.
“Well that’s quite a speech.”
“My wife always says I do love my speeches.”
“Interesting,” Prince says, flicking the edge of the work table with an untrimmed nail, “I wouldn’t expect a man to admit to his enemies he’s married. I respect a man that bold.”
“Boldness has nothing to do with it. A man like you, I’m sure you can smell her already.”
“Ohhhh yes, I can smell her, every little inch of your pretty little wife, but that’s as far as I have to go. All you have to do is tell me where John is heading. You tell me what I want to know and I won’t have to pay her a visit. She can prance on over to this shit-stain you call a business and the two of you together can eat your beans and corn and celebrate the glorious life you’re about to bring into this sad little world.”
The Rider’s chest swells as the rebellious smirk that graces Alexander’s lips falters but a moment.
“That’s right,” he whispers, “I smell every…inch…of her.”
“John’s a good man, but I value my family above him in every account.”
“I’m glad you’re finally coming to terms with the ease in which this problem can be resolved. I’d hate for anything to have to happen to—”
Alexander cuts the Rider off. “I would too, but Selina would never give up a man she cared for and I won’t either. I couldn’t stand to face her if I did. So I believe you have my answer, Mr. Prince.”
Prince sighs. His dead eyes make their way back to the revolvers that rest atop the table before him.
“You fast?” he asks, “I bet you are. Craftsmen always are.”
Alexander doesn’t reply. His hands rest at his side. His eyes shut tight.
“I won’t kill her, you can rest easy knowing that.”
The coffin maker makes his move. The two hands clasp around the weapons in unison. Alexander lifts for a kill. Prince keeps his hand upon the coffin lid. He tilts his wrist up and fires.
Alexander stumbles back, winged in the shoulder. He doesn’t let the pain stop him. He raises for a second try. Prince leaps over the table and kicks out, spurred boot catching the top of Alexander’s hand. Skin tears. Blood stains his sleeve. He fires regardless and the bullet grazes Prince’s cheek. Both men shout their fury as the Rider lands beside the coffin maker, rising up and striking Alexander across the jaw with the butt of his revolver.
“You’re good!” Prince screams, catching the coffin maker’s counterstrike and pulling the pistol from his grip.
Alexander pushes Prince back, grabbing for a mallet in his toolbox and landing a blow in Prince’s side. Prince lets out a pained grunt and pushes himself back, revolver trained on his opponent. He rises slowly to his feet. Alexander lies with his mallet raised for a second strike.
“Drop it.”
Alexander pauses to spit out a bloodied tooth then throws the mallet at the Rider. Prince ducks smoothly aside.
“You’re very good, Alexander, but I’m no mere man.”
Tools scatter as Alexander pulls himself up into a sitting position. Blood trickles down his chin in a vampiric arc.
“That’s good,” he chuckles, “that’s a good saying.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Maybe I can carve it on your coffin one day.”
Prince raises the butt of his revolver above his head, preparing to strike.
“One day,” he says, then brings it down.