Animal (part 4)

John sits alone in the middle of the moaning desert road, shivering under the bundle of blankets Paul packed. A crimson fire crackles and wavers before him. He spears a slice of dry pork with his fork and roasts it over the flames. The salty taste lessens and he chews slowly, watching the fire as it dances silently with the blowing wind. He raises the tin cup to his lips and drinks the lukewarm coffee. He’s alone.

His horse stands shuffling in place, watching a bushel of no particular importance. John rises and approaches the horse. He removes a small satchel of carrots and corn that he bought from a small feed store a few miles back and pours a few in his right hand, raising it under the horse’s nose. It chews loudly, neighing happily and slobbering over John. He returns the treats and checks the provisions. He should have enough to make it to Stanton.

John makes his way back to the fire and lies back, watching the flames as they shiver. Above an eagle soars; a shadow in the night. The ashes drift against John’s skin, stinging. He turns away and balls up in the dry dirt. Five feet away in the glow of the fire a black tarantula and a desert wasp fight. The hulking spider strikes at the flying wasp but the wasp moves up, diving upon the tarantula’s back. The small wasp stabs the spider’s back with its stinger and flies away. The beast stumbles, turns upon its back, legs raised to the sky, and dies.

* * *

John sits cross-legged on the faded house porch. He is only six. His father sits in his favorite rocking chair, watching the corn. He holds a small, tattered book in his hands. John stands behind his father, a nonexistent being. He doesn’t speak. The toddler John watches his father with wide eyes, rocking impatiently.

“Finish the story, pa!” he whines.
“It’s late, John.”
“Please?”
“I’m tired.”
“Listen to your father, John.”

John’s mother appears in the doorway, her blonde hair stringy and dirty. Her dress is caked in cooking grease and oil. Her stomach bulges beneath her apron. Samuel rests inside. She wipes her forehead, only adding more grime.

“It’s late, and dinner’s been ready for five minutes. I’m not serving a cold breakfast.”
“But ma, pa won’t finish the story!”

John’s mother smiles and sits beside the boy.

“Tell you what, when dinner’s done and you’re ready for bed I’ll finish the story.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”

The boy hugs his mother and scrambles inside. John’s father stands and places his hand on her cheek.

“Ain’t you a sight.”
“Stop, you’ll get dirt on your clean clothes.”
“It’s worth it.”
“Well I’m the one who cleans them so you quit.”

John’s father kisses her cheek. His mother rests her head upon his shoulders.

“You all right?” he asks her.
“I’m fine.
“And Samuel?”
“He’s kicking more. Whenever you’re around especially.”
“He’s a fighter.”
“Like his dad.”
“Like his dear old dad.”

John’s mother laughs.

“I don’t know about old.”
“My back’s sore. I’m old.”
“You been working all day.”
“I’m still old,” he jokes.
“You’re still handsome too.”

John’s father holds her close and together they watch the sunset. John stands unmoving. He finally moves quietly up and places his hand against his mother’s cheek. She doesn’t feel his touch.

“Let’s go inside, you still have to eat,” she whispers.
“I’ll be right there.”

John moves aside as his mother enters the house again. His father watches her leave and sits back in the rocking chair. John pulls up a seat and sits as well.

“John,” his father says.
“Pa.”
“Don’t miss us.”
“It’s hard not to,” John replies.

His father chuckles.

“Course it is. Losing your mother was too. But she’s with us John and we’re happy. Don’t you fret.”
“She still loves you?”
“Course she does, mind you there’s a lot of handsome men here, but she loves me.”
“And Rose?”
“Why do you even ask, son?”

John smiles.

“John.”
“Yes, pa?”
“He’s an animal, son.”
“Who?”
“The man you hunt.”
“I know.”
“He won’t stop.”
“I won’t.”

John’s father shakes his head and leans forward, his hands held together.

“There’s no need, John.”
“He’ll hurt others, pa. It’s not just for ya’ll. He can’t be allowed to keep going.”
“You’re gonna die, John. He won’t let you take him, not without a struggle. A struggle fit for a war. There are men searching for you now.”
“I’ll find him. He’s no God.”
“Every man dies, John.”
“Yes sir.”

John’s father takes his hand.

“You’re a good man, John. A good man. I don’t want you doing this.”
“But it must be done.”
“Yes.”

The field around them turns back to ash. The bodies of his family lie again in the dirt. John stares at his father’s body.

“I miss you.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be with us one day, John. But not yet.”

His father’s form bursts into ash and flutters into the sky.

* * *

John wakes. He pushes himself up and yawns. The fire is dead, a few embers twinkle under the black wood. John stands and makes his way to the horse, placing the saddle on its back. He checks its shoes and scrapes out the dirt in them. John watches as the deep orange sun rises slowly into the sky.

“I’m coming,” John whispers, watching the burning sun.

He mounts the chestnut horse and grips the rein tightly, breathing deeply the dry earth. John’s face lies placid as he watches another eagle soar above, crying in the air.

“I know you can hear me, I’m coming for you.”

John spurs the horse and takes off; a rider in the dust.

* * *

Prince’s horse bursts through the desert grass, burning the land in its fury. Prince breaths John’s scent, his sweat and tears. He hunts him. The smell of dried corn and horse feed drifts ahead. His horse closes in upon the small store placed beside the main road. Prince pulls the horse to a stop and dismounts. He draws from the saddle bags his small canteen, its metal chain still stained with the blood of the strangled rider. He ties his horse to the hitching post and enters the shop.

A bald, rounded man sits behind the counter. In his stubby fingers he clutches a brass fiddle and plays a shrill, tuneless ballet. The sound hurts Prince’s ears.

“Stop.”

The clerk ceases his torturous tune.

“Sorry?”
“I just asked you to stop.”
“You ain’t a music man?”
“I wouldn’t call that music,” Prince replies.

The clerk scoffs.

“Ain’t you a feisty son of a bitch.”

Prince rolls his eyes and sets his feed bags on the counter.

“Yes. Can I get some goods?”
“What’re you looking for, sir?”
“Sir? Good to see manners in people these days.”
“I aims to please.”
“I need feed.”
“What kind?”
“Any.”

The clerk raises his eyebrows and glances out his window at Prince’s black horse.

“Fine animal you have there.”
“Yes she is.”
“What you feed her?”
“Whatever you give me.”
“Say I give you my most expensive brand?”
“I’ll take it, just get the damn food.”

The bald man shakes his head.

“Sorry. My mistake sir.”
“Indeed.”
“So where you heading?” the clerk asks offhandedly.

Prince’s eyes narrow.

“How’s that your business?” Prince asks.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just get the feed.”

The clerk nods, filling the bags. He glances Prince’s canteen.

“If you need water-”
“I don’t need water. If I do I’ll find it in here.”

The clerk hesitates, dropping the bags on his scales.

“What do you mean?”
“Nothing of importance. Just get my feed.”
“It’s got.”
“How much?”

The clerk rings up the register, slapping its side.

“That’s thirty two cents, sir.”
“Pricey.”
“Best feed here.”
“Then it’s worth it.”

Prince lays a ten on the counter.

“Sir. You ain’t got nothing smaller?”
“I don’t need no change. The rest is for you.”
“I don’t follow.”

Prince picks up the clerk’s harmonica.

“I’m also taking this. But what I’m paying for is your eyes.”
“My eyes? Sir, you sure you’re alright?”

Prince raises his Stetson, letting the clerk see his gray, lifeless eyes.

“Your eyes. A boy came by here.”
“What kind of boy?”
“Don’t kid with me, old man. You smell of shit and you ain’t a wealthy man. You remember your customers.”

The clerk has begun to sweat.

“Alright. A boy. Brown horse.”
“John?”
“He didn’t give me his name.”
“He gave you his name. He also told you where he’s going. He’s a trusting man. A foolish man.”
“What are you going to do to him?”

Prince draws his revolver.

“Don’t touch the Winchester, old man.” Prince warns.
“How‘d you-?”
“Don’t.”

The clerk places the rifle on the counter. Princes tosses it across the room.

“You oil your gun too much.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know where John is heading.”

The clerk swallows hard.

“Stanton.”
“Thank you.”

Prince lowers the pistol. He picks up the local newspaper and sets it on the table.

“What’s the year?”
“The year?”
“The year.”
“1884.”

Prince smiles.

“Now read me the headline.”
“I-I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“I can’t read sir. I just know the years.”

Prince sighs, carefully folding the paper and tucking it in his front pocket.

“Then what good are you?”

Prince shoots the clerk twice, once through each eye. The clerk stumbles back and sinks against the counter, blood dripping from his face. Prince holsters his weapon, picks up his feed bags, and carries them to his horse, leaving the ten on the front counter untouched. He sets them down and heads around the back of the house where a small well stands. He fills his canteen in the water, careful not to let the dried blood on the chain be washed away.

Prince mounts his horse and sits still, listening to the whispers of the wind.

“Stanton,” Prince whispers, then he’s off.

* * *

John enters the saloon through the creaky front door, he makes his way past the tables and sits at the bar. The bartender is a large man with a barrel-like chest and thick arms. His flaming hair curls atop his head. His crooked teeth shine with a homely light. He wipes the grime from the mug in his hands and sets it down.

“What can I do for you, son?”
“I’m looking for a man named Barrow. Daniel Barrow. He’s a photographer. Got a business proposition for him.”
“What kind of proposition?” the bartender asks, his eyebrows raised.

John smiles.

“The important kind. I know he’s got a farm here, I just need to know where. It’s a large area to cover.
“Fraid I can’t help you.”

John meets the man’s eyes.

“Look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“No. Look at me.”

The bartender sighs.

“Please,” John asks.
“What?”
“Please. I ain’t a violent man but I need to know. I know you know where he is. If he’s anything like the man I met then I doubt anyone will miss him.”

The bartender glances down at the pistols that hang at John’s side.

“You. You’re a rider aren’t you?”
“My father was a rider. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“I’ve known far too many of your kind to believe that.”

The bartender pulls the rifle up from under the counter, steadying it underneath John’s throat. John doesn’t move. The bartender lowers the weapon.

“If I was a rider, you’d already be dead.”

The bartender watches John.

“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Too young for revenge, lad.”
“Revenge has no age.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”

John smiles.

“We all die, mister.”
“Aye.”

The bartender fills a mug and hands John a glass full of whisky.

“His house is in the middle of the prairie, about four miles east of the main road. He’s got some hired hands but they aren’t fighters. Have a beer, kid.”

John raises the glass and drinks.

* * *

Barrow’s house stands alone in a clearing, long fields of cotton lay beyond. John slowly makes his way up the road. A black man exits the field, a sack of cotton upon his back. His shoulders are hunched, light shades of gray etch his hair. His overalls hang loosely to his frame. He notices John and sets the bag down, sitting upon the porch steps.

“Ma masters gone suh’.”
“When will he be back?”
“Aroun’ dusk suh’.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what, suh?”

John sits beside the slave.

“You’re a smart man, I can tell.”
“No, suh-”
“Stop.”

The slave lowers hid head, silenced.

“It pleases the boss.”
“The boss?”
“Barrow.”

John frowns.

“I thought slavery was outlawed.”
“Out here there is no law, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir.”
“Then what do I call you?”

John hands the man his canteen.

“Call me John.”
“My name is Ezekiel.”

The slave drinks deeply from the canteen, slowly and quietly, careful not to let any of the precious drink spill. He hands the canteen back to John.

“There’s a well out back,” the slave says.
“Why don’t you carry water?”
“Water’s precious here, John, and Barrow is not a generous man.”
“Why do you stay?”

Ezekiel frowns, his gray eyebrows hunched.

“What?”
“Why do you stay?”
“Barrow...he knows where my children are.”
“You’re a father?” John asks.
“Yes. He had them sold at the slave auctions. He keeps in touch with his assets. He promised to let me walk free after ten years. I’ve been here nine.”

John stands.

“Do you really think he’ll let you walk free?”
“I can only hope.”
“And when you die never seeing them, will you still have hope?”
“I’m too old to fight him.”

John glances at Ezekiel’s back. Long scars of past whippings slope down his frame. He opens his hand, revealing a brass key. He places it in John’s palm. John stares down at the key and speaks.

“When he gets here, you run and hide. You understand?”

Ezekiel nods.

“Why are you here, John?”
“I’m here to kill your boss. Nothing more.”

John enters Barrow’s house, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Prince enters the bar, dust bucking up underneath his feet as he enters. A sandstorm is blowing, the windows of the dank saloon shake and rumble against the storm. Prince approaches the bar, removing his Stetson and shaking the dirt from his hair. The barrel-bodied bartender is deep in conversation with a young girl beside the bar. Her clothes are simple but enticing. Prince smells her perfume, the overwhelming stench of it. He sits, trying not to gag.

“Can I get some service?”

The bartender turns, shaken out of his trance, and sets a mug down.

“Sorry, mister. What can I get you?”
“Whiskey.”
“What kind?”
“Any kind, whiskey is whiskey.”

The bartender shrugs and sets a chipped mug down, filling it with the clear, yellow drink. Prince sips the glass and grimaces. The drink is strong. He stares into blackness, eyes focused on the cup. He runs his finger across the side of the mug.

“You ain’t got a cleaner glass?”
“That there’s the cleanest I got, mister,” the bartender replies, ruffled.

Prince turns his head, listening to the sounds of the empty bar. The scuffle of rodents emanates from the walls.

“Must be hard to clean these mugs, what with the booming business this little establishment is fetching.”
“Water’s scarce here, mister.”
“That explains the smell.”

Prince raises the glass but the bartender slaps it down. The mug clinks loudly against the counter but no whiskey is spilled.

“Look buddy, we don’t appreciate harsh words round here.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” Prince says with a grin.
“What are you here for?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Lots of folks been doing that lately.”

Prince nods. The perfumed girl slowly reaches under the counter.

“So you know of whom I speak.”
“No one came by here, sir,” the bartender replies with a snap.

Prince stands, pushing himself from the bar.

“That’s too bad, I’d hoped we could do this like gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen died out a long time ago, buddy. Get out of my bar.”
“How much I owe you?”
“No charge. Just leave.”
“I have to pay you something-” Prince replies, drawing his weapon and training it on the girl.

Prince steadies his revolver, drawing the second and pointing it at the bartender.

“Drop the gun, missy.”
“Pa-” the girl cries, her hands shaking.
“Drop it, Evelyn,” the bartender warns.

The girl lets the Winchester fall to the floor. Prince approaches the girl, his revolver steady. She begins to back away.

“Evelyn? Such a pretty name,” Prince whispers, licking his lips.

Prince grabs the girl and drags her close to him. The perfume overwhelms him. The bartender’s face is flushed white. He shakes with quiet rage. Prince holds Evelyn close, whispering in her ear, carefully training his revolver on the source of the bartender’s heartbeat.

“Can I tell you a secret? I hate women who wear perfume. No matter how much. It makes you stink. Makes you smell like a whore. My mother was a whore and I remember her perfume. I even remember the men she brought home. The drunks, the savages, the crazies. But I can’t remember their names. I don’t think I ever learned their names. Except Ben. I remember Ben. I remember because he tried to cut out my eyes. And though I could not see I remember being guided to him by the smell of the liquor on his breath and the smell of my mother’s perfume on his skin. I remember slitting his throat in the middle of the night. A child’s eyes are precious, Evelyn. You are precious. Don’t dress yourself up as a whore. Be free.”

Prince stares down at the girl, her eyes are smudged with wet makeup. Her tears stain his shirt.

“You understand, Evelyn?”
“Let her go,” the bartender whispers.
“Silence old man! You are the one at the mercy of my gun. Silence!”

Prince shakes and steadies his hand. Beads of sweat stand shaking upon his skin.

“Do you understand, Evelyn?”
“Yes...” the girl sobs.
“Good.”

Prince releases Evelyn who rushes to the arms of her father.

“Where did he go?” Prince asks.
“Barrow’s house.”
“Barrow.”

Prince kicks the Winchester that the girl dropped across the floor.

“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard. I need one more thing.”

Prince holsters the revolver in his right hand, keeping the left hand up, and reaches into his front pocket. From it he draws the dirty newspaper he took from the feed store and sets it down on the counter.

“Read me the headline,” Prince whispers.
“What?” the bartender asks.
“Read it!”

The bartender leans forward, scanning the page.

“Country honors anniversary of President Lincoln’s death.”

Prince smiles, folding the paper back up and placing it in his pocket. He holsters his revolver and picks up the whiskey bottle the bartender poured from.

“Thank you. Now how much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen cents.”
“I’ll hear you if you go for the rifle,” Prince says, digging in his pockets.

The bartender nods. Prince sets the money on the counter and turns, leaving the two in close embrace. He falters and turns to face them.

“I almost forgot. You have rats. Thought you’d like to know.”

Prince exits through the tavern doors. The bartender watches him leave, whispering comforts to his daughter, until Prince vanishes in the blowing dust.

* * *

Daniel Barrow enters the house, closing the door carefully behind him. In his left hand he carries a stack of unprocessed photos. Under his arm is the very camera that captured John’s pain.

“Boy!? I thought I told you to stay out of the house! Where are you boy!? he shouts, calling vainly for his servant who is nowhere to be found.

The house is completely dark. Barrow gropes blindly for a switch. His hands close around a hanging chain. Bright light spills into the hallway. From the kitchen John emerges.

“Hello Daniel.”

Barrow drops his camera and reaches for his gun. John fires once into his left knee. Barrow hits the ground screaming. In seconds John is upon him, drawing Barrow’s revolver and sticking it in his belt.

“You must have known this was coming. Even bought yourself a little gun,” John whispers in Barrows ear.

Barrow lies crying in a small puddle of blood, grasping his ruined knee.

“You’ll never walk again, Daniel. Think of it. You’ll never dance again. Never run. You are a cripple, Daniel. You’re ruined.”
“Please! Please stop.”

John laughs.

“Stop? Stop!? What have I done!? You’ve just begun to suffer.”
“Please,” Barrow pleads, reaching up, grabbing hold of John’s pants.
“Get off me.”

John kicks Barrow away.

“I’ve been to your darkroom, Daniel. I’ve been through your bedroom. You have pictures of them. Hanging in frames! Pictures of the dead. People whose lives you stole!”

John reaches down and grabs Barrow by the throat. Tears form in his eyes.

“You have her picture. Sitting in your room, beside your bed. Framed. You have my Rose framed beside your own bed! You’ve stolen her.”

John shakes Barrow ruthlessly.

“You’ve stolen her!”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Barrow whispers.
“You’re not sorry.”
“Yes-”
“No! You’re lying! You enjoy it. The pain of others. You love it!”

John releases Barrow who crumples to the floor, moaning. Pitiful sounds rumble in his throat. John kneels and grabs the camera, setting it up.

“What are you doing?” Barrow asks.
“Taking your picture.”
“No. No! No! Please.”

John snaps a single shot and lets it fall to the floor. He stuffs the discolored picture in Barrow’s hands. Barrow flings it from him, screaming hysterically. John speaks over Barrow’s pathetic sounds.

“Your own pain is realized. You know, some African tribes believe a picture steals your soul. I heard this during a sermon. It’s quite interesting. They believe that if a picture captures your image then your soul is forever trapped in the photo. I do not hold such a belief but for the sake of my love and the sake of all you’ve hurt I’ve burned all your photos. All except this one. Your soul is trapped Barrow.”
“What do you want!?” Barrow moans.

John lowers his weapon.

“I want to know where he is.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”

Barrow swallows hard.

“He’s leaving by train, three days. In Fairfield.”
“Fairfield. What train?”
“The number eight black rail. Ten o‘clock.”
“He’s moving in the day?”
“It’s important. Big bounty.”
“What bounty?”
“I don’t know. I swear!” Barrow shrieks, as John raises the gun.

John steps over Barrow and picks up the photos he brought with him. He strikes a match and drops it in the pile. The pictures are soon aflame. John turns to leave. Barrow calls after him.

“Please, don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Daniel. I’m leaving you here. Perhaps Ezekiel will have mercy on you.”
“Ezekiel?” Barrow asks.

John smiles.

“You never even learned his name.”

John turns and exits the house. Ezekiel stands in the dirt path. John approaches him. He stands beside the slave. The two watch as Barrow drags himself out the front door. He sits upon the porch steps, bleeding. His eyes lock upon Ezekiel.

“You helped him, boy. I should kill you. But I won’t. Help me up, boy.”

Ezekiel remains still. Barrow shakes.

“I said help me up, boy!”

John places his hand upon Ezekiel’s shoulder. He smiles. John reaches down and draws Barrow’s revolver from his belt. He places it in Ezekiel’s hand.

“Time to earn your freedom, friend. Find your family. He’ll know where they are.”
“Thank you.”

John smiles and turns, leaving the two behind. Ezekiel approaches Barrow. John never looks back. He trudges his way up hill to where his horse waits. As he mounts the steed a gunshot echoes from the house. John spurs the chestnut horse twice and is gone.

Copyright 2008
Michael Carr