Animal (part 8)

“Who are you?”
“I am God.”
“And I?”
“You are the servant.”

John stands alone in a shadowed hallway. A towering figure of light stands far off in the distance.

“What do you ask of me?” John whispers.
“Retribution. Salvation. Redemption. I want you to save yourself, John.”
“I can’t stop.”
“You can’t stop what coming.”

John recognizes his own words mimicked by the thundering voice.

“What’s coming?” he asks.
“Death.”

The light fades to black. John stands alone in the empty hallway. A wooden door stands at the end of the passage. John watches it in silence. The handle of the door slowly turns and the door creaks open. A ray of light enters but at the same time remains shrouded. A figure emerges. The figure is both John’s father and the tall man. A crack splits down the body, separating the two faces, one half mimicking the tall man, the other John’s father. John hesitates and takes a step back.

“What are you?”
“We are the twin fates of destiny,” the creature replies, two voices entwined into one.
“Destiny.”
“You tread a thin path, John. On one side darkness, the other light; the path of the rider.”
“I control my own path.”

The tall man speaks, the left side moving to the rhythm of the words while the other half of the face, the side of John’s father, remains placid.

“You tread the path of sin. The path of the wicked. Once you were you fueled by hate, just as your father was. You must follow the path, for it leads to glory.”

John’s father speaks.

“Glory is for the weak. Lead your life. Do not seek to become a hero or a monster. Leave his path and rejoin your old life."
“Silence!” the left side shrieks.

The two voices rise and their screams join as one. John turns away, his eyes closed. The figure’s hand reaches out and explodes into dust.

***

The tall man opens his eyes. The rail car has stopped. He stares off into the sunrise, watching as the dark fades and light begins. He stands and ruffles his clothes silently, wiping his damp face and smoothing back his matted, tangled hair. He places his Stetson atop his head and presses his hand against the train window. The glass is cold and damp to his touch but outside the rising sun slowly warms the panes.

The tall man glances down at the bloodstained carpet. The guard’s body is gone, moved away to be tossed aside in some pit, most likely lying unburied in a field beside the last town. He sighs and rubs his eyes, feeling his rough, unshaven skin. He feels drained. He needs rest. The tall man stretches and continues watching the empty town. Outside a shadow passes as a small prairie rabbit bounds across the road and off into the tall grass. From the side of a rickety shack a gray wolf emerges, tracking the scent of the creature.

The wolf stops and glances up, meeting the tall man’s gaze. Its silver eyes shine in the dying moonlight, its red tongue lopped aside, its white teeth showing. The animal watches him for some time. Unmoving. Unblinking. Finally it turns away, its ears raised, its tail tucked back, and rushes off into the tall grass. The tall man stands staring at the road where the wolf had stood.

“Something has changed. Something is changing,” he whispers, “who is the hunted and who is the hunter?”

He rubs his hand across the black revolver at his side, feeling the fine engraving of the wolf beneath his fingers.

“What are you becoming, John?”

***

John wakes. He does not rise in fright, weapons drawn. He opens his eyes slowly and sits staring at the smoldering remains of his fire. He sits and watches the sun slowly rise over the mountaintops. The winding railroad line lies ahead. John has found it. He stands and approaches his horse, stroking its smooth hair. The wind blows without sound, shaking his shirt and chilling his skin.

“The path of the righteous. What path is that?”

John asks, his hand grasping the silver crucifix against his chest. He sighs.

John prods the fire with a wooden stick, a few ashen embers fly out but nothing sparks. He tosses the branch and a handful of broken wood on to the fire. He strikes a match and tosses it into the burrow. A small flame soon rises. John fans the sapling fire into life until it crackles and dances wildly to its unknown rhythm.

John turns and approaches his horse. A rifle hangs from the saddle, a gift from Sonya and her people. His bags are filled with corn, dried meat, and horse feed. He removes the rifle from the saddle, grasping it in his hands. The weapon is finely crafted, light and slender but loaded with heavy shells. A light and powerful weapon of vengeance lies in John’s rough hands. He snaps the barrel shut and pockets several shells. John grasps the weapon tightly.

“I will make my own destiny.”

John turns and makes his way down the sloping hill, rifle in hand, moving away from the blazing fire that lights up the dying night sky.

***

Prince slowly makes his way through the oil and blood stained field. The workers have gone save for a few. The remaining china men slowly wrap their tools and scavenge the dead, looking for money, papers, food, anything. He nears the middle of the camp where Orson’s two guards lay. Prince stands and breathes the battle. Tears and blood, hatred and love, feelings of all race are smeared throughout the land. From high above a steady dripping sound emanates. Prince glances up at the twisted remains of the oilrig.

Orson hangs from a noose. His eyes bulge in his sockets. His tongue is puffy and black, sticking out from the corner of his mouth. His body is stripped off all clothes save for his undergarments. They are smeared with shit and urine. The smell drifts down to Prince. His corpse reeks with pitiful death. His feet dangle limply, his shoes and socks missing. His body is covered with blood and dirt and oil.

A worker slowly advances. He attempts to move around Prince but Prince grabs hold of his arm. The worker does not resist. His body is frail and old; he has no strength left to fight.

“Tell me, who is this man?” Prince asks.

The worker slowly glances up at Orson’s body, his eyes lingering on the dead man. He turns back to Prince and stares into his dead eyes. He speaks in fractured English.

“Him? He boss.”
“Who is your boss now?”
“No boss now. We free.”
“Free?”

The man nods.

“Yes. The savior, he help us. He kill the men who rule. He leave us hurt boss. But he hurt.”
“He was wounded?” Prince asks.

The worker shakes his head.

“No. He hurt here,” he replies, tapping Prince’s chest.

Prince pushes the man’s hand aside.

“What happened?”
“He come. He save boy. But he leave us sad. He leave boy in woman’s arms. Boy dead.”
“The boy died?”
“Yes. We bury him near river. We bury him where the flowers grow, the flowers not killed by the oil.”
“Was this man one of you?” Prince asks.

The man smiles and shakes his head again.

“No. He like you. White man. Proud man. He have same guns as you, but silver.”
“Where did the man go?”
“Savior leave. He follow bad man. He head out.”
“Where?” Prince asks, his voice rising.
“To the plains, he no tell us. He find bad men.”

Prince pushes the man aside and turns away, trudging back to his horse. The worker calls after him.

“I see your guns. They not like our savior. They dark. You bad man. You no find him. You try, but you no find him.”

Prince smiles and keeps walking. A young man sits beside his horse. With one hand he strokes the black horse’s leg. In the other hand he holds a shattered china doll. His eyes are red and ragged. His face is smeared with dried snot and tears. Prince approaches and pushes the man aside but the man grabs hold of him. He stares up at Prince’s pale face.

“Are you angel?”

Prince mounts the horse and pushes the man aside. The man follows his horse as it trots through the charred and ravaged remains of the mining camp. He calls out to Prince.

“Please, are you angel?”

Prince turns in his saddle and listens to the man as he approaches. The man grabs hold of the horse’s reigns and shoves the broken doll into Prince’s lap.

“Please, if you angel, you save her. Please.”

Prince sits in upon the horse, holding the broken doll in his hands. Its body is cracked at the chest and smeared with mud. Whatever color the hair had once been is unknown as now little remains, matted and torn. One of the arms is missing; the other bent and melted from heat. He passes his hands over the doll’s face. Its bright blue eyes are all that remain perfect, unscarred by time and wear. Prince places the doll inside his saddle bag and sits back up, turning away from the man.

“I am no angel,” he whispers and jabs the horse lightly with his boot.

The man no longer follows him. He sinks to his knees in the mud and clutches his body, holding himself for support. He watches as Prince moves off into the prairie atop his galloping horse.

***

John sits behind a gray, weather-beaten rock. He has been hunting for some time. The morning sun hangs over him, casting its rays upon his tanned skin. He stares over the side, quietly shifting his weight, his rifle raised. The tall grass slowly shakes with movement. The brush is pushed aside and a lumbering possum emerges from the bushes. John slowly cocks the hammer of the rifle and steadies his aim. The possum stops. John closes one eye. From below the possum’s stomach a soft squealing emerges. Half a dozen babies quickly scamper from the nutrients of their mother’s underbelly and mount the possum’s back.

The possum resumes its walk, its children gripping firmly atop her back. John lowers the rifle and watches the possum disappear.

He stands and turns to leave but another sound emerges from the brush. A small coyote emerges from the underbrush, its nose upturned, its hungry eyes wide. Its tongue droops from its mouth as it follows the possum’s tracks. John quickly raises the rifle. The coyote stops and glances lazily in his direction. John pulls the trigger and the coyote drops into the dust. John leaps over the rock and approaches his kill.

The coyote lies dead in the dirt, its mouth wide, its eyes dull. A small puddle of blood bubbles from the bullet hole in its side. John’s rifle is warm in his hands. He raises the rifle and scans the field for any sign of movement. Nothing moves in the desolate field. John crouches and grabs hold of the beast by the legs and turns, dragging it back with him to his camp, guided by the light and smoke of his fire.

John makes his way to the fire and sits beside the flames, removing his hunting knife from its sheath. He quickly sets to work skinning the coyote. He remembers his first hunting trip, how he and his father had hunted muskrats and how his father taught him how to prepare and clean an animal. He quickly cuts open the belly of the coyote and removes the guts. He digs a hole in the earth and shuffles the insides into the hole, burying the future smell. He places the animal upon the spic and sets it over the fire. John lies back and stares into the morning light. He whispers a prayer as the coyote begins to cook.

“Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Let me be able to not give up on what I think is right, even though I think it is hopeless.”

John stares into the morning sky, his rifle held close in his arms.

***

Prince traces his hand through the rough prairie dirt. An imprint of a horse hoof is embedded in the ground. The trail is fresh, no more than a few hours old. Prince lifts his head to the sky, sniffing the air. No smell of fear or hate lingers. John has changed. The sweet smell of roasting flesh meets Prince’s nostrils. The harsh odor of smoke and fire drifts across the sky. Prince’s dead eyes do not allow him to see the rising smoke beyond the small hills but he knows it’s there.

He stands and removes his revolvers, slowly checking the chambers, sliding his fingers across the unused shells. He slaps the chamber back in place and spins it. The dry grass crunches underneath his boots, the sweet smells of fading life rising into the air.

“So close. So close to you, John. Prepare, for I am coming,” Prince whispers, holstering his guns.

Prince smiles and approaches his horse. He opens his saddle and removes the twisted doll, sliding his hand across its perfect eyes. He shakes quietly and puts the doll back, removing a handful of beef jerky. He bites into the dried meat and chews slowly, washing the salty food down with his blood stained canteen. He finishes his light meal and replaces whatever is left.

Prince mounts his horse and feels the ways of the morning sun beat down upon him. Sweat beads grow upon his forehead and slide slowly down his face and neck. He wipes his face and licks his hand, tasting the salty sweat. He grasps the horse’s reign tightly and spurs the animal twice, rushing off towards the rising smoke that drifts high into the sky.

***

John removes his dinner from the spic and tears away a chunk of meat. The cooked coyote meat is rough and dry but filling. John slowly chews his food and watches the fire spark and dance. He swallows and takes another bite. Far off in the distance heat rays waver across the barren ground.
He finishes his meal and wipes his mouth, tossing the spic into the fire. He unbuttons the top of the leather water bag the Cherokee left him and drinks deeply. The heavy flames warm his body, spreading down his skin. He lies back, tipping his hat down to block the sun.

Overhead a crow flies by, cawing wildly. John watches the creature land upon a nearby plant. The creature digs into the ground, upturning the roots in search of worms. The barren land holds no bounty. The crow takes off once more, disappearing in the distance.

John sighs and closes his eyes, listening to the soft rustle of the prairie plants as the breeze blows through the camp. His horse stands still, neighing softly, contently. He watches a soft white cloud drift high above, moving silently across the sky. He closes his eyes and dreams.

***

John is back in the empty hotel room. The bed is messed, strewn across the floor, blood patters the walls. He glances down; his clothes are black and tattered. From the corner of the room a movement echoes. John reaches for his revolver but his holsters are empty. The shadow begins to take shape. John steps back as the figure stands.

“John.”

His reflection stands in the corner. Its figure remains crushed and beaten but portions of its body remain intact, spliced well together. The reflection is strong.

“John, it is time to fight.”
“I have not reached the tall man.”

The figure shakes its head, turning away.

“Another rider approaches.”
“The blind man,” John whispers.
“Yes.”
“How do I fight him?”
“He is strong. Stronger than you alone. But together we are strong. I am weak, but I hold the shattered spark of the riders within me. He approaches. Now is the time to fight.”

John shakes his head.

“How do I know this is true? When will I ever be safe?”
“You have chosen a path meant for the wicked and damned, John, and yet you tread upon the surface as though you belong. You, a pure spirit, fights against all who torture this world. The man who approaches is a tortured soul, yet he remains a tainted man, an evil man. He will kill us, John. You must find the strength within yourself to fight, for now he comes.”

The reflection holds out its arm. In its hand lie John’s silver pistols. They glitter silently in the light of the swinging, dusty bulb. John grasps the weapons, holding them both tightly within his grasp. He feels the cold steel grow warm in his hand. John glances back to his shattered reflection.

“He approaches?”

The reflection nods.

“Then we will meet him when he arrives.”
“You must wake, John, for he is here.”

John nods and holsters the revolvers, grasping the reflection’s hand.

“Very well.”
“Fight hard, John,” the reflection replies, raising its arm.

The reflection grasps the swinging chain connected to the bulb and pulls once. The bulb goes out and the room is blanketed in darkness. John wakes.

***

John lies against the dusty ground, blinking slowly. His head swims. He focuses on his dream. The reflection, what did he say? John blinks off into the light. John’s horse sniffs the air, stomping nervously. Atop the sloping hill a black horse stands, unmoving, waiting for its master.

“No,” John whispers, rolling to the side, his weapons drawn.

A cloud of dust and dirt kicks up as a bullet cracks in the distance. The bullet skids across John's right arm, leaving a deep gash. John leaps to his feet and sprints across the prairie grass, glancing around wildly for cover. A second and third bullet catch the ground at his feet. He fires once in the direction of the shots. Prince returns John's fire with three more whip-like shots. John covers his face as dust splashes his eyes. He dives behind a large chunk of red rock. Two more shots beat the sides of the stone.

John’s heart beats wildly in his ears. He tries to catch his breath, steadying his shaking hands. Blood leaks slowly from his arm. He cocks the hammers on the two pistols and glances slowly around the rock’s side. The prairie seems empty. Prince’s horse stands still. John considers shooting the animal but it will do him no good. His breaths slow and he waits. From beyond the small camp, not far into the tall grass, Prince’s voice emerges, echoing through the dry land.

“I’ve been hunting you, John. I’ve been hunting you many days. Many months. You know who I am, John?”

A shot ricochets off the stone. John swallows and calls back.

“You’re another rider.”
“No! I’m not just another rider. I am a general, a servant of the highest man. I am blind, John, but I see all. I hear your heart beating, taste your fear and smell your sweat. You are no savior. You are nothing but a mere man. Do you hear me!?”

John fires twice over the side of the rock.

“I am no great man, but I fight with honor!” John replies.
“Honor? The code of the riders in nothing but. You would have made a fine fighter, just as your father was, but instead you chose the way of the righteous; the way of the weak!”
“The righteous are not dead!”

John fires two more times. He watches the grass shift slightly and fires once. He quickly snaps the chamber open and empties the spent shells. He reloads slowly, taking his time. Prince fires four more shots, each taking small bits off the rock’s sides.

The wind rushes by Prince’s ear. He keeps still, unmoving, watching John.

“Your father taught you well, but he held back.”
“Paul didn’t.”

John fires again. Prince’s Stetson flies off into the sky. John sits, watching the unmoving field. The wind is dead. He fires twice more. Nothing moves. He slowly makes his way around the rock, keeping his back close against the side. The wind picks up. John glances towards the hill. Prince’s horse has vanished. His own steed stands far off in the distance, frightened by the gunshots.

John slowly advances upon the patch of wild grass, holding his left hand against his bleeding arm while steadying his revolver with his right. The wind stops and no sound resounds from the grass. John breathes slowly, waiting. Prince’s horse has not returned. Suddenly the wind picks up and Prince's Stetson rolls across the dirt. John follows it with his revolver, quickly realizing his mistake.

Prince bursts from the grass, his revolver drawn. John lets his left hand drop from his wounded arm and draws his revolver. Prince stops, his weapon pushed into the side of John’s head. John’s second revolver rests against Prince’s gut.

“I have you,” Prince whispers.
“Yes. And I you.”
“Ah, but you’ve made a mistake, John. For you see, your left revolver is empty.”

John pulls the trigger. A dry click returns.

“It takes far more than a shootout to kill me, John. You should have reloaded both guns.”
“Kill me then,” John replies.
Prince smiles.
“Hand me your revolvers.”
“No.”
“Hand me the revolvers, John.”
“You’ll have to kill me. I’m not surrendering Paul’s guns.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Prince replies.

John stops, confused. The blind rider reaches out and tears the loaded revolver from his hands. He snaps the chamber open and empties the shells on the ground. He snaps the chamber back and hands John the revolver. He raises his revolver in the air and pulls the trigger twice. A shot rings out on the first, the second nothing but a dead click.

“I’m giving you until tomorrow. At dusk, when the sun begins to fall from the sky. Head into the next town and wait for me there. Clean up, rest, fight, screw, I don’t care. Just be ready for me.”

“What?”

“And don’t try to run. I caught you when you had a two day head start; I will find you again. We’ll finish this then.”

John stands and glances down at the glittering pistols in his hands.

“Why-?” John begins.

“Why? Because, you are the greatest foe I’ve ever faced. I’ve fought stronger men, wiser men, older men, but none have held the same fire and drive as you. You’ve cost me quite a bit, John, more than you know, but I’m not about to end this because of a slight of hand trick. When we face each other we will face like men and only one will walk away.”

John holsters his pistols. He stares into Prince’s scarred eyes.

“I can still see, John. I can see darkness. I can see the black that encompasses the entire world, the filth that surrounds the empty hearts of men. I see far more than any man. I even see you. I see the dark void of hatred that has filled your mind. Yet it fades. It dies. Do not let the hate cloud your mind. Do not let it encompass your soul, for if you do you shall become like me. You shall become a keeper of eternal hellfire, a rider forever lost in the night.”

Prince holsters his revolver and whistles. His horse cries off in the distance. John watches the stallion gallop over the hill and down the slope, rushing towards its master. Prince takes hold of the steed’s reins and pets the horse twice. He mounts the steed and stares down at John.

“You’re a mighty man, John, even for one so young. But even the mighty fall. I have been given a job and I shall fulfill it. But not this way. I’ll fight you the way true men fight, facing each other and staring down death’s barrel. Death is coming, John. Death is coming for one of us. I’d say pray that it isn’t you but that wouldn’t do any good. We both know how this will end. I suggest we both make our peace with life. For death is coming, John, and he’s riding a flaming horse. We can’t escape the beast, but we can make our stand against it.”

Prince raises the reins and the horse leaps up, turning in the air.

“Tomorrow at sunset, John. I will be waiting. I’ll find you and come calling, I suggest you be ready.”

Prince laughs and spurs the horse twice. The horse cries and gallops off into the distance, over the rising hill. John watches until Prince is gone, then he turns and heads back to his camp.

***

Prince rides for some time before he brings his horse to a stop. He dismounts, his body shaking, his back drenched with sweat. He paces quickly through the dirt.

“I am no mere man. I am no mere man,” he whispers, chanting wildly in his mind.

Far ahead a vulture lands upon a cactus shrub. It cocks its head, watching him with quiet interest. It shrieks once and steadies itself, its eyes blazing with hunger. Prince smells the rotting smell of death upon its beak.

“Leave me, demon,” Prince whispers, “I command thee.”

The vulture ruffles its feathers and squawks, oblivious to Prince’s threats. Prince removes his revolver and steadies his shaking hand. The barrel glitters in the sunlight, its black form polished and strong. Prince trains the weapon upon the bird’s stench. He squeezes the trigger. A dry click returns. He never reloaded.

The vulture shrieks again and spreads its wings, taking off into the sky. Prince’s eyes open wide and he hurls the black gun to the ground, kicking the dirt and screaming.

“Damn you! Damn you, vile creature! Leave me! Leave me! Leave my mind! Get out of my mind!”

He stumbles to his horse and quickly undoes the leather strap on one of his supply bags. He removes the broken doll with the perfect eyes and caresses it slowly, whispering to it.

“I am no mere man. I am no mere man. I am no mere man...”

***

John gathers his goods and places them in his saddle bags. He removes both revolvers and slides the chambers open, loading them quickly. He snaps them back and holsters them.

The brown rifle lies by the fire, glittering in the light. John approaches the dying fire and stoops to pick it up. He holds it tightly in his hands and turns back, sliding it into the holster that hangs from the saddle. John kicks his boot into the earth, tossing dirt and sand upon the fire until it is completely dead. He places his hat back upon his head, pushing it down, against the sun. He mounts the horse and rides off, looking back to watch the camp as it slowly dwindles into nothingness.

The wind is quiet. No animals call out from the prairie as John passes the rising hill. Prince and his horse are nowhere in sight. John continues down the hill, the horse bucking and neighing, its brown legs beating against his legs. Its body, covered by war paint, glistens in the sun.

Far beyond the desert earth lies the top of the town of Haven. John can make out the writing upon the molted wood sign that stands high above the earth. John rides towards another unknown place, a place which holds the key to life and death. John remains still as he slows the horse a stop, staring down at the small town. He breaths deeply, watching the passing clouds. The faces of all the dead flash before his eyes. John’s hands tighten upon the rein.

“This is for you,” he whispers and is off, rushing towards the nearing town.