Animal (Chapter 13 - Part 1)

John enters Haven. A large sign on rusted hinges rocks with the wind as he passes beneath. The town is not unlike the others, half empty and quiet. No church towers over the structures. The largest building is the tavern which lies beaten and ancient, hidden in the corner of the settlement. He dismounts and heads towards the establishment guiding the animal alongside. He removes rag from his bloodstained shoulder, checking its condition. The bleeding has stopped, the wound inconsequential. He stuffs the makeshift tourniquet into his back pocket.
He comes to a stop outside the tavern and ropes his horse to the hitching post outside, leaving it to drink from the water trough. The beast gorges itself upon dirty water mixed with sand and straw, eyes closed and tongue lapping. John makes his way up the steps and into the building.
More people than one would expect crowd the interior. Four men sit and play poker, shooting each other narrowed glances and flicking chips into the pot. They set their cards down and study the newcomer, suspicious eyes shifting beneath grime covered brows. John tips his hat. The men shrug and return to their game.
A young woman close to John’s age sits at a table counting her money. She sifts her purse with a look of discontent, then sighs and returns the money to her purse.
Her icy eyes turn upon John. Blonde hair cascades across her shoulders. Full, red lips shine. She’s beautiful; dressed in a burlesque outfit, legs covered by dark stockings, a deep violet corset tied around her waist. Her face is powdered but John imagines she looks just a majestic underneath; voice is sensual, confident and strong, but it masks something.
“You need company, mister?”
John shakes his head and mumbles a response as he passes.
“No, miss.”
Two fire-haired men, one lanky and the other massive, drink from chipped mugs, trading jokes and roaring with laughter. The giant rubs his hand across his bald head. His crude jokes carry through the tavern on booming voice. His lanky friend snickers and glances back at John, sharing with him a crooked smile.
The bartender watches John’s approach as he pours a ration of whiskey for the sulking elderly man that sits up front. He dons a clean white shirt and everyday work pants. A pair of wireframe glasses balances upon the tip of his nose, lacking a nose bridge on one side. He pushes the frame back up and draws a fresh glass.
John takes a seat. The drunk beside him looks up from his glass. His body sags with age, back twisted from labors long passed. He studies John for some time, eyes squinted as though searching. He finally turns away, reaches for his whiskey, and drains the glass.
“Can I help you?” the bartender asks.
“I need to speak with the innkeeper.”
“You’re looking at him.”
“You’re both?”
“That’s right,” the bartender says, wiping a rag against his leg, “not much help around here. People seem to spend money far more often than earn it, not that I’m complaining.”
John nods. He removes his Stetson and sets it aside.
“I need a room.”
“You have cash?”
“Of course.”
“Then you get a room.”
The bartender opens a cupboard behind the bar. A collection of keys hangs from a nail buried in the wood. The barkeep removes one and shuts the case. He turns and extends an open hand towards John, key resting atop his palm. John reaches to take it. The bartender’s body tenses. He doesn’t release. He nods towards the dried blood on John’s arm. His focus travels down to the revolvers at his side.
“You in some kind of trouble, boy?” he asks, drawing back his hand.
“Name’s John. You can call me that, or mister, or sir, but please don’t call me ‘boy’.”
“You in some kind of trouble, ‘mister’?”
“Nothing serious.”
“Depends what your definition of serious is. See we don’t get much trouble in this town, the occasional bar fight but not much else. So I’ll ask you again, are you trouble?”
John pulls the room key from his hand.
“Not me, but the man who’s after me is.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“If I leave he’ll burn this town, wouldn’t be the first either. He’s a Rider, and not one of the new breed.”
The bartender’s eyes widen. The color drains from his face.
“A Rider’s after you?” he asks.
“And I’m after another.”
“What makes you think you stand a chance?”
John draws one of his revolvers, his other hand held up as a sign of peace, and sets it on the table. The drunk beside him straightens. His eyes lock upon the silver weapon. He sways in his seat but his focus never wavers.
“You see this gun?” John asks, “It belonged to an old Rider. He trained me. I’m the best man for this.”
“You’re young.”
“So were the first Riders and they ruled this land.”
“Who hunts you?” the bartender asks, downing the rest of his glass with a shaky hand.
“A man with scarred eyes.”
The man beside John coughs, spitting whiskey back into his cup.
“Prince?” he sputters.
“You know him?”
“Yes. Oh yes. He lived here.”
“What?” John asks.
“When he was a boy. I was the bartender of this tavern.”
“He lived here?”
The drunk nods. “Yes. I worked here serving drinks for many years. This is my son,” he says, pointing to the bartender.
The young man shrugs and pats his father’s arm. The elder continues.
“His mother worked here as a whore. We were supposed to call them working girls but she was nothing like that, nothing like the girl we have now. She had a young boy, beautiful lad. I felt sorry for him. His mother brought the worst kind of filth with her. They hurt and beat on both her and her son but she never lifted a finger against them. One day, a drunk cut the kid up, cut him real bad. I pulled him from the boy. Cost me a piece of my nose to do it.”
He turns his head to reveal a scar that travels up from his right nostril. A chunk misses from the tip.
“I thought that was the end of it. The boy was blind, his eyes slashed open. Nowhere else was he harmed. I cared for him till the bleeding stopped. That night the boy snuck out of the tavern and found the man, slit his throat from ear to ear. Never knew how he did it. No one could prove anything but I knew he’d done the deed. I didn’t care either, the bastard deserved it. Prince stayed until he was thirteen. His mother died that year of pneumonia. Then one day he just left, no note or anything, just disappeared.”
He finishes his story and signals for a refill on his glass.
“And he’s coming?”
John nods.
“When will he be here?” the bartender asks.
“Tomorrow. Sunset. I fight him then.”
The drunk reaches out and takes hold of John’s arm. His eyes have changed, no longer cross and shaken but narrowed and clear.
“You need help,” he says.
“I have to face him alone.”
John lays a bill upon the table. The barkeep stares at it for some time. He looks as though he has something to say, but he doesn't say it. He scrapes the money off the counter and pockets it.
“That should cover the cost of the room for tonight.”
“You want some company?” the bartender asks, nodding in the direction of the girl.
“I’m fine.”
“Very well. It’s nice to meet you, John. I’m Billy,” he says, shaking a thumb in the drunk’s direction, “This old coot here is Jed.”
The group exchanges handshakes. John pushes himself from the bar and heads for the stairs. On reaching his door he leans over the second floor railing and peers down over the bustle below. The girl in violet stares upwards, watching him as he watches her. She turns and the moment passes.

* * *

Prince rests upon his horse, listening to the bustle of the town ahead. Despite many years having passed he still recognizes the smells and sounds of his old home. He dismounts and squats in the dirt.
“Is it fate? Is it destiny that I return to very place I was born, possibly to die? Coincidence is for the haughty and the naïve, this was your plan all along. Do you watch? Is my filthy whore mother there with you, watching and laughing and joking, sharing your delight in my pain?”
He lies back, staring into the sky, seeing only darkness. From his wrapped, four fingered hand comes pain, constant pain. The vulture cries from unknown origin.
“You dare to torment me so but you will not laugh forever. I am not a fly upon the wall. I am no mere insect. I am Death. I am the bringer of destruction and chaos. And you, Father, shall not stop me. You shall not beat me. For as long as I am here I shall fight you. As long as I live you will hold nothing over me. Now is my time. I plan to embrace it.”
Prince’s haunted cackle rises through the field.

* * *

The room is cozy, small but civilized. John sits upon the bed. The hinges squeak beneath his weight. Outside, the afternoon sun roars high. He removes his boots and shuts the curtains, dimming the sunlight that streams through. A poorly rolled cigarette sits on a dresser, an apparent gift for guests. John lifts the stick and sets a match to it. The paper burns quick and he coughs from the unaccustomed flavor. He breathes out, letting the thick smoke filter through the cracked window. He stubs the cigarette out on his tongue in mimic of the trick his father taught him, then tosses the stick into a trash bin.
John removes a bottle of whiskey from his bag followed by bandages and strips of cloth. Clutching the medical supplies under one arm and the bottle firmly in his free hand, he enters the bathroom.
John stares into the mirror and removes his shirt. His lightly tanned chest contrasts with his bright, sunburned neck. He pops the cap off the whiskey and pours the contents across his gash, grunting from the pain while his arm spasms beneath burning purification. He wraps a new strip of cloth around his wound and ties it. He observes his reflection a moment longer, yet again transformed, before exiting the bathroom.
John sits upon the edge of the bed and lies back against the firm mattress. He stares up at the ceiling and counts the holes in the wood. No sounds rise from the floor below. The pain in his shoulder has duller. He turns on his good side and closes his eyes, letting himself fall into slumber, the one place he hopes he is safe.

* * *

The fields are burning. Screams of unknown souls echo in the night. John stands alone in the middle of the cornfield. Sweat from the raging heat dampens his face. A child lies among the stalks. A bullet hole bores its way into the middle of his forehead leaving the back of his skull spewed across the earth. From the cornrows The Tall Man emerges atop a midnight horse.
“Hello John.”
“You—“
“Getting acquainted with another member of the deceased? I’m sure you’ll make friends quickly.”
“You bastard.”
“Even now death affects you,” The Tall Man says, “Open your eyes. You have only seen the power of death a short time, try living with it. Try seeing hundreds die before your eyes. Try waking every morning knowing you will murder an innocent. You grow to accept it. You grow to enjoy it.”
John spits in the dirt at the Rider’s feet. The Tall man laughs.
“So much fire in you! You’d have made one hell of a Rider. Such a shame you chose the so-called ‘righteous path’, that is if you truly think what you do is righteous.”
“I do.”
The Tall Man leans against his horse and tips his hat. A snakelike smile slithers across his lips.
“How many have you killed? How many more are you going to kill? Think of all who’ve lost their lives to you, some not even by your hand. Take the young worker boy. You gave him false hope, hope that he would escape his torture. If it weren’t for you he would not be buried. What of Selina and her troop, do you think Prince let them live? If you hadn’t been hunting me none of them would have died. You’re no better than I.”
John stands his ground. He tries to hide his fear but his legs threaten to buckle underneath.
“You’re a liar.”
“They’re dead, John!” The Tall Man screams, “They’re all dead!”
John reaches for his revolver. The Tall Man pulls first.
John stumbles back with the blast. Blood spills from his chest. He spits forth a mouthful of the blood that drowns his lungs. The Tall Man shoots him twice in the gut. He sinks to his knees and falls to the earth, eyes wide and staring.