Animal (Chapter 14 - Part 2)

Prince enters Haven. His horse slows to a trot as he navigates the twisting roads. He breathes John’s scent, taking in the aromas of the town. He passes a closed butcher’s window. The harsh smell of dead meat, rotting and fresh, meets his nostrils. He trudges on.
No one roams the barren streets. It’s as if its inhabitants foresee the violence that shall soon spread throughout the land, smell the blood not yet spilt. Prince takes a left and approaches the building where John’s scent is strongest.
Prince dismounts and guides his horse to the hitching pole. The sun has begun to set, slipping beyond the horizon. Hues of wild color peak along the horizon. Prince knows that he will never again see a sunset, has known for many years, yet the memory of their beauty still haunts him. He mounts the steps and shuffles his way into the tavern.
Billy waits behind the bar wiping down a shot glass and studying the new arrival. An extensive row of liquor bottles stand behind him carefully arranged with their labels facing out. The individual odors of each container reach out to Prince. He breathes their intoxicating aroma, mixed with the faint scent of dried blood and soap, and pulls his Stetson down over his eyes as he makes his way to the bar. He takes his seat and taps his finger twice upon the counter.
“What can I get you, mister?” Billy asks.
“Whiskey. Two glasses.”
Billy nods and disappears under the bar. He comes up with a bottle of clear yellow liquid. He pops the cap and pours the liquor into a pair of dried glasses, then pushes then towards the stranger.
Prince pulls one glass forward and dunks his wrapped hand into its contents with a sigh. Billy stares.
“Recent injury,” the Rider explains.
Prince sloshes the whiskey in the cup. He places it to his cheek and shudders, eyes closed, the glass cool against his skin.
“Looks like you boys had a fight here not too long ago.”
Billy glances up from the bar and meets Prince’s off center gaze.
“How’d you know?” he asks.
“Call it intuition.”
“Intuition."
The Rider nods. His server speaks.
“Looks like you had a little brawl yourself.”
“Funny.”
Prince tips his head back and drains the glass in one smooth motion. He gasps from the strength and wipes his lips, taking a moment to recover.
“I’m looking for a man,” he says as he sets the empty glass down.
“Everybody’s looking for something.”
“Cute, but I’m not in need of company. The man I search for is an outlaw. His name is John. He’s here, I’m sure you know that.”
Billy swallows hard. “No one here by that name.”
“Don’t be coy. I’ve searched the roads, every inch of this piss-water town, and I’ve found his scent. He is here. Now for your own safety I suggest you hand over the keys to his room lest I take them by force.”
Billy’s hand drifts below the bar, reaching for the shotgun hidden behind the whiskey bottles. Prince raises his head. He removes his bullet shredded hat and tosses it on the adjacent barstool. His dead eyes lock upon the bartender.
“Don’t do it.”
Billy grasps the handle of the weapon. Prince pulls his revolver and fires through the top of the bar, sending forth a haze of splintered wood. The gunshot’s power is matched only by the intensity of Billy’s shrieks as he stumbles back clutching his bloodied hand. A large, ragged hole bores into the center of his palm. Blood fountains down his arm. His cheeks drain of color. He pulls a rag out from a nearby cabinet to wrap his wound, grunting and spitting forth a slew of unintelligible curses.
Prince stares down at the powerless dog, his manic grin wide.
“Where is John?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about—” Billy mutters.
One of the bottles above the bar bursts in a cloud of liquor and shining glass. The alcohol drips down over Billy’s body. He covers his face with his hands, protecting himself from the falling shards.
“Where is John?” Prince repeats.
“Go to Hell.”
Prince fires again, shattering a second bottle. Billy sputters as the warm liquid stains his clothes. Blood mixes with alcohol in a pool beneath his feet. Prince lets out a harsh cackle.
“Pray,” he whispers.
Billy stares up at the wrath with confused eyes.
“Wha…what?”
“Pray for your salvation!” Prince shouts, pulling the trigger and sending down another torrent.
The Rider draws his second revolver. Billy huddles against the bar, his pale, trembling form turned away from his tormentor. Blood drips from the crimson soaked tourniquet. He slowly recites the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our father, who art in heaven—”
“Louder!”
“Hallowed be thy name—”
“Pray!”
Prince fires three times. Three more containers burst in a spray of glass. Billy weeps through his words.
“Thy kingdom come!” he screams and stops, unable to continue, paralyzed by fear.
Prince holsters his empty revolver. He removes a matchbook from his breast pocket and pulls out a single match, striking the head into a steady blaze. Billy glances up at the flame. His eyes open wide. He stares down at his whiskey soaked hands and mouths a quiet plea for mercy.
“Thy will be done,” Prince says, raising the match high.
“Stop!”
Prince turns toward the familiar voice. Jed stands beside the bar with rifle raised. His gnarled hands clasp tight around its trigger. He shakes with age and fear and rage.
“Drop the match, Thomas. Blow it out and step away from my son.”
The blind Rider glances from the bleeding bartender to his father.
“This worm is your son?” he asks, motioning to the whimpering man.
“Enough.”
“This sniveling creature is the fruit of your loins? God, you must feel so much shame.”
“He turned out a far greater man than you.”
Prince’s smile fades. His voice deepens, lost of its former glee. The tip of the match flame meets his fingers but he pays it no heed.
“I remember you, Jed. I’ve not forgotten. You cared so much for me. Compassion was always your weakness, your curse. You would have made a great Rider, a strong man.”
“Strong? You call yourself strong? A murderer of the innocent?”
“That’s enough—” Prince spits.
“A worthless byproduct of sin.”
“Enough.”
Prince lifts the match. He trains his revolver upon the father.
“Mark my words; you will watch your son burn.”
A shot rings out. No blood spills. Jed and Prince’s weapons remain unfired, their hammers still cocked.
John makes his way down the steps. Chunks of wood rain down from the hole in the ceiling where his warning shot struck. Prince’s smile returns.
“John, I thought you’d never make it.”
“Blow out the match, Prince, or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
“Such a hard heart you have, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It died long ago, now blow out the match.”
Prince sighs, staring down at the shaking bartender with a forlorn expression, and extinguishes the match. The head sizzles in a plume of smoke. He lets the blackened stump fall.
Jed drops his rifle and races to where his son lays, gathering him up in his arms, removing the soaked rag and replacing it with another. Prince listens to the man comfort his son.
“Such sweet sentiment,” he mocks.
Prince passes through the tavern exit, the small door swinging in his wake. He calls out to John from the empty street.
“Come now. Let this end.”
John nods and approaches the door. Jane exits John’s room and runs down the stairs. She overtakes John and pulls him back, beating his chest with her delicate hands.
“Don’t do this,” she begs, hair tangled and eyes red.
“I must.”
“Please don’t. I can’t lose another person I love, please!”
John’s throat pulls tight. He forces himself to speak.
“I must.”
“He’ll kill you!”
“I will be with my Rose.”
Jane’s eyes leak silver tears. Her body shakes with emotion, voice wracked with harsh sobs. John tries to comfort her but she pushes him back in her desperation, still keeping a firm grasp on his wrist.
“Please.”
“I’m sorry,” John says.
John turns. His hand slips from Jane’s grasp. Outside, sand drifts outside along an empty road. Wind howls. He hurls the memories of loved ones aside, clearing his mind, and rests his hand upon the shaky door handle.
John exits the tavern. The wane moon shifts overhead as the last rays of sunlight die. A chill travels through the town. John marches to the center of the road and faces the Rider. The two stand a short distance from each other. Prince watches him with shallow eyes.
“Are you ready?”
Prince stares at his rival, his dead eyes focused intently upon the slow shudder of John’s heartbeat. He shifts against the loose dirt and raises his head to the clouds. He breathes deep, feeling the breeze ruffle his tangled hair. His hand drifts slowly down and comes to a stop beside his revolver, hovering inches over its handle.
John remains steady. His eyes lock upon the tortured soul. Miniscule dustbowls twirl behind him, the sole sign of movement in the street. The world is silent. His mind clears, blocking out all sound. His hand rests upon his weapon. The cold steel burns against his palm. His eyes are ready, ears deaf. He doesn’t hear Jane’s approach. She bursts through the tavern entrance, Jed’s rifle clutched in her delicate hands, and leaps down the steps.
The wind dies. The two draw. The rifle fires.
Prince twists with the force of the blast that catches his shoulder. He squeezes off a single shot in reflex, bullet piercing the young girl’s heart.
Jane’s body rocks with the impact. The rifle falls. She catches hold of John and clutches his frame, arms locked around his shoulders. Her back spasms and she stiffens against him, breathing in a harsh intake of air which she lets out in a slow burst. Her eyes cloud and she falls limp in his arms. John holds her close. He hears nothing. He can’t hear Billy and Jed as they shout from the doorway, can’t hear his own cries. He raises his weapon.
Prince feels the last heartbeat fade. He stands immobile, lost in the surreal haze of fate. By the time he realizes his mistake, John has already fired. He stumbles back as the bullet buries itself in his chest. Blood spreads across his shirt. He gasps for air that will not come. His revolver leaves his hand.
John sinks to his knees holding Jane’s limp body in his arms. No breathes issue from her slender frame, the blinding light her eyes once held forever faded. He kisses her forehead and lays her down, then casts his gaze upon Prince. His tear-stained eyes shine in the shadow of the new moon.
Prince turns from him and traces the path back to his horse. John follows. The Rider does not draw his second gun. He has no tricks. He undoes his belt and lets his holsters fall.
Prince strokes his horse’s side and unbuttons the saddle bag, pulling the china doll from its depths. He smiles and clutches the doll to his chest, breathing in wet, choking gasps. He removes the reins and saddle from the horse’s back. The creature blinks stupidly, neighing and nuzzling his shoulder, unable to understand its master’s pain. Prince smacks the animal’s side and it takes off, disappearing around the corner. Prince places his hand against the tavern’s side and slides to the ground, his back to the hard planks.
John stands over the Rider. He lowers his weapon. No fear remains. The blind man stares up at him, dead eyes focused not upon the boy’s heart but meeting his gaze. The two watch one another, speaking without words.
Prince breaks the connection. He holds the doll to his chest and slides his bloodied hand across its perfect, untouched eyes.
“I…am man. Noth—nothing more.”
A smile splays across the Rider’s face. He closes his eyes and finally embraces the darkness that has hunted him for so long. His hands fall and the child’s toy tumbles from his arms.
John stares down at the dead Rider. Jed and Billy call out to him. They kneel beside Jane’s lifeless body crying out for some sense of hope. John holsters his revolver and turns away from Prince, leaving his corpse behind, ready to comfort the grieving tavern owner and his son.

* * *

The Tall Man stands still, his weapon trained upon the pitiful deserter. He feels a sudden weight lifted from him, like an anchor snapping away and plunging to the bottom of the deep sea, leaving a boat to tremble before the might of a coming storm.
Prince is dead, The Tall Man knows it. He feels his general fade from this world, his golden string at last cut. He’s lost not only a general, a right hand man, but also a friend. The one man who knew him, knew what he truly was, the full extent of his being, is now lost. The Tall Man stares with glazed eyes past the porch entrance at the desert beyond.
The man below him moans pitiful pleas. Tears and snot spill down his face. He weeps with ragged, choked sounds, hands held up in useless defense. He looks to the compassionless faces of the Riders who feast upon his torment. Only The Tall Man averts his gaze.
The runaway lunges forward and grasps the bottom of The Tall Man’s shirt in his filthy hands.
“Please,” he begs, “please don’t kill me. Please, I beg you.”
“Go.”
The runaway stares up at the Rider.
“What?”
“Go,” The Tall Man repeats.
The runaway leaps to his feet and scurries down the hallway, pushing his way through the crowd of men. He turns and takes one last glance at the mangled bodies of his brother’s family, the people who took him in, then scrambles out the front door and down the porch steps.
The Riders stand motionless, eyes upon their leader, struck dumb by this act of mercy. A foolish guard breaks the silence. His brilliant white teeth sparkle in the glow of the hallway light.
“That’s it, sir? You’re just letting him go?”
The Tall Man turns in one smooth motion, drawing his revolver without warning, and fires. The Rider’s shining teeth shatter in a burst as the bullet exits through the mouth. A gurgle escapes his lips and he plummets to the floor, body convulsing. The men watch until he lies still. A puddle of black blood grows.
The Tall Man holsters his revolver and steps over the Rider’s corpse, pausing a moment to observe. The dead man’s eyes are flung open, his face frozen in a look of humorous shock. His front teeth are missing, their remains implanted in the wall beyond. The Tall Man turns and makes his way through the hallway and out onto the porch. The runaway has vanished. The Rider mounts his horse and takes off, his men watching him from the doorway, frozen where they stand.

* * *

John kneels before a wooden cross. His shirt flutters under his vest, holding fast against the savage wind. Jed and Billy stand over Jane’s grave, the clothes they don mismatched, hastily thrown together in search for something appropriate. John crosses his heart and whispers a prayer beneath his breath. He grasps the crucifix that hangs from his neck and pulls it away, laying it in the dirt where Jane rests. He leans forward and rubs his hand along the cross planted in the soil, then stands.
Jed and Billy follow in his wake as he passes through the field to where his horse waits. His hands brush the leather satchel and he pulls the straps tight. He sets about tying the knots, immersing himself in the work.
He does not weep. He does not flee from the memories. Instead, he lets the woman go, lets her embrace the light beyond. Jed places a hand upon his shoulder.
“You made her happy. In all the years I’d known Jane, she’d never been so alive as when you were here. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, I couldn’t save her.”
Jed shakes his head. “You’re wrong, John. You touched her, just as you touched our lives. We owe you.”
“We owe her. She gave her life for us. I won’t forget that. It’s the least I can do, the least she deserves.”
John smiles and faces the withered tavern owner. He grasps Jed’s hand in his own and shakes, taking Billy’s in turn.
“I’ll miss your company,” Jed says.
“And I yours.”
John pulls his hat down and mounts his horse. He pauses beside Jane’s grave, speaking his respects, and continues on. His horse takes off at a steady gallop. John glances back and watches the two figures until they fade from sight, disappearing into the darkness beneath the evening moon.