Animal (Chapter 10 - Part 1)

John leans against a crowded booth. Children gather round its front where a young man performs an elaborate puppet show. A valiant knight donning a cloak of blue wields a papier-mâché sword. From behind the booth a dragon of violent crimson makes its rise, clumsy wings flapping with the up and down motions of the puppeteer’s hand. The knight’s sword is torn away and all hope seems lost. Suddenly, a second set of hands join the knight, each finger equipped with a single warrior. Together, with the new force, the knight overwhelms the dragon. The children cheer.
John waves a hand to Mal and Cyrus who sit walk side by side before parting to their respective booths. Cyrus offers a wave in return, Mal a slight nod. Michael’s unnaturally loud voice booms over the roar of the crowd, drawing attention to the show’s various attractions. Harrison passes between booths with the same splintered bat at his side.
He passes to the opposite side of the road where food stands operate. A boy with baggy pants slips alongside the edge of a fruit stand, his back to the distracted operator. As he shifts slowly to the right each pile of fruit he crosses grows slightly smaller. He stops and eyes John. John lifts his brow and shakes his head. The kid shoots him a sly smile and edges back the way he came, returning the stolen goods to their respectful place.
The boy joins up with a girl with the same shade of hair as he, sister perhaps, and glances back to the guard who watches him still. The girl reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of fruit. John chuckles at the distraction. The two take off.
“Remind you of anyone? Couple of tricksters?”
John lifts his head at the voice. A familiar one.
“Samuel?”
He scans the area, eyes darting from face to face; none familiar to him. His hand instinctively drops to his side.
“Rule one, John, always watch your back.”
John turns with the warning, but Samuel isn’t there. He can’t be there. Only a crowd of traders and customers. Men, women, and children. From behind the smith’s booth there comes a man in black. A poncho covers his lanky form, a black Stetson shields his scarred face, but his revolvers hang in plain sight.
The man stops. He turns towards John. His head lifts back and he sniffs the air. Dead eyes lock upon their pray. The two men’s hands drop to their sides and close around their weapons. Fingers tighten against their triggers.
Suddenly, a figure collides with John, wrapping him in a bear hug and laughing hysterically.
“How’s the watch?”
John pushes Michael away and turns back to the booth. The Rider has vanished. He curses under his breath.
“Where are you?” he whispers, frantically searching the crowd.
“You alright, John?” Michael asks, face lit with joy, oblivious to the gravity in the new guard’s voice.
John turns to meet Michael. The carnie’s eyes catch sight of the revolver in John’s pale hand. The smile vanishes from his face.
“I need to see Boss. Now.”

* * *

“A Rider. He’s here and he’s looking for me.”
Boss lies down his mallet and stands from the half-repaired wagon wheel. He flexes his hands and marches to the pens without a word to John. John follows, jogging to keep up with the giant’s stride.
“Uriah, run ahead and get the horse ready. Michael, keep watch for the man, shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Both men nod and take off at a sprint passing both John and Boss as they round the corner and disappear into the crowd.
“We’re ready for him.”
“No,” John replies, “there’s something different about this one. He was looking for me, I could tell, which means he was sent by Varlyn with purpose. He’s not the kind of man you cross.”
“Neither am I.”
“You leave him to me, Boss.”
The two make their way through the swell of patrons, watchful for any signs of the hunter amongst them. Far out the Alexander’s tent lies lonely and forgotten. The coffin maker stands at the entrance, leaning back against a support pole. He catches sight of Boss and John and straightens. John glances over and the two share a nod, then he returns back into his tent.
Ahead the stables stand. Harrison tightens the saddle around the new horse and preps the few feed bags attached.
“You running?” he asks.
“If I’m not here then that means no harm will come to you or your group.”
“Smart man.”
Boss turns and stuffs a handful of bills in John’s shirt pocket.
“I feel like I don’t deserve this.”
“You don’t,” Boss replies, “but I like you so I’m giving it to you. Now head through Larrity, John, then cut round west towards Haven and hit the Black Rail. You’ll lose a day or two, but you’ll get there. Hard to weed out a man whose tracks are covered by an entire town.”
John grabs hold of Boss’s arm. His hand fits barely halfway around the giant’s bicep, yet he holds tight. The two lock eyes.
“If he questions you, you send him after me, Boss, you understand? Don’t you try and protect me, not at your own risk. Delay him, trick him, give him the run around to give me a head start if you want, but you send him after me. I’m not letting any more of you get hurt.”
“Time for you to ride, John,” the giant replies.
The horse stands ready. Harrison slips a rifle into the holster that hangs from the animal’s side. His eyes track the area. Still no sign of the Rider. John pulls himself up into the saddle and grasps the reins in hand. He never takes his eyes off the giant.
“Do we understand each other?”
Boss nods.
“Say goodbye to the others for me.”
John spurs the horse’s side and takes off from the road, past the tents and wagons and customers and salesman, away from the strange world he lived so briefly, and back into the plains.
Boss watches the young man until he’s gone. He turns to Harrison, who’s stood in silence the entire time.
“Warn the others. We’ve got violence coming.”

* * *

Boss sits alone in his tent. Beyond the flaps the world roars. Silhouettes dance and twist in the light against the fabric that composes his home. He reaches behind his back and withdraws the hatchet from its sheath. Its tip shines, honed to a fine point by a master’s touch. He runs a finger over the handle, counting the notches. Each indentation brings back its own face. He reaches the final two, one for each man he’d felled the night before.
The light shifts. A shadow passes over the giant’s cot. Harrison stands at the tent entrance.
“Got reports from Michael and Mal. Two hours in, still no sign of the man.”
“He’s there,” Boss replies.
“Of course.”
Harrison acts as if about to leave but catches himself. Hesitancy overshadows the brashness that normally pervades his voice.
“Boss?”
“Uriah.”
“Permission to speak?”
“You never needed it before.”
Harrison swallows hard and takes a step forward.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doing what?” Boss asks.
“Don’t play dumb, Boss, it doesn’t suit you. Why are we helping him? Why not just find the Rider and send him after John?”
“You could do that, Uriah? Send Death after a man?”
“If it means sparing Selina or Michael or Alexander from the wrath of someone bred to kill, of course I could.”
Boss sighs. He runs his hands over the dome of skin surrounding his skull. Thin hairs tickle his palms. He rises from his cot and returns the weapon to its sheath, ignoring the concerned gaze of his protégé.
“That’s how we’re different.”
“Don’t give me that, Boss,” Harrison replies, shifting into the opening and blocking the giant’s path, “It’s not like either of us are clean of sin.”
Boss raises up his massive arms and locks hands around the carnie’s shoulders. He squeezes gently, the way a father would comfort his son.
“That’s exactly why we need to do this.”
“Someone’ll get hurt and over what, a two-day security man? He helped us save my sister, Boss, but he’s not a saint. We gave him a horse, supplies, a rifle. Haven’t we done enough?”
Boss pulls Harrison forward. His massive forehead rests against Harrison’s. The two lock eyes.
“He’s one of us,” he whispers.
“If something happens, it’s on you.”
“I know.”
The giant slaps his friend on the cheek and pushes him aside, exiting the tent. Harrison stands unmoving but a few seconds before he mutters a curse and follows suit.

* * *

“Come on up, gentlemen, ladies, boys and girls! I’ve got an aid for every illness big and small.”
Cyrus stands behind his booth and preaches to a gathering of curious onlookers.
“You got arthritis, miss, I can tell,” Cyrus says to an elderly woman at the front of the assembly, “Had it myself too. Painful aches, terrible aches, and not deserving of a woman still as spry and, may I say, beautiful looking as yourself.”
The woman blushes and joins several other elderly women in a fit of giggles. Their husbands appear less amused. Cyrus winks.
“That’s right, arthritis ain’t nothing to laugh about, but it will be once you take a sip of this miracle elixir, which I offer up to you. With a small fee, of course.”
“You got anything that’ll stop a man from lying through his teeth?”
Cyrus looks up. Prince stands before him. He smiles and removes the hat from his forehead, pushing back a strand of hair from his dead eyes. He flashes a slick, toothy grin.
“Less you got a ‘cure’ for my predicament.”
Cyrus’s cool smile vanishes from his lips. He scans the crowd for any sign of Michael or Mal. Nothing. He clears his throat and resumes the act, but a sliver of fear remains in his voice.
“Of course, good sir. Like I said, I have a cure for any ailment. However, your ailment, as much as I’d love to fix it, does not appear of, how do I say this…natural causes.”
Prince whoops and wraps his arm around the elderly woman Cyrus complimented. The older man steps forward but Prince shoots him a cold stare. The man glances down at the revolver at his side and backs away. Several customers exit the scene.
“Tell me, miss, what’s that old saying about customers and how they’re always…what is it? Slips my mind.”
“Right?”
“That’s it! The customer’s always right,” Prince laughs, releasing his hold and turning back to Cyrus, “except when they’re not.”
Prince snatches a bottle from Cyrus’s booth top and pops the cap. He raises it to his nose and inhales deep.
“Lavender…eucalyptus…least you put in some effort. I half-expected horse piss.”
Cyrus opens his mouth but no words exit. His eyes catch sight of Michael and Mal, who approach from behind, passing slowly to the front of the remaining customers. Michael speaks.
“Sir? I need you to set the bottle down and come with me and my associate.”
The last of the customers exit from the booth, leaving Cyrus, Mal, and Michael alone with the Rider. Prince drops the uncapped bottle down onto the booth, letting it spill out.
“Oops,” he mutters, “how clumsy. How much do I owe you?”
Cyrus glances back to Mal. The fire breather nods.
“T…two dollars.”
“Good price; seems the cure for any illness costs about as much as a decent whore for a night. Now that’s a bargain.”
Prince glances back at Michael.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
His hand drops to his side. Michael draws his knife. Mal’s torch ignites. Prince wags his finger from side to side, passing his revolver and digging into his pocket. He pulls out two slick singles.
“You know what the main problem is with your elixers, Mr…?”
“Cyrus.”
“Mr. Cyrus, you just use too much alcohol.”
Prince hurls his hat at Michael as he leaps back, grabbing hold of Mal’s arms and forcing him down onto the booth. The stand erupts into to flames. Mal stumbles back, arms covered in flame, and dives to the dirt, rolling and screaming. Cyrus reaches under his booth for a sheet to smother the flames. Customers gasp in the distance. Michael drives forward with the knife, but Prince catches his arm and yanks back on his wrist, shattering it. The knife drops into Prince’s palm. He lifts the blade to Michael’s throat.
“Tell me where John is?”
Michael laughs, clutching his useless hand and pulling against the Rider’s hold.
“What’s the matter, that neat trick of yours not work with him?”
Prince raises the blade and pulls it sharply across Michael’s cheek. Blood trickles.
“It’s this place. Too many people. Too many smells. Now tell me where he is.”
“No idea. And even if I did, you really think I’d tell you anything more than to go to Hell? I’ll never help you.”
Prince laughs. He glances back to where Mal lies, his arm charred. Cyrus wraps it with a sheet as fast as his shaking hands allow. Customers begin to gather. Prince keeps his back to them. He pulls Michael close. The knife drops down.
“You already helped me You’re the distraction.”
He slips the blade into Michael’s gut and lets him drop.
“There’s been an accident!” he shouts, “These men need doctors!”
Michael turns on his side clutching at his bleeding wound. Red slips between his fingers. He watches as the Rider stoops to retrieve his Stetson and disappears into the chaos.

* * *

John’s horse gallops through the prairie. His eyes dance as he searches for burrows, rocks, depressions hidden in the dark. The moon offers little solace from the night. The sound of the plains, chirping crickets and shifting grass, drown beneath the thundering clomp of his horse’s hooves. He glances back. No one follows, yet his heart still pounds in his chest. Suddenly, lights dot the distance. Fires. Torches. Lamps.
A structure emerges lies ahead, its form blending with the night sky. A wooden monstrosity, a towering pyramid, shoots forth from the soft dirt: an oil well. Hundreds of crude tents and scattered fires blanket the land. Crowds of men and women move about in languished haste. John slows his horse to a trot as he makes his way through the expansive establishment.
Workers mutter in broken English mixed with their own as he passes. Immigrants from the East, they stare up at John with blackened faces and pitiful eyes. Crude drenches their clothes. They hold pails that slosh with the black substance.
John pulls his horse to the side of the camp and dismounts. From the barracks a stout, portly man emerges. A thick black mustache and beard obscures most of his face. He carries an oak cane with a large, sphere-shaped hilt and breaks out a warm smile. John studies the man’s approach. He walks in a jutting, wild fashion, exaggeratedly swinging his arms from side to side. He stops in front of John and stretches out an oil-covered hand. John glances down at it, tilting his head.
“Oh, pardon me,” the man says.
He removes a silk handkerchief from his jacket and wipes the crude away. John grasps his hand tight. The man shakes rapidly but lingers a moment before breaking his grip.
“Welcome to my worksite, the finest pumping station in the entire southwest.”
“It sure looks that way,” John remarks. He stares up at the structure.
The man tips his cap. “My name is Orson Caldwell, and you are?”
“John. I’m sorry to intrude but—” John begins but the man waves his apology aside.
“Oh my boy, no harm. You must be starving! Please, follow me, let us retire to a more hospitable location.”
The man grabs the John by the shoulder and pulls him along. Puddles of oil bubble under their feet, rising to the surface like a thick soup. As John passes the pit a young Chinaman rushes forward and grabs him by the waist, his caked fingers staining John’s dusty shirt. His eyes stain dark. Angry welts swell from the side of his face mixed with fresh, purple bruises.
“Please, you help us! Please! Plea—”
Orson strikes the man down with the hilt of his cane. A set of burly men rush up to take hold of the worker and drag him from sight. John watches them leave, unsure of how he should react. Blood pours from the gash in his temple yet he quietly begs to John all the while until he disappears around the corner. Orson taps his shoulder and continues his march as though the incident had never occurred.
“Our workers are from far away. Sometimes they lose a bit on the trip over, you understand?”
John nods silently. Above him, the oil tower shakes on thin beams. The men continue their work, no longer concerned with the stranger.