Animal (Chapter 12 - Part 2)

John removes his breakfast from the spit and tears away a chunk of meat. The coyote is rough and dry but filling. John watches the tongues of flame dance. He swallows and takes another bite, savoring the taste, letting it fill his empty belly. Rays of heat waver across the barren earth.
He finishes the meal and wipes his mouth, tossing the spit back onto the fire, then unbuttons the top of the water bag Boss left him and drinks. The heavy flames sooth his aches. He lies back and tips his hat down to block the sun’s glare.
A cawing crow flies above. Its malnourished frame casts a thin shadow over John’s camp. John watches the creature land near a dying plant. The creature digs into the ground, upturning root in search of worms, but the land holds no bounty. It takes off once more and disappears beyond the dunes.
John closes his eyes and listens to the rustle of the prairie plants as the breeze blows through the camp. His horse whinnies contently. He closes his eyes and dreams.

* * *

John has returned to the empty hotel room. The bed remains messed, dirty sheets and pillows strewn across the floor. Blood spatters the walls. Clothes of white hang from his form, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness around him. A chill fills the air. Goosebumps stand against his skin. From the corner of the room comes movement. John reaches for his revolver but his holsters are empty. John steps back as the figure rises from the darkness.
“John.”
His reflection stands in the corner. Its form remains crushed and beaten but portions of its body are intact, spliced haphazardly together.
“It’s time to fight,” the reflection says.
“I’ve not yet reached The Tall Man.”
The figure shakes its head. “Another approaches.”
“The blind man.”
“Yes.”
“How do I fight him?”
“He is strong, stronger than you alone, but together we are powerful. I am weak, but I hold the shattered spark of the Riders within me. You must return the flame.”
John runs his hand across his arms trying to bring some warmth to his chilled skin. His breath passes from his lips in a visible stream.
“How do I know this is true?” he asks, “When will I ever be safe?”
“You have chosen a path meant for the wicked and damned, yet you tread upon the surface as though you belong. You, a pure spirit, fight against all who poison this world. The man who approaches is a tortured soul and a tainted man, an evil man. He will kill us, John, given the chance. You must find the strength, for now he comes.”
The reflection holds out its arms. In its hands lay John’s silver pistols. They glitter in the light of the hanging bulb. John takes the weapons. The cold steel grows warm in his hands. He glances back to his shattered reflection.
“He approaches?”
“He is already here.”
“Then we’ll meet him with force.”
John swallows hard and holsters the revolvers. He grasps the image’s hand. The reflection raises its free arm, grabs the swinging chain and pulls.

* * *

John lies against the dusty ground. His head swims. He focuses on his dream. The reflection, what did it say? He holds up his hand to shield himself from the piercing light. His horse stamps the ground. Atop a sloping hill a black steed stands unmoving, awaiting its master.
“No,” John whispers and rolls to the side, revolver drawn.
A cloud of dirt kicks up. Gunfire cracks in the distance. The bullet skids across John's right arm leaving. John leaps to his feet and sprints across the prairie grass. A second and third catch the ground at his feet. He fires once in the direction of the shots. Prince replies with three more deafening blasts. John covers his face as dust whirls around him. He dives behind a chunk of rust-colored rock. Two more shots crash against the stone, chipping away at its sides.
John’s heart beats in his ears. He tries to catch his breath and steady his shaking hands. Blood soaks his sleeve. He cocks the hammers on his drawn weapon and peaks around the corner of his cover. The prairie seems empty. Prince’s horse still waits. John considers shooting the animal but knows it will do him no good, there’s no running from this. His breathing slows and he waits. From beyond the camp, not far into the tall grass, Prince’s voice emerges.
“I’ve been hunting you, John. I’ve been hunting you many days, many weeks. Do you know who I am?”
A bullet ricochets off the stone with a violent crack. John flinches from the spray and calls back.
“You’re a Rider!”
“No, I’m not just any Rider, I’m a general; a servant of the highest man. I am blind, and yet I see all. I hear your heart beating, taste your fear and smell your sweat. You’re no savior. You’re nothing but a bastard child. Do you hear me?”
John fires twice over the side of his cover.
“I’m no great man,” he says, “but I fight with honor.”
“Honor? Ours is nothing but. You would have made a fine Rider, just as your father had, but instead you chose the way of the righteous and weak, a way extinct for many years.”
“The righteous are not dead.”
John lets loose two more shots. Prince three times, each knocking tiny bits off the rock’s sides.
The wind rushes by the Rider’s ear carrying with it the sound of John’s thundering heart. He snaps the chamber open and empties his spent shells. He keeps still, unmoving, tracking his prey.
“Your father taught you well,” he says, “but he held back.”
“Paul didn’t.”
John fires again. Prince’s Stetson flies off his head, caught by the blast. The Rider vanishes into the foliage.
John watches the field. The wind dies. He pulls the trigger twice more. Nothing moves. He holsters his emptied revolver and haphazardly draws his second. He makes his way around the rock but keeps his back to its side. He glances towards the hill. Prince’s horse has vanished, his own retreats across the plains, frightened by the gunfire.
John advances upon the patch of grass holding his left hand against his bleeding arm while steadying the revolver with his right. No sounds emerge. John holds his breath. Suddenly the wind picks up and Prince's Stetson rolls across the dirt. John follows it with his revolver, realizing his mistake.
Prince bursts from his hiding spot. John lets his left hand drop from his wounded arm and draws his other weapon. Prince stops, barrel pushed into the side of John’s head. John’s pistol rests against the Rider’s gut.
“I have you,” Prince whispers.
“And I you.”
“Perhaps, but you’ve made one mistake. Your left remains empty.”
John pulls the trigger. A dry click returns.
“You should have reloaded.”
“Kill me then,” John says.
Prince stretches out his hand, fingers clutching air. The blood-soaked rag that wraps his stump twitches with the motion.
“Boss give you that?”
“We had a disagreement.”
“I’ll bet.”
The Rider’s hand remains hovering, remaining fingers stretched forth as though waiting to be filled.
“Hand me your revolvers.”
“No.”
“Hand me them.”
“You’ll have to kill me, I’m not surrendering these guns.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Prince says.
John lowers his weapon slightly, confusion etched upon his face. The blind Rider tears the loaded revolver from his hands. He opens the gun and empties the shells. They bounce with soft taps against the sand. He snaps the chamber back and hands it back to John, then raises his own into the air and squeezes the trigger twice. A shot rings out on the first pull, the second dry.
“I’m giving you until tomorrow at dusk,” Prince says, “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?”
Prince ignores the question.
“Don’t try to run. I caught you when you had a two day head start and I will find you again. We’ll finish this then.”
John glances down at the silver pistols in his hands.
“Why—?”
“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, 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 fight like men and only one will walk away.”
John returns his weapons to the holsters at his sides. He stares into Prince’s scarred eyes.
“I can still see, John. I can see darkness. I can see the black that swallows the entire world, the filth that surrounds our empty hearts. I see far more than any man. I even see you. I see the dark that has filled your mind. Yet it fades. It dies. Do not let hate cloud your thoughts. Do not let it encompass your soul for if you do you shall become like me, a keeper of eternal hellfire, a Rider forever lost.”
Prince holsters his revolver and whistles. His horse cries in the distance. John watches the stallion gallop over the hill and down the sloping land as it rushes towards its master. Prince mounts the creature and stares down at John.
“You’re a mighty man for one so young, but even the mighty fall. I’ve been given a job and I shall fulfill it, just not this way. I’ll fight you the way true men fight; facing each other and staring down death’s barrel. Make no mistake, 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.”
Prince snaps the reins and the horse rears up, turning on its hind legs.
“Tomorrow at sunset I’ll come calling. I suggest you be ready.”
He spurs twice. The creature cries and gallops off under the unforgiving sun. John watches until the Rider is gone.

* * *

Prince rides for many hours before he brings his horse to a stop. He dismounts, body numb with feverish cold, back drenched with sweat. He paces through the dirt.
“I am no mere man. I am no mere man,” he whispers, chanting the words over and over to himself.
A vulture lands upon a cactus shrub before him. The creature cocks its head and watches him with quiet interest. It shrieks once and steadies itself, crooked limbs grasping plant’s spiky frame for support. Its eyes blaze with hunger. Prince smells the rotting stench upon its beak.
Prince studies the beast, head turning to match the motion of the bird, like some twisted carnival game.
“Are you it?” he asks, “Are you the sign she spoke of?”
The Rider smiles, insane, fearful, lost. He lets out a nervous chuckle.
“Leave me, if you value your life,” he warns, “Leave me, demon.”
The vulture ruffles its feathers and squawks, oblivious to the threats. Prince draws his revolver and steadies his shaking hand. The barrel shines in the sunlight, its black form polished and strong. He squeezes the trigger. An empty click returns.
The vulture spreads its wings and takes off, beating the air in its haste. Prince hurls his gun to the ground.
“Damn you, vile creature! Leave me, leave me be! The hand of fate holds no sway upon me!”
He stumbles to his horse and undoes the leather strap on his supply bag. He removes the broken doll with the perfect eyes and caresses it, whispering to the ruined plaything.
“I am no mere man. I am no mere man. I am no mere man…”

* * *

John gathers his goods and returns them to his saddle. He removes and reloads both revolvers. His rifle lies by the campfire, the flames reflected on its steel frame.
John approaches the dying fire and stoops to pick it up. He carries the weapon back to his steed and slides it into the holster that hangs from the side. He kicks his boot against the earth, tossing dirt and sand upon the fire until it burns no more. He mounts the horse, securing himself in the stirrups, and rides.
The world is quiet. No animals call as John passes the rising hill. Prince and his horse have gone from sight. John continues down the slope. His horse shuffles beneath him, its muscular legs beating against the earth. Its coat, polished to a shine, glistens with strength.
Ahead lies the town of Haven. John can make out the writing upon the mottled wood sign that stands before its entrance. As he rides towards another unknown, the faces of all the dead flash before his eyes. His hands tighten on the reins.
“This is for you.”