Animal (Chapter 3 - Part 1)

(Rewrite of Chapter 3. As suggested, I've begun posting chapters in two parts to shorten post length)

The glint of The Tall Man’s rifle shines off into the desert and stretches across the land. Grasping the expertly crafted handle tight in hand, he marches towards the sloping plateau leaving a trail of shallow prints. He reaches the top and stares out over the plains, towering above the miserable animals below. Mere mortals. And he, a god. A bed of grass shifts. No wind flows. The Tall Man drops to his knees. Behind him Thomas Prince mimics his movements.
“It’s a wolf, sir,” Prince says.
“You can tell?”
“The heartbeat. Its breath. Its breath is so slow. He’s dying.”
“Dying?”
Prince nods. His dark hair shudders in the wind. A slick poncho wraps loose around his form. His gray eyes stare off into the distance, never seeing but always watching. Dozens of scars slope through them tracing the past sufferings of his youth. The black that Prince sees had become his home over nearly every year of his life. By his side lay two black revolvers, the tools of The Tall Man’s elite.
“I may be more than a man, Thomas,” The Tall Man replies, keeping his sights set upon the creature, “but no one has eyes like you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Tall Man raises the rifle. The end of the barrel juts out from the weeds. He closes his left eye and focuses his aim, feeling the wind, waiting for it to desist. The wolf steps out from the grass and stares up at The Tall Man, its yellow eyes magnified beneath the sun. It stands ready, as though accepting.
The Tall Man opens his closed eye and hesitates for the briefest of moments, the wind gone. Then he fires. The creature drops into the dust.
“You hit it,” Prince says.
“Is it dead?”
“No sir.”
“Let’s go.”
The two make their way down the plateau. The wolf lies in the clearing, legs moving in slow circles, pawing the air and trying vainly to rise. Its body has been broken from a previous encounter. Part of the front paw is missing. A curved scar runs down its eye. It draws in shaky, rattling breaths. Its uninjured eye stares up at The Tall Man. A pitiful growl issues.
Prince lays a hand upon his master’s shoulder. “The coach is coming.”
“And?”
“The driver has wet himself. I can smell his fear. The others are absent.”
“And John?”
“I’d imagine he’d be alive somewhere, perhaps dying, but by that smell, that awful smell, I think we have a problem.”
The Tall Man nods. He wipes the edge of the rifle with his sleeve and glances back towards his general.
“Send a letter warning Barrow. Tell the men to search the fields. Kill the driver.”
“Yes sir.”
The Tall Man raises his rifle and steadies the barrel. The wolf’s growls intensify. He cocks the trigger and fires once into the creature’s chest.

* * *

John wakes. He lies upon a soft featherbed covered in fresh sheets. His muscles convulse with effort as he tries to sit up. A bandage loops around his stomach. His wound burns as he shifts beneath the blankets.
John studies the room. A small bricked fireplace lies across from the bed, filled with more dust than ash. Along the walls hang framed pictures of unknown men. His eyes catch the last photograph, faded and dirty, the oldest of the set.
Three young men pose alongside each other. The two on either side smile but the man in the middle does not. John recognizes the curve in his cheeks, the narrowed eyes. The Tall Man rests between the two, arms locked around their sides. On the right stands John’s father, younger than John can ever remember. The man on the left he doesn’t recognize. They stand shoulder to shoulder like old friends who’ve not seen each other in many years, near embrace. From their belts hang silver pistols carved with the sign of the wolf.
The door opens. John breaks from his trance and raises curled fists. A man many years his elder enters. Around his waist hang the revolvers from the picture.
“You mustn’t move," he warns as he approaches the wounded boy.
“Who are you?”
“The stitches might break.”
“Why do you have my father’s guns?”
The man takes a seat beside the bed. His shoulders sag with the burden of age. Fading gray hair hangs over his face obscuring his features. He pushes it back to reveal blue eyes that shine with glory and lost youth. His lips form a thin grin as he stares up at the yellowed picture before turning back to John.
“I was always the oldest of the band,” he says.
“Who are you?” John asks.
“My name is Paul. Paul Daniels.”
He offers John an outstretched hand. John slowly accepts. Spots darken the man’s skin but his grip is strong.
“You still didn’t tell me who you are.”
Paul shakes his head and sits up straightening his back with a crack.
“Your father was always impatient. You’re very much like him, even have his eyes.”
“I’ve been told. Who are you?”
“Like I said my name is Paul, and these are the guns of a Rider. Your father rode too.”
“A Rider?” John asks.
Paul nods. He wipes a speck of dust from the side of the frame and stares at the picture as though he has not gazed upon it in many years.
“We fought together. He was a strong man. We were hunters.”
“Hunters?”
“I’ll tell you more later,” Paul replies, “for now, sleep.”

* * *

“How long did you ride together?”
“Many years, longer than you’ve been on this earth.”
“How many of you were there?”
“In all? Over fifty, but only the four of us traveled together at first.”
John rubs a hand over his bandages. The stitched wound stings beneath his touch. Paul offers him a bottle of brandy.
“It helps, son. Trust me,” he says, motioning for John to accept.
John grasps the bottle and stares at its contents. Brandy sloshes inside the brown container. He raises his head back and takes a long draw. The liquid burns his throat. He sputters at its strength as the drink warms his body.
“The Tall Man.”
“Who?” Paul replies.
“The man in the photo.”
Paul turns. His face sinks and he looks away from the photo.
“We called him Varlyn. He never cared much for the name. Never had one.”
“No name?” John asks.
“He told us he was born and left to die in the desert. His mother died during the birth. Left him with nothing but that name. Guess he kept it out of some kind of respect for the women. He was one with the sand. The Comanche found him and raised him before he left their tribe. He told us he found the man who’d abandoned his mother, said he murdered him.”
John’s sight locks upon the hanging picture. The Tall Man’s eyes match his gaze.
“You were friends?”
“Partners. Me, Varlyn, your father, and Charlie. Charlie was wounded when we took this picture. We snuck him out of the hospital a week later to avoid paying the bill.”
John stares at the frame.
“You hunted men.”
Paul picks up the brandy bottle and downs what is left. He grimaces as the drink slides down his throat.
“We did.”

* * *

Prince approaches the clearing where the two guards lie. Two Riders on horseback follow close behind. The bald man lies with his throat slashed, his boots and revolver gone. Hair drifts across the young boy’s eyes concealing the bullet hole that bores into his forehead, a look of peace plastered across his face.
Prince kneels in the sand and lets the mysteries of the event course through him. His useless eyes rise up to the empty skies.
“He was wounded. Badly,” he says, sucking in the heavy air.
“Are you sure, sir?” a rider asks.
“Yes.”
Prince shifts against the dirt. Dustbowls spin beside his form. Sand flutters against his skin. He breathes deep. The crowing of a vulture echoes from above. The rustle of a startled jack rabbit rushing for the safety of its burrow enters his mind. His body rocks with the wind. He slams his fists into the dirt letting the scent of blood and sweat drift up.
“He went on, east. The blood has dried. The two of you head through the clearing and into the woods. Split off as you pass them. Search every house and every hole along the way. If he’s dead bring him with you. If he’s alive, make sure you don’t hesitate.”
“Yes sir,” the men reply as one.
The Riders spur their horses into a trot as they approach the field. Prince calls after them.
“Hurry, storm’s coming.”
The closest horseman stops and looks up. The clouds lay unmoving, the air dry. No wind draws breath.
“How are you so sure?” he asks.
Prince rises to his feet. The soft prints of his hands remain upon the sand.
“I can smell the rain. Now ride.”

* * *

Raindrops patter the window beside John’s bed. Soft beads slide down the glass, twisting and joining one another before plummeting to the ground. Paul opens the door and takes his seat.
“How’s the wound?”
“It’s better.”
Paul nods. He hands John water in a tin cup.
“Drink.”
John raises the container and drinks. It isn’t as good as the brandy but it does the trick. He lowers the cup and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
“You were friends, you and my father?”
“We were almost brothers,” Paul replies.
“Did you enjoy the ride?”
“We were young. All alone. We did what we did yet we changed.”
John’s breath rattles as he watches Paul rock in the chair.
“He’s dead, you know that?”
“Yes. I’ve been watching you for all your life, John. You may not know me but I’ve watched you grow."
“Do they search for you?”
“Yes, but they won’t find us.”
John shakes his head. Out beyond the window the last rays of sun drift into dust.
“Do you still watch the sunsets?” he asks.
Paul nods.

* * *

John wakes in the night. He gasps and reaches out for Rose but she is gone. He lies shaking and sweating, holding the pillow to his chest and crying. He rocks back and forth and clutches the sheet in his arms, imagining his love’s soft skin. He calls out her name. He cries out for his father, for Samuel, for anyone to save him from the cold that racks his lungs.
He places his head against the pillow to muffle his words. He screams through the house. The stitches on his side have broken. Blood stains the sheets. Paul bursts through the door and grabs hold of the thrashing boy. John weeps against Paul’s chest until the shaking stops.

* * *

John sits with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. Paul sits beside him and pulls a threaded needle through the edge of John’s wound.
“I want you to teach me,” John says, gritting his teeth as the needle passes once more into his skin.
“Teach you what?”
“To shoot. To fight. I’m going to hunt him.”
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
Paul shakes his head and cuts the string on the needle. He spreads his hand over the new stitch and inspects his work.
“You’re too weak.”
“I can train.”
“You can’t even walk.”
“I can stand.”
“No.”
John grabs hold of Paul’s hand and pulls himself up. He slowly releases his hold and steadies himself of shaky legs, arms outstretched on either side for balance.
“He took everything from me,” he says, “everything. My father, my brother, my love. He took my child, Paul. He’s taken everything. All I can do is die.”
“You’re too young.”
“You fought younger.”
“And I’m too old, John. I haven’t trained my guns on a man in fifteen years.”
“Neither had my father and still he fought.”
“No.”
John turns and crosses the room, struggling to keep his legs from giving way.
“Then what use is this place?”
“John, stop.”
Paul grabs for the boy but John pushes him back. He reaches the front door and steps out onto the porch, but he doesn’t get far. His legs buckle from the strain on the first unaided step and he hits the ground hard. Paul follows. He freezes upon exiting the house and stares out across the lawn.
A Rider sits atop his horse, face drawn back in shock, having just stumbled upon his prey. The two stare each other down, neither knowing what to do next. Finally, the rider breaks from his trance and goes for his gun. Paul draws his silver revolver in one smooth motion, leveled before the man has even touched his.
“Don’t move. I keep them loaded, son.”
The Rider watches him with narrowed eyes. His hand hovers over his belt. He looks from John to Paul. A thin smile spreads across his face.
“You won’t.”
Paul fires three times into the man’s horse. The beast drops and sends the Rider toppling to the earth, his face buried in dirt. He clutches his chest and groans from the impact. Paul’s finger tightens around the trigger.
“I’ve killed far better men than you, trust me on that,” he says, taking aim.
John places his hand on the Paul’s shoulder. Paul stops. He looks down at the fallen man.
“Get up.”
The Rider rises on shaking legs with his hands held up in forfeit. He glances down at the horse. Its tongue splays out, black eyes empty. The beast’s mane shudders with the wind.
“You saw nothing,” Paul says.
The Rider nods.
“Good. You better lie well. You tell the truth and I’ll hunt you myself. Bullets won’t stop me, son, you hear?”
“Yes," the Rider replies.
“Now go.”
“The walk will take me a week at least.”
“You have water, plenty of shade along the way. You can make it if you save your breath.”
The man stands still. Paul’s eyes flash. He raises his revolver.
“Go."
The Rider takes off into the field. Paul fires a round above his head. The Rider doubles his pace and vanishes into the twisting sands. John stares up at the aged marksman.
“Fifteen years?” he asks.
“Fifteen years.”
“Teach me.”
“You need your rest.”