Animal (Chapter 4 - Part 1)

John sits alone in the middle of the desert road shivering under the bundle of blankets Paul packed. A crimson fire crackles before him. He spears a slice of dried pork with his fork and roasts it over the flames. The salty taste lessens and he chews slowly, watching the fire as it dances with the blowing wind. He raises a tin cup full of lukewarm coffee to his lips and drinks deep.
His horse shuffles in place and stares down a bushel of no particular importance. John rises and approaches the animal. He removes a satchel of carrots that he bought from the feed store a couple miles back and pours a few in his right hand beneath the horse’s nose. It chews loudly, neighing happily and slobbering over John’s sleeve. He returns the treats and checks his provisions; should have enough to make it to Stanton.
John makes his way back to the fire and lays and watches the flames as they dance. Above, an eagle soars, a shadow in the night. Stinging embers drift against John’s skin. He turns away and balls up in the dirt.
In the glow of the fire a black tarantula and a desert wasp engage. Their dark forms shift as moving shadows, sheens of light reflecting upon the rapid movement of the wasp’s wings and the bristles of the arachnid’s thick legs. The hulking spider strikes at its foe but the wasp hovers above and lands upon the tarantula’s back, stabbing the spider with its stinger before taking off. The wounded beast manages a few proud but hopeless steps forward before stumbling to the side and turning upon its back, legs raised to the sky.

* * *

A boy sits cross-legged on the faded house porch. His father rests in his favorite rocking chair holding a tattered picture book in his hand. John stands behind his father, a nonexistent specter. He doesn’t speak. The toddler rocks impatiently and watches his father with wide eyes.
“Finish the story, Pa!”
“It’s late.”
“Please?”
“I’m tired.”
A voice arises from inside the house. “John, listen to your father.”
John’s mother appears in the doorway, her blonde hair stringy and unwashed. Crusted cooking grease cakes her dress. Her stomach bulges beneath her apron. She wipes her forehead, only adding more grime.
“It’s late and dinner’s been ready for five minutes. I’m not serving a cold meal.”
“But Ma,” the boy whines, “Pa won’t finish the story!”
John’s mother smiles and rubs a hand through the boy’s hair.
“Tell you what, when dinner’s done and you’re ready for bed I’ll finish the story.”
“Promise?” the child asks. He leaps to his feet, voice full of hope.
“Of course.”
The boy hugs his mother and scrambles inside. John’s father stands and takes his place beside his love. He offers a gentle smile and rests his hand upon her back.
“Ain’t you a sight.”
John’s mother pushes his hand aside and lets out an exaggerated huff. Her smile gives her away.
“Stop,” she says, “you’ll get dirt all over your clean clothes.”
“It’s worth it.”
“Well I’m the one who cleans them so you quit.”
John’s father kisses her cheek. His wife rests her head upon his shoulders.
“You all right?” he asks her.
“I’m fine.”
“And Samuel?”
“He’s kicking more, whenever you’re around especially.”
“He’s a fighter.”
“Like his dad.”
“Like his dear old dad.”
John’s mother laughs. She grasps his hands in her own, turning them over and holding them to her chest.
“I don’t know about old.”
“My back’s sore, I’m old.”
“You’ve been working all day.”
“I’m still old,” he jokes.
“You’re still handsome too.”
John’s father holds her close and together they watch the sunset. John stands unmoving. He finally steps up and places his hand against his mother’s shoulder. She doesn’t feel his touch.
“Let’s go inside. You still have to eat,” she whispers.
“I’ll be right there.”
John moves aside as his mother reenters the house. His father watches her leave and sits back in the rocking chair. John pulls up a seat and joins him.
“John,” his father says, eyes set ahead.
“Pa?”
“Don’t miss us.”
“It’s hard not to.”
His father chuckles. He stares out across the land, taking in its beauty.
“Course it is,” he says, “losing your mother was too. But she’s with us now and we’re happy, don’t you worry.”
“She still loves you?”
“Course she does. Mind you, there’s a lot of good-looking men here, but she loves me.”
“And Rose?"
“Why do you even ask?”
John nods. He watches the patched scarecrow that sways among the crops. The wind blows soft against his face, pushing back his hair and cooling his skin.
“John.”
“Yes Pa?”
“He’s an animal, the man you hunt.”
“I know.”
“He won’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
His father shakes his head and leans forward with hands clasped together.
“There’s no need,” he insists. His eyes plead with the stubborn boy.
“He’ll hurt others. It’s not just for you. He can’t be allowed to keep going.”
“You’re going to die, John. He won’t let you take him, not without a struggle, a struggle fit for a war. Even now, there are men searching for you.”
“I’ll find him. He’s no God.”
His father sits back and shuts his eyes. He shakes his head. The wind stops. A stillness passes through the world.
“Every man dies,” he says.
“Yes sir.”
John’s father takes hold of his hand and squeezes it tight. He shakes with the sorrow his boy’s choice brings, yet no tears come.
“You’re a good man, John, a good man. I don’t want you doing this.”
“But it must be done.”
The field around them turns to ash. The bodies of his family lie in the dirt. John stares at his father’s corpse and turns back to the figure sitting beside him.
“I miss you,” he says.
“I know. You’ll be with us one day, just not yet.”
Sound returns to the earth. A flock of scavenging birds lifts itself from the crops and races to feed upon the dead. John breathes in the evening air and closes his eyes to the sight.

* * *

John wakes. The fire is dead. A few embers twinkle under the blackened wood. He makes his way to his horse to place the saddle on its back. He checks its shoes and scrapes out clumps of dirt and rock with his knife, stopping to watch the orange sun rise.
“I’m coming,” he whispers. His eyes trace the patch of the burning star.
He mounts the chestnut horse and grips the reins tight. A hawk soars above and calls out to all who listen. John spurs the horse and takes off, a rider in the dust.

* * *

Prince’s steed bursts through the brown grass burning the land in its fury. He breathes John’s scent, his sweat and tears. He hunts him. The smell of dried corn and feed drifts ahead. His horse closes in upon a small store beside the main road. Prince pulls the beast to a stop and dismounts. He draws his canteen from the saddle bag, its metal chain still stained with the blood of the strangled Rider. He ties his horse to the hitching post and enters the shop.
A bald, rounded man sits behind the counter. He plays a shrill, tuneless ballet on a brass harmonica clutched between stubby fingers. The sound rings harsh in Prince’s ears.
“Stop.”
The clerk ceases his torturous tune. “Sorry?” he asks.
“I just asked you to stop.”
“You ain’t a music man?”
“I wouldn’t call that music.”
The clerk scoffs and sets the harmonica down. “Ain’t you a feisty son of a bitch.”
Prince rolls his eyes and sets his feed bags on the counter.
“Yes, now can I get some goods?”
“What’re you looking for, sir?”
“Sir?” Prince remarks, “good to see manners in people these days.”
“I aims to please,” the clerk replies.
Prince ignores the man’s jokes. His fingers tap against the counter, drumming over and over in harsh rhythm.
“I need feed.”
“What kind?”
“Any.”
The clerk raises his eyebrows and glances out his window at Prince’s black horse.
“Fine animal you have there,” he remarks, pressing a button on the battered cash register that sits atop the counter.
“Yes she is.”
“What you feed her?”
“Whatever you give me.”
A thin smirk slithers across the man’s jaw line. He twists his belt from side to side.
“Say I give you my most expensive brand?”
“I’ll take it, just get the damn food.”
The clerk raises his hands in an exaggerated fashion.
“Sorry, my mistake.”
“Indeed.”
“So where you heading?”
Prince’s eyes narrow to a slit. He ceases his drumming. His hands fall from the counter.
“How’s that your business?” he asks.
“My apologies.”
“Just get the feed.”
The clerk nods and sets about filling the bags. He glances at Prince’s canteen, the remains of the dried blood hidden from his view.
“If you need water—”
“I don’t need water. If I do I’ll find it myself.”
The clerk hesitates before dropping the bags on his scale. He cracks his knuckles nervously as the weight balances out.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing of importance, just get my feed,” Prince replies. The intensity of his voice slowly rises.
“It’s got.”
“How much?”
The clerk rings up the register.
“That’s thirty two cents, sir.”
“Pricey.”
“Best feed here.”
“Then it’s worth it.”
Prince lays a ten on the counter. The clerk scratches his chin and checks the register's contents.
“You got nothing smaller?”
“I don’t need change. The rest is for you.”
“I don’t follow.”
Prince picks up the clerk’s harmonica and stuffs it in his pocket.
“I’m also taking this, but what I’m paying for is your eyes.”
“My eyes? Sir, you sure you’re alright?” the clerk asks.
Prince raises his Stetson and lets the man see the gray, lifeless orbs that rest within his sockets.
“Your eyes. A boy came by here.”
“What kind of boy?”
“Don’t kid with me. You smell of shit and you are not a wealthy man. You remember your customers,” Prince shouts, voice thick with venom.
The clerk has begun to sweat. His eyes drift down to the shelf below as his hands begin their descent.
“Alright. A boy,” the clerk says, screwing up his face as though grasping for something, then adds, “brown horse.”
“John?” Prince questions.
“He didn’t give a name.”
“He gave you his name. He also told you where he’s going. He’s a trusting man, a foolish man.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
Prince draws his revolver.
“Don’t touch the shotgun,” he warns.
“How’d you—?”
“Don’t.”
The clerk places the weapon on the counter. Prince snaps open the breech and draws the two shells from its depths. He drops them to the floor and tosses the shotgun across the room.
“You oil your gun too much.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know where John is heading.”
The clerk’s bottom lip trembles. The sound of a trickle rises. He’s pissed himself. The harsh smell meets Prince’s nose and he tries not to gag.
“Stanton,” the clerk whispers.
“Thank you.”
Prince lowers the pistol. He picks up a local newspaper from the stack and sets it on the counter, smoothing out the ruffled pages.
“What’s the year?” he asks.
“The year?”
“The year.”
“1895.”
The Rider smiles. “Now read me the headline.”
“I—I can’t,” the clerk says. He blubbers as snot and tears spill down his unwashed cheeks.
“You can’t?”
“I can’t read, sir. I just…just know the date.”
Prince sighs, carefully folding the paper and tucking it in his breast pocket.
“Then what good are you?”
He shoots the clerk twice, once through each eye. The man stumbles back and sinks against the counter. Blood spills from his face. He shudders once and lies still.
Prince holsters his weapon, picks up his feed bags, and carries them to his horse leaving the ten on the front counter untouched. He repacks his saddlebags and heads around the back of the store where a well stands. He fills his canteen, careful not to let the dried blood on the chain be washed away. Before returning to his animal he removes the clerk’s harmonica from his pocket and drops it into the well.
Prince mounts his horse and listens to the calling of the wind.
“Stanton,” he whispers, then is off.

* * *

John enters the saloon. The front door groans on unoiled hinges and draws the attention of the bar patrons. They pay the newcomer little heed before returning to their drinks. John makes his way past the tables, pulling his hat down over his eyes, and sits at the bar.
A barrel-chested bartender clutches a dirty mug in his massive hands and offers a warm smile. His crooked teeth shine with homely light. He wipes the grime from the glass and sets it down.
“What can I do for you, son?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a man named Barrow. Daniel Barrow. He’s a photographer. Got a business proposition for him.”
“What kind of proposition?”
John shakes his head. He places his hands on the counter and slides his fingers across the chipped wood.
“The important kind. I know he’s got a farm out here, I just need to know where. It’s a large area to cover."
“‘Fraid I can’t help you," the barkeep replies and returns to his mug.
John continues to stare, heedless of the man’s rebuttal. He removes the Stetson from his head and lays it on his lap.
“Look at me,” he says.
“I’m looking.”
“No, look at me.”
The bartender sighs and sets the glass back under the bar.
“Please,” John says. His hands begin to shake. He returns them to his pockets, hiding the pain from the bartender’s view.
“What?”
“I’m not a violent man but I need to know. I know you know where he is. If he’s anything like the man I met then I doubt anyone will miss him.”
The bartender glances down at the pistols that hang from John’s belt. He takes a single step back and drops his hands to his sides. The rag that washed his mug sinks to the floor.
“You’re a Rider, ain’t you?”
John shakes his head.
“My father was a Rider. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’ve known far too many of your kind to believe that.”
He pulls his rifle up from under the counter and steadies it under John’s throat. John doesn’t move. The bar patrons rise from their stools clearing a path for an approaching blast. The bartender’s lips seal shut. Heavy breathes pass through flaring nostrils as he waits for the stranger to draw. To speak. Anything. He lowers the weapon.
“If I was a Rider,” John says, “you’d already be dead.”
The bartender leans the weapon against the side of the counter and takes in the boy’s form.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Nineteen.”
“Too young for revenge, kid.”
“Revenge has no age.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”
John smiles as he returns his Stetson to its rightful place.
“We all die eventually,” he says.
The bartender fills a cup and places it before the stranger.
“His house is in the middle of the prairie about eight miles east of the main road. He’s got some hired hands but they aren’t fighters,” he says, and nods to the drink, “Have one.”
John raises his glass.