Animal (Chapter 4 - Part 2)

Barrow’s house stands alone amidst an endless field of cotton. Specks of white drift up from the crops, dancing on streams of air. John makes his way up the road. His horse etches tracks in the loose sand below. A slave exits the field with a massive sack of cotton slung over his back, shoulders hunched from toil, malnourished legs shaking with every tortured step. Shredded overalls hang loose on his thin form leaving his body exposed to the wrath of the harsh wind. He spots John and sets the bag down atop the porch steps, pausing but a moment to sit and rest.
“Ma masta’s gone, suh’,” he calls, voice strained and accent thick.
“When will he be back?”
“Aroun’ dusk, suh’.”
John shakes his head in disgust.
“Stop.”
“Stop wha’, suh?” the slave asks.
John sits beside the slave. His spurs clang against the earth. He faces the man and rubs his palm along his knee.
“You’re a smart man, I can tell.”
“No, suh—”
“Stop.”
The slave lowers his head, humbled. He picks at a scab atop his elbow as he waits for John to continue. Finally he speaks.
“It pleases the boss.”
“The boss?” John asks.
“Barrow.”
“I thought slavery was outlawed.”
“Does it look like the law matters much out here, sir?” the slave replies, his demeanor still stiff, his head still bowed.
“You don’t need to call me 'sir'.”
“Then what do I call you?”
John hands the man his canteen. The slave takes it cautiously. He grasps the canteen to his chest and shakes it, listening to the contents slosh inside. He removes the cap and sets it aside, staring down into the container, then glances back at John as though waiting for permission.
“Call me John.”
“My name is Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel drinks deeply from the canteen, careful not to let any of the precious drink spill. He swallows the cool liquid, savoring the taste. He stops and recaps the canteen, pausing a moment before handing it back to John as though reluctant to part.
“There’s a well out back,” Ezekiel says.
“Why don’t you carry water?”
“Water’s precious here and Barrow is not a generous man.”
“Why do you stay then?”
“What?”
“Why do you stay?”
Ezekiel bites his lip. He scans the field like he fears his master may return at any moment.
“Barrow. He knows where my children are.”
“You’re a father?” John asks.
“Yes,” Ezekiel replies, “he had them sold at the slave auctions but he keeps in touch with his assets. He promised to let me walk free after ten years. I finish my contract and he’ll break to the new law. I’ve been here nine.”
John stands and makes his way back to his horse where he returns the canteen to his saddlebags. He calls back to the wounded man.
“Do you really think he’ll let you walk?”
“I can only hope,” Ezekiel replies.
“And when you die never seeing them, will you still have hope?”
Tears in Ezekiel’s clothing reveal the tale. Long scars of past whippings slope down his frame.
“I’m too old to fight him.”
Ezekiel rises from the porch and approaches the newcomer. He reaches into a crude pocket sewn into the side of his overalls and draws something clasped tight between his bony fingers. He opens his hand to reveal a brass key which he places in John’s palm.
“When he gets here you run and hide, you understand?” John says.
The slave nods and watches the young man approach Barrow’s home. He calls out to his savior.
“Why are you here, John?”
John answers as he unlocks the front door. “I’m here to kill your master, nothing more.”

* * *

Dust bucks up beneath Prince’s steady stride as he steps into the saloon. A sandstorm rages around the small establishment. Dust slips in through the cracked entryway and spills across the floor. The windows of the dank building shake and rumble against the crashing of the wind. Prince approaches the bar, removing his Stetson and shaking the dirt from his hair. The barkeep stands to the back, lost in conversation with a young girl beside the bar. Her clothes are simple but enticing. Prince smells her perfume, the overwhelming stench of it. He takes his seat trying not to inhale any more than he has to. The two pay him no heed.
“Can I get some service?” Prince asks.
The bartender turns, shaken out of his trance, ready to service his patron.
“Sorry, mister, what can I get you?” he asks, offering the Rider a warm smile.
“Whiskey.”
“What kind?”
“Any kind. Whiskey is whiskey.”
The bartender shrugs and sets a chipped mug down which he fills to the brim with a clear, yellow liquid. Prince sips at the glass and grimaces. The drink is strong. He stares into blackness, dead eyes focused on the cup. He runs his finger along the edge.
“You don’t have a cleaner glass?”
“That there’s the cleanest I got,” the bartender replies, ruffled by the customer’s unexpected stinginess.
Prince turns his head and listens to the sounds of the empty saloon. The scuffle of rodents emanates from the walls, scratching and sniffing as they scurry on the other side.
“Must be hard to clean these mugs, what with the booming business this little establishment is fetching.”
“Water’s scarce here.”
“That explains the smell,” Prince replies.
He raises the glass but the bartender slaps it down. The mug clinks against the counter but no whiskey spills.
“Look sir, we don’t appreciate harsh words ‘round here.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” Prince says with a grin.
“What are you here for?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Lots of folks looking for lots of people.”
Prince nods. The perfumed girl reaches under the counter. Her hand makes its way towards the hidden rifle.
“So you know of whom I speak.”
“No one been by here,” the man snaps back.
Prince stands and pushes himself from the bar. His black hair dances with his movements. He sways back, absorbing the sounds of the world around him.
“That’s too bad,” he says, his hands drifting from side to side as though following the flow of the sea, “I’d hoped we could do this like gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen died out a long time ago. Get out of my bar.”
“How much I owe you?”
“No charge. Just leave.”
“I have to pay you something—” Prince says. He draws his weapon and trains it on the girl.
Prince steadies his revolver, raising his second and pointing it at the bartender.
“Drop the gun, missy.”
“Pa?” the girl cries. Her hands shake.
“Drop it, Evelyn,” the bartender warns.
The girl lets the Winchester fall. Prince approaches her. She backs away, hands drawn up in pitiful defense. Prince licks his lips.
“Evelyn?” he says, “Such a pretty name.”
Prince darts forward and seizes hold of the girl, pulling her to him. Her perfume overwhelms him. The bartender’s cheeks bleach white as all color leaves his face. He shakes with quiet rage. Prince holds Evelyn close and whispers in her ear, revolver trained on the sound of the bartender’s heartbeat.
“Can I tell you a secret? I hate women who wear perfume. No matter how much. It makes you stink, makes you smell like a whore. My mother was a whore and I remember her perfume. I even remember the men she brought home. The drunks, the savages, the crazies. I can’t remember their names, don’t think I ever learned them. Except Barclay, I remember Barclay. I remember because he tried to cut out my eyes. And though I could not see I remember being guided to him by the smell of the liquor on his breath and my mother’s perfume on his skin. I remember slitting his throat in the middle of the night. A child’s eyes are precious, Evelyn, you are precious, don’t dress yourself up as a whore.”
Prince stares down at the girl. Black splotches of wet makeup smudge her eyes. Her tears stain his sleeves.
“You understand, Evelyn?”
“Let her go,” the bartender says.
“Silence, old man. You are the one at the mercy of my gun. Silence!”
Prince shivers and steadies his hand. Beads of sweat stand upon his skin. He repeats his words.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the girl sobs.
“Good.”
The Rider releases Evelyn who rushes to the safety of her father’s arms. He looks to the bartender.
“Where did he go?”
“Barrow’s house.”
Prince kicks the Winchester that the girl dropped across the floor. It spins round, scraping against the wood, finally coming to a stop several feet away.
“Thank you,” Prince says, the flush fading from face, “that wasn’t so hard. I just need one more thing.”
Prince holsters the revolver in his right hand, keeping the second weapon up, and reaches into his front pocket. From it he draws the dirty newspaper he took from the feed store and sets it down on the counter.
“Read me the headline.”
“What?” the barkeep asks.
“Read it.”
The bartender leans forward and scans the page. “Country honors anniversary of President Lincoln’s death.”
Prince smiles, folding the paper back up and placing it in his pocket. He holsters his revolver and picks up the whiskey bottle the bartender poured from.
“Thank you. Now how much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen cents.”
“I’ll hear you if you go for the rifle,” Prince says as he digs through his pockets.
The bartender nods. Prince sets a handful of coins on the counter and turns, leaving the two in close embrace. He falters and glances back. A snide smile breaks out.
“Almost forgot,” he says, “you have rats, thought you’d like to know.”
Prince exits through the tavern doors. The bartender watches him leave, whispering comforts to his daughter until their tormentor vanishes in the billowing dust.

* * *

Daniel Barrow enters his home. In his left hand he carries a stack of unprocessed photos. Under his arm, the very camera that captured John’s pain. He slams the door and tilts his head. There comes a rustle from somewhere beyond.
“Boy, I thought I told you to stay out of the house. Where are you?" he says, calling vainly for his servant.
Darkness swallows the house. Barrow gropes blindly through the empty air. His hands close around a hanging chain. With a yank the bulbs blaze to life and light floods the hallway. From the kitchen John emerges, his revolver already drawn.
“Hello, Daniel.”
Barrow drops his camera and reaches for his gun. John fires into his left knee. He hits the ground screaming. In seconds John is upon him, drawing the photographer’s pistol and sticking it in his belt.
“You must have known this was coming, even bought yourself a little gun,” John whispers in Barrow’s ear. He buries his fist into the man’s throat.
Barrow lies twisted in a puddle of blood and grasps his ruined knee. He moans, rocking back and forth and babbling nonsense. John slaps Barrow across the face again and again.
John continues his taunts. “You’ll never walk again. Think of it. You’ll never dance, never run. You’re a cripple, Daniel. You’re ruined.”
“Please! Please stop.”
John shrill laugh pierces the air and echoes through the halls of the empty house.
“Stop? What have I done? You’ve just begun to suffer.”
“Please,” Barrow says, reaching up and grabbing hold of John’s pants.
“Get off me.”
John stomps Barrow’s hand into the wood. The photographer shrieks as the spurred boot cuts strips into the space between his knuckles.
“I’ve been to your darkroom, Daniel. I’ve been through your bedroom. You have pictures of them, hanging in frames, pictures of the dead. People whose lives you stole!”
John reaches down and grabs the man by the throat. Tears form in his eyes. His face burns red, flushed with fury. His nails dig into the pathetic rat’s skin.
“You have her picture sitting in your room right beside your bed. You have my Rose framed. You’ve stolen her.”
He shakes Barrow ruthlessly, his grip tightening further.
“You’ve stolen her!”
A dark shade rises on Barrow’s face. He gasps for breath.
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Barrow croaks. His eyes bulge in their sockets.
“You’re not sorry.”
“Yes—”
“No. You’re lying. You enjoy it, the pain of others, you love it.”
John releases Barrow who crumples to the floor. Pitiful sounds rumble in his throat. John kneels and begins to assemble Barrow’s camera.
“What are you doing?” the photographer asks.
“Taking your picture.”
“No. No! No, please!”
John ignores the pleas. He snaps a single shot and lets it flutter to the floor. He stoops down and snatches up the sheet, stuffing the discolored picture into Barrow’s hands. Barrow flings it from himself, screaming hysterically. John’s heartbeat roars like thunder in his ears. He speaks over the photographer’s pathetic sounds, voice rising higher with each beat.
“Your own pain is realized. You know I heard some people believe that if a picture captures your image then your soul is forever trapped in the shot. It’s quite interesting, don’t you think? Now I don’t hold such a belief but for the sake of my love and the sake of all you’ve hurt I’ve burned all your photos. All except this one.”
John swoops down to retrieve the photo and waves it through the air.
“You’re trapped, Barrow.”
“What do you want?” the pitiful man moans.
John lowers his weapon. He places the barrel beneath Barrow’s chin and cocks the hammer.
“I want to know where he is.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Barrow’s eyes dart in his skull, searching for some way out, some last minute rescue, but there is none. No one is coming for him. He isn’t important enough.
“He’s leaving by train in three days. Fairfield line.”
“What train?”
“The Number Eight Black Rail, ten o’clock.”
“He’s moving in the day?”
“It’s important. Big bounty.”
“What bounty?”
“I don’t know, I swear!” the photographer shrieks as John raises his hand in threat.
John steps over Barrow and retrieves the photos he brought. He strikes a match and drops it in the pile. Flames catch. The pictures blacken and char, twisting inward under the heat and scattering pieces of ash along the bloodstained floor. As John turns to leave, Barrow calls after him, voice tainted with fear.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you. I’m leaving you here, perhaps Ezekiel will have mercy on you.”
“Ezekiel?”
John smiles.
“You never even learned his name,” he says, then exits.
Ezekiel stands waiting in the dirt path. John approaches. The two stand side by side, neither man speaking, and watch as Barrow drags himself out the front door. He sits upon the porch steps, bleeding out onto the polished wood, his hands pressed against his wound. His eyes lock upon Ezekiel.
“You helped him, boy. I should kill you. Help me up.”
Ezekiel remains still, his head held up, and watches his former master. Barrow shakes, his skin the color of paste.
“I said help me up!”
John places his hand upon Ezekiel’s shoulder. He nods, reaching down and drawing Barrow’s revolver from his belt. He places it in Ezekiel’s hand and closes his fingers around the steel.
“Time to earn your freedom, my friend,” he says, “Find your family. He’ll know where they are.”
“Thank you.”
Ezekiel approaches Barrow with pistol raised. John leaves the two behind. He trudges his way up hill to where his horse waits. By the time the gunshot rises, he’s already gone.