Animal (Chapter 5 - Part 1)

(Part 1 of Chapter 5 Rewrite)

John stands alongside his steed and watches the dying sun spill over the hills. Dustbowls thrash around his form. Ahead lays Fairfield, its foundries built upon the split earth. A silver rail extends from the middle of town tracing the train’s path in the sand towards the darkened horizon. Tomorrow the train will arrive and he’ll have found The Tall Man.
John shields his face against the blowing sand and clutches his chest. The fear returns. He sees Rose. His body rocks and he snaps straight, fleeing from the memory.
The wind picks up and chills John’s skin. He glances up at the rocking town sign, the name upon it spelled in fading, gold paint, squeaking on rusted hinges. A chunk of wood left its side long ago. His horse stamps the ground. John rests his hand on the animal’s mane.
“I’ve found him, Paul.”
John unhooks the straps that hold the saddle to the animal’s back. He sets his bags aside and lets the saddle fall. The horse shakes its head and nuzzles his hand. John brushes its hair back and smiles.
“You are all that is left of the Riders. You rode with Paul, perhaps not in battle, but you have carried him nonetheless. You shall be the last. Join your brothers on the plains.”
The steed watches as John stoops to pick up the supplies and passes under the sign that bids him welcome.

* * *

“When will the train start boarding?”
“About five minutes before departure.”
“Why so short a time?”
The man behind the ticket counter sucks in air between his teeth. His wrinkled, sunburned skin clashes with the baby-blue outfit he dons. Several sizes too small, the uniform cuts in at the wrist and neckline. He sets his pencil down and clasps his hands together, just behind the bars that separate him from his customers, as though John requires every possible bit of his concentration.
“You ain’t from around here, are you?” he asks.
“No,” John replies.
“Thought so. See, people don’t ride this train. Not the Black Rail. Not unless you have business.”
“I have business.”
The ticket salesman scratches his chin and studies the boy. He draws a handkerchief from his back pocket and uses it to clear a film of dust away from his glasses.
“You’re young,” he remarks.
“I’ve been told.”
“It’s a dangerous world, son.”
“I’m prepared.”
“For anything?”
“Anything.”
“Even death?”
John hesitates but a moment before regaining his composure.
“Even death,” he says.
“Then that’ll be two dollars.”
John removes two wrinkled bills from his satchel and places them on the other side of the metal bars. The salesman retrieves the money, stashing it under the desk, and tosses a single blank ticket down. John slides the ticket across the counter and sticks it in his pocket without comment. He takes a few hesitant steps back from the booth and scans the rows of identical looking storefronts.
“Where’s the nearest inn?”
“Above the tavern straight down the main road, can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He turns to leave. The old man calls out.
“I know who you hunt. He’s a bad man, a sinner.”
“We all sin,” John replies.
“But not all are damned, son.”
John tips his hat to the salesman and sets on down the road, not pausing as he bids his adieu.
“Not all, but some.”

* * *

Prince licks his dry lips; a scant protection against the unending might of the sun and the dirt and the wind. His horse gallops across the plain, pounding and mashing the earth beneath its hoof, racing the fall of the sun. The light holds no boundaries upon him, the generals of The Tall Man’s band travel freely.
John is near. Prince can taste him. The wind blows fierce against his face. Sand splashes his dead eyes. He laughs, feeling nothing, lost in the thrill of the hunt. A gust tears the Stetson from his head. He lets it fly. His hair spills across his shoulders. The rumble of the creature he rides fills him. The chase. The power. The glory. He finds himself lost to their call, his mind drawn from the feel of the land. Ahead lays a prairie dog’s den. Prince realizes too late his mistake.
His horse stumbles upon the hole, crying out as it tumbles to the earth. Prince finds himself thrown from the saddle and into the dust filled air. He lands hard in the rocky sand. Jolts of pain race down his shoulder and he cries out into the empty landscape. His horse lies shrieking and thrashing, kicking out violently, rolling in the dead weeds that surround them.
Prince rises to his knees and crawls to his steed. He smells the blood even before he lays his hands upon the wound. Above the horse’s ankle a thick piece of white bone protrudes. Blood pours from split skin. Prince rises.
“No.”
The horse cannot stand. He strokes the creature’s neck gently, whispering comforts to the beast. The wind feels so much colder.
Prince draws his pistol and places the barrel against the animal’s head, comforting it still in the final moments. The beast’s black eyes turn upwards toward its master. They shimmer with pain and fear. Prince cocks the hammer and fires once into the creature. Its thrashing ceases. Prince lets the gun fall. He pulls his bloodstained hands to his chest.
“Damn you,” he growls, turning his eyes up to the heavens, “you take everything. I deny you. I curse you. I stand against you. And yet you impede me at every turn, Father.”
His growls become fits of desperate rage.
“There is no place for you here in this new land, no place for you among my kind. I am my own Father! I am my own God!”
Prince screams up at the skies where a God he doesn’t believe in but cannot escape waits on high for the day he is to be judged. He screams till his shoulders shudder with exhaustion. He sits alone in the desert, a small black form in an ocean of sand. Time passes. Hours, yet he never moves. Above him, the sun vanishes and the moon takes its place in the sky. In darkness he stands and gathers his goods, holstering his pistol, the weakness passed.

* * *

John makes his way across the barren town. An old woman sits rocking in a misshapen chair, eyes shut against the sun. Two men lean against a crooked support beam and whisper amongst each other as he passes the local bank, nodding in the newcomer’s direction. The tavern draws near and stands two stories tall, freshly painted despite the wear around it. A clean sign hangs above the front entrance. A child wrapped in rags approaches from the alleyway that borders the building, sunburned hands stretched out in hope of charity.
“Please sir, can you spare some change?” he asks.
John stoops before the boy and sets his bags aside.
“Where’s your family?”
“Don’t have one.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re dead,” the boy replies, not lowering his hand.
John shakes his head. He rubs his eyes, trying to think of what to say.
“So can you spare anything?”
“What happened to them?” John persists.
The boy’s face distorts briefly into a grimace of unhealed pain. He rubs his arm nervously and turns his head away from John.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Try.”
“He’ll come back if I do.”
John drops his bag. He places his hand upon the child’s shoulder.
“Who?” he asks.
“The man who burns the corn.”
“The Tall Man?”
The boy shakes. He lowers his arms.
“You’ve seen him too?”
John nods. The child continues. He bows his head, not wishing to meet John’s eyes as he recounts his sad tale. His voice rises barely above a whisper.
“He killed my pa. My ma. My brother Mal. He burned the fields and left me. I don’t know why but he left me. I’m scared.”
“He’ll pay,” John says.
The boy glances up with dirty, freckle-spotted face.
“Do you believe that?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Then you are lost as well.”
The boy turns to leave but John grabs his bony arm. He stuffs a handful of bills into the child’s hand, closing his fingers around them.
“Take this. Take my food and find a place to stay. I will come back for you.”
The child smiles.
“My brother said the same words.”
“I will try to find a way.”
“Then try.”
John stands, his knees cracking softly, leaving his supplies untouched. The boy nods his thanks.
“My name is John."
“Do not dwell on me, John. I will wait. I do not expect you to return, but I will wait.”
John watches as the boy turns and makes his way down the alley, dragging the saddle bags in the dirt behind him.

* * *

The tavern is larger than it looks. John enters through the sturdy oak doors that bar the entrance. Patrons turn on his entry, eyeing him a moment before returning to their drinks, content to resume the drowning of their sorrows. John makes his way through the crowd of customers, whispering pardons to each man he passes. A few stuff their faces with overcooked meat and deal short card games at two-man tables. The remainder rest against the bar drinking in stupors and staring into their shot glasses, eyes glazed over and faces shining.
A woman approaches, dressed in fancy cloth and a short skirt. Secondhand garters strap down her thin legs. She leans against the bar and strikes a less than subtle pose.
“Care for some company, sir?” she asks. Her voice squeaks at the end of every word.
“No thank you, ma’am.”
John slips around the woman and moves to the front desk. A man in dirty overalls sits behind the counter flipping through the local newspaper. John rings the bell before him. The man glances up, eyebrows raised, and sets the print aside.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“You the owner?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you need.”
John glances back. The patrons manage to keep their focus torn from their drinks to rest on him. The squeaky-voiced coquette watches with exaggerated interest. He returns to the owner.
“I just need a room.”
“Company?” the owner asks, shooting a glance at the girl beyond.
“No company.”
The owner pushes himself up from his leather seat. He makes his way to the front and drags a faded rag down across the bar counter. “You got cash?” he asks.
John lies down his bills.
“Would I be here if I didn’t?”
The owner shrugs off the comment and continues as though John had never spoken. “You see, you’re a new face, mister. I never seen you before.”
“I get that a lot,” John replies.
“Indeed.”
He stands, struggling to keep himself on his feet, apparently unaccustomed to standing for long periods of time.
“Round here, strange faces mean strange business.”
“My business is not with you, I’m leaving on the Black Rail tomorrow.”
“No one rides that train.”
“I have business with a man that does.”
The owner glances down at the pistols that hang from John’s waist.
“You a Rider?”
“I’m hunting a Rider.”
“It’s Varlyn, ain’t it?” the man asks.
John freezes. His throat is dry. He struggles with the next words that spill from his lips. “You know him?”
“I know his old name. He used to stay here when I was your age with his partners.”
“Paul and Charlie,” John replies.
“And Hank,” the owner adds, “you remind me of him. He was a good man. Well, as good as men like that can come.”
“He was my father.”
The owner sighs. He rubs his hand across the bar top. Stale cracker crumbs spill down as he wipes it clean, repeating the motion for some time.
“I should have known. He’s dead, ain’t he?”
“He’s dead.”
The owner pulls a rusty key from the chain at his side and places it on the desk, counting out the price of the room from John’s bills.
“Your room is number seven.”
John tucks the key in his front pocket and turns, ascending the stairs that lead to the quarters above. The owner calls up to him.
“Mister—”
John glances back, but the man has no real words to say.

* * *

Number seven is a cramped room. Cramped, but cozy. A ruffled featherbed pushes against a chipped bed stand. John sets his pack down and removes his hat and weapons. He sits on the soft bed and listens to the music and laughter that comes from below. The muffled sounds fill the room, free and content, reminding John of happier days. He rubs his hands through his hair, across his face, feeling the stubble upon his chin. He rises and enters the bathroom.
A small barber’s knife lies upon the sink alongside a dish of shaving cream. John spreads the cream across his face with a brush and picks up the razor. His skin is tanned and rough, his hands calloused. He’s thin, thinner than he can ever remember. Deep shadows form beneath his eyes.
“How long have I been awake?” John asks his reflection.
The being in the mirror remains silent, mocking his movements. John switches hands and begins to shave his right side. Water drips from the spout and patters against the metal basin. He draws back a hiss of breath as the blade nicks his skin and stops. A trickle of blood makes its way down his throat. He continues shaving, mixing blood with foam until the work is done.
The water in the basin stains a soft red. John turns the taps and lets the cool water run across his face. He leans back, water dripping down his shirt, and stares into the mirror.
“Who are you?” he asks.
His reflection does not reply. John lets out a laugh. He rubs his hand along his neck and smears a streak of blood in its wake. His jaw pulls back with gritted teeth.
“Who are you?”
Tears spills down John’s cheeks. The stranger in the mirror cries too. The glass shines in the light of the dusty bulb above. John shakes with desperate rage.
“Who are you?” he screams, slamming his fist into the mirror and smashing it, “Answer me!”
The shattered glass lies quiet. The reflection remains, broken into a thousand pieces. John turns and makes his way to the bedroom. He sits alone, shivering despite the heat, then lies back and stares through the open window as the moon rises.

* * *

John stands in an empty room. Four bare walls surround him. Darkness hovers overhead. A single bulb in a rusted socket extends from the black, sputtering in its last minutes of life. A chain dangles from the socket and swings to unknown rhythm.
John wears the suit Rose gave him for his birthday, the same white suit that he had proposed to her in. He was to be married in it.
A figure approaches from the farthest wall. A shawl of black cloth drapes from its shoulders and swallows its form.
“Who are you?” John asks, squinting to make out the figure’s blurred features.
The figure remains silent. It raises a finger to its lips then shoves its hands toward its guest. The face comes into focus. John tenses at the sight. His reflection stares back. Soft light spills across its outstretched hands.
“I am you,” the reflection replies.
“You are shattered.”
“As are you.”
The reflection approaches. Its body stands jagged and broken, held together like an unfinished puzzle on sagging, unfinished legs. John’s hand closes around the handle of his revolver.
“You can’t kill me, John.”
“I can try.”
“I am a part of you.”
“No.”
John draws the weapon and fires. His reflection remains untouched.
“You fight in vain,” it says, marching slowly forward. John steps back in reply.
“No fight is useless.”
“This fight cannot be won. Do you really think killing him will bring Rose back?”
“No, I don’t,” John says, ceasing his retreat, “I no longer fight for myself. I fight for my family. I fight for the boy in rags. I fight for men like Ezekiel and all who have suffered at The Tall Man’s hands.”
The reflection smiles. Shards of glass trickle from its lips.
“Then your fight is just.”
The figure reaches up and takes hold of the hanging chain that connects to the dying bulb above.
“I will always be here. I will be here to fight with you.”
“Always?” John asks.
The reflection nods.
“Now wake.”
It pulls the cord and the light fades. The room vanishes with the dark.

* * *

John opens his eyes. Long has he slept, through the night and into the early morning hours. From beyond the window comes the roaring whistle of the Number Eight Black Rail.
John gathers his clothes. He places his Stetson upon his head, pushing down to secure it. The silver pistols lie upon his pillow. His fingers dance as he checks the chambers and cleans the weapons. From outside the train whistle sounds again, closer but not yet at the station. He leaves his room.
John makes his way down the stairs and out the front, stopping only to lay the bent room key down upon an empty table. The tavern owner sits behind the desk and watches him as he exits to first light.