Animal (Chapter 7 - Part 2)

(Part 2 of Chapter 7 Rewrite - New Chapter)

John scans the crowd of men and women and children of all age and size dart about in a flurry of movement. Mal drops a steel saber down his throat without harm. Women weave baskets for husbands who barter them out to the people of Larrity.
“How exactly do we know who might be a potential threat and who just needs a few hours in the drunk tank?” John asks Harrison.
“You just need to feel them out,” the carnie replies, dragging a wooden plank through the dirt as he weaves into the crowd.
“And how long have you been doing this?”
“Longer than you.”
Harrison shoots John a mischievous grin and continues in step. John’s gaze jumps from one man to the next, studying face and form. The carnies smile and greet them as they pass, the booth-runners sharing jokes to Harrison that are lost upon the new guard.
Harrison falls back a moment and taps John shoulder, breaking his concentration.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re doing it wrong.”
John stiffens a moment.
“Something wrong?”
“No. No I, I just…something you said took me back.”
Harrison grunts. “Well, what you’re doing wrong is simple; you’re watching people’s faces. You don’t watch faces. Everyone looks suspicious when you watch the faces. You watch the hands, John, hands and belts. They have guns, knives, they’re someone of interest. If their hands are near those guns or knives, they’re of double interest. Learn those two rules and this’ll be a hell of a lot easier.”

* * *

“John, come on! The fair closes in an hour!”
Rose pulls John and his brother through the crowd, laughing with glee as she pushes her way up to the nearest target game. Samuel takes his place in front of one BB-gun, John the next. Rose stands behind her man, her arms wrapped around his waist.
“Alright, gents, pass along your copper.”
John and Samuel lay down a handful of pennies. The game runner scrapes the coins across the booth-top and into his scarred hands.
“I trust you boys know the rules, you farmers ain’t that dumb?”
Samuel opens his mouth to reply but John slaps his shoulder.
“Ignore him, Sam, he’s just trying to throw off our aim,” John says, glances back towards Rose who rests her head on his shoulder, then turns back towards the man who runs the game, “He knows we’re the type of boys who clean out his prize stock.”
The game runner lets out a nervous chuckle.
“Well you got six shots, kid,” he says, “Hit four you get the small prize, five gets you the big one.”
Above his head there hang rows of stuffed woolen animals of every design. Roughly stitched alligators with crooked teeth roar at equally fierce lions with wild tuffs of cotton mane. Fluffy bears stretch arms wide.
Samuel takes aim alongside his brother, one eye shut tight, face screwed up with concentration. John leans in forward with Rose still holding him tight. He breathes deeply, blocking out the roar of the fair that surrounds them; the barters, the performers, the customers, the children. The trigger of John’s rifle pulls back with ease. Five cans drop.
Samuel’s hands threaten to shake but he doesn’t let the sound distract him. His third can falls. A group of teenage girls approach from behind him and wait with baited breath. The forth comes but he doesn’t let that stop him. Then the fifth goes wide. Samuel opens his eye and breathes out slowly. His arms tremble.
John glances back at the girls and leans in over his brother’s shoulder.
“Annabelle Lee seems pretty impressed with you right now.”
Samuel swallows hard and begins to lower his weapon. John catches the barrel and raises it back up.
“Don’t let her see you hesitate, Sam,” he whispers, “You’ve already got the prize, now you’re just playing for a bigger one. Don’t let her see you sweat.”
His brother nods and lets off his shot without hesitation. The final can tumbles to the floor. John lets out a roar of pride and wraps his arms around his brother’s head. Rose claps and the girls behind the brothers squeal and cheer. Samuel swings on his seat without even collecting his prize and stops halfway into his jump down.
“I can’t help but notice that Annabelle Lee ain’t here, John.”
“No she isn’t,” John says, “But I knew if you thought she was here you’d pick off those cans without breaking a sweat.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, John.”
“I know,” John replies, snatching two stitched animals from behind the prize booth, “Now take this one and go find her.”
He stuffs a large alligator into his brother’s hand and shoves him away. Together, John and Rose make their way away from the target game and its disgruntled operator.
“That was quite an elaborate plan you had there,” Rose says.
John squeezes the hand he holds gently.
“I’d do anything to get a few minutes alone with you, you know that.”
“I do.”
“You know I hear they have a kissing booth farther down this row…”
“Wonderful,” Rose says, “I’ve been looking for a good kisser.”
John scoffs her joke and exaggeratedly clutches at his chest.
“Oh madam, your words, they cut so deep.”
Rose raises a hand to his cheek. John brings a hand to hers in turn.
“You know you’re mine?” Rose asks.
“I know.”

* * *

“John!”
Michael’s voice drags John back from his reminiscence. He stands straight and scans the crowd. Everything remains as it should.
The carnie slaps his head, almost toppling the hat that graces it. His fancy suit has now been replaced by a more humble white shirt and pants. He grabs John’s arm and yanks him forward, guiding him through the crowd.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Bad things, John! Bad things!” Michael shouts, pushing a young couple into a juggler in his haste, “It’s Selina. We got some bad customers here and they plan on taking more than tarot reading. Boss sent the other boys to keep customers away from the tent while we deal with this. Come on!”
Michael and John race side by side down the crowded road and bank right past the booths towards Selina’s wagon. A length of bright red carpet extends from the entrance. Boss, Harrison, and Mal await them. Boss stands with his feet bent slightly, his sharpened hatchet drawn at his side. Harrison wields his plank, his form diminished by the shadow his employer casts. Mal slinks along the edge of the carriage with an unlit torch. His free hand sinks into his baggy coat pocket.
John draws his revolver and takes his place beside Boss.
“How many of them?” he asks.
“Four. One’s got Selina. Far as I can tell they came in for a reading and when the cards came up out of favor they got a little antsy. I keep telling Selina to lie if need be but that girl don’t listen when it comes to her trade. Boys have kept the area blocked off; we got to care of this quick.”
A scream comes from the closed wagon. The men still.
“Selina!” Harrison shouts, “Selina, we got you! Just hold on!”
Boss slashes his hand through the air, putting an end to Harrison’s words. He takes a single step forward. From between the wagon’s cotton flaps a rifle barrel emerges. Boss speaks.
“You boys got in over your head here. Took the wrong girl in the wrong circuit. We got men here who will have no quarrel with putting hurt on you, believe me, but what you got in there is precious to us. The four of you come out with the girl, let her go, and I promise no harm will befoul you. You stay in there and I can’t make that promise. I got a man who played with matches as a child just a little too much and he’s been waiting for the chance to let something burn, understand?”
Mal’s grim demeanor breaks for just one moment; a hint of a smirk. From inside the wagon Selina’s cries continue, mixed with the incoherent ramblings of the men within. The rifle sinks back and out of sight once more. The words stop. The crying muffles without warning.
Silence.
Boss tightens his grip upon the hatchet. John’s finger slides back the hammer of his revolver. He draws his second. Mal’s hand withdraws from his pocket, dark fingers enclosing flint.
Silence.
Then the flap flies back and men begin to exit. Bald, dirtied, with rag clothing and unwashed faces, the unmistakable stench of whiskey hangs heavy on their breath. The final man exits with Selina pushed in front, her hands tied behind her back. Lines of red mark her wrists. A trickle of blood makes its way down her cut lip. Her cheeks darken with the imprint of hard blows. Despite her injuries she fights and twists against her captive, spitting at the men in front of her and lauding curses that make even Boss’s brow rise.
The man holding Selina stares at her with devilish wonder. The hand that holds his revolver travels the curves of her body. He wears clothes different from that of his cronies. Threads of black wrap his form. Scars beyond those of a man twice his age twist and slope along his exposed skin. He pulls the fortuneteller close and rests his arm across her shoulder, his aim training between each of his adversaries.
His revolver passes from darkness to the light of the lamp that hangs above. Black in form, a steel wolf with teeth bared. A Rider.
“Well, looks like we have ourselves a bit of a predicament here.”
John and Boss share a quick glance. The scarred Rider catches the exchange.
“I see my reputation precedes me.”
“The reputation of those guns, perhaps,” Boss says, “But I have no idea who the hell you even are.”
The Rider’s smug smile fades.
“Make jokes, freak, that will surely incite my generous spirit.”
“We don’t want generosity, friend, we just want the girl.”
“You’re in no position to bargain, you and your chivalrous band,” the Rider replies, eyes marking each man who stands against him, “A giant with an axe, a negro who plays with fire, a short little man with a short little knife.”
His eyes never match John’s. His words stop upon Harrison.
“Well I’ll be…”
He jerks Selina’s head back and studies her face before pushing it forward.
“Looks like we got some kinship here,” he says, running his tongue down Selina’s neck. She shudders at the touch, “This must be hard for you, seeing a man like me lay hand on your darling sister.”
“Hard as it is for you to look in the mirror each day.”
The Rider’s face draws blank at Harrison’s comment. No smile. No laugh. No anger. No hate. Just blank. He tilts his head just the slightest. The hammer of his revolver cocks back. All men tense. Boss raises his hatchet. Michael his knife. Harrison his plank. The Rider doesn’t fire. He speaks.
“You know, I travelled with a man named Varlyn. The Tall Man, if you prefer the more sinister name, but it doesn’t really matter what you call a man like that. I rode under his command. Still do. Just finished tracking some men in Larrity. That’s why I hired these three fools. Figured they could use some celebration and why not, they did such fine jobs. Now, the little darling here gave a reading we weren’t too fond of, and so, as all unsatisfied customers do, we demanded recompense. The reason I bring up Varlyn is that despite the terror he strikes in the hearts of all, me included, he doesn’t touch women. Won’t even let his men touch them, not anymore, not in that way. He won’t spare them a bullet, but he’d never touch one, do you get my meaning?”
Selina’s rebellion begins to break. Her eyes shine with tears soon to fall. She meets her brother’s eyes.
“Help me…”
The Rider continues.
“Now I ain’t taken many women by force, that’s something I’m proud of in relation to opportunities presented, but it’s mainly Varlyn’s watch that’s kept me from such indulgences. And Varlyn ain’t here right now, is he? No, Varlyn ain’t here, and he wasn’t there for my last either.”
He breathes in the scent of Selina’s hair.
“God, she was like this one. All fire at first but eventually she broke. Lack of hope can have that effect on people. Pretty thing. Way too pretty for that farm boy who had her.”
John’s breath catches in his throat. His teeth lock down as his jaw pulls tight.
“Boy wasn’t even there to protect the bitch. Well he was, but it wasn’t much good, just like ya’ll won’t be much good to this one.”
Michael catches the look in John’s eyes.
“Easy, John,” he whispers.
The Rider focus breaks from Harrison. His eyes land at long last upon John, upon the revolvers he holds.
“I’ll be damned…” he mutters incredulously, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear sand from his eyes, “It’s you, ain’t it?”
Michael’s hand slips behind his back and draws forth the Roman candle tucked into his pocket. Mal takes a swig of alcohol from the flask at his hip and lifts his flint.
“It’s me.”
All eyes lock upon John and the Rider. Michael drops to his knees and drags the firework across the earth setting it off in a blaze of sparks. The Rider and his men turn. The carnies don’t.
Mal sets light to his torch and spits through the fire, sending forth a wave of flame that covers his nearest foe. The man drops his weapon and tumbles to the earth, face and shoulders aflame. Skin blackens and peels in a swirl of black and red. His screams rise, unearthly in volume.
Harrison brings his plank down in a sailing arc across the second crony’s face. His jaw caves inward with the shattering of teeth that spill onto sand wet with blood and spit.
As Harrison readies his second strike the third gun lets loose a shot that catches Michael in the shoulder. He spins back but doesn’t fall. The man never gets another chance at a kill shot. Boss lets his hatchet fly. The singing blade buries itself into the man’s chest and he drops, struggling to suck in breath through blood-filled lungs.
Harrison brings his weapon down a second time, ending his adversary’s consciousness. John and the scarred Rider stand oblivious to the carnage. Their fingers slowly loop round their triggers. Selina leans forward, pulling the Rider with her. His shot goes wide. John’s doesn’t.
The scarred Rider drops to the dirt, bullet buried in his arm, weapon lost. Michael scrambles forward, ignorant of the pain in his shoulder as he grabs Selina and pulls her to the ground, shielding her with his body. The Rider reaches for his second weapon but John leaps forward, kicking the gun from his hand. He slams the man’s arm down, withdraws his knife from its sheath, and drives it into his palm.
The Rider lets out a shriek that echoes through the camp. John lifts the man forward, his shredded hand sliding up the knife that pins him to the earth, and slams him back over and over, lost in rage.
“You’re John-” the rider says, barely conscious from the bevy of blows he’d just received.
“Yes, I’m John! Not so defenseless now, am I?” John screams, “Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy raping her?”
Michael rises to his feet and tries to pull Selina from view but she remains, as do the rest, staring at John, unmoving. The Rider reaches for his dropped weapon with his free hand but John pins him to the ground, spur digging into the man’s bullet-riddled arm.
“You’re dead,” the Rider grunts. A cold chuckle breaks forth.
John lands a kick across his teeth. The man rolls over as much as the pinned hand allows and spits blood into the sand.
“Go ahead and kill me. You the kind of man to torture? You don’t have the stomach for that. Kill me, you coward.”
John draws his second pistol and puts a hole in the Rider’s remaining hand. The Rider’s demeanor finally cracks.
“Please…just kill me! God, don't torture me. I’m sorry!”
John leans in, his face inches from his foe. Spit dribbles as he growls his words, “Torture you? Oh no, I’m not going to torture you.”
He lifts his revolver above his head.
“What?” the scarred Rider whimpers.
“I’m going to destroy you.”
John fires off five rounds in succession. The barrel of his weapon glows hot.
“You got a lot of scars. I plan to add some fresh ones.”
John presses the burning metal into the skin of his enemy’s neck. His lips draw back in a devilish grin as the smell of burnt flesh fills his nostrils.
“John, stop!”
The words break John from his rage. He glances up from the carnage at the carnies and performers that surround him. Selina shakes with fear, holding out one, trembling hand.
“Please, John. Please stop.”
John quivers with pitiful anger. He stares down at the weeping Rider and back to Selina. The tortured girl shakes her head, somehow pleading for him to spare the life of the man who would beat and violate her. He meets the eyes of Michael and Harrison, Boss and Mal. They reveal nothing.
“I’m sorry,” John says.
He puts a bullet in the Rider’s forehead. The man doesn’t twitch or jerk. He just falls limp, life snatched away by the very man whose world he helped The Tall Man ruin.
John holsters his weapon and studies the corpse. Boss rips his hatchet from the chest of the dead lackey and drives it into the skull of the gasping, charred man. The axe draws back without resistance.
“Uriah, take Michael and your sister to the infirmary. Mal, take the unconscious man out Larrity’s jail. I’ll prepare the bodies for burial.”
Boss turns to John.
“Tell everyone we’re closing down for the night.”