Animal (Chapter 9 - Part 1)

Prince leads his horse away from the inn where he slept, his strength returned. He tips his hat back at the establishment, knowing full well that the young girl watches him from her bedroom window. She smiles at his courtesy.
The Rider lets his mind drift away from the scent and feel of the girl and back to the task at hand. He smells John’s scent, the leather of his boots as they cut a path towards the booth ahead. The ticket salesman stares down at his cash drawer as though counting the less than substantial bounty within. Prince leans forward against the booth and taps the glass, drawing the salesman from his thoughts. The sight of the Rider drains the blood from the old man’s face. Prince drinks in the sound of a racing pulse, the beat of a frantic heart.
“Hello, Arthur,” he says.
“Hello, Prince,” the salesman replies, nervously shuffling papers across the desk, pretending to be busy.
“Now tell me, the train left a while ago, correct?”
“Yes sir. About ten hours ago.”
“Almost twelve, don’t lie, I could feel its departure. I may have lost my eyes but I know the passage of time.”
Arthur shakes his head. “Okay, twelve hours.”
“And who was on it?”
“You know who.”
“Who bought a ticket from you?” Prince persists.
“No one.”
Prince sighs. His dead eyes stare off as he draws the revolver from his holster. He sets it on the countertop and spins it slowly, speaking in a casual, almost offhanded, tone.
“I’d hoped we could do this kindly,” he remarks, “Don’t forget, I know where your grandchildren live.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur whispers.
“I’ve seen where they sleep.”
“Please—”
The fury breaks.
“I will come for them in the dark of night. I will break them, beat them, burn them, and kill them all if you deny that he came here one more time!”
Tears drip from the old man’s nose.
“Alright. Alright…”
“Where did he go?”
“He never said. He just bought a ticket and boarded the train,” Arthur says. He quivers behind the sheet of glass.
“He thinks he can beat us, kill the Riders. He is wrong.”
Prince turns and mounts his horse. He stares into the morning sun, dead eyes leaking from the blazing light. A young boy makes his way across the street. He carries one of Paul’s canteens upon his back. Prince can smell John’s scent upon the child.
“Boy!”
The child turns. His eyes widen at the sight of the black guns that hang from the blind man’s waist.
“Do not think that he will live. Do not place false hope upon him. He will die and I will drag his lifeless corpse under your nose to prove that he changed nothing!”
The child turns and sprints away, dropping the canteen in his haste. He does not pause to retrieve it. Prince laughs and spurs his horse. It sets off at a gallop, following the rail line’s path.

* * *

John wakes to the sound of wood scraping against wood. He rises from his bedroll to see a single coffin laid out before him.
“Huh…”
Alexander appears from the front half of the tent. A pair of black leather gloves constrict around his covered hands as he bends down to retrieve the coffin without a word to his guest. John grabs the other side and the two make their way through the tent to the wagon parked outside. The final casket joins its brothers.
“Thanks,” Alexander mumbles and disappears into his tent. John follows.
In the front corner of the tent sits a triplet of unfinished coffins. Beside them the same number of bodies lie covered with white sheet.
“That who I think it is?” John asks.
“Yep.”
“Why aren’t they in some hole or ditch out back? Be more fitting than wasting good materials.”
“Every man deserves a box, John.”
“Even the wicked?”
“Especially the wicked,” the coffin maker replies, “Where they’re going, might as well go with some class.”
John notes the hint of a smile that passes the coffin maker’s lips. He makes his way to the back room and retrieves his supplies.
“Appreciate the place to sleep,” John says, looping his holsters around his waist.
“Don’t mention it.”
Alexander leans forward, lifting up the tent flaps, and stares up at the newly risen sun.
“Good time. We better get going.”
John stops, his hat halfway on his head.
“You were serious about me coming?”
“No need for security in the morning. I could use the company.”
With that Alexander exits his tent and mounts the wagon that stands outside. A shrill whistle signals his need for haste. John complies.

* * *

The wagon wobbles on worn wheels as Alexander ushers the horses onward. John sits beside the silent coffin maker and glances back into the hold where the caskets lie. They rock and slide against each other, the sound drowned out by the rumble of hoof on ground.
“Shouldn’t we tie those down?”
“Wood’s strong,” Alexander says, “Besides, I leave the painting up to the professionals.”
“Of course.”
Alexander hands John a pair of gloves.
“Wear them.”
The town of Larrity draws near. The first delivery for the travelers lies along the town’s borders. John and Alexander dismount and begin to unload the first of three caskets.
From the porches of their homes men and women watch the strangers work. Children run from the streets up to their parents, waving wildly at the two. John nods to each in turn.
“Don’t do that,” Alexander says, setting the casket down upon the porch.
“Why not?”
“The people here are a community, John, and they’ve just lost one of their own. Now seeing a funeral is hard enough, but acknowledging the men who made the box their loved ones will be buried in? That’s not something they should have to go through, not until they’re ready. That’s why I try and deal with a secondary party, not kin of the deceased, unless specifically requested. We just drop off the caskets and be on our way. No fuss.”
“That a business standard or just personal preference?” John grunts, pulling down the second box, hands protected by the splinters that bury themselves into his leather guards.
Alexander chuckles as much as the strain of the heavy redwood allows.
“Bit of both.”
“I notice you don’t use metal in your wares,” John remarks, dropping to his knees and laying the next casket down. He drags his hand across the top of the lid and clears away a thin layer of collected sand.
“No substitute for wood.”
“Cheaper too.”
“There’s that.”
John and Alexander retrieve the final box. As they approach the porch steps a young woman exits from the front door. A black mourning gown slides the length of her form. A thin veil obscures her delicate features. She offers a small envelope as they complete their delivery. A group of men in gray suits emerge to carry the coffins the rest of their journey. They vanish into the house.
Alexander rises from his position and accepts the payment. John makes his way down the steps and back to the wagon, mounting it wheel first. He glances back from his perch to see Alexander standing before the widow, his hat removed in respect.
The coffin maker disappears the envelope into his back pocket then reaches up and takes the lady’s hand, leather mixing with silk. The widow looks to the man before her. He stares into her eyes but doesn’t speak. His hand squeezes lightly. The widow nods.
Alexander steps back and down the porch steps. His hat returns to his head. He takes his place beside John and shakes the reins twice, pushing the horses on their next path.

* * *

Prince breathes John’s scent as he pulls his stolen horse to a stop beside the railway and dismounts. He drops to his knees and drags his hands through the rough sand. Splinters of wood scatter beneath his palms. He traces the imprint John left behind when he leapt from the Black Rail.
The blind Rider shifts through the dirt and pulls away. He buries his face in the sand, tasting the pain and anger, smelling the sweat and fear his prey left behind. He stands and opens his canteen, spilling water across his face and hands, washing the sand away. John continued on foot. His prey is close now, the time for haste has gone.
Prince dusts off his hands and approaches his horse. The creature whines upon its new master’s approach. He shushes the beast.
“Take comfort. We are one now, you and I. We are Riders. We ride. We hunt. We kill. All as one. Do not fail me, friend, for I place my life upon you.”
Prince strokes the horse’s mane. The beast’s cries cease. Prince mounts the steed and breathes once more the desert air. He feels alive, fresh as though touched by the silent hand of death and given a second chance. He feels he is changing, becoming one with the sand and the fire and the earth. He is a titan, a crusher of the righteous and the damned. To him, a mere man such as John is nothing more than an ant, a pitiful insect begging to be spared the heel of his boot.
“I will not waste such power on you, John. You’re a wild one, yes, but you’re still damned. You’re still a broken man left twisted in the dust. A titan such as myself shall find nothing worth saving in you. So flee, John, flee into the darkest corners of the deepest pits, for I will find you and hunt you and kill all that remains of the Riders past. A new age is dawning and I will be there for it.”
Prince spurs his horse and takes off, a bringer of death no longer a servant of the day.

* * *

John and Alexander rock shoulder to shoulder atop the rumbling stagecoach. The pounding hooves roar overhead as John leans in close to speak, his voice at ha near shout.
“So,” he says, “You and Selina…”
The coffin maker cracks the reins once.
“Me and Selina?”
“I hear you’re expecting.”
“We are.”
“Excited, I’d imagine.”
“You imagine correctly.”
John sighs. His eyes track the brush and desert plants that race along their path.
“Why bring me along for company if you don’t plan to discuss with your guest?”
“Just ‘cause I want some company doesn’t mean I want conversation.”
“Then why not take Selina with you?”
John leans back in his seat. Ahead two men stand side by side along the edge of the road, markedly different in age, the taller and bulkier of the two many years the second’s elder. They wave their hands wildly through the air at the coach’s approach. Dirt stains their tattered clothes. The younger holds his hand up against his arm, his hands and sleeve soaked red with blood. Their faces flush red, unshadowed necks burnt raw from sun.
Alexander pulls back on the reins drawing the animals to a halt. He motions for the men to approach. They stumble forward in desperate haste, laughing and shoving each other over their good fortune.
“Thank the Lord you stopped,” the first man gasps, crossing his chest and laying his hands against the nearest horse for support, “We’ve been out here for hours since our wagon was hit by bandits. They took everything. Our wares, our food, our water, everything!”
“Looks like you boys have had a pretty bad day,” Alexander says.
“Got that right, mister,” the second says.
“You traders?”
“That’s right, sir, me and my Pa were heading from Briscoe to Larrity.”
Alexander elbows John in the shoulder and laughs.
“That a fact? We’re set up in Larrity right now. On our way to Harington at the moment but we should be back by early afternoon. If you’d like a ride we’d gladly give you one, should be able to get you fixed up by a doctor in town. Till then I can wrap your wound best I can. Just let me move some of these coffins aside.”
Alexander jumps down his seat and makes his way to the back of the wagon. The robbed men make their way slowly forward. An audible grunt issues from behind as the coffin maker shifts the coffins to make room.
“You need some help, mister?” the elder man asks, taking a second step, “My boy may be hurt but I—”.
“No need. Almost finished. What exactly were you boys hauling?”
“Cotton, sir.”
“Gosh, must be quite a profit you boys lost,” Alexander says, stepping back from the coffins and rounding the corner of the wagon, “Ya’ll can climb in back now, should be plenty of room.”
Alexander runs his hand along the side of the coach edge. He nods towards the younger man and his father, then shifts to the side, lifting his hand. His revolver comes with it and he lets loose a bullet into the younger man’s leg. A line of blood paints the ground on his fall. John rises from his seat.
“Jesus Christ!” the elder screams, reaching behind his back. Alexander trains his weapon on him without delay.
“No.”
The elder drops his hands to his sides. The younger looks up towards his shooter and screams.
“Oh my God! You crazy son of a bitch! You shot me!”
“Alexander, have you gone insane?”
“I’m functioning just fine, John,” Alexander says, still focused on the pair of strangers, “Sorry you didn’t get the chance to tell me you’d prefer riding in our seats. I know how much you boys enjoy that part.”
Alexander looks to John. “John, you mind taking these fella’s guns?”
“Uh, of course,” John replies, too confused to argue, “Sure thing, Alexander.”
John makes his way towards the two men. He rounds the men to see the outline of a pistol tucked into the backside of the waists. The two revolvers join his own. Alexander waves for him to return to the coach.
The coffin maker paces around the fallen man and his associate.
“It was a nice cover, I’ll admit. Like your burns,” he remarks, slapping the elder along the back of his neck, “Been riding with your hats off?”
“You gonna kill us?” the youngster grunts.
“Kill you?” Alexander laughs, “Course not! You know what your problem is? Folks like you always say you’re hauling cotton. Always cotton, like there’s no other good on the marketplace. Now get up.”
The elder grabs hold of his companion and pulls him up, leaning him against his shoulder.
“Get to your horses, wherever you got them stashed, and ride out of here.”
The men comply. Alexander fires several times into the air, laughing and whooping, his detached demeanor vanished.
“And get a better paint. I make coffins, I know what dried blood looks like!”
Alexander turns on his heel and retakes his place beside John.
“That’s why I don’t take Selina. When you’ve been robbed as much as I have you learn to recognize the tricks of the trade.”
“What do you want me to do with those gentlemen’s guns?” John asks.
“Just toss them in the back with the others.”

* * *

“You know you didn’t have to shoot the man.”
Alexander gives John a funny look and scoffs. He pulls the reins and draws the horses to a stop beside their next location.
“Help me with the coffin,” he says, jumping to the ground.
“You don’t have to deflect the question.”
Alexander finally lets out a laugh. A phony, uncomfortable laugh.
“Coming from Mr. Mystery that’s a riot.
“We all have secrets, Alexander, some of us more than others.”
The two pull a casket from the back of the wagon. John leads, walking backward and face to face with the coffin maker.
“You’re making excuses for yourself.”
“I don’t have to explain my actions to you.”
The coffin drops onto the porch. The two make their way back, a fair distance separating them. Alexander pulls a notepad from his back pocket and scans it.
“One more,” he mutters.
“That why you do this kind of work, Alexander?”
“You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“That’s right I don’t,” John says, reaching the wagon’s back, “And that scares me. Now I—”
John stops. Alexander speaks no more. The two stare at the coffin that awaits delivery, less than three feet in length.