A short tale by Cav Mulholland

He was worried and there was no getting around the fact. He admitted now, in retrospect, that it had been a bad decision. Stupid in fact. He shook his head and walked the extra paces and stooped, hand extended, fingers itching to make the contact that was all too late. His eyes stung and he swallowed hard in an effort of suppression, but could no longer control the emotions which now threatened to overcome all else. The extended arm flung up at his face and he wiped his nose noisily on rough fabric. His hat slipped forward and he dashed at it and pushed it back angrily. Happy to vent his frustration on some inanimate object. He was weary of the hurt. The hat was an ideal foil for the anger that had been brewing like a prairie duster and it toppled across his shoulders and rolled a few feet before arcing back. It nuzzled like a plump pup at his leg and raised a tiny cloud from its brim as it settled on the powdered dust.

It had been white when he had obtained it and he had, when he remembered, smiled ruefully on the circumstances of those which surrounded that acquisition. The transgressor had been no more than a lad. A boy. A youth who was full of false bravado courtesy of the Three Fingers Saloon. The lad had staggered from the boardwalk and spun on his heel, swaying like a peppercorn in a storm. For three minutes he had called and cursed and staggered to and fro and each time the young man passed the bat-wings, he had stopped and peered into the bar. The patrons had fled at the first hint of gunplay and many stood on the staircase sipping their drinks noisily, waiting for the drama to pass. It had been a lonely thing leaning on that bar. He had not wanted to fight. Not wanted to kill, and even then, had grown weary of the effort required to stay alive. The boy had a wonderful hat. Big and round and fat and white and it bobbed through the yellow dinginess of the street, reflecting the lights of the Three Fingers like a mirror. He had watched the reflection above the bar, waiting for the taunts to dissipate, waiting for the liquor to overcome the boy. He had marvelled at the young man’s stamina, but he tired of it in the end and slipped out the back door and ran quickly to the front, coming from behind and tapping the youth on the shoulder. The boy had jumped and spun round, yelling in surprise. He remembered the spittle on the corners of the lad’s lips, flecking his shirt like the winter’s kiss. Colour drained

from the youth’s face in recognition and his legs buckled as fear had grabbed him and he had swooned in a dead faint.

He took the boy’s hat for his trouble. It had been a good hat. A tight fit when his hair grew and it then tended to fly in the wind, but he had learned to jam it down so it sat on his ears. In those circumstances, he was forced to peer from under its brim at which times he felt like a poddy calf looking through a hedge, an appearance he knew reminded others of a half-wit, but he paid that no heed for it meant that he was, for the most part, left alone.

Loneliness was a circumstance he accepted these days. Like dust on his boots. Being alone was something that simply was and no man or no thing could change it.

In early times, before he had ever wandered from his home in Virginia, he had partnered some, but men being what they were, sooner or later always wanted to know just who was fastest. The nerves of gun play gnawed at his gut and he felt the loneliness right there. It screwed at him and made him empty. Mosquito filled the void and had come into his life through strange happenings. It had been up in the Mesquites, was it five? No, six years ago now. The pursuit had been long and strong. Indian territory. The savages who tracked him, inched closer every hour. He had heard that Indians made camp at night, for fear that their spirit would be lost should physical misfortune overtake them. Someone should have told this lot, because they followed hot on his trail and by mid next morning, he was bone weary and his horse staggered with exhaustion. Foam covered the beast’s flanks and it sucked at the burning hot air in ragged gasps that came hollow and rasping with every painful stride.

He sensed, rather than felt the first bullet that whistled passed and he risked a furtive glance. It was a glance which cost him dearly and was enough to put the horse off balance and it was a glance that cost the beast it’s life, because it tripped and stumbled full flight, and went down with a crash and bellow of air that exploded through his senses with torturous red and yellow brilliance. He scrambled against the already dead animal and crouched against the saddle. He could hear and feel the bullets that ripped into the still quivering flesh of his mount and he let loose three quick rounds at his pursuers. His lips formed a tight, cracked line as he saw two men fall, arms flung back by an unseen force. Instantly the remaining red men had turned in either direction. Out and back. He ducked

behind the cover of his horse and automatically checked the load in his carbine. He scrabbled at the saddle bags and laid a box of shells in the sand.

Heat laid on him, oven hot. His tongue clicked in a dry mouth and desperately he licked at the beads which formed on his upper lip. His tongue remained dry and he realised that dehydration would soon set in. No moisture, no sweat, no hope, no time. The savages had dismounted and seemed content to wait at the limits of rifle shot. He knew their strategy, they had already lost braves. Few white men survived the desert heat and even fewer who had no means of transportation. Like the buzzards, the savages would wait allowing nature to take it’s terrible course. In the early afternoon, he had decided to sip his horses blood, and he butchered at the side of the carcass and stuffed the bloody gore in his mouth. He gagged and wretched and dropped the meat in the dust. He lay there looking and panting with the effort. His throat still restricted and threatened to disgorge whatever he had in his belly. He gathered himself and hacked again. He sucked slowly this time. The meat was warm and he felt his stomach roll.

After a time he removed his hat and inched along the body. He stopped at the mane and carefully parted the course, black hair and peered into the distance just in time to see movement near some sage far out to his right. They were working in slowly. He dragged the carbine across his chest and slid the barrel along the horse’s neck, aiming slightly adrift of the bush. He was patient. The sun beat at his uncovered head and he could feel his scalp drying and frying in the terrible heat. The gun was hot to his touch, but he lay still like a searing white rock. He lay in the scorching sand for perhaps seven minutes before the movement came again. This time he was ready and the rifle bucked against his shoulder and he could hear the slug hit flesh and at the same instant the smell of cordite filled his senses. He rolled along the length of the horse. He brought the rifle to bear at an area to his left and felt satisfaction when two of the red men broke cover. The rifle bucked again in quick succession, so fast that the two reports melded to one. The soft thud, thud, told him the result. The carcass suddenly moved and at first he could not comprehend. It hiccoughed backward. Then softly, he could hear the reports of the Indian’s weapons followed immediately by the full, empty noise of lead slapping into dead flesh. Retaliation. He afforded a grim smile. A death’s head grimace in the dust and the heat and the flies. The odds were better now. There must only be two men left, three maybe.

Later, a ripple of breeze surprised him. He looked to the west like an interested spectator and then realised that sundown would soon be upon them. He knew his enemy would come for him then. Which way? Three men. How would he do it? Cover was sparse and he rested his head against a stirrup leather, closed his eyes, and tried to visualise the terrain between him and his enemy. He lay there gulping at the hot ruffle of air as it signalled the end of another day. Through slit eyes, he stared at the horizon, the meditative state of concentration still enshrouded him. Only then did he see the tree right out. Behind and to his left. Tree growth probably meant some kind of moisture. Certainly dry now, but with almost equal certainty was a shallow creek bed. Water generally did not flood out here during rains, it coursed wildly along rocky narrow creek beds that carried the precious stuff from nowhere to nowhere. Along these courses, saplings grew in an effort of nature to suck every possible drop from the ground. He realised now, why the two men had been out to his left. They were trying for the cover of the water course.

He watched the sun, still fiercely hanging in the sky behind him, it filled the entire horizon with a growing crimson glow. He readied his weapon. He knew that he had only precious seconds, too soon and he would be seen, too late and he would be silhouetted against the fiery backdrop. His heart pounded in his ears and then he broke cover. He crabbed on his belly ignoring the daggers of the desert shrubs. Dirt and dust and stones filled his shirt and trousers and he could taste the salt of the desert floor. The sun blazed its final retort as he slithered across the tiny embankment of the waterway. He rolled to the centre and quickly judged that he could run hunched over without showing himself. He tried to run, but his muscles cramped and it took precious minutes for him to move freely. He ran, perhaps a hundred paces before he stopped and afforded a look. He scrabbled at the bank and peered around a salt bush. He saw movement far out, too far to risk a shot especially when he had no idea of the location or number of others. They were moving away from him and stalking the putrefying horse. There could only be three. He slid back to the centre of the creek bed and crab ran another hundred paces. His time was running out. When they found him missing, they would immediately know where to look.

He leaned against the embankment. He had to make for the Indian’s ponies. He sucked a final breath and scrambled from his cover. The land rolled away into a slight depression that he sensed rather than saw. He risked a crouching walk. He moved slowly rather than risk sudden movement. Perhaps a guard had been posted near the horses. A soft nicker floated on the evening breeze and he walked toward the sound. His eyes strained in the darkening light. He crouched by a hip high bush. His nerves jangled and he bunched his muscles, rocking onto the balls of his feet, three fingers of one hand pushing against the still hot earth. Somewhere out there a blood curdling cry. One of them had just launched himself around the dead horse. Split seconds now before they realised his escape. At the instant of the cry, sudden movement in front of him caused his throat to constrict and for a split second, his vision blurred with the tension. A young brave, no more than twelve or thirteen years broke cover and shielded his eyes, eager to watch the excitement further out.

Again a horse sounded, perhaps only twenty or so paces from where the boy had been hiding. Suddenly there was a commotion at the site of the dead horse. The white man’s absence had been discovered. The young Indian moved toward his fellow braves. Moved perhaps three or four hesitant paces. He glanced toward the horses and then looked behind. He had no rifle, but gripped a large hunting knife in his left hand. Man and boy stared at each other. The gunman reacted first and whipped the rifle to his shoulder. He had never shot a child before and hesitated for a mere second. The boy threw the knife underhanded. The speed of the throw caught the man by surprise. His leg burned white hot and collapsed under his weight and his ears filled with the triumphant scream of the young man. The gunman tried to raise the rifle, he could hear the sand squeal under the running footsteps of the boy. He sensed the movement of the Indian before his mind cleared of pain enough to realize that he was under immediate attack.

The young man hit him screaming and running full tilt. The noise of rifle shot seemed almost distant and they fell tumbling, screaming and clawing through the sage bush. The Indian grabbed at the rifle with one hand and scrabbled for the knife with the other. The Virginian hoisted the young warrior off his body easily, the boy, although wiry with surprising strength for one so young, was very light and he sailed through the air and landed in a cloud of red dust. He bounced like a ball and sprang back at his enemy with all the ferocity of a cougar. His fingers curled and clawed the air as he launched himself. The gunman grabbed at the rifle and swung it like a club and caught the boy a crushing blow on the side of his head. It was a perfectly timed swing and the Indian’s body arced through the air like an empty bag. He landed with a thud and lay still on the burning sand.

There could be no time left now, the shot would have told the remaining Indians everything they needed to know. He scrabbled around and faced West. His ears strained for the sound of their approach. The silence grabbed at his nerves. Pain coursed up his leg and he felt the throbbing through his thigh. Blood ran freely from the wound and he was surprised that the knife was loose. He gripped the handle, screwed his face in painful anticipation and yanked. For an instant, all pain stopped, but then it came back at him like a river in a narrow canyon. For a moment, his vision danced and he put an arm out to steady himself. He hobbled toward the string of horses and they crabbed sideways at his approach. He cursed softly and reached for the nearest mount, it reared its head and rolled its eyes at him and shied away but he managed to grab a fistful of mane and pulled the horse to him. He spoke softly uttering a string of curses, he figured that the horse wouldn’t understand the words and they made him feel better anyway.

Gradually he could feel the tension ease within the animal and, judging the moment, he tried to swing over the animal’s back. It was a typical Indian horse, little more than a pony, splodges of brown and black colour dappled across a white undercoat. One eye was pure white and as the Virginian draped across the broad, flat back, the horse turned its head, white eye flashing in the growing darkness. The gunman had been unable to swing his leg over the animal’s back and in desperation he had draped himself across it’s back like a shawl on a whore’s shoulder, one hand still held the mane for grim death and the other, gripped the rifle and slapped around the neck as he tried to drag himself far enough over to lift his leg across and sit upright. The horse turned in a tight little circle as it’s mane was pulled savagely. It all became too much for the pony and with a snort and white eye flashing, it bit him on the roundest part that it could find.

The blood curdling scream that emanated from the half slung white man was answered immediately, with what sounded to his ears, as a victory whoop from somewhere in the gloom and his heart lurched. His opponents obviously mistook his predicament and in that split second, his gaze fell on the prostrate body of the young brave. With renewed vigour, the Virginian slid his aching body upright. He still had a fist full of the pony'’ mane, and he wasted no time in gathering the remaining horses. Within seconds he was galloping toward the east, surrounded by a string of Indian ponies, his leg ached some, but his arse ached even more.

He named the pony Mosquito. It had taken a long time for its bite to heal and many times throughout the days of his convalescence, he was tempted to finish their new association right there. When he sat at meal times or swung into the saddle, his fingers curled and his arm slipped down toward his holster, but in the end, there was always something there. A look from that white patched eye, an impatient shuffle as if the horse itched for action and the Virginian’s feelings of bitterness swirled away like mist on the river. Mosquito had never felt a saddle on her rump and showed true wild spirit at the first feel of leather. It signalled another confrontation which the Virginian was determined to win. The horse had not been broken to saddle, but on the other hand, he had never been one to ride Indian style and he was damned if he was going to start now. The round yard seemed smaller with Mosquito in it. The rails rushed closer so swiftly, and he was thrown many times. In the end it was Old Pedro who took the pony aside and quieted her. The ‘slinger slouched against a strainer and watched the Mexican grab the horse’s ear and twitch it gently to his face. He appeared to talk into the twisted appendage and they stood stock still in the centre of the yard. Man and beast like shadows on the wall, swirls of dust kicked at their feet and after a time the old man walked to the rails and Mosquito, with the barest of glances sideways, followed quiet as a lamb.

Lladroop was a town like so many others. Shanties slunk along the open pitted gutters and sat as mendicant shelters on the edge of the desert, and the dust swirled full and dry at the batwings of two saloons. He had been tempted to ride around and continue west, but against better judgment, he had nosed Mosquito at the settlement. She was still shod Indian style and he rode her silently down the rutted track that was the only street in town. Men peered from scant shade and he heard snatches of the comments and knew then that he had made a bad decision. He looped the rains across the rail in front of Lacy’s store and trod lightly up the three steps. He wore a faded, multi coloured cape Old Pedro had given him as a parting gift. The old man’s eyes had glistened in the morning light and the Virginian, in that fleeting instant, had felt the lump rise in his own throat. The old man had been a friend for so long.

“You need protection out there,” the silver stubbled chin had poked toward the unknown. “from all sorts.” The old Mexican had turned away not wanting to prolong the farewell and had clomped up the stoned pathway making a show of blowing his nose on a faded red rag, dragged from his undershirt.

The younger man had found the cape to be multi purposed and had relished it’s warmth in the cold night air and it’s protection throughout the sweltering days. The colours had almost melded after the first few weeks and only thin lines remained around the girth to remind who ever may have noticed, that it had once been a proudly coloured vestment. A thick yellow ridge rippled around the hem and was really, the last remaining bright colour. He had watched that line, trance like, as he rode, and had allowed his mind to drift with the colour. Once, he imagined it to be a line of gold, beautiful solid gold material stitched around him, and he imagined how rich he must be to have such wealth as to wear a garment of pure gold. What would he buy with such money? Where would he travel? What indeed, where indeed? He had all he required right now. He realised in those moments of dreaming, that he wanted very little else. His world was what he carried with Mosquito and the horse had become his one true friend. He had no need for wealth. The cape had the added bonus of covering his hands, protecting them from cold and the frying heat of the mid-day sun – and prying eyes. Now, as he stepped along the side walk, his colt rested comfortably in his fist, covered by the thin Mexican cloth. He had rarely drawn the weapon before an adversary, but now that extra sense niggled at his mind. He peered from beneath the hat brim and headed to the open door of the general store.

“That’s an injun horse.”

He recognised the speaker as one who had first commented as he rode into town and now he stood next to Mosquito, one hand resting on the animal’s flank and the other hanging limply. The Virginian stopped. The open door looked mighty inviting right then. He sucked a breath and turned slowly.

“Was.”

The local grinned, showing broken, brown teeth in a ragged row. “Never was no such thing as ‘was’ with injuns.” His bottom lip dropped to a sneer. He sized the stranger up and judged him to be some kind of fool, dressed like a Mex and wearing a hat two sizes too big. He sucked a breath and looked sideways. He needed an audience and a few men stopped to watch Murphy have his fun. “They’re yer friends then?”

The Virginian turned back to the store and was swallowed by the darkness.

“We don’t serve Mecs.”

He looked at the boy behind the planks that served as the counter. They rested on roughly hewn timber that looked as if it had been dragged in just yesterday. There was a smell he couldn’t identify and it stung at his nostrils and filled his throat, thick and sweet and bitter all at once, the flour looked yellow. He took no notice of the information the ‘keeper had imparted.

“Box of shells.” He pointed at the shelf.

The boy shook his head. “Mister, I told you…” A line of sweat covered the thin top lip. He trembled slightly. “I can’t mister.” The tremble became more noticeable. “You’ll be gone soon,” he gestured to the street, “an’ Murphy’ll still be here…”

The Virginian glanced at the door. The small crowd had grown and gathered around Mosquito. He guessed that many of them had never seen an Indian pony up close. The horse displayed a nervousness at such a crowd and she tossed her head and her white eye flashed. He didn’t need the shells and he sure as hell didn’t need the trouble. He nodded. In the darkness. “Give me some jerky.”

The trembling showed in the boy’s hands now and he shook his head slow and determined. “I can’t mister.” The fear showed in his face. “They’d kill me if’n I did…”

“I only want jerky.” He couldn’t stop the incredulity in his voice.

“They’d kill me. Murphy and his friends, they killed my pa…”

The gunslinger felt the old familiar rush, felt the thump in his chest and for and instant, his vision shimmied. He wanted to go and he needed to stay and he could sense the wonderful rush of danger that he loved to hate. The colt felt balanced and comforting in the hand that still hung limply under the faded cloth. “For serving someone?” The amazement still haunted his voice.

“Mexicans.”

The Virginian nodded thoughtfully and leaned toward the boy. He beckoned with his free hand and the lad inclined his head almost involuntarily. “I’m not Mexican,” the Virginian whispered conspiratorially “so I’d ‘preciate the jerky.” He stood erect, looked toward the crowd then turned back to the quivering boy. “Please.”

“You dress like one.” The boy was unsure now and his eyes flicked back and forth from the stranger to the crowd. “They don’t know you’re not.” Spittle had formed at the corner of his lips and he inclined his head at Murphy who’s voice still floated above the hubbub of the street. “I got’ta live in this town mister. They killed my pa…”

The Virginian sighed. He should have ridden around, he needed no supplies and he could do without the aggravation. He didn’t even want the jerky, but he was damned if he would agree to refusal of service anywhere let alone in a dot of a place on the edge of the desert. It had been a stupid decision to come here. He walked across the front of the counter and settled a leg on a flour sack. The crowd had grown alarmingly. Murphy stood by Mosquito, three of his friends beside him and another four on the off side of the mere. The odds were stacking up and a frown creased the gunslinger’s brow. He turned to the boy. “Is there a back door?”

“Figured you’d be a runner.” The words were mumbled and barely carried in the gloom. The withering look from the stranger caused the boy to regret his thoughtless retort and he flushed scarlet before he added, “No, just the front.” He was wringing a rag in his hands now and his eyes still jerked from the stranger to the street and they grew larger when he noticed the colt in the stranger’s hand. It had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

“Is Murphy the leader of this rabble?” The words were uttered almost casually and the keeper’s head bobbed in unison with his throat.

The gunslinger unlocked the chamber and checked the load slowly and carefully. He fished under the cape and with-drew his hand. In it he held a number of shells. His eyes glinted in the half light and he looked back to the boy, he seemed to be weighing the odds, working out tactics, thinking hard on likely events. The store-keep’s hands curled the rag even tighter. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, up and down. The fact was, the Virginian was worried. The odds were too great. Too many unknowns. He pushed off the sack and started to the door when he noticed one of Murphy’s cronies leading Mosquito up the street. The gunslinger stopped in the shadows, eyes searched the extremities. He took in everything, the crowd, those with guns and those without, the buildings opposite, the ally which ran beside an hotel. He glanced back at the boy. “Thanks for your help.” The sarcasm was lost on the young man who noticed that the stranger held both hands out of sight under the faded cape.

He stepped lightly onto the boardwalk, but remained close to Lacy’s wall.

“We don’t take to no injun lovers ‘round here.” Murphy was flanked by a number of hangers on who grinned in anticipation.

“Don’t blame you.” The stranger nodded and the big hat shook slightly with the movement. “Fact is, I stole it from a bunch some time back.” He watched the big man in the street and chanced a quick glance up the street.”

Murphy was immediately interested at this new information. “Stole it!” The voice was even louder now. “Well! Aint that a thing! What d’y think friends? We have a horse thief in our midst!”

Two men stood grinning with Mosquito, about fifty paces further up the street. The Virginian looked deliberately from them to Murphy, sighed and turned back to the shop.

“Hey! Where d’y’ think?” Murphy sounded furious and let loose with a string of profanities as the stranger was, once again, swallowed by the darkness of Lacy’s store. Murphy came at the store doors like a bull on the charge. His gun was in his fist as he bounded through the entrance, from bright light to darkness and his eyes took seconds to adjust to the change. The Virginian watched from the cover of darkness and as the big man came through the door, he hit him with two resounding blows from an axe handle, across the knees.

Murphy collapsed with a howl that could be heard at the Two Barrels Saloon, but the anguished cries of pain were short lived because he was caught twice more across the face and scull. He fell like sack to the wooden floor. The Virginian took him by the hair and dragged the unconscious form back onto the ‘walk. He held his revolver in his free hand. He walked to the steps and allowed Murphy’s head to drop with a thump on the upper tread, one of the big man’s legs splayed across the boardwalk at a crazy angle.

It seemed that all street noise ceased. The gunslinger experienced the familiar rush and it seemed that his world moved in slow motion. He was aware of no noise and yet heard the slightest sound. He walked in the direction of Mosquito and kept close to the boardwalk. He allowed the cape to cover his gun hand, the stench from the open gutter sucked at the air around him and filled his throat with its wafting odour. Six men remained in the street, the two with Mosquito appeared unsure of what to do and the Virginian discounted them. The trouble, if it came, would emanate from those who still crowded around their friend’s body. He was only paces from the pony now and the temptation to run was almost overwhelming.

“I’ll take my horse.” His voice was even and had a cold edge. The one who held the rains looked goggled eyed from the stranger to his companion. The Virginian did not alter his stride and gathered the leather strips. The revolver was suddenly in view. It had appeared from nowhere and the two men backed away. “I’d appreciate it, if the two of you re-joined your friends.” He smiled, but there was no warmth. He turned Mosquito and used the mare to shield him from their view. He cocked the weapon. “I think that you should run to them.” he added. Shorty dropped the reins and ran first, he knew what was best and he decided instantly that he would be far better off at the other end of the street. He had seen what the stranger had done to Murphy and that act alone had filled Shorty with terror and disbelief.

Shorty Ansell had been frightened of Murphy since the very first day he had arrived in Lladroop. Shorty had come west because it was about as far as he could get from his wife and he intended to travel even further just as soon as he could arrange the necessary means. He had heard the stories about Indians and the renegades and he had even seen the remnants of wagon trains during his epic flight west. He knew the damage that both savages and outlaws could impart, but he knew that such damage would be almost insignificant should his Clarissa or her brothers find ever find him.