Blood of the Lamb

by Stephen Cote

most of the townsfolks’ possessions strewn about, but no townsfolk.

  Cain didn’t know what happened at Little Rapids, but his one memory of actually being in a gunfight involved Savannah Cline. They had stopped at a small mining town, taken a drink and some victuals at the shack decorated with a sign identifying it as the bar, and some lanky kid sauntered in. He reckoned Cain was the infamous gunfighter out of Texas, and Cain didn’t consider at the time that perhaps the kid confused him with Hardin. The kid had an itchy trigger finger, everyone could tell, and when Cain brushed him off with a smart quip, the kid made an unflattering remark towards Savannah.

  Cain knew the kid wanted to gun him down, and at that moment knew the kid would draw in Savannah’s direction just to get him to draw. His mind raced and his hands started to shake. His entire body palsied with epileptic reaction to everything around him and his senses became sharpened as though he might cut down the kid with a mere thought. Cain’s pistol was in his hand and pointed at the kid as though the kid had become frozen in the intervening seconds. The kid had enough time to form a horrified expression, realizing he made a mistake. Then Cain fired.

  Tales of self-defense were good only in wholesome parlance because the stories usually involved no wrongdoing on his part and offered appropriately meted justice. Such stories reminded Cain of his oldest dream.

  After Savannah left him, Cain tried to think about everything he could remember from Little Rapids and his own proclivity for gun slinging, but couldn’t fathom her reaction solely from those two potential causes. Then, he thought more about himself and his own daily habits and began to realize that, perhaps, he had a problem.

  He did. Besides not remembering things he apparently was supposed to remember, he had a more functionally and obvious problem. He couldn’t concentrate. The more he tried to think about why Savannah left him, the more he realized that he couldn’t think about it because mere seconds passed before his mind began to wander. Then he would become angry without knowing why he was angry, or what he had been thinking about.

  Whether it was a subconscious pursuit or happenstance, Cain had found himself in Liberty, Washington, a young mining town. There he remained for four years and, at some point and for a time, his problem was solved. In those peaceful years, he developed strong bonds with the Palouse tribes, and once more found love. However, the tribes were not receptive to the influx of settlers and soldiers, and animosity grew between the tribes, settlers and soldiers. Cain suspected his respite in Liberty would end.

  Cain sat bareback on and astride Mescaline, an ornery Appaloosa, and he looked over a valley from a craggy ridge. A Palouse tribe encampment dotted the Western bank of a narrow river that swung northeast to southwest through the valley. His pistol quickly came to his hand, and he thrust the muzzle under a man’s chin before the man’s fingers made contact with his shoulder. The man sat tall on his horse and Cain held his pistol at an awkward angle.

  Cain had not heard a horse approach, reacting to some phantom presence.

  The Palouse warrior slowly raised a small doeskin pouch.

  Cain withdrew the pistol, tucked it under his shirt, and took the pouch. He weighed it in his palm and looked forlornly at the formidable warrior. “So little,” he remarked with a sad tone. He smiled gamely, and then recognized the face and the trials both behind and before him. “John Bear.”

  “My English name,” the warrior replied, appearing as though he expected Cain’s reaction.

  Cain guided Mescaline around to face the warrior. “And your real name,” he said, struggling to recall. He knew that if he ingested the medicinal contents of the pouch he would remember and once more enjoy a simple and wholesome life. The kind of life he had in Liberty with Genevieve. Mescaline neighed and turned his head to nip at the pouch; his horse certainly knew the contents.

  John Bear reined in his steed and pursed his lips. “In the years of our friendship, you could never pronounce it right. You always said something that sounded like Moon Tree, which isn’t accurate.” He narrowed his eyes, “Not all tribal names translate into a conjunction of nature.” A tight smile crossed his lips. “If you couldn’t get it right when you were thinking clearly, you won’t get it right now. John Bear will suffice.”

  Cain observed John Bear’s stature as a soft wind bristled the fringes of his long black hair. Glancing down at his pistol, and with fragments of his memories becoming cohesive, he asked, “What goes through your mind when I draw my pistol? You had time to fire an arrow, or draw one of those knives in your belt, or even your own pistol. Why did I even get a chance to draw?”

  John Bear pointed across the valley and in the direction of the breeze. Apparently, he had answered this particular question before given the way he rattled off his reply. “It is like looking at a strong wind. No matter your intent or convictions, the wind will avert your gaze. So is it with trying to raise an arm to you. If I had tried, my arm would be pushed away by with an insurmountable force.”

  “I always thought I was just fast,” Cain said.

  “Do not confuse your abilities with the inequities of others,” John Bear said. “You have an uncanny ability in your trade. There is also some other spirit that fights alongside you.”

  “Your English has improved,” Cain said. He then recalled a time when John Bear’s English wasn’t spoken so well. “I guess I’ve already told you that.”

  Looking at John Bear, Cain recollected why his English was well spoken. Cain had taught him over the previous four years, and John Bear had spent time scouting and acting as liaison to the Nez Perce for the Union troops garrisoned in Spokane and Walla Walla.

  “Colonel Wright’s troops are now holding Liberty,” John Bear said, changing the subject. “And it is becoming clear to us that the Palouse tribes will be overrun, just as the Nez Perce is being overrun and just as the other tribes on the far side of the land have been overrun.” John Bear looked out over the valley and fell silent, then removed two knives from his belt and offered them to Cain.

  Cain took both, one large and one small. “One is for Genevieve,” he said and then remembered in Genevieve he again found a love like he had experienced with Savannah.

  John Bear nodded. He affixed his eyes to Cain’s hands and said, “It pains me to see you suffer, and I am,” he paused to search, Cain thought, for the right words, “I am pleased you honor our bonds of friendship, and exact vengeance in the name of my people.”

  Before Cain could remark upon his uncertainty, John Bear continued, “You will understand when you take the medicine.”

  “Now,” John Bear said, “I must ride out with my people who make haste to give you a wide berth.”

  “Thank you,” Cain said, and then added with an affection he hadn’t been aware he felt, “My friend.”

  “And don’t give any to the horse.” John Bear spun his mount away from Cain and rode away.