Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  Jensen continues walking in the leaning shade of stores and buildings. He stops at a barbers window. The smell of washed soap and ointment wafts out to mingle with the sun-baked boardwalk's aroma. Inside a customer has a steamed towel wrapped around his face. A barber runs a blade over a leather strap, in a rhythmic, fluid action. Jensen's reflection stares back out at himself, unsure whether the reflection is him or he is the reflection, his hand in autonomy reaches up, and his fingers furrow into his overgrown beard. It is surprisingly soft to the touch, like dried Golden-chain tree’s hanging flowers.

  Jensen spies a bath in the back room of the barbers, heated water, towels, and soap. He sniffs at his wet spots, which sets his head in a recoil. A puff of resignation… He smells like a bag full of skunk pelts.

  His other senses come into play, he hears the commotion of young, angry voices in discord, call out. Jensen ponders on it.

  A rite of passage comes to everyone at some point, some religious, others intellectual, some spiritual, and the remaining physical. Few have to face all of these. Yet the illusion of self-identity will be challenged at some point, either early or late in life.

  Five boys, nearing their teens, pack around the curled up William, stamping, kicking, and landing the occasional blow. William Grace is not set on wondering if this is a rite of passage for him. He puts his hopes on being beaten less than he was last time and to save his reading spectacles, so his father doesn’t have to muster together his hard earned to get another pair.

  A solid clubbing boot to his abdomen robs William of air, and the opportunity to replenish it. Still, he waits, that's all he can do, till they tire or get bored.

  Jensen in stumbling stride meanders around the Barber's store, to a dry mud alley, an offshoot of the main street. Jensen watches for a moment as this ruckus of flailing hands and feet takes place. He shrugs - Not my problem.

  He turns, and the sound of pummelling continues, Jensen feels the shift within, it’s small barely perceptible.

  He decides to help.

  Jensen's grizzly frame easily plucks the boys aside, and moments later they too lay in the dirt, like their victim William. As if that's not enough, Jensen's boot lashes out at one, and he back hands another. If there was any resistance in them, it's broken now.

  Jensen stands above the sprawled bodies.

  “Reap what you sow boys.”

  In silent agreement, the bullies scramble to a sprint and bolt. Jensen walks off, not remembering why he was here in the first place.

  William dusts himself down and sits upon his sore buttocks; he took a thrashing today. He dabs at his nose; he can smell the metallic lilt of blood. He un-pockets his glasses, and slips them on; they ride his nose askew. William stands to thank the vagrant who saved him, he’s gone.

  Jensen walks out into the main street, his mind set on the homebound trip, and the resting he’ll treat himself to. He’s had a good day, and it struck him strange how an offset can lead to a reason to be smiling.

  He was happy to see Lotus, and though he had designs upon her, he couldn’t corral the courage to act upon these designs. Maybe it's just better to leave things as is. At least in that way, there's nobody getting some hurt-

  -WHACK –

  A collision. Jensen -CRACK- becomes a rag doll —SMASH— as his body bites into the dirt —THUD—- and rolls.

  Snatched by instinct Jensen turns to one knee and swift as a snake reaches for his side irons; pistols that aren’t there. His hand palms his britches.

  Seven riders tower above him, all in their twenties. This is Tyler Devon and his posse of young wolves.

  “Look where’s you’s walking, fool.” Tyler is as brazen as a crowing cockerel and twice as loud.

  Tyler notices the old timer clutching for a pistol, that isn't leathered to him. Tyler in a slow motion unholsters his Smith & Wesson .44; the steel caresses leather as he takes casual aim at Jensen.

  “You’se looking for a side iron, timer?”

  Tyler has a chuckle to himself, and when the alpha howls so does his pack. Bedford Tannon, to the right of Tyler, also draws his Remington ‘New Army’ model.

  “I’ve got’s me one, Tyler.”

  The other riders: Morgan Sandhill, Ben and Clyde Jameson and Graden White, watch on. It’s a powder keg of tension, one slip, one spark and lead will puncture bloody flesh.

  Jensen doesn’t do what most would, many a man’s heart pounds; their breaths hasten, fear gnaws. Not Jensen, he slowly stands. He’s calm as the cold fury of hell. His defiance runs deep and as wide as the 1844 Missouri river flood.

  Tyler glances from the defiant, pistol-less vagrant, poised ready to draw, and to his men and back.

  “Eh” … “Well, well… If you’re looking for a shootout you old coot, let me oblige.”

  Tyler looks to Bedford and waves his pistol, a gesture to throw Jensen his gun. Bedford pangs with distress.

  “But Tyl-“

  Tyler's glare derails Bedford's slow train of thought. Bedford flings his pistol; it crashes to the dirt. The Remington’s chamber silver polish reflects a distorted Jensen, his hand twitches.

  “If you aiming for a shoot-out, I aim to oblige.” Tyler crows.

  With the pistol by his foot, Jensen never takes his eyes from the riders. It's almost as if in his opioid haze, he’s ruminating on the outcome.

  Graden White pipes up.

  “Tyler, he’s actually gonna do it.”

  The four other pistols slide past leather. Jensen’s eyes brim with anger; he gives no credence to his ‘not a prayer’ odds, against six shooters, six barrels squarely aimed at him.

  He gives no quarter.

  The air’s electric, a tourniquet of tension twists… then…

  A small hand slips into Jensen’s twitching palm, William Grace begins to tug Jensen away.

  The young lad is apologetic. "Sorry mister, this is grandpa," William taps his finger against his head,

  “He ain’t quite all there… cracked as a wooden anvil.”

  Tyler holsters his Smith & Wesson,

  “Next time, next time, I won’t be so placating. My Pa built this town; you don't screw with the Devons, son."

  Tyler rides off, followed by the other riders, leaving Bedford to dismount and pick up his pistol. Bedford looks up after his posse… “Hey.”

  William gently guides Jensen onto the boardwalk; they're gawped at by passersby. The boy shows concern for the older man.

  "I saw you in a troublesome place like you saw me, I thought it best I interject before you gets hurt.”

  Jensen stares blankly at William; he can’t recall ever clamping eyes on him before. William feels like he’s getting through to the brute.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue, only been here for four days and have had regular-“

  Jensen looks down at the two of them holding hands. Jensen snatches his hand away like a hot coal was in his palm. Jensen mumbles.

  “Who the hell… are you?”

  “I’m William Grace, sir, it’s a pleasure to make your-“

  “-Grace?” Jensen blurts.

  “Yes, sir. Grace”

  Jensen chortles to himself. He ruffles William’s hair.

  “That’s a girl’s name kid. A name like that, you’d best toughen up.” Jensen makes off on his own.

  “Cause you’re infur a whole heap of happenings.”

  William, exasperated, watches Jensen leave.

  “I know.”

  8

  Early morning burned the moist clouds of night into vapour. Ocean sky sets against a cracked edifice of golden brown land. Green sprouts of life, push through to the light. The curved ridge of eternity, promises unknown discoveries, forever out of reach.

  The sun strikes Jensen's shack, the light punches through his walls and slaps him across the face. His muffled breathing starts to awaken.

  His shack’s door is booted open as he ambles into the day. A grizzly yawn, a stretch, he pats down his chest pocket, his britche
s… Then glances to the ground as if he's dropped something.

  Jensen side-eyes a small figure, he slowly turns and squints to focus on a young boy with an open, honest face, glasses. Jensen thought a blustering gust would carry the lad’s skinny bones clean out of Kansas.

  The boy holds up Jensen's tobacco pouch; he continues to speak as if they are acquainted.

  “I trust the morning has met you in good stead, you dropped this yesterday Mister Hills. I asked Doctor Parker where you li-“

  -"I ain't sellin'" Jensen decides to cut this short, damn lawyers.

  Jensen strides over and snatches the pouch and strides back into his shack; he heaves the door, it resists. William watches on quietly as Jensen wrestles with his door and slams it closed. William slowly walks over to the door and gently knocks.

  “Mister Hills”

  “Git, I ain’t sellin’”

  “Mister Hills, I’m not buying.”

  A grunt of confusion comes from behind the door.

  “Yer not from the Rawlings-is law firm?”

  “Not that I’m aware of… I’m nine and a half.”

  William presumes the silence is simply Jensen attempting to frame the situation. William continues to build bridges.

  "I have matches if you be needing them… Though I have heard that the tobacco leaf and cud can be a grievance on your wellness, just so you are awares."

  “Nine… Okay, what’s the name?” Jensen blurts.

  “And a half… The name’s Grace, William Grace.”

  The door shakes like it's in an earthquake, William steps back. The door slips a jar, and a huge scooped hand slowly comes out the shadows. William in compliance places the matches in Jensen’s palm.

  With a fresh smoke and a half-skinned bottle of whiskey, Jensen ambles along, past the knee high brush. William waddles behind with two buckets in hand. They tread along a well-worn dust path, which leads down to a river. William's eager to please.

  “Mister Hills, I was hoping that you would be inclined to tea-“

  -“I’m trying to comprehend.” Jensen isn’t listening, “I don’t owe ya money.” Jensen stops in his tracks and glances to William.

  William nearly collides into him.

  “I don’t do I?” Jensen is unsure. William shakes his head – no. Jensen carries on.

  “You ain’t one of those Rawlings-is lawyers, working for Dunston. And you sure ain’t a Pinkerton.”

  Jensen glances back, William shakes his head, again.

  “Yet, you’re still here … How old are you? ... Shouldn’t you’se be schooling?”

  “It’s Easter, to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord. I’m here determined and ready to demonstrate my appreciation of your involvement in my predicament.”

  Jensen’s face is as blank as untouched sand dune.

  “You know Mister Jensen, sir. Yesterday.”

  Jensen is still blank, but nods and grunts like he comprehends. Jensen goes over the important points.

  “Resurrection…”

  William nods.

  “Nine and a half.”

  William keeps nodding; the old man is getting it.

  “Well for a boy that’s no bigger than corn bit, you’se sure use a lot of convoluting speak.”

  William smiles. “I partake in the good book and the printed word. They say the Chinese have been printing the written word before the birth of Christ… incredible.”

  “So… Grace.” Jensen stops, he turns to William, he draws in some smoke and offers William the whiskey bottle.

  William stares at it, and Jensen jabs it closer to his face, as a way of encouragement. William shakes his head. Jensen shrugs – your choice. Jensen takes a slug.

  "William Grace, like grace from God," William responds.

  “Huh, no matter how much you pretty it up corn-nut. It’s a girl’s name. You’re going to get intos a heap of trouble over that name. So you’se best learn on toughening up.”

  Jensen walks off.

  William shakes his head in frustration; he hasn't got through to him at all.

  “I know, that’s why I’m here.”

  The cold blue river cuts through the harsh land. It laps over itself, chasing to unseen destinations, and on each of its banks, it offers life.

  The cold water, like wet chilled stoned hands, grips William’s legs as he stands in the wash knee deep, dunking the buckets.

  Jensen lounges on the river bank rips a cud of a tobacco-twist and tears into it.

  William, struggles, and slips. SPLOSH.

  With no sense of irony or care, Jensen calls out.

  “You’ll gets wet horsin’ around like that.”

  William continues to task.

  William, drenched, struggles with each full pail to the bank, Jensen takes them, as if to say… I suppose I’ll have to carry ‘em. As Jensen hoists the buckets, one of them leaks its innards. William points out the obvious.

  “Your pail is impaired. It’s sprung a leak.”

  “Grace, you’se just full o’insight.”

  William plunges his hand into the pail and jams his fingers into the hole. Jensen's impressed, as they waddle on with the two buckets. William's chest is puffed.

  “Ha… there you go, Mister Hills. No leak. I feel like Canut” William explains. “He’s a King who commanded the sea to retreat.”

  They walk a moment in silence… Jensen’s curious about this Canut.

  “Was he successful?”

  “Oh Mister Hills… no.”

  “Heck, it's your story, not mine."

  William waters the vegetables and feeds the livestock, while Jensen watches him from a reclined position, under his wide brimmed hat.

  William is an open book.

  "So, my Pa moved us here, to Dunston, with a promise of a new beginning. A new beginning of something often implies the ending of something else, don't you find Mister Jensen?"

  William pets the pig; who has buried its muzzle into the feed.

  "I'm sure you find-"

  -Jensen interrupts “Pigs eat little boys, you know.”

  William continues to pet the pig, not flustered in the slightest.

  “Mister Hills, I don’t believe you’d let any undue harm, come to my personage.”

  Jensen is put-out that William didn’t fall for his joke, he sinks back to laying and places his face under his hat.

  With chores complete, William sits next to the mound that is Jensen Hills. William silently stares out, across the land, into the horizon. William ponders upon what the future holds for him, not the distant future, just the next few weeks to come.

  “What d’you want Grace?”

  William snaps to attention. “Want? Mister Hills."

  Jensen pokes his hat up and pokes an eye at William.

  "Well, there's nothing here… Least not for me. Can't be imagining that there'd be more than nothing here for you."

  William takes a solemn breath.

  “Yesterday you showed no fear against those horsemen. They had pistols beaded upon you, yet you didn’t flinch.”

  “Horsemen?” Jensen delves into his memories… nothing. “Kid, yesterday is for me kinda unfocused, and truth be told, most days are. If this were tomorrow, I’d forget you.”

  William’s direct. “Well, you said I needed to toughen up. I’m ready to do that, to learn to fight. I want you to show me how.”

  Jensen is dismissive as he slips back under his hat.

  “Toughen up. You can start by not listening to an old man. I can grasp the irony in an old man tells you to stop minding old men. It's a paradox, a paradox, you getting my comprehension?"

  William does, he stands and brushes his trousers down, before walking off. Jensen under his hat doesn't notice and can pay no mind. He continues.

  "But if I were to tell you something… sleep. Sleep is perhaps the most…" Jensen yawns. "The most important.”

  Jensen with surprising ease falls into a snoring slumber.

  9

>   CHING-CHING-CHING. Tyler Devon is toe tapping his Spanish spurred boot. He leans against the wall of Dunston municipal bank. He smokes a hand rolled, burning his anger into its glow.

  A family walks past him, with a young boy who eye-balls Tyler. Tyler, unrepentant, pulls back the wing of his wide lapelled coat. The sun glints off the Wesson’s polished, decorated housing and pearl grip. Tyler’s grin is of malicious intent as the boy hurriedly moves in front of his mother and father. Tyler then whips his coat back, and looks about, hoping no one saw him. He goes back to his edgy surveying and the ching-ching-ching of nervy tapping.

  A figure, dressed in business duds, bowler hat, and fine buffalo top stitched boots, burst out the bank, right past Tyler. Tyler throws his smoke away and calls out

  “Pa. Hold up Pa.”

  Robert Devon, marches military style away from the bank, his face puffed red with a raging fury. Robert Devon has known Beau Dunston, way before he became a Colonel if he ever did become a Colonel; Robert got to concluding.

  Robert instinctively rubs the ring on his finger; it was gold, made from the first nugget of gold he had found with his Pa in the late '29 in the North Georgia mountain gold rush.

  He’d got the fever before many had even heard about gold, he spent twelve years in Georgia mountains and on the gold belt before it dried up for prospectors. Robert went on and left his Pa, his new Wife to go fight the Mexicans. Come ’48 when Robert had his fill with killing. He went to join up with his family in the California gold rush, Robert became a ‘49er. By the time Robert got to California, his Pa had passed on, either from Black Damp or the illness that hung in the water; cholera. Robert made a go of it, and in ’55, he left when there was nothing left to take. He headed out East, back to civilisation. Till the ’59 West Kansas gold came calling.

  This is when Robert and his family passed through Dunston and met Beau Dunston. As Robert’s wife fell ill, he got to sticking around in Dunston, turning to the bottle as his wife’s health declined. Gold was being found in Pike's Peak country, and he was stuck in this outpost of a town. He fell into debt and was offered the opportunity to build the town and be its Mayor, as Beau Dunston was summoned away.