“Got this from Cutlass Jack, down past the breaks of Missouri. Cattle rustler, fought hand to hand, after the third day of not eating.” Jensen puffs with pride. “Didn’t cry n'der.”
William’s face says it all… Wow. That’s the cue that Jensen needed.
Jensen, the showman, rips open his red undergarment, exposing pallid white flesh of his chest, marked by a map of bullet brands and scars.
Jensen points to a divet in his upper chest.
“River Bed, a small dirt water town. Cheap whiskey, full o’ Commancheros. And the women, those dirty…” Jensen remembers where he is. “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re of age.” He gets snatched back to his memories.
“Anyhow, the railroad’s Pinkertons they just got outta hand. They got what was coming to ‘em, and I gave it." Jensen cradles two imaginary holstered pistols; he can almost catch the silhouette of three gunslingers ready to draw. Decades have not eroded those adrenal filled moments.
William taps the man’s shoulder, bringing him back to the now. The boy opens his mouth and points to a missing tooth, he speaks, while pointing, not closing his mouth.
“I Gok a ‘ooth, ‘ock owt…” Off of Jensen’s blank stare, William removes his finger. “Got kicked by one of the Hangelen twins… Not sure which. Didn’t cry. Keep the tooth by my bed in the spider jar. They like it.”
Jensen nods, lips curl in an impressed smile. He then strives to escalate the proceedings of one-up man-ship. He exposes his left flank and shoulder from underneath his read garment, wrestling with it a moment.
"See that?" Jensen hitches his arm behind his back and thumbs to a scar.
“Bullet wound.”
“Entry…” Jensen points from his back to a marking in his mid-torso. “Exit.”
William’s finger imitates the trajectory of the bullet; in awe. Entry… Exit.
“Did… Did you cry, Mister Hills?”
“More cried out… Dan ‘Red Boots Bushall, hell of a shootist. Him and his ‘wagon trail pirates,' Red Boots sniped me from …oh… near three hundred yards. I fell from my horse.”
“And… what happened?”
“By the time they got to me, I had my two 36 Navy ready… forgets how I got back to town.”
William’s imagination runs rampant; he envisions Jensen veiled in his own blood. Laying in the grass, with two pistols, the throat of their barrels spewing heated lead, in fiery spits of acrid blue smoke.
“Were you ever wanted by the law?” The boy asks.
“On occasion, Grace, on occasion. But not this time, ‘em pirates kept raiding homesteader's wagons. I went to be making sure, that they didn't repeat that offense."
“Wow, like King Arthur’s knights.”
Jensen’s expressions is blank, William reframes.
“You protected the poor, the needy.”
“They paid me, supplies, gold. They’re weren’t neither poor, or needy.”
Jensen pulls aside his red undergarment exposing his brutish and full upper body; it's a map of scar tissue, each scourge, mark on this fleshy tapestry tells a story.
“Those stripes on my back.”
The boy cranes his head; he sees the whispers of what would have been split flesh, it’s horrific. William nods.
“Had ‘em twenty-five years. You get lashes for disobeying orders… I disobeyed.”
“Gosh. What orders?”
“Grace, scars, both inside and out, remind ya, you have to live with the choices you make. Those lashes remind me, sometimes making the right choice ain’t easy.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Not whipped, or spurred me horse since.”
William looks at the old flesh of the lumbering figure of Jensen, twisted in some place, mottled in others, marked, scarred. It screams of a history of a man who won some and lost plenty. The boy points to another scar.
“Another fight?”
Jensen looks at his shoulder; it's a fresh looking scar. Jensen pangs with embarrassment, a drunken night on a horse, where he ended up in a ditch.
“Na.”
“You don’t carry pistols…”
“Grace, a man ain’t needing pistols, to be a man. They take more than they can ever give. You're on track, boy. You gotta a good head, sunny future. Hurting folk only end up in your own pain.”
There's a deep connection between the man and boy; they sit in quietness on that invisible thread that has intertwined their lives. Jensen's nostalgia has divulged a forgotten past, and now the boy has become a part of it. William looks around the land, the shack, the animals, he looks to his older friend, who's tales of glory and adventure has led him to this.
“Did you ever have a family?” William softly asks.
That’s the problem with deep connections, they can get to the root of your pain. Jensen takes the psychic sucker punch and starts to squirm himself into the under garments.
“Ain’t you got somewhere to be, kid?”
“No… d-do I?” William is confused.
Jensen decides to be more direct.
“I mean, it’s probably time for you to g-“
Then the ugly consequences of choices raise its venomous head. The searing white heat of affliction strikes Jensen, he clamps onto his stomach, as his body is caged in a new paradigm. He takes a knee. Waves of electric agony crash through him. Bile kicks up. Jensen’s face twists in torment and breaks into bullets of sweat.
All joy, like his blood, is drawn from William's young face.
It becomes deathly serious.
“Mister Hills?”
“Grace… You'd best get… go!"
“No, I won’t.”
Jensen crashes face first into the dirt, William leans in close.
“Please, you ain’t dying Mister Jensen?” the boy’s eyes punch with fluid, his lips quiver.
“Can you ride, boy?”
“Been practicing on Pa’s wagon mule.”
“Go to town, the Chinese, ask for Lotus.”
William palms his tears away. He’s struck with purpose.
He turns the bucket upside and uses it to mount Jensen's horse.
Even in his pained and prone position, Jensen calls out
“An’ stay away from strange folk.”
“You just stay alive Mister.”
In that brief moment, William accepted the trial. The trial that comes, with the rites of passage. The boy has taken his first footfall on the vestiges of manhood.
He gallops hard, earth churning in his wake.
13
WILLIAM GALLOPS a frantic passage to town, the rush of air runs its wisping fingers through his locks, and gently strokes his cheeks. William hightails it past a wagon. The riders of the wagon watch a young, slight boy, recklessly charge past them with scant regard for himself or others around them. William's Ma and Pa, glance to each other, happy that their child would not partake in such foolishness.
Small shoes and lithe young legs, dodge, dance and piston through other people's on the boardwalk.
William, shy of breath, arrives at a door, he raps the door and bends over to suck in some air. The door opens, and the daylight races to get inside. A strong bullish Chinaman pokes his head out. William signals to him, gasping.
“I need a Lotus…”
He looks at William “A Lotus?”
Without word, or expression he closes the door. The boy is dumbfounded, he motions to knock again, to the door opening to him. It’s Chyou.
“Well?” She enquires.
“Oh yes, Lotus… I want, I’m looking for a Lotus.” William pants.
“Well, you’ve got one.”
William blinks in dazed confusion.
14
TYLER DEVON liked this hill; he sometimes came here to watch the mining town below. He often thought how it looked like the mechanics of an elegant watch, mixed with a termite's mound.
Keystone comprises of the mine, shaft, living quarters, the marquee saloon, store and a half built church. The preacher dec
ided this place was beyond salvation and left. You see, the town is filled with strays, ruffians, former chain gangers, the dregs of society… Yet most of all, what Tyler enjoyed most was looking down on the town. A town, that was Devon made. Devon owned… For now.
Tyler's slips into flashes of memories of his pa's obsession with gold, no not gold, mining. If Beau Dunston got a foothold in this place or snatched it from his father, Tyler knew, it would break his father's already fractured heart.
Tyler hears footfalls approach; he doesn't look back, he knows who's approaching.
It’s his posse: Bedford Tannon, Graden White, Morgan Sandhill, Ben and Clyde Jameson.
They stand quietly and look at Tyler and side glance each other. Tyler lets the bustling backdrop of the town gently hum over them, for gravitas.
Tyler's face cracks a smug grin. "So boys, that thing I wanted discussing."
15
JENSEN IS FACE DOWN in dirt, his features pressed hard against the gritty parch. There’s a rumbling, the earth trembles of approaching hooves. Jensen in the net of agony, cannot look up, he’s too weak. Footfalls approach.
“Help me roll him over.” It’s Chyou Chun.
He feels small hands press against his side and he’s rolled onto his back. His head is lifted up, and Chyou slides her lap underneath his sweat drenched head.
“Please, Ma'am. Sit on my coat." William considers Chyou’s comfort. He whisks his coat off, folds it and places it under her hindquarters.
Jensen looks up Chyou, with little ceremony, and more urgency she prepares the pipe. She draws in the first vapours of resin. She passes the pipe to Jensen; his cracked lips suck on its wooden teat, more from instinct than any conscious action. A blanket of numb washes over him, he manages a smile, and before he can slip into the boudoir of dreams, he looks up to the angelic face looking down upon him. He whispers.
“You look good, Lotus.”
She smiles.
“Where’s Grace, the kid?” he asks.
"Here, Mister Hills." William pops his head into view; he too looks angelic to Jensen. He slowly lifts his hand. He offers his open palm to William, a handshake.
“Pleasure to have your acquaintance… Bill.”
William shakes his hand. “No, the pleasures all mine… Mister Jensen… Jensen.”
At that moment a friendship was sealed, it something that neither would take, or could take, lightly. They have found a harbour of trust within each other. Jensen takes another long draw on the opium pipe, and his weighted lids slide closed. Chyou smiles to William.
Jensen is consumed in the black, a lifeless pitch, his eyes crack open to a violent sun, his squint fends off the light, till he becomes accustomed. Jensen is on the riverbank, the trail of water looks more alive than it ever has done before, it’s vibrant. Within each droplet of spray, a multi coloured hue refracts the day's shimmer. The grass on the bank, stands as threads, vivid, sharp as if he saw life through the lens of God.
White wisps of smoke blow through the grass on the opposite bank. Pearly tendrils, intertwine and start to form. Through the snowy cloud, or in the cloud, is the face of the White-Wolf. Jensen looks down, there on his thighs are strapped two Navy 36’s single action six shooters.
He glances up; opposite is the White Wolf.
He looks back to his side irons, and reaches down and touches their grip. As he does, the earth responds in an angry rumble. Jensen looks across the shaking vistas; he looks to the White Wolf as it turns and breaks away, evaporating into the horizon.
In the wolf's wake, a billowing black cloud spills forth, accompany the rumbling of the earth, like a great juggernaut surging inexorably on. Jensen is struck by something he hasn’t felt for an age, a primal, elemental emotion, unstained by any thought, or confusion…
… Jensen tastes fear.
From the shapeless pitch, a presence is felt, standing just behind the curtain of black. Jensen struggles to make out a shape. A violent gust of wind carries with it a piercing screech. A raven burst from the clouds; its feathers fall like black confetti. As it swoops, he draws his colt, his thumb cocking the hammer as metal leaves the leather, before an eye can blink…
The Raven has gone.
Then Jensen feels the cold chill of terror clamber at him, like the pain in his belly, it causes one to lock their joints, crystalize thought, to stare listlessly at the ruination of men.
From the cold sweep of black, which has now marked the sky, a figure can be eyed. It's darker than the pitch, emptier than death. With each stride, the earth groans, bleeding into the footfalls, in anticipation of horrors.
Jensen, with pistol drawn, sees a man of shadows, broad, squat, with raven black hair. Tassels and mystical symbols hang from his frame. His breath growls as he strides toward Jensen, in ominous ground-splintering steps.
Are you… …Am I dead? Is the only thought Jensen musters, his eyes locked upon this deathly menace. When a gentle hand touches his face, soft feminine, familiar. He knows it is not Lotus; it belongs to Her.
She whispers in his ear as she did on that night… "Live, my love.”
The black, in a riding crest behind that shadow, engulfs Jensen, lifting him. The black smacks against his mouth and invades his body; it blots out the sky extinguishing hope. He can still hear Her, feel Her, the way she danced, moved. He can see a shimmer, a wisp of hope.
Jensen’s breath locked into his lungs maneuvers closer to the glimmer, though the clinging pitch tries to stop him. Every sinew and cell in his being screams for air, for life. It keeps pushing, and behind it all, there She is.
Jensen snatches awake and grasps it like drift wood in a tempest. He sits bolt upright, gasping, dowsed in sweat, breathing in the cold night air.
“Bad dreams?” Chyou asks.
Jensen turns to her; they're outside his shack, they've been there for hours, she stayed by him. Jensen is a touched embarrassed at being vulnerable in front of her.
“It was something more.”
“More like?”
“Like a warning.”
“About?”
Jensen’s not sure. “Choices?” …
Chyou strokes his head, and he feels like, maybe the world will be okay. Jensen glances about.
“The boy, he had to go.” She says.
“I know.”
Jensen drifts half into a vision; he can feel Chyou, hear her.
“Jensen, I am happy, as I didn’t think you had any friends.”
She's half teasing, and half telling the truth. Jensen smiles. He thinks of William, how he saved him, then She comes back, a ghost to haunt him. Jensen feels keelhauled between the thought of his new friend, Chyou and a not so dark future… and the night that She was murdered.
16
DANCING FLAMES of lantern light casts long shadows of the short. The warm orange glow hits wooden and stone walls of William’s small bedroom. There’s the creaking of floorboards, and dragging of feet. The boy’s shadowed silhouette dances through the realm of flickering orange. Arms dart out, balance is poised, if only his shadow had someone to face, a worthy opponent.
William stops boxing; he's keenly alert… Someone approaches.
As Bonnie Grace opens the door to her son's room, she finds him under covers, reading the Bible by lamplight. Bonnie exudes a warmth; she's love in motion for her son. She knows how hard he finds it moving from place to place, how he is slightly peculiar, differing from the other boys, sensitive, caring and has imagination as vast as the sky. Bonnie has high hopes for William, that he is, and will always be… happy.
Bonnie sits by William's side; she notices light perspiration on his brow. She strokes his head, a touch of concern sparks in her.
"Are you in a fever?"
“No, Ma. I… I was just boxing.”
"Oh, you were where you?"
William nods and looks back to the Bible.
"I want to learn to defend myself; maybe one day defend you."
Bonnie feels that deep warmth w
ell inside.
“I don’t want to be scared, anymore.” He says.
"William, you're the bravest boy I know." She strokes his head; he settles into his pillow.
The woman and boy smile to each other, he was of her and will always be so.
She interjects the moment.
"I spoke to Mrs. Reynolds today." The boy gulps air. "You know where this is going."
William nods. “I didn’t attend school.”
“Why Bill? We spoke about those bullies, Mrs. Reynolds said she'd ensure it won't happen again."
“Mama, I’ve found a new way, I’m learning how to toughen up and be brave. You’ll see.”
“By missing school?... You’re my brave boy, no matter what. Just don’t try and be a man too quickly.”
"Mister Hills said it's the fight in the man that's important."
“Mister Hills, who’s he?”
“He’s farmer.”
“A farmer?”
“Well he has, pigs and a goat and… But Ma he’s more than just-“
“-Bill. William, please. You’ll not be seeing Mister Hills for a while, tomorrow I’ll take you to school. Which means we have to get up earlier, as I’m going to the bank.”
William’s head hits the pillow in silent, frustrated protest. His mother strokes his hair in loving consolation. She gently hums a lullaby, to calm and sooth.
17
JENSEN STAMPS his door open, wood grates against its kind. He stands proudly and surveys his land. Jensen pats his ample belly as he marches out of his hut. He walks past a bottle of liquor, straight to the animal pen. He scoops feed and throws it in the pen.
“Polly.”
Jensen snaps round. Has someone called his name?
He cranes his neck as if searching for something hidden.
“Grace?... William?”. He lets the words hang, waiting for a reply.
There is none.
Redemption's Blood Page 5
