Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  They understand, and they sheath their weapons. All the while that figure was eating up the dirt between them, devouring it with bad intentions.

  “What you got in mind?” Morgan asks Tyler directly.

  “We split up. Me an’ Bedford head to Johnson. Morgan, Clyde, and Ben, East. We get back here in two Fridays. Me Pa would have smoothed the maelstrom of shit out by then."

  It's wordlessly agreed upon, they break their formation and ride their respective tracks.

  Jensen’s eyes are not quite what they used to be, the rain had eased up, yet he didn’t notice he was riding hard. The whip of the wind snaps at his coat flaps; like the wings of the angel of death. As he surges to his prey, he sees them split into two groups.

  Jensen while riding, reaches back and slips out his Winchester, he travels at a pace, shoulders the rifle and supports the barrel in the other hand.

  He aims.

  It’s no good.

  Without thought, Jensen makes a moving dismount, he slips in the mud and slams his left hand to the dirt, raising his rifle from the ground. He stands and marches forward.

  His muddy hand grabs his coat flap, and it cradles the barrel as he aims.

  Three riders balance in his sight.

  He breathes deep, his finger brushes the trigger to a gentle squeeze.

  That shooting breath is held, time slows, the riders seems to ride through a wall of water, their shapes become more defined and just as Jensen is about to spark the hammer and release the contents of a cartridge…

  He lowers the Winchester. The riders are too far away.

  If he misses, then he’s played his hand.

  He slips the rifle back into the saddle…

  …mounts…

  …and rides on in pursuit.

  28

  THE NIGHT’S VEIL hides a multitude of sins, more in Keystone than most place. The morning’s welcome heat sears the wet from the land to steam. The Keystone marquee is dirty, oily, muddy; it gently cooks too.

  Keystone workers walk through the muddied streets, many cradling a pounding in their skulls, as a reward for their night’s ventures. They move out of the way and call out respectful words to Robert Devon as he marches by. With Devon, is the Captain of his guards, trailing them twelve armed guards, all disciples to Robert Devon’s payroll.

  They head to the corral, where their horses are handed over to them. They mount and start a slow ride from Keystone.

  “The plan is, head into Dunston and parlay with the Colonel and find out what the hell he thinks he-“

  The Captain interrupts Robert. “-Mister Devon, sir. We may not be needing to go ta Dunston for that.”

  The Captain nods to the distant yonder. A posse approaches, The Colonel and an Indian tracker in the lead. Robert Devon thinks and verbalises.

  “They’re coming for my son.”

  The Captain draws his rifle, the other guards in unison bring out their weapons of choice, shotguns, rifles, pistols.

  This could get nasty.

  They wait, as the Colonel approaches.

  Beau Dunston’s posse slows as it closes in on the welcoming committee of Robert Devon, and his rough, rugged, vagrant type party. There’s immediate tension amongst the ranks. Except for Dunston, Marujo and The Captain. Dunston signals for his men to calm.

  “Mister Devon.” The Colonel is curious yet unfazed.

  “Riding with a native Dunston?” Robert retorts.

  “We’re in pursuit of a felon. Marujo here has proved his services, the best tracker I’ve known. I wager the best you’ve known.”

  Dunston watches as The Captain leans into Robert and whispers something. Robert conveys.

  “It’s been brought to my attention that your tracker, is a blight upon this land, a cursed-“

  Marujo, dark, dangerous, hyena like sneers. Dunston interrupts.

  “-Yes, yes. It’s also said he feeds on the souls of his victims. What point are you trying to make Devon? That you’ve started to put stock into mumbo-jumbo and folk tales.”

  Devon feels a welling of anger towards the Colonel.

  "Your posse ain't welcome here. We had an agreement Dunston, and you broke it. You threaten my son, you threaten me."

  It has turned sour fast; holsters quickly empty, as both parties have barrels aimed at each other, breaths shorten, pulses pound, expectations are wired.

  Except for the Colonel.

  “Don’t you ever compromise my integrity again.”

  Like the spokes of a wheel, all gun barrels point across to the other, waiting to spew their messages of death.

  It's silent, they breathe in unison.

  The squeaking of a cart approaches, no man dare look away. An old miner, who knows nothing but the black of a shaft, pushes the squeaking cart to Robert Devon. Once he sees the armaments on display, he stops. He stutters.

  “Sir. mister Devon, sir.”

  Robert Devon never removes his rifle's sight from between Dunston's eyes.

  “What is it? Speak up, man.”

  “I found this body, down by the blast wall. An’ it ain’t no accident.”

  The eyes glance to the cart. Propped against the box seat is Graden’s mortified remains, blood drenched clothes, with his throat donning a slotted, bloody smile.

  The Colonel eyes the carcass also. There’s a moment of hesitation, like the stillness before a storm.

  The Colonel speaks.

  “Whatever your understanding of the situation Devon, know this. Some pig farmer, in my town, walked into my gaol, took a prisoner and brutally murdered him. This prisoner is one of the men who attempted on robbing my bank. Now another body turns up brutalized. Is he also one of Tyler’s?”

  The moment of stillness extends, Robert nods to the Captain, who lowers his rifle. In uniform compliance all weapons on both sides are lowered. The stillness remains, the storm never comes. Marujo dismounts and examines Graden's body. Robert stops the Captain from trying to stop the Indian.

  "So Dunston, you have my attention. A pig farmer did this? Is he after Tyler… My son?"

  Marujo runs his hands over the aura of Graden’s body. He walks back to his steed.

  “A-da-na-ta hi-gi. Nu-li-negv-gv”

  The Colonel glances to Daniels. Daniels translates.

  “Er, he says the bodies soul has been… eaten. That it has made him stronger.”

  “Him?... Who him? The pig farmer?” Robert’s confused by all of this.

  Eyes dart around the group to see if anyone has an answer.

  Sheriff Gill Tunstall clears his throat; he’s capturing the courage to speak. The Colonel notices Tunstall’s uncomfortable fidgets.

  “What Tunstall? What? If you’ve got something to say, say it, for God’s sake.”

  "The former Sheriff Jay McCoy, you knew him Mister Devon, sir." Robert nods, Tunstall continues. "Well, I know he liked to spin a yarn, and such. But when the Marshal Granger came a visiting they set to talking. An' Sheriff McCoy spoke that Granger told him a story, about Jensen Hills."

  “The point, Tunstall, get to the point. What did Granger know?”

  There’s a ripple of trepidation and growing expectation.

  “Sorry Colonel. McCoy warned me about the old pig farmer, now I know he liked to prissy me up and such. He always had a tale to tell.” The Colonel signals for Tunstall to hurry up.

  “McCoy told me that Jensen Hills…” Tunstall takes a breath as if he’s about to blaspheme.

  “Is… the Johnson City Butcher.”

  The words resonate, the air turns ice cold, as sharp intakes of breath are an involuntary reaction.

  Robert doubts the credence of such a claim.

  “Bullshit. The Butcher?”

  "It's what he said; I remember clear now… after this."

  Then the murmurs arrive, a bubbling brook pours from history.

  “Jesus, I thought he died, up in the mountains…” The Captain mutters.

  “I heard he went native, started livin’ wit
h d’em Apache.” Says one of Dunston’s Pinkertons.

  The men who are of age, sit in their collective silence, ruminating on a legend from the frontiers. A young Pinkerton looks on unsure what to say.

  “What’s a Johnson City Butcher?”

  All eyes gravitate to the young pup. The Colonel removes his hat, resting it on his saddle horn.

  “Kid, you don’t want to know… But, I'm gonna tell you anyways. There’s a kind of myth to the man… If that is what he truly is.” The Colonel looks around the group to ensure they all know what they’re dealing with. “If this is him, which I doubt, he’s the kind of bloody murder that killed just for the kicks of it. Or if you looked at him sideways, so it’s told. Nothing would live in his wake, man, woman, child, nor beast.”

  The Colonel is theatrical almost pompous while disclosing the myth of ‘The Butcher.’

  “They say in Johnson City, he gunned down a whole saloon, then, no one knows why he turns his Navy on his own wife and …Bang… Puts a slug in her. An’ she was carrying child.”

  This is a story that all the riders in the two posses know, yet they’re willing to hear it again.

  “Gentlemen know this, Butcher or no, I mean to track this murdering dog and finish him. I’ll put up $2000 on his scalp. I’ve killed enough myths in my time to know they die as easy as any man.”

  Greed overcomes any fear, the Pinkertons, Keystown guards, are inspired. Robert Devon decides to chip in.

  “Let’s get this sick son-ova-bitch. Captain bring our three best shootists with us.”

  The posses has grown, it's on the trail headed out of Keystone. Thirteen riders thunder the plains. Horse sinew flexes, driven ever forward, churning earth. The Colonel, Marujo, Daniels, Devon, The Captain lead the assembly of assassins.

  29

  JENSEN is sprawled on a ridge of a gorge that tapers into a tight ravine of dusty flat rock. He sees dervish-dust-devils on the horizon. The signature of dirt being kicked up by hooves. He means on committing an ambush. A noise distracts him; he snaps about turn, Colt poised, hammer cocked. By Jensen's side is a small prairie rabbit, it chews the cud of the long grass, as it stares at him.

  Moments later Jensen is mounted, and as his roan pummels the turf, the rabbit darts off into the undergrowth.

  The ravine increasingly funnels to a narrow passageway. Speckled with bushes, walled by craggy cliffs that frame the sky, a dust cloud hovers in its broad maws. Three riders have passed the teeth of the ravine and are wayward to its throat.

  Morgan, Clyde, and Ben slow to a leisurely pace. Morgan surveys the circumference of their surroundings. Clyde notice's the ex-soldiers edginess.

  “Relax Morgan. We’re clear o’ trouble. We should look to rest an’ make our destination from there.”

  “We can’t go too much further east; the Savage Lands be there, we'll have to cut South” Morgan warns.

  “What ‘bout that Marshal?” Ben’s still concerned.

  “Look, your brother’s probably right, we been riding through the night, it’s been muddy, raining, visibility ain’t good. There’s no chanc-“

  The slug arrives before the muzzle report. It’s as if time is distorted. There’s a dull thud of impacted flesh as Morgan jolts forward. He lets out a pained yelp. Spewing crimson spurts from his upper chest and splats speckles across his back. Then like thunder pursuing the lightning comes the familiar call of a rifle's cry, its crack, ricochets off the ravine walls.

  BA-BA-BOOM.

  The horses buck Clyde and Ben ride. Morgan clings to his saddle horn, bleeding on leather, loosely guides his horse. Clyde and Ben dismount and scramble for cover.

  “Get the horses behind this rock.” Clyde knows that any good sniper will ensure that there’s no escape route and will target the horses.

  Morgan hits the dirt, and scrambles behind a rock, leaving a trail of dripping red that’s drunk by the parched earth.

  With the men behind a rock, they re-consolidate their situation. They draw pistols and rifles. They're in separate cover, yet are in each other’s eye-line.

  Morgan leans against rock, leaving a sticky fluid membrane behind. He looks around as he tries to get his bearings, his horse is out in the open. He calls out.

  “Shit, my rifle is on me horse.”

  Ben and Clyde glance to each other, they have their rifles.

  "You got your pistols, Morgan." Clyde is unsympathetic. As long as he and his brother are good, that's what's he's all about. Truth be told, as long as he's okay, then his brother's health is just cream on the cake.

  “Can you see ‘im Morgan?” Ben calls out from behind cover.

  "Shit, I'm bleeding. When did I get shot?" Morgan is spiralling into shock; he can't remember the thud of the slug, just moments ago.

  “Can you see anything?” Morgan isn’t listening to Ben.

  Clyde is more forceful. “Morgan, get it together.”

  Morgan nods, he’s turning pale. Clyde whispers to his brother.

  “Morgan is just gonna hold us up.”

  “But Clyde he’s one of us.”

  “No. We’re one of us. He ain’t a Jameson.”

  Ben nods – Okay. He then calls out, to the sniper that has them pinned down.

  “What you want with us? Let’s talk about this.”

  Clyde throws a stone at Ben.

  “Shudup.”

  Clyde grabs the stock of his rifle and throws it over to Morgan.

  The rifle lands near Morgan, but to reach it he’d have to leave cover.

  Clyde divulges his plan.

  "It's only one man; we're going get on our rides, and tail back and flank him." Clyde nods to Ben, they move their horses close to the ravine wall, and in clambering fashion, mounts their horses. "Just keep us covered."

  Morgan watches as Clyde and Ben bolt off, they crouch low over their horse’s necks and disappear down the ravine.

  Morgan is struck parched, the sudden need for fluids consumes him. He looks down to the ever increasing ringlet of red, by his shoulder. He glances to the rifle, if he doesn’t reach for it now, he may never feel inclined. Morgan crawls across and pokes his head out to peer from behind cover.

  It seems all-clear. He reaches for the rifle.

  The hard iron of a barrel presses against his head. Morgan stays motionless; he looks across to a shadow thrown out by a figure, Morgan looks up the legs of Jensen, who has the Winchester pressed against him.

  “Nice friends you got there, son.” Says the man who just shot him. Morgan swallows, his mouth dry, his throat coarse as splintered wood. Jensen looks at Morgan’s wound.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Morgan, Morgan Sandhill.”

  Jensen hears the bell of recognition behind the name, it fades.

  He continues.

  “Ever hear of a boy, William Grace?” Morgan shakes his head in response. “You will do.”

  The butt of the Winchester cracks down to the back of Morgan’s skull. He flops to the ground; he’s not having the best of days.

  Jensen mounts his horse and grabs the reins on Morgan’s; he rides off in pursuit. He knows Morgan isn’t going anywhere.

  Clyde and Ben, ease up on their gallop. Clyde looks back, Ben presses.

  “How we gonna do this?”

  “I ain’t heard no gunshots, did you hear any shots?”

  “No. How we gonna do this, Clyde?”

  “If Morgan fainted then he wouldn’t have needed to shoot.”

  “Clyde?”

  “Ben, we ain’t going back to flank the Marshal. I just said that to Morgan to make ‘im feel good before he dies… …It's called compassion."

  Ben measures up what Clyde says. He's always followed his brother, and though they might diverge on things, Clyde has always kept them alive. Ben reluctantly nods – okay.

  “No, Clyde, I ain’t heard no gunshots.”

  “Morgan could be dead, as we speak.”

  As if fate was challenging Clyde, the resounding ec
ho of hooves approach. Clyde slips a shotgun from Ben’s saddle. He gives his younger brother instructions.

  “You ride on. Whoever’s coming round that there corner, I’m gonna pepper ‘em with holes.”

  Clyde dismounts and gives his horse’s reins to Ben.

  Ben protests.

  "What if it’s Morgan?”

  Clyde is getting tired of his brother’s morals

  “He’s dyin’ anyhow. Now get.” He slaps the rump of Ben's horse, and Ben allows them to bolt away.

  Clyde waits in ambush; he looks to the powdered turf, his shadow and shotgun jut out from the smooth rock face. Clyde looks up to the Sun; it blazes from its highest perch. He presses in tight to the rocky surface, and his shadow is engulfed by the shade.

  The bellowing of rumbling hooves increase.

  Clyde aims his shotgun and measures where a rider will roughly sit.

  He sweats excitement, bites his lip, with a faint psycho smile. He chuckles to himself, what if it is Morgan?

  The rumbling becomes louder.

  The stock of the shotgun is pressed against Clyde’s sweat tacky cheek.

  His finger sits back on the trigger.

  His eyes are wide open.

  The rumble is accompanied by heavy panting of horse lungs.

  Breaking from cover comes the head of a horse, Clyde steps forward aims to above the saddle and as it passes.

  BOOM-

  His shotgun spits pellets, they just pass through air, biting into the ravine wall. There’s no rider, just a horse.

  Clyde watches it ride away.

  Something’s terribly wrong.

  Clyde twists to face a large roan bearing down on him, on the roan is Jensen; the cold fire of Hades behind his eyes. The barrel of Jensen’s Colt Frontier is poised towards Clyde, as Clyde raises his shotgun, Jensen’s barrel spits flames –BLAM.

  The slug punches into Clyde’s flesh, his gut is on fire, his finger squeezes the shotgun.

  BOOM - pellets scrape down his leg, de-fleshing his shin and gnaws off half his foot.

  His body is off the ground, as Jensen rides past.