by Andy Monk
“Who are you?” she half-sobbed, still cradling Gramps.
“Amos…” he whispered, his eyes focusing on her as if he’d only just realised she was there, “…my name is Amos…”
The Gunslinger
“I ain’t going nowhere…”
The old man raised his head, wrinkling his nose against the pain. Joshua Coll was a tough old coot, he’d give him that.
He’d scooped him up and carried Joshua through to a bedroom that wasn’t decorated with corpses. The bullet had taken him high on the right shoulder, and likely to have hit bone as there was no exit hole. His granddaughter, Dorry, now trying to dress the wound.
If they had a doctor who knew what he was doing, time to recover properly and Joshua was thirty years younger he might pull through, though his arm would never be right again. As it was…
The grey fissures choking the old man’s soul whispered he was dying, and had been for a good while before the Scourge put a bullet in him.
“You can’t stay here,” he insisted. Again. He’d pushed open the heavy shutters to let in the light. They were scarred with bullet marks. The bedroom floor was littered with cartridges and the air carried the bitter tang of gun smoke. The two of them had put up a decent fight. The ranch had been designed to be defended and if the raiders hadn’t had dynamite to blow the door they might well have held them off.
“This is our home,” the girl didn’t look up from her grandfather. The old man’s stubborn streak appeared to be alive and well in the latest generation of the family.
He stared eastwards. No more raiders were coming over the horizon, but they were out there somewhere all the same.
“There’s more where these men came from,” he repeated the point he’d been trying to drum into their obstinate heads, “a lot more.”
“World’s never been short of assholes,” Joshua Coll managed to say, before hissing through his remaining teeth, “Sheeeeet girl!”
Dorry whipped her hands away from her grandfather, she was trying to wrap a dressing around his shoulder to keep a compress in place. The bandage dropped from her hand and rolled across the floor. Her hands were shaking badly.
“Why don’t you let me do that?”
She shot him a look halfway between terror and hatred, before her eyes melted away to stare at the floor.
Her soul was a maelstrom of primary colours whirling about her like a tornado, it made him giddy to look at her.
“I can manage,” she finally managed to say.
“Dorry, why don’t you check outside?” Joshua said.
“I can look after you!”
“I know you can, sweetheart, but maybe you need to take a little air.”
Her brow furrowed beneath her short, roughly cut, tawny hair. She wasn’t long past being a child and not at all past not being a boy.
“There are ten horses tethered out by your wind pump,” he said, “could do with rounding them up and bringing them in. Don’t want their friends wondering where the fellas are if they happen by.”
She bit her bottom lip and nodded. It looked like she wanted to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she stood up.
“Ten horses and a corpse.”
Dorry scooped up a rifle, “I ain’t got a problem with seeing dead assholes.”
Her footsteps thumped down the stairs as he turned to Joshua to finish the dressing. Once it was done he straightened up and looked the grey-faced old man in the eye.
“You need to leave.”
“I was born on this ranch, son. Put my grandparents to rest here, my pa and my ma. Buried my wife too. My no-good son and my too good for him daughter-in-law. I ain’t going to be buried nowhere else.”
“Ain’t gonna be no one to bury you when the Scourge come back. Or Dorry neither for that matter. They’ll just leave you both to the crows. You first…” he stared at the old man, turning a towel over in his hands to wipe the blood away, “…her much later.”
“Maybe they won’t come back,” Joshua tried to sit up, but didn’t get far before slumping back with another grimace.
“These were only the outriders, the bulk of em are a day or two behind, maybe less if they’re in a hurry. And they’re coming this way.”
He’d told them what little he knew about the Scourge and the size of the force he’d seen coming out of the east. He didn’t need any gifts to know they thought he was exaggerating. He’d been planning to take one of the raiders alive so he could find out more. When he’d burst into the bedroom and found them raping Dorry… well, that part of the plan had gone awry.
“I appreciate what you done for us… for Dorry, I’m just an old fart who’s gonna be dead soon anyhow… so I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, but this is my home. Our home. You’re welcome to stay and help us. But I ain’t leaving.”
“And if you don’t leave, Dorry won’t.”
“No, don’t suppose…”
“And when they come back, they’ll finish what those guys started. Look, I’ve got to get back to Hawker’s Drift, I’ve got… people there, but even if I had no place to go, I wouldn’t stay here. The Scourge are targeting every farm and ranch they can find. Killing and raping everyone they come across in the process. Trust me, I’ve seen it. But out on the grass,” he hitched a thumb towards the window, “they ain’t interested. I’ve seen several bands of them, each time I changed course to avoid em and each time they carried straight on their merry murdering way. Out on the grass I can keep Dorry and you safe. Here she’s dead.”
Joshua turned his head and stared at the window, “I can’t leave. If I did I’d slow you down too much. Even without a bullet in me. Been weak as a kitten for months. Feel the damn life going out of me inch by inch, like watching the longest damn sunset in creation. Just without any of them pretty colours.”
He moved back to the window and rested his hands on the ledge. Dorry was still making her way towards the water pump, rifle slung over her shoulder. She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. But she wouldn’t.
That’s what soft-headed girls would do.
It had been one of the few coherent things spilling out of the maelstrom of her mind since he’d gunned the raiders down. That and the overwhelming love she had for her grandfather.
“Ok…” he said finally, “…if you’re going to stay we’re going to have to make the Scourge think there’s nothing left here.”
“How?”
He turned back towards the old man.
“How attached are you to all those barns you got out back?”
*
The plan had been to get back to Hawker’s Drift as quick as possible. As quick as possible meant a straight line and straight lines were easier out here on the great grass flatlands than they were most places. At least they would be without bands of killers roaming about anyway.
Each time riders appeared in the distance he’d veered off in another direction. They’d never changed course to run him down, but he hadn’t wanted to get close enough to give them a decision.
He’d ridden through the night, save for a few short rests, mainly for Silver’s benefit, and hadn’t sensed anyone.
Beneath a vault of prairie stars, the land had been dusted with the orange glow of distant fires. Tiny islands of light all but lost in the night’s ocean. He’d picked a route as far between them as he could.
Twice he'd heard gunfire, once, he thought, he’d heard a woman scream. He’d pulled Silver to a halt and strained to hear it again. It didn’t come, and he told himself there was no point changing direction to go towards it. Whoever had screamed was beyond his help.
That didn’t stop him picturing the grey-haired farmer’s wife he’d found raped and murdered outside her burning home, staring sightlessly into a buzzard filled sky.
Didn’t stop him thinking about Megan or the men who’d raped and murdered her either.
As soon as dawn kissed the grass he’d started riding harder. The sun had been up only half an hour when the first group of r
iders appeared, no more than dots on the horizon, but he’d pulled Silver north and kept going till they’d disappeared, before heading west again.
An hour later he’d had to do the same. A bigger group than the first, the biggest he’d come across so far, but, again, they made no move to change tack when he did.
He rode further north, frustrated that he was continually being pushed away from Hawker’s Drift.
An hour later he saw the buildings in the distance. The eastern sky was hazy with smoke, but the raiders hadn’t set this one ablaze yet. He’d been about to tug Silver back towards the west. If there was anyone there, and they had eyes in their heads, they would have seen the smoke columns and taken precautions.
That’s when he’d heard the gunfire. The cracking, intermittent retort of rifles. Someone was fighting back.
Good luck to them.
He needed to get back to Molly.
He’d pulled Silver to a halt and stared at the distant buildings. Too far away to see much, just a farm or ranch. A cluster of buildings isolated from the rest of humanity by mile and after mile of flat nothing. A house, some barns and outbuildings, a wind pump. Probably at least one woman, maybe children too.
Not his business. Not his concern.
Megan dead on the ground, the blood from her slashed throat pooling around her, darkening the dust. Eyes still open, legs splayed apart, pain still etched into her beautiful face, the memory of her last agonies carved into her cooling flesh.
Severn sniggering in his ear.
“Damn it!”
He’d kicked Silver on towards the distant farm.
*
He was sweating and panting as he stepped out of the old barn. The day was hot and he stank of death. Wiping his hands on his pants he stared at the remaining corpses. It had been hard work getting them up into the bed of the wagon on his own. Especially the last one he’d killed. Henderson, Dorry had said he’d been called. Whoever he’d been, he’d had an awful lot of fat to swaddle his meanness.
The horizons tugged his gaze away from the dead eyes of the Scourge killers; towards the east to see if any of their friends were rolling over it, to the west because that was where Molly was. And where he should be.
He’d saved the Coll’s and put down seven men. Enough to please both God and the Thin Rider, surely. So why was he still here?
If they were too pig-headed to realise more raiders like Henderson and his band would soon be here to finish the job, that was their problem, not his. Wasn’t it?
Dorry had collected the horses and they were grazing in a paddock to the back of the ranch. They were a mixed bag, but some were young and strong and, to his eye, would happily run for days. He would take some of them back to Hawker’s Drift and get Molly and Amelia out of town before the Scourge rolled up. Like he should have done in the first place. When they were somewhere safe he would come back and find Stodder Hope.
He assumed the main body of the Scourge was heading directly for Hawker’s Drift and he could ride a lot faster than they could, encumbered by wagons and the time it took to make and break camp. He still had a couple of days, to get back to town so long as he could keep dodging their raiding parties.
But all the time he was on the Coll Ranch he was exposed. More of the Scourge could arrive at any moment, and they would be a lot harder to kill when he wasn’t taking them by surprise.
The ranch was a sore thumb. Bright and white and still in one piece. If another raiding party caught sight of it, they would make straight for it. So, by his way of thinking, if they saw smoke rising from it they might chalk it off as one that had been raided already and move on.
Burn the bodies, burn the barns and hope that would be enough to keep the Colls safe. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe not. Either way, he’d done a little good and it was time to get back on the grass.
Another corpse landed in the dirt with a soft thud. A swarthy, dark-haired man, Mexican by the look of him. He’d been rummaging through cupboards in the kitchen when he’d come up behind him, clamped a hand over his mouth and slashed his throat. He’d held him tight till all the colours of the raider’s blackened soul had bled to grey before fading to nothing like steam escaping a kettle.
“That one was called Sancho,” Dorry said from the barn door.
It didn’t matter what he’d been called in life, he was just another corpse now. He grabbed the body by the ankles and dragged it into the barn with the others.
Dorry swivelled to watch him, still cradling her rifle. She didn’t look like she’d be putting it down again anytime soon.
The barn was half derelict, numerous planks had come away from the walls allowing sunlight to slice through the shadows and illuminate the flies swarming around the fresh meat.
“Why’d you do it?” Dorry asked as he made his way back to the wagon for the next corpse.
“Do what?”
“Save us.”
The long answer involved Megan, Severn, Stodder Hope and thirteen years in the saddle doing the Thin Rider’s dark work. He didn’t have time for the long answer.
“Was the right thing to do. Anybody would have done the same.”
She looked at the pile of corpses in the barn, most of which were his handiwork.
“Think most people would have found a way of deciding it was none of their business and kept on riding.”
He shrugged and pulled another body off the wagon. Dorry didn’t give a name for this one. He was young and had a shock of bright red hair. In death his face had a kind of innocence to it. As he’d been riding with the Scourge he probably hadn’t been that innocent in life.
He looked over his shoulder once the redhead's body was on the hard dry ground, but Dorry was walking back to the house.
She needed someone to talk to. Maybe someone to hold her while she cried. Someone to tell her none of it was her fault and that she was safe now. That no one was going to hurt her again.
But he’d stick to a job he could do…
He bent down, grabbed the redhead's ankles and started dragging him into the barn to burn with his friends.
The Widow
“Is Amos coming back?”
Molly smiled, but she didn’t think she was fooling the kid for a second. She certainly wasn’t fooling herself.
“I dunno, hun.”
“Did you have a fight? My Mom always has fights with her boyfriends. They usually come back.”
“We’ll have to see, now get some sleep,” she leant over and kissed Amelia on the forehead. She expected the girl to put up a fight, instead, she kissed her back and settled down.
“Goodnight, Molly.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
She’d reached the doorway when Amelia called out after her, “Love you.”
“Love you too,” this time the smile that touched her lips was genuine.
Downstairs she poured herself a measure and sat alone at the kitchen table. For the millionth time that day she wished Amos was next to her. She picked up the Mayor’s promissory note and turned it over in her hands. For the millionth time she wished the gunslinger had stuck it up the one-eyed whateverthehellhewas’s ass as well.
She should be pissed at him. She should be spitting shit and feathers mad at him. He’d run off and left her. She’d been furious at guys who run out on her before who she hadn’t even liked! Yet no anger would come. She just saw him standing there as she’d gone out with Amelia. They’d been such unspeakable sadness carved into his features. She’d known he wouldn’t be there when she got back. She knew he’d never be there again. But she couldn’t hate him for it.
She sipped her whiskey with her eyes closed and thought of the night before he’d left, when he’d kissed her and held her and told her things he’d told no one else. Of what had happened that terrible day his wife had been killed. She remembered the cold silent tears rolling down his face.
Did she wish he’d said was leaving? Maybe. Would she have tried to stop him? Probably.
She needed him. And wanted him. And it was maybe more than the fact he made her feel safe.
But now he was gone and she was alone again. Maybe the Mayor would honour his promise and she wouldn’t have to worry about the whorehouse anymore. That would be something. Now she just had to deal with the fact a monster was running the town.
Alone.
*
Well, not entirely alone.
“Where is Amos?”
“I’m not sure,” she moved upwind of Mr Wizzle, “he’s kinda left.”
“Left?”
The old man took off his derby and fretted with the spiky remnants of his hair.
“Gone. Into the sunset. Probably forever.”
“Oh dear.” Mr Wizzle’s shoulders slumped. He looked even more upset than she was.
“Don’t worry,” Amelia breezed through the room, “he’s coming back.”
“He is?” Mr Wizzle asked, more brightly.
“Of course. Silver wouldn’t let him go away for long,” the girl explained, “he knows Amos loves Molly really. Silver’s a very clever horse.” With everything clarified, Amelia skipped back out.
“I’m not entirely convinced by young Amelia…” Mr Wizzle confessed.
“Me neither.”
She steered the old man into a chair and, despite her general reluctance to make him feel welcome, brought him some lemonade. She tried to explain what had happened with Amos, but between the bits she had no intention of telling anyone and the bits she suspected she didn’t know, there wasn’t much other than the Mayor’s promise to waive her debts by way of an explanation.
“And Amos believed him?” Mr Wizzle frowned, “After all we know about the Mayor?”
“He had his reasons…”
She suspected Amos had kept at least some of those reasons to himself. Something else had been troubling him. Something he’d chosen not to tell her.
He’d told her about Lara-Lee Severn and why her father and his men had come to his home that day, clinging to her in the darkness as the tears had rolled down his face. It had been a traumatic thing for him to recount, the words making him relive moments no one would want to recall. So, she was guessing, whatever the other thing was that had helped drive him away from her, it must be something worse.
