If I could only place why this man seems so familiar, Galen thought, amidst the invasive voice.
But the real truth eluded Galen's memory; the smooth timbre of the voice had begun to have a hypnotic effect on Galen, clouding his faculties.
If you only knew who I was, you’d realize how very mistaken you are, he heard the voice whisper in his mind.
The man chuckled from deep back in his throat. Galen could very much hear it with his own ears.
Feeling the stab of anger in his heart, Galen lunged off the bed and at his tormentor, but when he went to wrap his arms, he got nothing but air—for the man who had come to visit him had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Galen opened his eyes to find the sun shining through the bars of his window. He sat up, puzzled after what he figured was another in a series of nightmares. From outside came the sound of a public gathering—something he hadn’t heard in his entire three-week stay in his cell. But it wasn’t until he peered through the bars that he realized the gathering was at the foot of the gallows over-looking his hold.
No sooner had he turned away from the window then the front door of the Sheriff’s office opened. Entering behind the stone-faced sheriff Overton was the rail thin deputy Kentuck holding a pair of old manacles, grinning.
“Time to go,” growled Overton.
As they led him out to the gallows, Galen kept his head low, for he was too tired to stare back into the eyes of townsfolk who’d come to watch him hang just for sport. The crowd parted, and Galen was all too aware of the murmurs and hissing. The family of the man he’d accidentally killed had obviously come to pay their last respects to the condemned.
Galen climbed the steps very slowly—not out of fear, but because Overton held him back by his cuffed hands to milk every last second of the spectacle. Once on the platform, Overton dramatically read the sentence. “Today, on the twenty-third of June, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty, we are meting out this punishment of an eye for an eye—as was the way God had justified in the Bible.” The Sheriff’s words were met with nodding heads of unspoken assent.
No blindfold was offered, nor was the opportunity for last words; instead, the ten-strand hemp noose was placed around Galen’s neck. Galen looked up. His worst fears were confirmed: the rope was indeed short. There would definitely be no quick neck break for him; he was going to dangle and dance for the crowd’s delight. He promised himself to let loose and give them a good show.
Overton nodded to Kentuck, who put his hand on the lever for the trapdoor under Galen’s feet. It was not until this moment that Galen finally looked at those folks staring so intently back at him. Men, women, and children—some whom he imagined had traveled to town for this very occasion, their faces hungry for the excitement they’d been promised.
And it was there among these people that Galen saw him—the man who visited like a wraith in the dead of night before disappearing in smoke.
Suddenly Galen realized where he had seen that face. His chest tightened—for the man standing before him, the man who spoke in the accent of a southern gentleman, was the very same man who appeared in Galen's new nightmare of the burning church; the very same man who, in the midst of the flames and those dying around them, addressed him not as Galen but as Brother Thomas.
The world dropped before his eyes as he plummeted downward, the rope pulling taut. Galen’s head jerked upwards, his body downwards, and his windpipe collapsed, suffocating him. The muscles in his neck tensed and burned like fire. Galen squeezed his eyes shut only to hear the man’s voice again. Galen’s legs kicked uselessly under him, trying to fight off the inevitable. With every last bit of effort, he forced his lids to open, though the pressure in his head made his eyes feel like they would explode. Again he saw the man, this time draped in a halo of light, wings coming from his back. No one else seemed to take notice.
The man spoke without uttering a sound; it was a distinct warning. “The Coyote is coming, Galen. Today I flee, but tomorrow you must find me before it’s too late.”
*****
CHAPTER 14
Cyril rode until the mid-afternoon sun vanished behind the dark grey storm heads that had been threatening since morning. The road from Kansas City had been swift, and he fixated upon his task with all available focus and vigor. There was little doubt in his mind his master would indeed reward him for completing the work he had begun so long ago. For as far as Cyril knew, the master's dawn had finally arisen. But Galen Altos was now standing in the way.
Cyril tried suppress the frustration over his inability to kill Altos all those years ago during the war—oftentimes within arm’s reach of each other. He attempted to forget the times he could have easily killed Galen, but had been prevented by the one he served.
And during the war—during those opportunities—Cyril remained perplexed. That time waiting, according to the master, was time dedicated to observation—to see how strong Galen’s powers truly were. But during all that time, Cyril had not once seen a single hint that Galen had any powers whatsoever. It was only after Dunburton's surprise correspondence that Cyril realized Galen had somehow survived the church’s conflagration in Juarez. Cyril now realized he had made a grave mistake by underestimating Altos and letting him get away.
Cyril shuddered at the thought of what the master would do to him if he found out Altos was still alive—though it seemed highly unlikely he didn’t already know, for the master knew plenty about Galen.
But why wouldn’t he have said something? Cyril wondered.
Altos’ survival was worrisome. Though Cyril had successfully hunted down and dispatched several men and women at the behest of his master—never once questioning his orders—it was this single failure he feared would keep him from his final reward, but lead to facing unspeakable and merciless retribution at his master's own hands. This mere thought was enough to make Cyril remount his horse to continue pushing forward despite the storm.
Within an hour, the feeling he’d sought since Kansas City had begun to operate—like a compass needle finding its bearing. There was no doubt; he was definitely on Galen's trail once more. He could sense it. As Cyril came down the road toward an abandoned farmhouse, he felt Galen growing closer with each foot.
The moment he entered the long-abandoned structure, Cyril knew Galen had been here shortly after fleeing from Kansas City. The scene he could see in his mind was clear as day: Altos had spent the night here huddled in front of the hearth trying to keep warm.
No, Cyril thought. That wasn't it. He held his hands out, trying to further divine what the room was attempting to tell him.
Galen's imprint by the hearth was indeed quite strong. With his bare hand, Cyril fished through the cold ash in the hearth unsure of what he was looking, but confident he would find it. When his fingers closed around a hard orb, daggers of ice stabbed through his body. Cyril removed the object and, upon seeing it, immediately began to tremble.
There in his hand was the petrified eye—the same one Cyril knew had come from an ancient creature that roamed the earth long before himself.
As Cyril's gaze fell into the unavoidable pull of the eye's milky iris, he became aware of the other connection this horrid object shared with Galen Altos and Major Dunburton.
That old fool, thought Cyril. It pained him to think Dunburton was ignorant of the true cursed nature of the eye. Like most mortal men who had heard of it and attempted to possess it, the major had no real idea of its province.
Quickly, Cyril saw someone he could only identify as a Gypsy. Though it seemed highly unlikely, she had knowledge of Galen. Seeing her actions now, Cyril was certain this old woman somehow understood exactly what Galen was.
And then as he saw how Galen crudely killed her, Cyril was dumbstruck; it became obvious Galen himself was still completely oblivious to his own identity.
Which would explain certain things, Cyril finally reckoned. Especially why the master himself doubted whether Altos was even a threat.
How could th
e master be deceived? Cyril puzzled. Before he could pry his gaze from the eye, it began to show him something—a flash of what could only be an event in the future. It sent a wave of terror through Cyril's body. From his shaking hand fell the eye, where it hit the floor and stopped without a single bounce. Without hesitation, Cyril left the abandoned house—and the eye—behind as quickly as his feet could carry him.
He was no more than a few yards out the front door when, from behind him, came a voice.
“You disappoint me,” it said coldly.
Cyril turned slowly, as to not provoke. There, standing in the house's ramshackle doorway, was Miles Lawton. And though the appearance he always took in front of Cyril was that of a young boy, the Coyote was no less dangerous now than in his natural form.
Cyril didn’t dare hesitate in his submission to the boy; he lowered his eyes as Miles Lawton approached.
“The way you held that wretched thing,” the boy said with an air of disgust. “You stood there trembling like a scared girl.”
Cyril made a great deal of effort to choose his words very carefully. “The eye is cursed. It's a fool's toy of madness and folly.”
The boy stooped down to pick up a small stone that he rolled in his hand. “They've said similar things about that petrified relic for—” his voice momentarily trailed off. “For longer than you can imagine,” he finished. The boy arced his arm back and threw the small stone away from the house. “Tell me, Cyril, what exactly did you see in the eye? What truths did it reveal to you?”
“I saw Altos,” answered Cyril. He focused his mind on the part of the vision he dared talk about and tried, at least for now, to block out what he'd seen concerning the boy who stood in front of him. He told Miles about the Gypsy's fatal encounter with Galen and of his suspicion that Altos seemingly still had little idea of who he was or where he'd come from.
“Of course not,” hissed miles. “Which is why we must find him before he finally wakes up to the truth.”
That would be easier said than done, thought Cyril. Galen had a several week head start.
“Why did you not tell me that Altos was still alive?” asked the boy.
Cyril began to answer, but realized any answer would appear as just an excuse—a sign of weakness. “Because I didn't know,” he finally said. It was an admission he believed would draw the least of the master's ire.
“I'm pretty certain I can track him from here,” Cyril added quickly. “If my gut tells me correctly, Altos is headed to Mexico. He's got a soft spot for those people.”
“I would say that's a pretty good guess,” Miles responded. “Because not too long ago a man was hanged in a small Texas town who fits the description of the man you are looking for.”
“But he's not dead?”
“What do you think?” barked the boy. He picked up another small stone and tossed it against the side of the house. “The town was dealt with.”
“And Altos?”
“He's gone east. Now you must find him.”
“And then?”
“Follow him,” said Miles, losing patience. “You'll get instructions on how to deal with him later.”
Cyril nodded, trying his best to hide his uncertainty. He had served solely at the boy's pleasure, hunting down the enemies of the Coyote and taking care of them. Many times, his duties included extracting information using methods suggested by Miles himself—methods using sharp tools and fire on soft flesh. These tasks he found himself quite good at, due to his ability to tune out the screams.
Before the war, and at Miles’s request, he had personally taken a family away at gunpoint for interrogation. He took the mother and father, both bound and gagged, and forced them to watch as he dispatched their two young daughters, his knife cutting into the young girls' flesh slowly and methodically. Afterwards, the couple willingly gave up their secrets before suffering the same surgically precise fate as their children.
They were but one example of the tool of evil that Cyril had become in the name of the Coyote—a task he had taken on with the hope that his loyalty and service would ultimately win him release.
Despite this loyalty, Cyril could not help but question this strange treatment of Galen Altos. During the war, it had only been after Galen fled that he'd been given Miles' blessing to hunt him down with whatever force necessary. Though now, it occurred to Cyril that it was possible the boy had only done so to test both of them.
At first, Cyril had thought the boy was simply being cautious of an unknown enemy, but now with the news that Miles had taken vengeance on the townsfolk who had hanged Altos, it seemed like the boy had other interests in Galen.
Cyril’s unwavering belief in the boy beast was not the same as it once was.
“Altos was delayed for three weeks in that wretched town while awaiting his execution. He then spent the next month on foot. With a stout horse you can catch up to him in a week's time,” Miles said assuredly. “He is headed east.”
Cyril felt a familiar shudder.
“He is headed to Shadow Falls—where he will meet his destiny,” Miles declared, turning and walking away from the house.
Cyril mounted his horse and rode south. He’d head to Texas, to this small town where the Coyote had brought his own brand of death. There he’d one again pick up Galen’s trail; and if Miles had been correct that Altos was on foot, he would quickly catch up to him.
Cyril had blindly followed the master ever since Miles had resurrected his forgotten bones from the woods—bones that, on some cold nights, could still feel the gnawing teeth of those yellow-eyed beasts.
He will never release you, Cyril’s mind told him. It was true he had begun to question the master. He thought of the eye—now hidden in his saddlebag—and the apparent truth of what the cursed object had revealed to him.
He is headed to Shadow Falls—where he will meet his destiny, he heard Miles’s voice echo in his head.
And apparently, boy, Cyril thought to himself, where you will meet yours.
*****
CHAPTER 15
Galen spread on the ground staring up into the morning sky while he replayed the scene in his head. It hadn't been a dream—this much was certain. Never mind that this scene felt heavy—like a weight; that it felt at all was enough to concern Galen. What he'd seen was a dormant memory, a fragment unearthed in the shifting sands of his mind, as if dug up by an accidental explorer. Over and over, he was able to replay each moment of his incarceration—every sleepless night in that stuffy cell; every beating at the hands of Kentuck and the fat sheriff. All of it led to his trip to the gallows, his short, five-foot drop, and slow, agonizing strangle. As it did each time, the memory of Sagebrush ended moments after he had seen the man with the charred wings and the dire warning had been delivered. Galen remembered the pain he felt—the unrelenting pressure of asphyxiation exploding behind his eyes each time that trapdoor opened beneath his feet.
What it truly meant, though, was the fine folks of Sagebrush had made good on their promise to execute him.
The day I woke up in the cell. Something hit him. It couldn’t have been the day of his hanging, as he originally thought, but a day or more later. Though he had no memory of it, Galen reckoned they must have taken his dead body back to the jail while the entire town celebrated—just waiting until someone was sober enough to bury him. He remembered what he'd seen: the mangled and bloodied bodies of every adult and child who had been freshly slaughtered.
Whoever had done this had come in a large pack, he thought.
Who or what?
The thought bothered him greatly because, in the recesses of his mind, this memory was somehow connected to something he was unable to see—a mist beyond his grasp.
He was able to finally admit something, however—something had become clear. He had purposely stopped to help Maria; he had deliberately delayed his journey.
Nevertheless, he thought that Maria was more than his conscious will manifest; this woman, he reckoned, had been put in
his path for a reason. He’d been given the choice to intervene or walk away, and, at his own peril he chose the former. Whether it was a test or not, he now believed that ensuring this Mexican woman’s survival was a key to his journey.
Is it selfish to offer up a selfless act for this reason? He wondered. Is it too late to buy my salvation?
Suddenly, and with a loud crash, Galen’s mind was torn away when the wooden gate on the wagon fell open. Maria had awoken in the back, disoriented and in tremendous pain, her foot finding the door. He ran to the back to check on her; Maria’s expression changed from relief to horror when she realized that the man in her husband’s clothing wasn’t her husband. Her mental capacities came rushing back, and she screamed from her butchered mouth, remembering what had just happened. She remembered how the hillbillies had ambushed them. She remembered how they had dragged her husband from the wagon and how two of them held him down on the dirt by his shoulders while the third cut his throat with a large well-worn blade.
Galen came to her; first, she shoved him away, punching at him. He did not try to block her hysterical swinging blows, but instead drew closer until she fell sobbing into his arms.
It was when he put his cheek against her forehead that he felt the intense fever burning her up.
Maria laid down in the wagon and sobbed herself back into unconsciousness. Galen harnessed up the two horses, intending to look for a town of some kind—hopefully one that had a doctor. He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins.
Blue, he thought. The deaf and mostly blind creature was nowhere in sight. Galen reckoned the old thing wandered off and passed away in its sleep. In a way it was a relief—mostly because Galen realized he would have had to leave old Blue behind on account of how he'd been slowing them down. If Maria had some kind of infection, as her fever indicated, every minute would count.
He took the reins and nervously pointed the cart eastward. In truth, Galen had no idea what state or territory they were in—or how far away the next town would be.
Shadow Falls: Badlands Page 12
