Vulture Wings

by Dirk Hawkman

  ‘Yes, Sheriff. See you in the mornin’.’ Eli turned away. Once again, his infuriation was expressed in the briefest of shudders. Just before setting off, though, he glowered powerfully at Frank. The sheriff detected an inner rage and resolve in that brief glance. He did not like the look of it.

  Emotionally shattered, Eli trudged back home. This time, he did not gallop. There seemed little point. Though the menacing black of nightfall was now glutton-ously swallowing the sunlight, Eli instinctively knew the way back. Frank was a good and decent man, he thought to himself. However, the sheriff was not equipped for whatever was happening.

  The house was deathly silent without his sons. Once inside, the quiet and emptiness only worsened Eli’s incessant thoughts. The same horrific visions played over and over in his mind’s eye. Eli did not even contemplate eating or sleeping. He entered his own bedroom where he kept his gun cabinet.

  He withdrew a rifle and began to wipe away the rust with a wire brush. The carbine was long disused. The metal screeched as Eli made thorough strokes with the metallic mesh. Though speckles of brown rust sprayed into his eyes, he did not flinch.

  Eli never thought that he would have to kill again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Eli had been a drover in his youth. The long cattle drives, while testing on his energies, had been valuable opportunities to save money. A cowpuncher earned dollars nearly twenty-four hours a day. Out on the plains, there was nothing to waste your money on. Eli never recklessly squandered his cash on whiskey or worse. He put his money in the bank. Years of saving and a modest loan from an investor, finally enabled Eli to buy his own general store in Morriston.

  That was the tapestry of lies which Eli had weaved to protect his sons. It was a fiction that he had supported for nearly twenty years.

  He had, in truth, been a hired gun and a bounty hunter. Eli had been a successful plodder, if not material for campfire legends. He had been a stickler who could finish the job, and not a vain quick-draw man boasting down at the saloon.

  As a young man, Eli had learned how to follow a trail. This meant human intelligence as much as an eye for hoofprints, or broken blades of grass. When he determined to capture (or kill) a miscreant, Eli acted with endless perseverance and patience. He would ride from settlement to settlement for weeks and weeks until he found his man.

  Eli was not always fortunate. His quarries – who were never the amiable sort – would sometimes be slain by their own enemies. On other occasions, one of Eli’s mercenary contemporaries might accost or eliminate the target before Eli had the opportunity.

  Such disappointments never deflated Eli. Though he was a skilled marksman, his great strength was not his dexterity as a gunman. His true edge was his tenacity. When he was bested in a manhunt by one of his fellow professionals, Eli simply set his sights on his next game and soldiered on.

  There was one nugget of veracity in the fantasy which Eli had created for Adam and Bob. For an individual who earned his income by beating up or shooting wanted criminals for the price on their neck, Eli was very temperate. After riding into town with a man in handcuffs, Eli would pay for a hot bath, a steak, and then go straight to bed. His bounties were banked immediately.

  He never dwelled on the violence he inflicted. In his core, Eli was not a cruel man. He never utilised excess brutality. Perhaps it was this spark of decency that drew Cassie to him.

  She was a Morriston girl. Eli was passing through town, obsessively tracking his prey. Cassie was a waitress in the Morriston Café. The two began chatting while she served Eli his coffee. Golden-haired with blue eyes as beautiful and hypnotic as gemstones, Cassie’s beauty was beguiling. It was more than her physical loveliness that struck Eli, though. He was charmed by the ease with which they talked. Eli’s years of manhunting had been lonesome, and he had indeed grown into a curmudgeon. Comely Cassie, though, had instantly magicked away Eli’s solitary surliness.

  A few days later, Eli took a job as a farmhand. He and Cassie began stepping out together. Eli, once so single-minded, could not even remember the name of the man he had been tracking. He now comprehended what they were talking about in love songs and dime-store novels.

  Indeed, he could scarcely recognise his own reflection in the mirror. He found himself almost perpetually smiling. Sauntering energetically down the main street, Eli – once so wary of strangers – greeted passers-by with a friendly ‘Howdy.’

  His way of life was transformed over the next months. Eli wed Cassie, and she gifted him two sons. He withdrew all his savings, and risked it on a business: his general store.

  The following ten years were so blissful that – to Eli – it seemed like a century of delight. Retrospectively, Eli wondered how he had possibly lived through so much happiness in such a short time. Working in his store and coming home to his boys and beautiful wife every day made him feel wealthy in a way beyond earthly monies.

  So powerful was Eli’s love that, even when Cassie succumbed to cholera, he considered himself unimaginably fortunate to have shared so much time with her. Though saddened, Eli needed to be strong for his sons. He saved his weeping for his blackest, private hours. Even after ten years as a widower, Eli still felt that there were teardrops in him that were yet to fall.

  Monday night had been wakeful, and Eli had not even attempted to sleep. He had busied himself by loading his saddle bags and cleaning his rifle and pistols. Eli also studied maps and newspapers. Before his sons’ abduction – for Eli was certain that his boys had been coerced – he had been beginning to feel the aches and sluggishness of creeping old age. Eli had an audible crack in his hip, and at times the mere act of stiffly standing up was an irritation.

  These physical trifles were banished from his mind. Eli was remembering, now: not facts, but instincts. A hunter once more, Eli’s motivation was deeper than the urge to win a few dollars in bounty. His sons were in danger, and Eli could feel their fear as palpably as if he were the one in peril. Losing Adam and Bob – his own bloodline, and the only part of Cassie still living – would be akin to losing limbs.

  Eli would set off at dawn. Though the night seemed endless, Eli knew that he would need daylight to follow the trail. Sheriff Lee, and his equally kind yet ineffectual deputies, would debate the problem all day. With every minute, Adam and Bob were carried off further and further away. Eli had no time for the sheriff’s useless good intentions.

  The sun seemed reluctant as it finally peered over the grasslands. The slim shard of gloomy illumination slowly lifted the night’s murky threat, though the grey light of morning looked equally ominous.

  So be it, thought Eli. There will be danger ahead, but my sons need me.

  Before riding off into the prairie, Eli put a sign up in his shop window.

  ‘Closed until further notice.’

  Eli’s customers would have to do without cans of beans. He was ready to slice away the flesh of his sons’ abductors inch by bloody inch.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frank watched Eli retreating to his house. The sheriff, though he was ostensibly the law in Morriston, somehow felt that he had erred. Frank was genuinely disconcerted that Adam and Bob seemed to have disappeared.

  Should I have raised a posse? he asked himself. Ought I have saddled up and ridden out all by myself? Is that what a sheriff does?

  It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong, Frank told himself. But you have to decide.

  Eli had seemed very angry before the sheriff had sent him away. Frank wondered whether this time he was wrong. The sheriff sighed, envying the murmuring laughter coming from the saloon. He was tempted to join the drinkers in the bar, but given the seriousness of Eli’s predicament, he did not want to be seen there.

  Instead, Frank closed the office door after him and returned to his chair. He randomly picked a sheet of paper, if only to give himself something to stare at. He pulled back his desk drawer, where his whiskey bottle rolled and clinked. Frank poured himself a slug. The sheriff often joked to himself that the
liquor was for emergencies only, but the bottle was half empty.

  Emergencies only? Frank asked himself mockingly. When was the last time you dealt with an emergency? His rhetorical question, and Eli’s visit, triggered a long-dormant memory. The last time Morriston experienced a serious incident was when Eli first arrived in town. Frank took a burning sip from his glass as he remembered.

  Eli had been the town’s shopkeeper some twenty years. He and his sons were familiar and popular faces. Adam and Bob had been born in Morriston. In such an interdependent community, though, Eli was a comparative newcomer.

  The sun had been radiating wave after hazy wave of cruel heat that day. Frank had been called away from his farm to deal with a belligerent drunk. The booze-hound was a stranger to Morriston. He had plenty of cash in his pocket, and had been imbibing heavily for days. The townsfolk tended to take a courteous step back from unknown faces. The barman had served the stranger politely, but eventually the outsider began harassing the locals and breaking furniture.

  Frank had been younger and leaner back then. He was but an occasional deputy, and not experienced in matters of keeping the peace. Frank still recalled taking hesitant steps up to the saloon bar, the suffocating heat haze – or perhaps his own fear – an invisible force seemingly driving him back. He almost wished some unseen magnetism would suck him away.

  Entering the drinking den, Frank found it empty but for a frightened barman and the intoxicated stranger; he was leaning against the bar, barely able to stand. The outsider was expounding an unintelligible, mumbled monologue to which the nervous bartender was nodding politely. As Frank approached the stranger, his handcuffs jangled. The deputy hoped that his own nerves were not making the manacles clink.

  ‘Morning, partner,’ Frank squeaked, as cheerfully as he could. Frank hoped that the drunkard would yield without an altercation. His gorge as dry as sand, Frank painstakingly and self-consciously swallowed. He could sense the stranger watching his Adam’s apple rise and fall. ‘Mind if I have a word?’

  Swaggering yet staggering, the drunk turned to face Frank. He could hardly stand. The stranger paused arrogantly, eyeing the deputy contemptuously before responding.

  ‘Sure thing, deputy,’ the drunk hissed. His rotten breath struck Frank like the gas from a cesspit. Frank was already nervous, but the air of sickening decay from the stranger made Frank want to vomit. The drunk was built like a hog, but was not as clean. His clothes and flesh were unwashed to the point that they seemed to mix into a single, smelly crust. Every detail and aspect of the man was repellent.

  ‘How about you call it a day, buddy? It’s not noon and you’ve had a couple of beers already.’

  The stranger made a show of looking over his shoulders and around the bar. Broken chairs and tables – no doubt shattered by the intruder himself – were scattered around the saloon.

  ‘What makes you say that, deputy?’ the stranger spat sarcastically. The drunk’s silly barb irked Frank, and he could sense that a cordial approach was ineffectual. Frank reached for his handcuffs, but before he even lay a finger on them, the stranger swung one of his trotters into the deputy’s forehead. Frank recoiled in pain and shock. Though dizzied and bruised, Frank was about to try and accost the drunk once again when the swine drew his Remington. Though the stranger could not hold the weapon steady, this did not allay Frank’s fears.

  The report of the gunshot nearly arrested Frank’s heartbeat. Even when the hog collapsed, blood running from his snout, Frank could not quite comprehend what had taken place.

  Eli lowered the smoking revolver in his right hand, and placed a reassuring palm on Frank’s shoulder with the other. The deputy jolted.

  When Eli explained the situation, he did not come across as brash nor daring (brave though he was). For a bounty hunter, Eli was very matter-of-fact and reserved. His coal-black hair and angular features were undoubtedly handsome, but he had the manner of a bank manager.

  Back in the sheriff’s office, Eli showed Frank and the then-sheriff a wanted poster: Scott Glenn, $100 reward, dead or alive. The man pictured did indeed resemble the drunkard. The sheriff did not usually appreciate bounty hunter characters, but in this instance, he did not take issue.

  Eli declined Frank’s offer of a drink, asking instead where he could eat a good steak.

  ‘Morriston Café,’ Frank advised. ‘Cassie’ll take care of you.’

  Cassie took very good care of Eli indeed, for two weeks later, Cassie and Eli were stepping out together. Frank found Eli some work on his farm. The taciturn mercenary was now so in love that he even forgot to claim the hundred-dollar bounty. John Morris’ men discreetly disposed of Scott Glenn’s remains.

  Frank was startled from his reminiscence by a powerful rap on his office door. ‘What now?’ he asked the empty air languidly. Opening the door, Frank was jolted from his lethargy when he saw who his visitor was.

  CHAPTER 5

  Adam and Bob complied when the song of Charlie’s revolver played stridently in their ears. Terrified, they obediently left their corral and followed the Strongs out onto the plains. Charlie and Dwight flanked the Connors, each of the Strongs riding with one hand on his reins and the other on his Colt.

  The Strongs spurred their mounts with cruel firmness. Riding in a reckless gallop, the four sped away on what may have been a random course. The Connors were too frightened to pay too much attention to the direction. Adam and Bob were not certain whether the devastating drum in their ears was hoofbeats or heartbeats.

  They rode for miles. It was disorientating to gallop so blindly. Bob did not know how the Strongs could tell which way they were riding, if they knew where they were going at all.

  Soon, only the pinpricks of starlight in the murky skies illuminated them. When the obscurity was so black that they could not see their hands on the reins, Charlie halted his criminal convoy.

  By then, their mounts were slippery with perspiration. It was careless to punish a horse so, but the Strongs did not seem to know, nor care. As the animals exhaled breathily, the Strongs dismounted.

  ‘Get down, boys,’ Charlie commanded. ‘Unpack our saddle bags and start a fire.’

  ‘Now wait just a minute, mister,’ Adam interjected. Scared though he was, fear had not quelled Adam’s brashness nor innate cheek. ‘Where the heck are you taking us? What’s going on?’

  The impact of Dwight’s gun handle on Adam’s forehead stung, and drew blood. Adam was on his knees, lines of blood from his gash entwining with streaks of tears from his eyes, before he realized what had happened. He fought to restrain his sobs, while a wave of impotent rage swelled within him. Dwight’s surreal shrieks of laughter only magnified Adam’s anger.

  As Adam sprang to his feet ready to pummel Dwight, Bob bear-hugged him from behind, holding him back. Bob needed to tighten his arms forcefully as Adam writhed in fury.

  The Strongs laughed in chorus.

  ‘You got some fight, boy. I like that. Don’t go too crazy, now, ’cause Dwight and me got plenty of fight, too.’

  To emphasise his point, Charlie lashed out with his own Colt, striking Bob on his head. The bite of Charlie’s pistol-whip repulsed Bob, forcing him to release Adam. Bob wiped the blood away, streaking the back of his hand. Painful though it was, Bob did not yelp nor whimper. Instead, he fixed Charlie with a penetrating stare. Charlie did not like that disdainful glower.

  ‘Now get to work!’ he barked.

  As the Connors unpacked, their heads stinging, the Strongs conjured a quart of whiskey from somewhere. Bob tried to eavesdrop as he set up camp, but it was futile. It was as though the Strong brothers had been each other’s companions for so long that they had developed a unique language that only the two of them could understand. They appeared to use distinctive slang that only they could comprehend. Watered by whiskey, they giggled at private jokes that were only funny to them.

  Adam unpacked as if in an angry trance. His body was moving, apparently in accordance with Charlie’s command. Mentall
y, Adam was imagining the violent ends to which he could deliver his captors.

  The distant orchestra of crickets and the lambent crackle of the campfire would have been pleasing in other circumstances. When the unpacking was complete, the Strongs commanded their abductees to sit down. As the four sat around the flames, its flickering red light only deepened the hellishness of the situation. The Strongs had bidden their new wards to warm some oats over the fire. Adam had at first defiantly refused to eat, but Charlie had insisted. The Strongs devoured their porridge, whereas the Connors had to compel themselves to swallow the lukewarm lumps.

  Curiously, Bob noted, the Strongs had brought along four metal serving trays. The kidnap was not impulsive. It had been planned.

  After the thin meal, the Connors shivered as Charlie rose and strolled over to them. Charlie cast his shadow over them, and they trembled.

  ‘You might as well sleep, boys. Me and Dwight’ll be watching you, so don’t try nothing. It’s going to be a long ride tomorrow.’

  Charlie fetched four bedrolls from his saddlebags. Once again, Bob noted, the Strongs had come packed for four. Dwight took the first watch, as Charlie and the Connors bedded down. Bob was exhausted – as much from his relentless fear as from the strains of the violent ride – yet slumber was impossible. During the night, Bob turned over and over. Adam was similarly restless.

  Dwight’s sinister vigil did nothing to relax him. He sat upright all night, silently watching over his charges like a gargoyle. Bob was still wakeful when Charlie took the watch. Pallid though Dwight came across, he always seemed to be bursting with childish energy. Charlie, however, wheezed and sighed as he laboriously rose from his bedroll. Indeed, Bob thought he heard Charlie snoozing when he was supposed to be guarding them – though Bob dared not attempt to flee.