Vulture Wings

by Dirk Hawkman

  Bob remained wakeful when faraway birdsong began to chirp, and the secretive darkness surrendered to grey dawn. He allowed himself to watch the fiery sun peep over the horizon. The sun seemed to be benevolently spying on the vast plains below. It made Bob feel oddly envious, for his own guardians were not as benign.

  It did not take much to rouse a needle of mercurial energy such as Dwight. When he sensed the gentle sunlight on his flesh, he awoke with a start. Immediately, his shrill sniggers began.

  ‘Wakey wakey, boys. Now you get goin’ and warm us up some coffee. Got a lot to do today, boys,’ he giggled. Dwight did not berate Charlie for sleeping through his watch. Charlie appeared to be the senior partner in their relationship.

  Still fatigued, the Connors obediently rose and relit the fire. Warming the kettle, the brothers were slightly chilled in the fresh morning air. Adam and Bob tried not to look when the Strongs began cleaning two rifles. Adam, though, in dread as much as curiosity, broke his silence.

  ‘What are you doing with those there rifles, Mr Strong?’

  Charlie grinned like a toad, and winked at Adam.

  ‘You’ll see, boy.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Eli had tucked the silk tie into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was his only clue and he had an idea where to start. Eli was riding south to Bridgwater, a settlement some ten miles from Morriston. There was a fine tailor in Bridgwater, and Eli was keen to see what he knew of the garment.

  To the East, the sun laboriously climbed into the heavens. The sight of dawn over the prairie awed Eli at other times. Now, the plains yawned before him like an endless green sea. That ocean of grassland was calm now, and deathly quiet, but Eli wondered what horrors the prairie concealed.

  Desperate though Eli was, he was mindful to moderate the pace of his ride. His steed would need its energy, as would he. Eli licked his lips in a futile effort to moisten them. His maw was as dry as a desiccated bone. Eli had not eaten, slept, nor even drank a glass of water. Pure adrenalin carried him along.

  Bridgwater loomed in the distance. Though but a few miles away, so agitated was Eli that the minutes passed like hours. He could see early risers setting off to work, and a handful of passers-by. Eli was determined to question the tailor: if his shop was shut, Eli would drag the man from his bed.

  Bridgwater was comparatively monied for that part of Wyoming. The town boasted an expensive restaurant, a plush hotel and a photography studio. Eli had always found Bridgwater to be a little uppity and stuck up. As he halted his horse and tied it to a rail, he tried to ignore the inquisitive – and disdainful – glances he was receiving. Eli had no time for gawkers, and walked straight to the tailor’s.

  He found that, though early, the tailor was at his premises. Eli had not seen Seth Fritz since his wedding to Cassie. Fritz had fitted up almost every man in the region with his wedding suit. He was a wiry, awkward individual. Fritz would rather have sat in a dark room and sewed than sipped a beer in the sunshine, and he was indeed so pale he looked sickly. Shy misfit though he was, Fritz was an expert craftsman.

  As Eli entered the shop, Fritz was at his table, tending to a garment. Eli noted Fritz’s, prehensile fingers, which were as long and dextrous as a tarantula’s legs. Before Eli could speak, Fritz looked up and addressed him.

  ‘Mr Connor. I don’t think I’ve seen you for twenty years. How can I be of assistance?’ Oddball though he was, Fritz’s mind was sharper than one of his needles. The tailor must have been much older than Eli, but Fritz was unfading in the way that a ghost never ages.

  Eli was taken aback, but would not let it show. He approached Fritz and showed him the silk tie.

  ‘I’d be interested to know what you can tell me about this.’

  Fritz laughed knowingly. ‘You wouldn’t be calling at this hour to buy some new socks,’ he smirked. The tailor took the tie, and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘This is one of my garments, Mr Connor. A few days ago, two men called in to be fitted up for wedding suits. They seemed to be . . . rough diamonds, shall we say? But they paid cash up front for two suits – and expensive ones at that. I supplied two silk ties with those suits.’ Fritz indicated the tie in his hand. ‘This was one of them,’ he said with certainty.

  ‘These two rough diamonds,’ Eli implored. ‘Describe them.’ He hoped that his despair was not audible in his voice.

  Fritz leaned back in his chair, eyeing Eli suspiciously. He lay down his needle and made an arch with his elongated fingers and thumb. It was as though Fritz had intuited Eli’s desperation, and was drawing haughty pleasure from taking pause.

  ‘What’s this all about, Mr Connor? You are not a lawman, although I am aware of your . . . past.’

  Eli resented Fritz’s accusatory tone, but did not rise to the provocation. Fritz was not a pack animal. Though he spoke without emotion, his words were irksome nonetheless.

  ‘My sons . . . last night, I heard a gunshot. When I went outside, my boys – and their rides – had vanished. I found the silk tie discarded in my corral. I’m certain my sons have been kidnapped.’

  Fritz nodded. It was as if he were trying – yet failing – to convey compassion.

  ‘There were two men. They said their names were Charlie and Dwight Strong. Brothers. Charlie was a rotund fellow – black hair, black moustache. He did all the talking. Dwight was thin and grey-skinned. Blond in an ashen sort of way. Dwight did not talk much. I think he may have been a simpleton. He giggled almost nonstop.’ Fritz rose from his chair, and seemed to be eyeballing Eli. Eli would have found him threatening were it not for Fritz’s pipe-cleaner physique.

  ‘I think that tie was discarded on purpose, Mr Connor. The ties cost over a hundred dollars each. Not the sort of thing you would misplace accidentally. Somebody is trying to tell you something.’

  Taking in Fritz’s counsel, Eli glanced around the tailor’s store. Mannequins lined the walls, each one with different absences of limbs or members. There seemed to be no pattern to how these human-sized dolls were dressed (or undressed). Various tables were strewn with sheets of cloth or half-finished garments. Unkempt though it appeared to him, Eli did not doubt that Fritz ordered his things with a sophistication lost on onlookers.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fritz. You’ve been very helpful. But I do have one more question. This wedding – did the Strong brothers say where it was?’

  ‘They said it would be in Beulah. Not far from here.’

  Eli nodded to show his appreciation. Fritz was not the handshake type, and Eli weirdly feared that he might crush Fritz’s fragile digits under his own grip. Eli left without another word. Exiting the premises, he could feel the tailor’s creepy gaze on the back of his head.

  Eli mounted and rode off, glad to leave Fritz behind. His next destination would be no less uncomfortable, though, for Beulah was a ghost town.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fritz watched Eli riding away. His stern face – as white and firm as marble – showed no emotion. Inwardly, though, Fritz was pleased to see this particular chess piece advancing. Fritz hoped that this pawn would get as far away from him as possible.

  He returned to his sewing. Fritz enjoyed working this early, for it meant – usually – that he could tailor without interruption. Though his business depended on delighting his customers, Fritz was a misanthrope. Were it not for his craftsmanship, his patrons would have tired of his severe and blunt manner long ago.

  Fritz had an eye for detail. He sewed the garment on his table stitch by painstaking stitch. When he finished, the fine jacket he was creating would be immaculate. The tailor lost himself in his art, concentrating on nothing but the strokes of his needle. Fritz well knew the price of the slightest slip, for his one and only error had made him beholden to his master.

  He had learned his craft from his father. Even as a child, Fritz had not gotten on well with other boys. Fritz could not fathom the appeal of their silly games, and their foolish fairy tales. He felt himself cleverer, superior.
His childhood peers had never warmed to him, and – with no siblings – Fritz had long been a solitary man.

  His parents had been very different. While they taught him skilfully, they were also warm, gregarious people. They despaired of his rude haughtiness, often pushing him to mix with other boys. Of course, when Fritz grew into a man, he was cheeriest working hour after hour. He was hardly a magnet for the ladies. His parents were gladdened by the productivity of their son, but concerned for his future happiness. Fritz’s mother and father, with the kindest intentions, made a terrible error. They arranged his marriage.

  ‘Now she’s a lovely girl, Seth,’ they urged. ‘You’re gonna love her. You’re a young man. We can’t have you locked up in the shop every hour.’ Fritz still recalled these portentous words, and how he irked at them. He tried to resist. While his parents had always endured his retiring ways, on this matter, they would not yield.

  Soon enough, Fritz, his new bride Abigail, and his parents were living together. The tailor’s shop had always been prosperous, and the Fritzes lived in a fine, brick house just outside of town. Abigail’s girlfriends envied the affluence she had married into. After a few weeks, Abigail was not so certain.

  Had Fritz been more of an extrovert, he would have hurled pots and pans, and broken household artefacts on a nightly basis. This was not his way, though. Even though his bank account was bulging, and he shared his bed with a beautiful, young woman every night, Fritz seethed and sulked. Abigail was a kindly and dedicated wife, but this was lost on Fritz. He could not bear her insufferable pleasantries, and batted her hand away when she walked her fingers up his naked flesh at night.

  When Fritz’s mother and father finally passed away, Fritz knew that his moment had come.

  It was only the generosity and warmth of Fritz’s parents that sustained Abigail during her loveless partnership. Without them, Fritz’s coldness and indifference saddened her. After a time, her soul sickened. She trudged around the house tending to the housework absent-mindedly. The stoniness of her husband crushed her.

  While he always seemed aloof, Fritz was in fact watching Abigail from afar, waiting for her to slip. He was not totally devoid of feeling, for Fritz was gifted with boundless spite and cruelty. Abigail had developed a taste for a glass of wine, or three, every evening. She had once been only an occasional drinker, but Abigail had grown desperate for something to mask her bleak misery. Fritz did nothing to discourage this. Indeed, he made sure that his wine cellar was stocked with excellent vintages from California and South America.

  Abigail had given up on asking after Fritz, so she did not realize that he had started descending to the cellar every night. There, drop by drop, he tainted the wines with arsenic. He had stomached Abigail’s galling presence for too many years.

  This was Fritz’s blunder. Not his decision to murder Abigail, but getting caught.

  Fritz believed that the poison would not be detectable. When the undertakers took the body away, he blamed his wife’s ill health and weakness for strong drink.

  ‘Excuse me if I do not weep,’ he had told the funeral men. ‘I do not wear my heart on my sleeve.’

  The tailor was proud of his crafty coup, but he was soon to understand that another man was slyer still.

  John Morris, while based in his ranch outside Morriston, had spun a spider-web of influence. He owned businesses all over the region, including the undertaker’s in Bridgwater. Morris was not suspicious of Abigail’s demise. In fact, he clandestinely arranged for a doctor to examine in depth every single corpse which passed through the funeral home. Morris’ intrusions occasionally found black secrets. When the rancher learned that Abigail showed signs of arsenic poisoning, he was very discreet.

  The day that Morris appeared at Fritz’s door, he was terrified. Even for one as reserved as Fritz, he physically trembled when Morris materialised. He knew that this visit portended trouble.

  Morris was nearly seven foot tall. His greyed hair descended to his shoulders, but Morris did not come across as an old man. He reminded Morris of a totem pole that had stood for centuries.

  The rancher had taken Fritz into the private room behind his shop. There, Morris had explained. The rancher had not embellished nor threatened.

  ‘Mr Fritz,’ he had begun. Though Morris spoke in a voice as coarse as gravel, he was unfailingly polite. ‘It has come to my attention that Abigail was poisoned. What do you know about that?’

  Fritz had not answered. His trembling silence was confession enough. Morris had laughed in an understanding way.

  ‘I see, Mr Fritz. I see. Well, I’m not the law in these parts. Not officially. I’m happy to respect your privacy. And I hope you’ll appreciate my favour.’

  Gulping, Fritz had nodded frantically.

  ‘Good. I’ll be dropping in some time.’

  In the following years, Fritz did not see Morris again, although the rancher became his best customer. Morris did not return until a few days ago.

  Shortly after Eli left for Beulah, Fritz sensed a shadow fall over him as somebody else entered his shop. The tailor did not need to look up. He knew who it was.

  ‘Did you tell Eli what I told you to tell him?’ asked Morris.

  ‘Yes,’ pipped Fritz.

  ‘Good.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The Strongs were wandering guns for hire – armed odd-job men. They would assassinate somebody, or thieve something, and then take off for the plains. Hardly outdoorsmen, they found their way on the grasslands by reckless trial-and-error. Often, they would be out on the prairie for weeks at a time.

  If we don’t know where the heck we are, they reasoned, the lawmen surely won’t.

  Charlie and Dwight were finding this particular outing to be highly enjoyable. They did not have to cook nor wash up. Their paymaster had something special in mind for the boys, so they had to keep them safe – or alive, at least. That said, the Connors could provide them with some company, and sport.

  The party of fugitives was loosely wandering Eastwards. The trek was taking hours and hours, and Charlie occasionally stopped the convoy. During these breaks, the Strongs would run little lessons in lawlessness. Charlie and Dwight would teach their charges some knife-fighting, quick-drawing, or rifle shooting. The Strongs could sense the boys’ apprehension and reluctance, but they cooperated.

  Charlie found Bob to be the more studied and careful brother. Charlie suspected a mixture of averseness, homesickness and fear in Bob. For all of Bob’s reserve, though, Charlie found that Bob was his favourite. He could see similarities with himself. Like so many eldest siblings, Charlie and Bob were the more calculating and measured brothers.

  Charlie also valued Bob’s intelligence. Of course, he also appreciated Adam’s clumsy zeal. However, Bob listened attentively to Charlie’s instruction. Charlie felt that Bob was learning something.

  At one point, Charlie spied a colony of rabbits frolicking ahead of them, and stopped the riding party. He did not want to startle the creatures: they would give him and his charges some amusement. The animals were barely black spots in the distance. After a lifetime of scanning the horizon for threats, though, Charlie’s eyesight was outstanding.

  ‘OK, y’all – let’s dismount,’ Charlie ordered. He approached Adam and lay an ostensibly fatherly hand on the youngster’s shoulder.

  This made Bob want to scowl, but he controlled himself. Though his younger brother was the bolder and gutsier sibling, Bob nevertheless felt an iron protectiveness towards Adam. The two had had no opportunity to converse privately since joining the Strongs. Bob knew that their father would be an emotional wreck.

  ‘Young Adam.’ Charlie enjoyed portraying the role of a teacher. ‘You see them rabbits yonder? Let me see you bag one.’

  He loaded his single shot rifle, aimed, and missed. Never one to be discouraged, Adam took aim and fired once again. Adam missed a second time, but shot a rabbit on his third attempt. The tiny beast flopped lifelessly in the distance.

  Dwigh
t sniggered his approval, and Charlie turned his attention to Bob.

  ‘Your turn now, Bob. Let’s see how Mr Safe Pair of Hands manages it.’ Charlie smiled fondly, and Bob smiled back. Bob had noted that Charlie seemed particularly keen on him. It sickened Bob, but he played along.

  Bob expertly loaded the rifle, pressed its butt against his shoulder, and peered down the sights. The rifle sight was never an exact guide, but Bob had learned where the sight needed to be in relation to the target. He squeezed the trigger. The carbine recoiled, but Bob’s grip on the weapon was masterful. Inhaling the smoky wisps of carbonite, Bob saw that he had felled a rabbit.

  The Strongs whooped and cheered. Bob reddened, a little embarrassed despite himself. Charlie could not resist commenting.

  ‘Young Adam – he’s the crazy one. He’ll shoot and shoot ’til he hits his mark. But Bob – he’s like a buzzard. He hovers and waits – and strikes! Bang! One shot – it’s all over. I’m glad you’re riding with us, boys. We will make one heck of a team.’

  Dwight reacted with more cheer. Bob felt flattered – but caught himself. He knew that Charlie’s words were insincere. Charlie had something in mind for the Connors, and his glib compliments were merely to indulge his new wards.

  ‘Now then,’ Charlie continued. ‘Dwight – show us how a Strong bags a couple of rabbits.’

  Bob had been trying to keep away from Dwight, so far as he could. He found Dwight to be a monstrous and repellent spectre. Dwight was skeletal and ghostly pale. His almost constant banshee cackle literally made Bob shudder.

  In moments, Dwight had loaded and fired the single shot rifle some dozen times. Bob lost count, so swift was Dwight’s handling of the carbine. He was not unlike a machine: a clockwork man whose spinning cogs served to operate a weapon. Dwight did not appear to be taking careful aim. Rather, he seemed to innately predict where the rabbits would run. Dwight turned some twelve of the animals into small, bloody explosions. Bob did not think he had missed once, but Dwight was so devilishly fast it was impossible to say.