Vulture Wings

by Dirk Hawkman

  Though Morris’ handling of the Colt was clumsy, it would only take him a few seconds to ready the weapon. Her senses heightened by the peril to intense awareness, those instants gave Suzanne ample time to cock her own revolver.

  Her ears rang after she clenched the Colt’s fiery metal. Suzanne’s already sore wrist ached a little more under the frissons of the recoil. The air was so thick with cordite that it seemed to cling like a film of dirt to her flesh. Suzanne’s bullet had penetrated Morris’ core.

  Innately, the rancher knew that these moments were his last. The pain was beyond excruciating, yet Morris’ soul was a deep sea of hatred and cruelty. He looked down at his chest, and with his free hand dipped his fingertips in the blood leaking from the midriff. Morris examined his bloodied digits. He noted that they were tinged blue.

  ‘So, I do have blue blood after all,’ he croaked.

  To Suzanne and the Connors, it was surreal. A bullet in his breast, Morris was steadfastly clinging to his life. He seemed to be literally dead on his feet. Morris, though the pain was nearly paralysing, viewed the situation with serene clarity. His limbs stiff, Morris lurched toward Suzanne, fighting to raise his frozen gun hand.

  Suzanne gasped. Infirm though he had seemed, Morris’ sheer bloody-mindedness made him inhumanly strong. She cocked her Colt to fire again, but somebody else was faster.

  Morris’ head slanted violently to one side as the report of another gunshot rang out. The rancher flailed almost drunkenly before finally collapsing.

  Adam stood with his father’s Colt held in his two hands thrust before him. Wisps of smoke rose from the weapon. The gun looked enormous in Adam’s grasp: he was much slighter than his brother. Back in Desolation, he had seemed so meek compared to Bob. Suzanne saw none of that timidity now. Lethal resolve shone through Adam’s eyes. Indeed, so resolute was Adam’s gaze that Suzanne was taken aback.

  Ever the sensible older brother, Bob led the survivors. His father continued to wail. The bullet had mercifully cut clean through. Bob cleaned and tied the wound, and helped his father to his feet. Suzanne put a comforting arm around Adam and guided him away from the bloodshed in the study.

  There was no resistance from Morris’ men as they returned to their rides. On hearing the gunfire, the remaining heavies had scurried away fearfully.

  In the black flux between the mortal world and Hell, Morris was not certain whether he was thinking, dreaming, or something else as he slipped away. His final thoughts were that Adam, too, was infected by his wickedness.

  CHAPTER 31

  His teeth gritted, Eli had led Suzanne and his sons back to Morriston. Bob had done a good job of dressing his injured shoulder, yet the wound continued to throb. Despite the pain, Eli dug deep and rode on. He was with his sons once more, and they needed their father’s leadership.

  Returning home, it seemed like they had been away for many years. His sons had indeed aged considerably in that short time, but that was not something Eli cared to dwell on. At the Connor house, the four plunged into black, sleepy, pits.

  At dawn the next day, it caused much comment when the Connor General Store was open for business. His arm in a sling, Eli inched around his shop, frequently closing his eyes in pain. It would have been prudent to rest for a time, but Eli was determined to impose his will on his weakened body. He could not help smirking in amusement as he served his curious customers. The store did a lot of business that day. Of course, by then, the Morriston townsfolk had heard all the rumours. They could not resist dropping in for a peek at the father of two outlaws, who was nursing his own gunshot wound.

  Eventually, Sheriff Lee dropped in. Lee was dreading this confrontation. The ostensible lawman did not know the details, but Eli had ridden out alone a few days ago, returning with his sons and a bullet in his shoulder. Lee also knew that Morris had something to do with it all.

  It did not please Eli to recount his ordeal. He was deliberately vague when it came to his sons’ violent acts. Lee was relieved, yet rudderless. Morris had long been a silent threat, but Lee did not quite know what to do next.

  ‘Ride up to his secret ranch, Sheriff. There’s quite a few dead bodies up there, and some poor sap tied up in the basement. Clean that mess up. You can talk to my boys when they’re ready.’

  Lee acted on Eli’s suggestion. The sheriff’s deputies gave Morris a brief funeral in his private cemetery, and arranged for the interment of the dead thugs in boot hill. They took the prisoner, barely breathing, to the doctor.

  Lee later spoke to Adam and Bob. The Connors’ eyes were sunken, and their eye-sockets blackened as if dirtied by soot. He interrogated them in the presence of Suzanne and Eli, who made sure that the young men did not say too much. Their testimony was shocking, but the trail of cadavers emphasised its veracity. Had the sheriff pressed them, he could have exposed a number of inconsistencies in their explanation. Lee was stunned by the extraordinary events, though, and decided to leave restful hounds to their repose.

  Eli allowed Adam and Bob to recuperate. It took weeks, but Adam’s strength recovered. With his renewed vigour came a return of the familiar cheek and boisterousness. Suzanne stayed at the Connor house, and watched over their healing. She never thought that she would find herself mothering two young men in this way. At first, she felt melancholy to see Adam and Bob sleeping-in until midday, scarcely eating and trudging around the house like mummies. Suzanne was patient, though. She cooked and cleaned for her new flock, and chattered pleasantly about nothing. Never did she probe deeply about the fearful experiences they had shared.

  Her patience and attentions were rewarded. Adam soon came to enjoy teasing Suzanne, and she was a playful foil to his jokes. She had sharpened her wit with years of ironic comebacks to the barbs of her customers in Desolation. When Adam returned to health, though, she found his constant cheek a touch tiresome. Fond as Suzanne had grown, she felt a little relieved when Adam returned to full-time work in the store.

  Adam and Bob were old enough to understand what was happening between Suzanne and their father. While they still missed their dear mother, they approved. Adam and Bob made no comment when Suzanne advanced from her bedroll in the lounge to their father’s bedroom. Even after the loss of Cassie, Eli had never been a forlorn man. He had drawn pride from his fine sons, and enjoyment from his successful business. Nonetheless, Adam and Bob noticed a certain joyful energy about him since Suzanne started sharing his life.

  Two weeks before, Eli had been an unremarkable widower and shopkeeper, and father to two nice, young men. The Connor household had now been transformed into a hotbed of scandal. Suzanne cared nothing for the mores of Morriston’s small-minded. Even though she loved her new family passionately, there was no rush to get married. Talk of Suzanne’s former career reached the ears of Morriston’s gossips faster than the Pony Express. The blabbermouths gleefully added to the rumours. Suzanne was also a Turkish heiress, or a Tartar sorceress, depending who you spoke to.

  Morriston’s prudes never said anything impolite to the faces of the Connors, though. Suzanne was living sinfully with the bounty hunter who exposed Morris, and was stepmother to two outlaws. Indeed, Sheriff Lee was retiring soon. Whenever Eli was asked whether he would be the next town marshal, his answer was tantalising: ‘I’ll think about it.’

  At their dinner table, the Connors commonly roared with laughter when somebody shared the latest dumb rumour about them. The experiences they had shared were horrific, but those were in the past. Their present, and future, were promising.

  Bob, though, was recovering at a slower pace. Physically he was well and had also returned to work at the store. He had, until the Strongs clawed him away, been courteous and retiring. The customers at the store could not detect the change in him. They were pleased (despite the rumours) to see the polite, young gentleman back behind the counter. Eli and Suzanne were worried, though. While Bob was the quiet one, he now passed hours in pensive silence. He had never been as outgoing as Adam, but had taken to going f
or long, solitary walks.

  The Connors were hopeful, but something was continuing to trouble Bob.

  CHAPTER 32

  The warmth in the house was stifling. Bob was idling his Saturday afternoon. Adam was out riding, while Eli and Suzanne were shopping in town. Bob gazed out of the lounge window. Though indoors, he felt like an outsider looking in. Bob had frequently felt like this, lately.

  The sky was an inviting, icy blue. The heat inside was bothering Bob. Suzanne made sure that their home was always spotless, but the balminess teased a mustiness from the woodwork. The occasional, cool gust of wind was like a distant siren call. Bob felt suffocated and decided to go for a long walk.

  Before leaving the house, Bob strapped his rifle to his back. Even before Bob’s abduction, his father had forbidden him from playing with guns. Since Bob’s return, Eli had been particularly strict about locking his gun cabinet. Eli always kept the keys on his person. When unobserved, Bob had taught himself how to pick the lock. Before riding with the Strongs, Bob had not much cared for shooting. During his prolonged silences, it was now all he thought about. Perhaps because he was so quiet, nobody noticed Bob’s furtive loans of the carbine. He always returned the weapon unsuspected. Not so long ago, illicitly borrowing the weapon would have filled Bob with guilt.

  Guilt, Bob thought to himself as he set off on foot. What is guilt? Bob had felt shameful following the Strongs’ bungled bank robbery. Yet he also felt a touch of pride for his leadership. Bob was not certain whether he was ashamed of his role, or ashamed that he was secretly proud of himself.

  Bob, at least intellectually, knew that it was wrong to kill. After shooting the provocateur in Desolation, though, Bob’s spirit had soared like an eagle. He would gladly have shot another, then another. Only Adam’s terrified, confused eyes dragged him back to Earth. His brother’s reaction had made Bob’s act all too real. It had not been a daydream.

  Such thoughts had been thrashing like stormy seas in Bob’s head. Returning home and getting back to work had made Bob question the truth of what had happened. Sometimes, it seemed as if another person had been kidnapped by the Strongs. It was almost like remembering a dream.

  Bob ascended the gentle hill overlooking Morriston, although he did not realize that he was. So profound was Bob’s introspection, that his legs motored independently of his mind. At the peak of the hill, Bob paused. He wondered for a second how he had arrived there, remarking for a moment that he had been strolling for a while.

  Looking down on Morriston as if he were a giant, Bob noted that the town was still busy. Certain shops were still open, and the numbers in the saloons were beginning to swell. The townsfolk, from Bob’s vantage point, were as tiny as flecks of dirt. He was reminded of a flea circus. The air on the hilltop was fresh, and Bob savoured it. Morriston’s farms and ranches were mostly quite distant from the main town. But for the odd baa or moo, Bob could hear only the whoosh of wind. He seemed to be paying special attention to sounds and smells lately. It was as though his senses had sharpened, or perhaps external noise merely echoed in the dark hollow of his soul.

  Bob set off again. Half of him was concerned to return the rifle before Eli discovered its absence; the other half brazenly did not care. Bob’s walk was aimless. He meandered mindlessly for miles. His pace was brisk, though, as if he were a yacht adrift guided by a powerful wind.

  The faint reek of dung, and the snorts of horses, told Bob that he had reached the outskirts of a neighbouring farm. He approached the corral fence and watched the animals within, circling aimlessly. Horses are powerful beasts, and Bob recalled staring at them in frightened fascination as a child. As he gazed at the animals, Bob’s mind returned to visions of the past weeks.

  It was as though Bob’s thoughts and sentiments were so ugly that he had to get away from the house before he could dwell on them. Bob irrationally imagined that his family could somehow see the hideous pictures in his head.

  Unconsciously, Bob was grinning. His memory of the assault on Morris’ prisoner was sweetly visceral. Bob had thrown stroke after stroke with the bullwhip, only desisting when he was too breathless to hurl another. His victim’s pathetic whimpers had only encouraged him.

  It was solely in these private moments that Bob was truthful with himself. His love and protectiveness of his family had not faded. He had hated and feared the Strongs and Morris. The addictive thrill of crime, of snatching another’s life could not be denied, though. Inwardly, Bob had been building on his memories with violent and wicked fantasies of his invention. Though it troubled him, he was beginning to understand the allure of lawlessness.

  It seemed that Morris had succeeded. Bob had been infected with his sadistic sickness.

  Further along from the corral was the farmhouse. Within, the farmer was washing up before dinner with his family. Leaning over the washbowl, he looked out of his window. There, he spotted Bob standing at his corral. Again. The farmer did not mind. He had heard what Bob had been through. Bob had been showing up at his farm frequently. The young man always seemed entranced, as if he had been sleepwalking for miles. This time, the farmer thought he would say hello.

  ‘Howdy,’ he beckoned, stepping outside. ‘Bob Connor, isn’t it?’

  The greeting startled Bob. He was flustered, but then replied.

  ‘Yes, sir. How are you doing?’

  Bob seemed uncomfortable, almost as if he had been caught doing something he should not have.

  ‘Would you like to come in? We’re about to have supper. Join us.’

  The farmer had a walrus moustache to match his walrus physique, but his great strength could not disguise his palpable kindness. His welcome made Bob feel disgusted by his broodiness. This man was opening his home to Bob, yet here he was imagining unspeakable things.

  ‘No thanks, sir. I’ll be heading off.’

  The farmer shrugged. He would never know what Bob had endured, and was keen to keep it that way.

  Since returning home, there had been a constant division in Bob’s mind. His memories of his violent acts sat in one compartment; the decency and bravery shown by Eli, Adam and Suzanne in another. Bob was not convinced that he was worthy of their devotion.

  He carried on walking, until he was deliberately lost. The temptations he had surrendered to under Morris and the Strongs had been filthy. Bob had learned something, though. He had more nerve than he thought. He would now need to draw on that untapped fearlessness.

  He had to lay down in rather an awkward position. Bob took the barrel of his rifle between his lips, and closed his eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  Candy and Jezebel had taken the lead when Suzanne had rushed out that evening, never to return. Suzanne was most certainly hot-tempered and fickle, but the painted ladies never imagined that Suzanne would desert them. When days turned into weeks, and tell of Morris’ odd demise reached Desolation, the harlots realized that Suzanne was not coming back. They were surprised rather than angry. Suzanne had been a fine mistress. She had taken such pride in managing the saloon that it was astonishing that she should abandon it so easily.

  When the letter from Suzanne finally arrived months later, signing over the bar to Candy and Jezebel, they had their final answer. Of course, Morris had been the true owner of the saloon, but he could not meddle from his roughshod grave. There was no pretender to the courtesans’ property title.

  After Suzanne’s amazing departure, Candy and Jezebel were the only women left in Desolation. At first, the absence of Suzanne’s protection unsettled the scarlet ladies. The escorts had been able apprentices under Suzanne, though. She had correctly predicted that they could handle the worthless bums that wafted in and out of Desolation.

  The first change they made was their retirement as harlots. Skilled though they were in the bedroom arts, Candy and Jezebel directed their energies into managing their new business. Their old customers moaned obscene protests on learning that their indecent urges would not be indulged. Chloe and Jessica (their real names) w
ere unmoved.

  ‘Too bad, mister,’ they would answer. ‘We’re businesswomen now. Another drink?’

  The saloon ladies were, in any case, too busy with their new profession to practise the oldest profession. Perhaps because their baser lusts went unsatisfied, the bar’s crooked clientele drank more. Serving whiskies, throwing out drunks, getting rid of dead bodies, breaking up fights and counting the overflowing takings consumed all of Chloe and Jessica’s time. They had little opportunity to spend their monies. There was no bank in Desolation, but the safe in the saloon’s office was bursting with cash. Even without the murderous talons of Morris directing his minions, Desolation remained a popular hiding place for hoodlums on the run.

  This went on for many months. Season followed season.

  Soon, thick snows smothered the heat from the scorching rocks. It was during a snowstorm that a stranger rode into Desolation.

  The falling snow outside was stinging in its wintriness. It was positively painful to brave the cutting spears of precipitation hurled by the greyed skies. Though the grim billows in the heavens had swallowed the sun, the reflection of light by the snows was blinding. So frigid was the air that merely inhaling it bit the outsider’s maw. The howl of the wind and the dazzle of the ground was befuddling. It was this confusion that arrested the visitor’s progress, almost as much as the slimy snows.

  Such wintry obstacles did not deter the traveller, for mere snow would not slow his quarry, either. Desperate men would not be halted by the weather. Fraught though the stranger’s target might be, he was still a stupid criminal. The prey may have thought that the snows would cover his tracks. Indeed, the storm had obscured his trail somewhat, but the manhunter was ten steps ahead. His game, as predicted, had fled to Desolation, as he had done so many times in the past.