by Don P. Bick
Chapter 10
Knox is coming into view before me, and I feel no emotion at all at the sight. My sleep in the hollow for a few hours in the early morning was fitful and dreamless. The journey since then has been that of a zombie. And here I am at another run-down town, another outpost with its tavern, its inn, its store, and its cadre of trappers and farmers.
I pass a small stable as I first enter the town, and a deep angst twists at my heart. I drop my eyes, pushing my way into the tavern, moving to the far end of the bar. The three surly patrons already within barely glance up at me, and the lean barkeep pours a glass of ale without being asked.
His voice is raspy, as if from disuse. “Stew?”
“Yeah.”
The bowl is wooden, the stew is luke-warm, but I eat it without complaint. He goes back to leaning against the back wall, staring listlessly out the grimy window.
A while later, I am in a dusty room at the inn, resolutely pushing the dresser in place in front of the door, locking the lone window, and pulling the curtains tight across it. I prop myself into a sitting position and have both guns crossed across my chest.
If they think they can take me, they’ll be in for a surprise.
A hawk circles high above, silently watching the landscape below.
I am standing on a high cliff, looking out over a great expanse far below me. I want to run toward the edge, to leap into its maw, to fly away untethered, free of all earthly concerns.
The man at my side holds my hand with tender sureness, grounding me.
I blink my eyes awake, and for a moment my mind is a confusing mixture of sharp aches and pains along with a looming sense of foreboding.
What have I done now?
Then it all cascades back on me, and I curl into a fetal position, the sobs coming through me like a rushing river. It is a long while before I can breathe again, before I can wipe my face and draw to a standing position.
I pull aside the curtain. The day is dismal, cloudy, and it suits me fine. I go downstairs, and the barkeep doesn’t even look up. He has no care where I am headed to, and I have no desire to tell him.
The slog to Rolette is long, lonely, and grey. A hawk circles high above, but there is no other sign of movement along the endless miles. The world seems completely empty of life, beyond me and the hawk.
It’s past sunset before I am within the well-worn streets of Rolette. The dented mug, the mystery-meat stew at the bar, the trappers who seem carved from stone. I look down at my own hands, and it’s hard to tell where the dirt ends and the skin begins. I wonder if I would recognize my own reflection in a mirror. I had only begun to know it a short time ago.
There’s a motion at the door, and a Burgundy walks into the lamp-lit room. I drop my hand to my hip, and I find I am not alone in that motion. Every pair of eyes in the room is focused on the newcomer, and the stares are far from welcoming.
The man strolls in, an amused smile on his lips, and he approaches the bar. The barkeep has his hand below the lip of the wood, and I wonder just what he has stashed back there. His eyes are sharp on the stranger.
“What’d’ya want?”
The Burgundy’s grin grows. “Why, my friend, I would like to talk about your future. About the great things you might accomplish. Have you heard the Word of God?”
The barkeep’s mouth thins into a line. “I have heard more than I want to hear,” he states coldly. “You best move along.”
Burgundy gives a short laugh. “Fate is coming for us all, my friend. You best become comfortable with it before it does.”
The barkeep’s gaze narrows. “And you best leave before your fate finds you sooner than you expect.”
Burgundy rolls his shoulders, gives a pleasant nod, then scans his eyes over the rest of us. At last he turns, strolling leisurely from the room, letting the doors swing shut behind him.
The barkeep glances to the back wall, motioning his head to a long, lanky man in the shadows. The man nods, takes up his rifle, rolls to his feet, and slips through the door.
A tense silence settles over the room. I sip at my ale, scooping up the final puddle of my stew.
The dull report of a distant revolver shot sounds – and then the clean zing of a rifle.
A few minutes pass, and the barkeep clears away my empty bowl. He refills my ale without a comment, his eyes straying to the door. At last the rifleman pushes his way through, and there is an easing of tension within the room as he takes his seat by the back wall.
The barkeep brings him over an ale, putting it before him with a nod. “Who was he after?”
The rifleman downs a long swallow. “The miller.”
The barkeep nods, returning to his station.
I head up to my room, block the door, shut out the windows, and wearily lay down on the bed.
I close my eyes.
Just one more day. One more day and I will be at the Gate.
The feel of the mug of ale in my hand as the sharp sound of the rifle shot fills the air.
Bending over the cool stream for a drink of water, and the rifle shot passing just overhead.
Peering out through the shutters of the hotel in burgundy, and the two shots ringing out in the night.
Crouching on the ridge east of the Indian village, a gang of bandits approaching, and the sure, precise sound of the rifle shot simultaneously on either side of me.
