by Jake Bible
Splat.
The Man With No Face growled as he grabbed more dirt and wiped the crap from his arm.
Splat. Splat.
“Goddammit!” he cursed up at the sky. “Go gnaw on a deer or something! Leave me be!”
He decided to keep moving while he cleaned the rest of the bird shit from his leathers. Soon miles went by and the sun was directly in front of him, making him squint into the glare of the horizon.
By the time he stopped to make camp, The Man With No Face knew he was close to his prey.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said to himself. “Maybe the next day. I got time.”
He lay back on his bedroll and listened to the night sounds. The coyotes were far, far off and he knew they wouldn’t mess with him again. The death of their brethren left a stink on him and they could smell it.
He licked his parched lips and closed his eyes, ready for the terrors his troubled sleep always brought.
***
Smoke lay heavy with the morning fog and The Man With No Face forced his eyes to open, willed them to see the horrors Colonel Milton had left him.
“That man don’t know the word ‘mercy’,” a deep Voice chuckled next to The Man. “He’d kill himself if he knew it would be to his advantage. Funny thing is it just might.”
The Man With No Face looked about, but all he could see was the scorched remains of his farmhouse. From the condition of the burn, he figured he’d been unconscious for a couple of days.
“Dead,” the Voice said. “You didn’t just wake from a nap, you’ve been dead. But I brought you back.”
“Who…what…where…?” The Man stuttered.
“Many names, many forms, many places,” the Voice answered. “Right now I’m your friend and I have a way for you to avenge your kin.”
“I don’t understand,” The Man said as he got up. He felt something squirm in his ear and he pulled a couple maggots (or corpse worms as his Nana used to say) out. He jumped back and shook his head in a frenzy. Several more maggots flew free.
“They don’t waste time, do they?” the Voice laughed. “Nature’s little wonders.”
Then silence. A silence so deep The Man thought he’d lost his hearing.
“Oh, wait, you said something, didn’t you?” the Voice asked. “Sorry. I was talking to a man in Paris. Something about wanting absolute power over women. Guess he doesn’t realize that just by asking for that he’s giving them all the power. Am I right?”
“I…I don’t know,” The Man said as he spun in circles, trying to find the source of the Voice.
“Stop that,” the Voice scolded. “You’re making me dizzy.”
The Man stopped. “Sorry.”
“Much obliged,” the Voice said. “So you want to understand, eh?”
“Yes, please,” The Man With No Face answered.
“Are you sure?” the Voice asked. “Sometimes knowledge isn’t always the best thing. Maybe you just want the abridged version?”
“No,” The Man With No Face answered as he looked at what was once his home. “I want to understand it all. I need to know why this happened to me…to them.”
Once again the silence enveloped everything.
“Fine,” the Voice said flatly. “I figured you’d say that. It’s why I brought you back. But, once you know everything, and once you’ve done what you need to do, then it’ll be time to do what I need.”
“Like what?” The Man asked.
The Voice chuckled and a small bag fell at The Man’s feet. He picked it up and dumped the contents into his palm. Coins. Gold coins.
“What are these for?” The Man asked.
“You’ll know what to do with them,” the Voice said. “Can’t spoil the ending, now can I?”
***
The Man With No Face tilted his wide brimmed hat back and squinted up at the sun, his eyes narrowing in disgust at the buzzards that circled overhead.
“You’re a blight upon my life,” The Man muttered as he stood on top of the bluff that overlooked the little town of Comely. All through Arizona territory the circle of buzzards grew as he hunted his prey.
They could smell his death. They could smell the wrong on him.
“Won’t be long now,” he struggled to say through dry lips and stiff cheeks.
Casually, as he’d done a thousand times on his journey through the desolate West, The Man pulled the jar of bear grease from his satchel and undid the top without looking. He dipped a couple fingers in and dabbed the grease liberally to the leather flaps and laces of sinew that covered his face.
Satisfied that he’d gotten enough grease into all the nooks and crannies, The Man With No Face puckered up his weathered lips and blew. A weak hiss came out that resembled a song, but no one would have been able to place the tune.
Even with the lack of musicality, The Man With No Face seemed satisfied at the results and slowly made his way down the steep path that led from the bluff and into Comely.
He’d only gone a couple feet before he stopped and worked at a spot near his nose that had been bugging him for the past few days. After a good five minutes of digging he finally came away with a wriggling maggot. Not one to waste good protein, The Man With No Face popped the maggot into his mouth and chewed with relish as he continued his way into Comely.
***
The sandy streets of Comely were deserted, what with the oppressive heat of the noonday sun, so The Man With No Face was able to saunter up the steps of the saloon without notice. He smacked the dirt from his long duster as he stepped inside and assessed his surroundings before walking slowly to the bar. Run down, dirty, and unoccupied except for a sleeping drunk at one of the corner tables. He’d seen more than his share of the same all across the West.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked as The Man With No Face leaned against the stained and tarnished bar rail.
“Information,” The Man With No Face said in a voice that made most men shiver and most woman turn and run.
The bartender instinctively sensed trouble and reached under the bar to make sure his hog leg was there. When his hand touched the cool wood of the shotgun’s handle he felt relief, but when he saw The Man’s face all reassurances the firearm could provide went out the window.
“Damn…,” the bartender exclaimed in a choked whisper. “You got more leather stitched into your face than I got on my Sunday saddle.”
The Man With No Face grimaced, but it was hard to tell due to the patchwork laced across his skull. “Better than looking at what’s underneath.”
“I don’t doubt that,” the bartender replied. “What information you looking fer? We don’t get many folk ‘round here, so I probably cain’t be of much help.”
“Just looking for some folks,” The Man nodded. “Three men. One’s a Colonel from the Union army. Probably got his uniform still on.”
“No, sir,” the bartender shook his head. “Cain’t say I’ve seen any Colonels. But I did see a Corporal or Private or whatever the peons is called. Not much to look at.”
The drunk in the corner snorted and chuckled then let loose with an enormous fart. The sound flapped through the air like the pages of a thick-papered book. A couple very wet follow-ups came right behind.
“Dammit, Horace!” the Bartender shouted. “If you shat yourself again I swear to the Maker I’ll put a bullet in your feeble head!”
“The Corporal you saw,” The Man insisted, ignoring the interaction between the bartender and his customer. “Was his name Herschel McMannon?”
“Herschel McMannon? That some kinda Jew-Mick name?”
“Scot,” The Man replied. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use racial slurs. Ain’t polite.”
“Racial slurs? Ain’t polite?” the bartender laughed. “This is Arizona Territory, mister. If some skirt wearin’ Nancy boy shows his ass lovin’ face ‘round here then he’s gonna have it comin’”
The Man With No Face grimaced further and the unsettling sound of his leathered face c
rinkling filled the saloon. The bartender couldn’t help but to shudder. “At least he has a face,” The Man glared.
“Right, well, uh, no offense meant,” the bartender stuttered. “You gonna order a drink, mister?”
“Nope,” The Man shook his head. “Don’t drink.”
“That ain’t right!” the drunk, Horace, shouted. “Man that don’t drink cain’t be trusted!”
“Never said I could be trusted,” The Man responded as he set his Remington 1858 revolver on the bar. The brass shown like the sun; clean as if it was brand new. “The man, what was his name?”
“That’s Confederate iron you’re carryin’ there. You a Johnny Reb?” The Man didn’t answer. The bartender gripped his hog leg even tighter, but continued on. “Don’t know. He bought some bottles, spent some time with the whores upstairs. Then left.” He chuckled a bit. “A Johnny Reb counselin’ me on racial slurs. If that don’t beat all! The war’s over, ya know, right?” The bartender chuckled louder.
The Man With No Face sniffed the air and watched the bartender very closely. “You got nothing else for me, is that it?”
“Sorry,” the bartender smiled. “He left. That’s all I know.”
A shiny silver coin was slapped onto the bar. The bartender stared at the money, his greedy mouth salivating.
“You sure?” The Man asked.
“Gee, mister, wish I could help more,” the bartender replied, his eyes never leaving the coin. “You know what? You may want to check with Mr. Collins down the livery. I know he put their horses in Collins’s care. Bet he’d have a name.”
Their horses…
The seconds ticked by as The Man With No Face kept one finger placed on the coin. After studying the bartender’s eyes, for what seemed to the drink slinger like an eternity, The Man slid the silver piece over.
“Much obliged,” The Man nodded. “I’ll go check with Mr. Collins.” He holstered his pistol and walked towards the doors then turned. “Oh, and Horace did shit himself. You can smell the jack rabbit stew he had for dinner last night.”
“Sweet jesus!” the bartender shouted as he dashed around the bar and over to Horace.
The Man With No Face had his Remington out, cocked and fired before the bartender got more than a few steps. Blood sprayed from the man’s thigh and he screamed as he crumpled to the dirty, planked floor.
“What the fuck you do that for?!?” the bartender screamed.
The Man With No Face casually walked over to the bartender and knelt down.
“Now that you got your hand off that hog leg,” The Man said. “I’m guessing you can think a might easier and may recall a few more details.”
The bartender gripped his thigh as blood quickly soaked his trousers.
“You didn’t have to shoot me!” the bartender screamed. “Jesus Christ! You didn’t have to shoot me!”
“You know more than you were saying before?” The Man asked.
The bartender thought for a split second then nodded his head towards the stairs. The Man With No Face smiled. In his way.
“Then I guess I did need to shoot you,” The Man said as he walked back to the front doors.
“You’re goin’ the wrong way,” the bartender whined. “They’s upstairs.”
“Not anymore,” The Man With No Face said as he loaded a cartridge into the spent chamber. “Trust me.”
He spun about and put a bullet between Horace’s eyes. A small pistol clattered from the old drunk’s hand and slammed into the wood floor. The pistol discharged and the slug slammed into The Man’s left cheek, ripping the sewn leather from his face.
The bartender gasped as the flap of leather fell away, revealing warn and weathered teeth and jawbones. A black beetle crawled from out of an empty tooth socket and fell to the dirty floor. “Sweet Jesus…”
The Man With No Face pulled the flap from his face and tucked it into his trouser pocket as he put his boot heel upon the beetle and crushed it into the wood grain. He dug his fingers into the same socket and pulled out a second beetle. He observed it casually for a moment then squeezed it until it popped, yellow fluid squirting from its carapace.
The Man With No Face flung the remains at the stunned bartender and gave the bleeding man a dry-lidded wink as he left the saloon. The street was empty and the wind kicked up a couple of dust devils as The Man looked left then right.
Right into the butt of a rifle.
He grunted and tumbled down the couple of steps in front of the saloon. The Man didn’t stop and kept the roll going until he was able to come up on one knee, pistol drawn.
Dust and grit whipped through his open cheek as he searched his surroundings for the attacker and he absentmindedly chewed the grit. The feel of dirt between his teeth reminded him he was still moving, still going. Still alive, in his own way.
“That you, Herschel?” The Man called out. “Better just show yourself.”
A shot rang out and The Man was knocked backwards. He looked down at the smoking hole in his chest and frowned as he pushed himself back up on his feet.
“Come on, Herschel,” The Man yelled. “You can’t kill me. Get out here so we can get this out of the way.”
“Hersch is dead,” a gruff voice shouted from the shadows of the alley by the saloon. “Took a rattlesnake bite to the balls down Bisby way. He screamed for two days before I put him down. Fucking annoying.”
A large man stepped out into the sunlight, a Winchester rifle aiming right at The Man With No Face. His trousers were threadbare and stained and he only wore an alligator hide vest across his broad and muscled torso. Leather was sown into his forearms, but The Man could see it wasn’t from an animal source. Unless one counted people as animals.
Which, as The Man thought about it, he did.
“Pity,” The Man said as he brushed himself off. “I was looking forward to that privilege.” The Man looked right at the rifle. “Why even try, Marcus? It’s a nice looking rifle, but it can’t stop me. You know that or you wouldn’t be running so hard.”
“And your pea shooter on your hip can’t stop me,” Marcus countered. “I had to torch Herschel. Took him an hour to burn down to bone. He begged and pleaded with me the whole time.”
“Damn,” The Man swore. “Shame I missed that.”
“I could set you ablaze and you could live the spectacle personally,” Marcus suggested, a wry smile pulling at his deeply tanned face. “I don’t mind, really.”
“Think I’ll skip that,” The Man replied. “I won’t be getting put down today.”
“Sins of the flesh,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Quite the price, eh?”
“Wasn’t my bill to pay,” The Man growled. “That debt was forced upon me. You took what was good in my life and destroyed it. I aim to return the favor.”
“Yeah, well, bygones,” Marcus said, waving the statement off. “You’re nothing but a bag of bones now, so I ain’t too worried.”
The Man With No Face looked down at his ragged appearance. Months upon months upon moths of tracking his prey had left him thin and grimy, but only a fool would have considered him nothing to worry about. He looked back up at Marcus and the strips of skin sewn into his body.
“You aren’t looking so great, either,” The Man observed. “Looks like you’re adding to your body count. That skin a memento or to replace what’s falling apart?”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Marcus grumbled. The Man With No Face had his answer.
“So all that killing hasn’t done you a bit of good,” The Man laughed. “You may live forever, but what will your life be like?”
“None of your concern,” Marcus snapped.
The two men stared at each other for several minutes.
“What we doing here?” Marcus asked finally. “You can’t kill me and I can’t kill you. What’s the point?”
The Man looked at the Remington in his hand. “That ain’t exactly true,” he said quietly. “I been busy studying while you been running.”
“What?” Marcus asked. “You got some spell up your sleeve?”
“You could say that,” The Man responded as he holstered his pistol. “Want to see?”
Marcus didn’t hesitate as he emptied the rifle into The Man’s chest and head.
“Don’t bother,” Marcus said as he side-stepped down the dirt street, loading the rifle as he went. “Ain’t interested in spells no more. Didn’t work out so well the first time.”
The Man pushed himself up onto his elbows. He coughed up a couple slugs and let them fall from his shriveled lips. He felt his face, and the damage Marcus had done, and swore quietly under his breath. Then he saw his hat and the holes in the brim and crown.
“You ruined my hat!” The Man With No Face yelled. “And it’s gonna take me days to stitch myself back together!” Although anyone standing close -not that there would be- would have sworn they heard the Devil talking as the wind whipped through his exposed mouth and distorted the words as they came up from his throat. “Where ya going, Marcus? The Colonel down there at the livery? I’d sure love one last chance at a get together.”
Marcus heard the eerie mewing sounds of the buzzards above and shivered as he saw thirty black birds cast wild shadows over The Man.
“There’s something wrong inside you,” Marcus shouted. “You was black before we performed the ritual. That’s it. That’s why you wouldn’t die! That’s why you came back!”
“Just keep telling yourself that,” The Man sneered, or would have if most of his face wasn’t missing. Strips of leather flapped in the hot breeze, but Marcus was spared the worst of the sight due to the shadow The Man’s hat cast across his face as he placed it back on his head. “You killed for everlasting life. Ain’t my fault it all went South, as you Yanks say. I guess the South ain’t no place for Northern scum like you.”
“Stop playin’ with him, Marcus,” Colonel Milton said as he walked out of the livery. “Put a couple bullets in his knee caps and cripple the damn walking cadaver!”
“Nice to see you again, Colonel Milton,” The Man With No Face said as he tipped his holey hat to the Colonel.
“Fuck you,” Milton snarled. “You weren’t supposed to survive, you fucking affront to God.”
