Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood

by Jake

  “If you are to lead our people, you must find peace with these white men,” he instructed as he continued to waft the smoke through the hut.

  “But--,” Itza-chu started as Essa-queta held up his hand and silenced him.

  “You will go to them. You must speak with them and make things right. It is your duty to your people,” he commanded.

  He threw wild herbs onto the fire and closed his eyes, beginning to pray again as his son threw back the leather door and left the hut. Itza-chu walked back through the village and found the two warriors waiting for his command. He mounted his horse and the three of them rode off out of the village. They climbed back up the trail and disappeared over the hill, fueled with the passion that only young men can have. Itza-chu was determined to make things right, and needed to prove to his father that he was a born leader, with the will to take action to protect his people.

  • • •

  The sun moved high above a hardpan alkaline desert, scorched from centuries of burning heat. An expansive sea of cactus and dead grass extended for miles in either direction, with no end in sight. The landscape was uninhabited, except for a few desert scorpions that hid deep underground, where the soil was still cool and clung to the frost that had gathered during the cold nights. A figure on horseback moved in the distance, silhouetted by the yellow horizon. He had traveled a long way to get this far west and had left his former life, and dead wife buried behind him. He guided the horse, Larken, toward some unknown destination and steered her through the wasteland that few would cross during the hot summer, and even less would make it through alive.

  His clothes were heavily weathered and his hat was caked in dirt. A worn handkerchief hung loosely around his neck, ragged and torn from the sun and wind. The two Colt revolvers hung at his side and rested firmly in custom fit holsters that had been measured perfectly to grab them at any moment. A Winchester rifle was secured in a holster at Larken’s side, the top of which had rubbed against his saddle, and wore the leather thin at that spot.

  He urged Larken onward and pushed her forward in the midday heat. His head hung low from the long miserable journey. He had spent weeks in the wilderness surviving on scrawny animals and small pools of salted water, many of which had completely evaporated. It had been years since he traveled through this country and he remembered it well, but the ground seemed harder when he slept, and his back ached in the mornings. The time he had spent sleeping on a soft mattress had taken its toll, and he wasn’t that young man anymore, the one who had spent countless nights under the stars and dreamed of what may come.

  A jackrabbit bounded in the distance before stopping briefly to inspect a dead shrub. Its skinny legs pushed again and it sprung forward to another patch of dry vegetation, eagerly looking for a meal. The man looked up at the distinctive sound the jackrabbit made as it skipped across the salted earth. His eyes were blue and deeply piercing. He pulled out his rifle and placed it firmly to his shoulder, and cocked it as he took aim. A single shot rang out across the desert and echoed through the low hills. It was the only sound that could be heard for miles and signaled a night he wouldn’t spend hungry.

  Later that evening, the Gunman sat next to a roughly built fire that was surrounded by small stones he had found nearby. He watched as the skinned jackrabbit roasted on a stick, skewered length-wise. Larken grazed nearby on small stunted shrubs that barely clung to life in the arid soil. It was a pitiful meal, even for a horse that had survived this land for so many years already. But at least it was something.

  As the hare cooked on the open fire and dripped brown grease into the flames, the Gunman leaned back against his saddle and gazed at the brilliant stars overhead. Billions of small blue specks hung tightly against a deadly black sky. The night was going to get cold and he knew that a warm meal and a well-fed fire would keep the cold from creeping into his bones and taking hold of his spirit. He leaned forward and stirred the golden embers as the fire cracked and spit fresh flames into the air. He grabbed the roasted hare and poked its side with his finger, then slid it off the stick and sunk his teeth deep into its thigh. Warm juice ran down his chin as he consumed the lean stringy meat and filled his belly for the first time in three days. After the meal he laid his head against a blanket roll and slipped off into a deep dream.

  The next morning, the Gunman rode hard across the sterile country and wove around cracked rocks and large Socorro cacti, a silent army that surrounded him in the bright sun. He left the patch of mute warriors and continued steadily toward the west, relentless in his pursuit of starting a new life. For three days he rode Larken through the harsh land and found only one small pool of water that was almost too salty to drink.

  The nights in the desert were brutally cold and the Gunman was ready to sleep in a soft bed again. Every night he dreamt of the woman he loved, dancing in the kitchen of their home and moving gracefully among the pillars of sunlight that fell through the windows. It seemed that the farther he travelled west, the more he thought of her. He often rode for hours with no other thoughts but her long golden hair. But sometimes these dreams would turn into nightmares, visions of his dead wife rising from the ground, ugly and torn from decay. He awoke from these dreams in a cold sweat, and hated himself for it. He wondered how a man, who had loved her so much, could dream of the unthinkable.

  The ground began to slope upward as they neared the end of the alkaline desert and passed among boulders that jutted out from the ground in all directions. The surrounding shrubs were green from a recent rain, but it was still a wasteland that he wanted to soon forget. A place he hoped that he would never have to travel through again. He climbed a hill covered with Buffalo Grass and Yucca, and halted Larken near the top, where he overlooked a shallow bowl on the other side. Far below sat a small town nestled firmly at the base, with several roads that brought supplies and fresh men to work in the mines. He sat there for a moment surveying the energetic town and watched as men and women went about their business as usual. He spurred the mare forward and descended down the long hillside toward the outskirts.

  After reaching the bottom of the hill, he trotted down a dirt road cut deep with wagon wheel ruts formed after the last rain, and passed by a freshly painted sign that read: Virginia City, Nevada. Population 510. It was the last stop he would make before heading into California and making his way to the coast.

  At the edge of town, the Gunman dismounted in front of the local stable, the Silver Shoe Hitching Post. He led Larken over to a trough of dirty water and she began to drink deeply as he dipped his hand into the water, and rubbed the back of his salted neck. Cool beads ran down his back as he watched a feral dog hunting for scraps of food in a nearby alley.

  An old man stepped out of an open barn door and walked with a vicious limp. He approached Larken and held out a bright red apple. She flicked her tail at the many flies that had begun to surround her and obliged the man by eating half of the apple with one bite. The old man patted her neck and scratched her nose as she finished the rest.

  “Howdy. Name’s Jay,” he said as he stepped forward to shake the Gunman’s hand.

  The Gunman stood and firmly shook Jay’s hand, who had a surprisingly strong grip for his age.

  “What can I do ya’ for?” he asked.

  “I need a place for my horse. We’ve traveled a long way and need to bed-down for the night.”

  “Well…I’m sorry to say we're full up at the moment.”

  “I’ll pay silver.”

  Jay’s eyes brightened at the word silver. He was a nice man, but a businessman nonetheless.

  “I’m sure I’ve still got some room. No problem. No problem at all.”

  Jay pulled out a foil pouch from his back pocket. He opened it and fingered a large wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, then cheeked it with his tongue as he spoke. “How long you stayin' for?”

  “As long as I need.”

  “I see. Okay. Well…let’s get your horse settled inside then.”

 
Jay grabbed Larken's reins as he spit brown sludge in the dirt, turning to lead her to the barn. Larken was a keen horse with a remarkable ability to sense someone’s true nature. She must have trusted the old man. She had never spent more than a night or two inside of a barn and had lived her entire life on the open prairie.

  The barn was dark and crammed full of horses busily munching hay and doing whatever it was that horses did when they were relegated to a life inside a wooden stall. Jay left her for a moment as he pulled another horse outside, and then returned to take her into the open stall. He began to unbuckle the saddlebags that weighed her down, but as soon as his hand touched the heavy satchel, the Gunman stopped him.

  “I got it,” he said.

  “Oh no, sir. Untacking em’ is part of my service.”

  “I said I got this one,” he insisted, and grabbed hold of the satchel.

  Jay nodded, took his hands off, and moved toward another bag. The Gunman unbuckled the heavy satchel and threw it over his shoulder as Jay continued to unburden Larken. The Gunman grabbed his rifle and a few other items from one of the other bags, and then pulled out a solid piece of silver and flipped it to Jay, who looked down at it in disbelief.

  “Thank you. Thank you, sir!” Jay quickly slipped the silver into his front pocket.

  The Gunman knew that his horse would eat well tonight, something that she deserved after carrying him across the desert.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about tonight. Nothin’ at all. Your horse can stay for as long as you like.”

  The Gunman unbuckled the last saddlebag and hoisted it over his shoulder, patting Larken on the neck as he left through the barn doors. He turned around the side of the barn and headed toward the center of town. The streets teemed with people buying goods and haggling with salesmen. He stepped onto a storefront boardwalk and maneuvered around a Chinese miner trying to barter for a bag of flower. The salesman was having a tough time understanding him, but even so wanted nothing more than to sell his goods. After moving passed the two men he continued on in search of a place to stay for the night. He needed a soft bed to sleep in and perhaps a drink to warm his belly. An old man drove a wagon full of mining supplies down the middle of the street, pulled by two underfed mules, with a filthy dog sitting next to him. He saw the Gunman and stared with curiosity from underneath his wide-brim hat, and then spat in the dirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. The Gunman was a stranger in this small town, but hoped that he would go unnoticed.

  He ignored the old man and kept walking down the boardwalk, and adjusted the heavy leather satchel on his shoulder, trying to keep the strap from digging into his shoulder blade. After the wagon passed the Gunman crossed the street and stepped onto the opposite boardwalk. Rebecca Forred, the town doctor’s wife, had swiftly exited the general store carrying a box full of supplies. She wasn’t paying attention and nearly collided with him, coming face-to-face, an awkward moment for both of them. He quickly stepped aside and tipped his hat, but she said nothing and only scowled as she moved passed him down the boardwalk. After watching her for only a moment longer he turned and continued looking for a place to stay.

  He rounded a corner and saw his destination, a sign hanging loosely above a swinging door which read: Bucket of Blood Saloon, and just below, painted in sprawling red letters: Satan’s Den. Piano music played wildly from inside, and he thought that this was just the type of place he was looking for. He moved across the street and dodged a few oncoming horses as they passed. He entered the saloon with the doors swinging behind him. The bartender glanced across the parlor at him as he stood there, but nobody else seemed to take notice. It wasn’t quite noon, but the saloon was already brimming with people eager to get stoned. They would continue to drink and laugh well into the night. Three young men sat in the corner playing poker, still wet behind the ears. Another man sat with them, enjoying a tall beer with a plump whore on his lap. He wondered if they were even old enough to know how to use a gun, or if any of them had spent the night with a real woman, not the kind you had to pay for. The Gunman figured that this would be the perfect place to spend the night. The kind of place where nobody would ask him any questions.

  He approached the bar and found a seat, placing the heavy satchel on the chair next to him. Behind the bar, busily cleaning a dirty beer glass was Emmett Dawsen, the bartender and owner of this fine establishment. He was a balding stocky man with round glasses and gray hair. The Gunman slipped off his hat and set it in the chair next to him. He ran his fingers through his dark greasy hair and waited for the bartender.

  “Whiskey.”

  Emmett put down his rag, pulled out a small glass, and a bottle of whiskey from the back shelf. He stepped up to the bar and poured him a shot. The Gunman grabbed the whiskey and downed it swiftly, and then slid the glass back across the counter. “Another.”

  Emmett poured again, more than happy to keep pouring as long as he got paid. Once again, the Gunman took it down. “The bottle,” he asked.

  Emmett handed him the bottle of whiskey and the Gunman exchanged him two pieces of silver. He immediately poured himself another round.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” Emmett said.

  “A room for the night, if you have one.”

  Emmett nodded and pulled out a room key from underneath the counter. “You will find your room on the second floor, at the end of the hallway,” he said, and then turned and continued cleaning dirty glasses in his usual fashion.

  The Gunman slipped the key into his front pocket just as the piano music stopped, followed by thunderous laughter. He turned over his shoulder and saw Emmett's young son Caleb, and their black servant Elijah, both sitting at the keys and laughing uncontrollably. Elijah began to play a slower melody and Caleb followed suit, but still giggled under his breath as he played the high chords. They were an odd duo, but the best of friends nonetheless.

  The Gunman turned back and stared into the mirror behind the bar. His hair was disheveled and dark bags hung beneath his eyes. He rotated the empty glass in his hand and watched as small beads of whiskey pooled in the bottom.

  As he reached for the bottle to pour another shot, he saw the three young men from the poker game walking up behind him; Johnny, Mason and Eric. He poured the shot and consumed it just as they reached the bar. He could tell by the way they walked that they had been at work drinking all morning, not to mention the smell of booze on their breath.

  “You ain't from 'roun here are ya?” Johnny mocked. “I can tell by the way you speak.”

  The Gunman grabbed the bottle and poured himself another.

  “I asked ya' a question, stranger,” he said, getting more agitated at the Gunman’s silence.

  The Gunman downed the glass and looked at the men through the mirror. It wasn’t a question of if he could take the boys down, but how quickly he could do it.

  “You deaf? Or you just dumb?” Mason added, as he fingered the handle of his knife.

  “Nope,” the Gunman answered, finally giving in to their banter.

  Emmett stepped forward and pushed the small round glasses back up his greasy nose, sweat collecting on his upper lip. “Let me get you boys a drink. On…on the house,” he said.

  “We're just havin' a friendly chat here, Emmett. Just mind yur' own business and go pour someone a drink,” Mason demanded.

  The other two laughed as Emmett stepped back, completely defeated by the young men. He hated their words, but had never been a brave man, and he knew they would spend a lot of money on booze in his saloon if he didn’t kick them out.

  Johnny hadn’t taken his gaze off of the Gunman and stood there burning a hole straight into his temple. “What's your name?” he probed.

  The Gunman looked down at his empty glass.

  “Hey…I'm talking to you. I said...what's your name?” Johnny questioned, never taking his eyes off of him.

  The Gunman raised his hand and the three men stiffened from his quick movement. He slowly raised t
hree fingers and looked at Johnny, unblinking. “Bartender--,” the Gunman started, “--three more shot glasses.”

  The glasses appeared instantly on the counter and the Gunman poured three shots from his bottle. He slid a shot over to each of the men.

  “Just what the hell is this?” Mason said.

  The Gunman raised his own glass into the air. He had sized them up when walking across the parlor and knew exactly what it would take to subdue them if needed.

  “Let's pretend for a moment that I've already put you boys in your place,” he said, and raised his glass even higher, “And these shots are my post-asskicking peace offerin'.”

  Eric grabbed his glass and smiled, and then raised it to his lips, ready to drink, but Johnny stopped him.

  “Just what the hell are you doin'?” Johnny said to him, scolding him for agreeing with the stranger.

  Eric placed the glass back on the counter, sorely disappointed that he wouldn’t get a free shot of whiskey. Johnny turned back to the Gunman, and was now seriously pissed off. His young temper had always gotten the best of him, and the booze wasn’t helping. He didn’t know it, but this was a fight that he had already lost.

  “You've sure got some nerve. Nobody talks to me that way,” he said.

  Johnny placed his hand on the Gunman's shoulder, but before he could get another word out, the Gunman slammed his face with his glass, grabbed Eric's gun from its holster, and held Mason at bay, and then pinned Johnny down with Mason's knife. The three were quickly subdued and the saloon had grown completely quiet. Everyone watched as the stranger held the three young men at bay and stood above them like a giant.

  The Gunman stared at Johnny, still unblinking with his sharp blue eyes. He held the knife firmly into his cheek and it was clear that Johnny was close to pissing his pants.

  “We was just messin' wid you! Honest. We didn't mean anything by it!”