by Steven Bird
On the blood-drenched bed lay his beautiful wife and two children, their throats slit from ear to ear, their eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above.
On the floor before the bed was a dead assailant, killed by Stephanie in her final struggles to save and protect her children. For the next few moments, Jessie Townsend ceased to be. He was a madman. No logical thoughts were present in his mind—only rage and violence. Turning around toward the front of the cabin, Jessie went from a slow and steady pace to a full-speed run out the door, clearing the front porch with a single stride.
Reaching the man who shot him in the leg, who was now writhing in pain on the ground as he held his brains inside of his own head with blood-covered hands, Jessie raised his revolver, slowly cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger, only to feel no recoil. The gun reacted with a simple click of the hammer as it struck the primer of a spent shell casing. Unable to understand the situation due to his trance-like state, Jessie continued to cycle the revolver, click after click, yet nothing happened.
Holding the gun up in front of his own face, momentarily confused, Jessie realized the futility of his actions and dropped it to the ground. Slowly advancing toward the injured man, Jessie slid his belt-knife out of its sheath, knelt down next to him, and pushed the knife through the man’s hand, into the fractures in his skull, piercing his brain, killing him instantly.
Pulling the knife out slowly, while staring into the man’s now empty eyes, Jessie sheathed the knife as his world went completely dark, and he, too, fell to the ground.
Chapter Ten
As the wolves circled in the darkness, Jessie drew his knife and closed his eyes so the shadows could not play tricks on his mind. He listened intently to each step they took and each breath the wolves drew as they seemed to be spiraling in closer to him. Just as it seemed they were nearly upon him, Jessie opened his eyes slowly, now adjusted to the darkness of the night, to see a large, young male wolf square off in front of him, its head held low, its front legs crouched down as if spring-loaded for an attack, its fangs exposed, and a look of pure evil in its eyes, which glowed brightly in the darkness.
With little warning, the wolf leaped at Jessie’s throat, its jaws wide open and its ferocious fangs exposed. With every ounce of strength he could muster, Jessie thrust his knife forward, striking the mighty beast in the chest, just before it was able to clamp its teeth into him.
The force of the animal’s powerful leap knocked Jessie backward, the animal, now dead, falling on top of him. As the back of Jessie’s head hit the ground with a mighty thud from the momentum of the fall, he awoke to find himself lying next to the man he had killed. Surrounded by darkness, the sun having escaped over the horizon, Jessie’s painful memories came flooding back into his heart.
“God, if you’re there...why didn’t you let them kill me? Why did you let me live to see my family,” pausing to choke back the tears, he continued, “why did you let me see my family in such a way? If I couldn’t save them, why didn’t you let those men kill me, too, so that I could be with them? Why did you leave me in this place that you have so clearly forsaken, to suffer without them? What kind of a God could do this? First you let the world die, now you let my family die. Why? Why have you turned your back on us?”
Lacking the will to survive, Jessie lay there on the ground, staring up at the night’s sky as if in a trance. Occasionally slipping off to a fond memory of how the world used to be, of how safe and well-cared-for his family used to be, Jessie wavered between sorrow and rage.
As the morning’s sun began to shine over the eastern horizon, Jessie sat up, a shell of his former self, and looked around at the dead bodies of the intruders. His hearing had returned, as well as the pain in his leg, but his soul was still absent. Jessie was not the man he had been the previous day, before his life was shattered forever, and the lives of his wife and children stolen from them.
Jessie looked at his leg, riddled with birdshot from a number 7 ½ shot shell and said aloud for God to hear, “Let it kill me slowly. Let it become septic. It’s what I deserve. Just let me suffer and die. After all this, you owe me that.”
Struggling to his feet, Jessie looked at the two dead men and said, “I wish I could kill you again.” Fighting back his tears, he said, “You’ve stolen my entire world, you filthy sons of bitches.” He took the first man by the feet and dragged him to the family’s outhouse. Once he opened the door, he picked the man up under the arms and tossed him headfirst down into the wretched, fly-infested pit of human waste. Repeating this action with the second man, once the body was properly interred, Jessie said a few words as if there was anyone around to hear them. He said, “God, if you’re there—if anyone is there—have Satan reserve his most horrendous demon for these sons of bitches. If he doesn’t have a demon vicious enough to do the job, take me, I’ll gladly go and see to the eternal deed myself. I would gladly trade you my own soul, just for the satisfaction of knowing that I contributed to their hell.”
Standing there with his gaze fixed upon the sky, the gentle, cold morning breeze blowing against his face, Jessie’s eyes lowered to what he had once considered his home. The cabin he and his wife worked so hard to build—the cabin they worked so hard to make a home for their children—was now his family’s tomb. He wanted no further part of it. He could never erase those horrible memories from his mind.
He looked to his left, where the blood of the man who came from within his home still remained as a fresh dark red stain in the dirt, and saw his shotgun and pistol. Making his way over to them with a limp, he paused, staring at them, wondering what Stephanie’s final moments must have been like, using those very weapons to try to protect herself and their children. Leaning forward with a grimace of pain, he picked them up and began to walk to the barn. Realizing that his AR-15 had been left in the scabbard attached to Brave’s saddle, he looked around and saw no sign of the horse.
Reaching the barn, he looked inside, and there stood Brave, waiting alongside Jack, the packhorse, hiding from the horrors that had occurred in front of his own eyes. Jessie walked over to Brave, who seemed to understand Jessie’s pain, lowering his head as if offering his condolences. Jessie patted him on the neck, removed the rifle from the scabbard and leaned it against the wall. Staring at the rifle, self-destructive thoughts swirled around in Jessie’s mind. He wanted to put the barrel in his own mouth and end his suffering. Perhaps, he thought, he would be fortunate enough to have God grant him his request to meet the killers in hell, where he could himself seek eternal vengeance.
No, I’ve got to take care of them first. I can’t just leave them there.
Jessie walked to the back of the barn and entered a livestock stall that he had converted into a storage room. Picking up a gasoline can and a barbecue grill lighter, he turned and walked back through the barn, heading for the cabin. Reaching the cabin, he stood there, the gas can in one hand and the lighter in the other, reflecting on the wonderful memories they had all shared. He could almost see Stephanie and the children coming out the front door to meet him. In his mind, he could hear the children’s voices saying, “Daddy’s home!” as they ran out to greet him with a smile.
Tears streamed down his face as he approached the front porch. At least they’re together, he thought.
Placing the gas can on the porch, Jessie hesitated, and then entered the cabin. Reaching the bedroom and the horrific scene, his legs felt weak as a feeling of sickness came over his body, his emotions rushing back into the forefront of his mind. Leaning down and taking the assailant that Stephanie had killed by the feet, Jessie dragged the man outside, disposing of his body in the pit of filth, piled atop his cohorts underneath the outhouse.
Walking back over the the cabin, having removed the foul man from his former home, Jessie stepped back onto the porch and contemplated his next move. Looking down at the gas can, he unscrewed the cap, instantly smelling the varnished smell of stale gasoline. He walked across the porch, opened the front door to the ca
bin, and with a flood of tears, he poured the contents of the can throughout the living room. He could not bring himself to enter the bedroom again. His heart couldn’t bear the grizzly scene once more.
Turning to walk back outside, he paused for a moment, nearly opting to remain in the inferno with his family. Reluctantly, he continued outside where he lit a dry washcloth and tossed it back into the home. Jessie was barely at a safe distance by the time the all-wood cabin was engulfed in flames.
Jessie watched the fire until the structure that was once his home was completely consumed and became nothing more than a smoldering heap of burnt wood and ashes. There was nothing in there for him now. He needed nothing else from the world and merely waited, hoping for his own demise.
Chapter Eleven
With the doors and shutters shaking violently, the winter winds pounded against the barn as snow rapidly accumulated outside. If not for being a shelter for his horses, Brave and Jack, Jessie would have simply wished the barn to collapse on him, ending his suffering and anguish. It had been over a month since tragedy befell the Townsend homestead. Jessie, still a shell of the man he once was, just could not bear to go on. His only motivation to keep himself alive had become the care of Brave and Jack, whom he planned to release when spring arrived, hoping they could somehow find a way to care for themselves lower down in the mountains.
Having used the barn for a winter workshop in the past, Jessie had outfitted it with an old wood-fired stove for warmth during the coldest of the winter months. The old iron stove was small, but did the job and even had a flat cooking surface on top that he used for the preparation of his simple meals. Oftentimes, when he was shivering and cold, he would melt snow and heat water in an old pot just to have something warm to drink. He felt that was often just enough to stave off the creeping death of the below-freezing temperatures of the Rockies in winter.
His sleeping quarters were a corner of the hay loft with several bales of hay arranged as a bed to keep him off the floor. He covered the straw with several old wool horse blankets that he felt were simply too worn and filthy even for Brave and Jack. It was basic and crude, but in his emotional state, almost entirely devoid of the will to carry on, it was more than adequate. Perhaps the misery of his surroundings somehow eased his tortured soul.
Despite a lack of hygiene and medical attention, his wounds had healed up nicely. Additionally, Jessie had experienced noticeable weight loss induced by his simple diet, but he was still of sound physical condition, although he was uncertain if he would ever be mentally healthy again after the losses he had endured.
Gazing out a partially opened window from the hay loft, Jessie watched as the heavy snow came down, covering the entire area in a deep blanket of powdery white fluff.
Jessie had been subsisting on his emergency food stores kept in plastic buckets in several caches spread throughout the property. It was simple food, consisting of MRE’s, rice, and beans, but it did its job and kept him going. For what, other than the horse’s care, he did not know. Hearing a deep baah outside, Jessie looked down to the ground level to see a large ram with a full curl of horns wandering in the storm. “Lobo?” he said aloud.
Snapping out of his near trance-like state, Jessie climbed down the ladder to the barn floor and retrieved a cup of whole oats from a grain bin he kept sealed with a large rock on top of the lid. He then proceeded outside where he began to call for Lobo while shaking the cup of oats in an attempt to lure him into the barn with a promise of food. “Lobo, old boy, come and get some oats, buddy. You look starved.”
Lobo had lost substantial weight since Jessie had seen him last, which had been the day of the attack on his homestead. Once his family was gone, Jessie had lost all interest in maintaining the flock. He felt that since they were free-ranging and could go where they pleased, other than the occasional predator attack, they should be fine. In his state of depression, he failed to remember that in the winter months the available food sources for the sheep would be covered in heavy snow. Without his supplement of hay, they would all perish.
Seeing Jessie shaking the cup of oats, Lobo lethargically walked to him, desperate for a meal. “Come on in, boy,” Jessie said, leading Lobo inside with the grain. Jessie poured the grain on the floor in a small pile and retrieved several more cups from the grain bin. “Sorry, buddy, I can’t give you more than that. You’ll die from bloat if I’m too generous. You’ve not had oats in a while and your rumen isn’t ready for a large amount of it.”
As Lobo finished his meal, Jessie scratched him behind the horns and said, “How’s the rest of the flock? Not good I suppose... if you came all this way by yourself looking for food. I imagine you’ve all had a rough go of things out there on your own.”
After nearly a month of being confined to the emptiness of his own mind while merely surviving in the cold, drafty barn, Jessie found himself beginning to feel sorry for the sheep he had abandoned. With snow covering the ground and the growing season over until spring, those not picked off by wolves would surely die of starvation.
Looking at Lobo during this moment of clarity, Jessie said, “Those sons of bitches may have taken my family, but that’s no reason for me to let you lose yours as well. I’m sorry I’ve abandoned you, old boy. Rest up. Tomorrow, we’ll go get your flock.”
~~~~
Up with the rising sun, Jessie began his preparations to lead any of the remaining sheep back to the homestead where he would be able to care for them until spring. At that time, he intended to lead them down the mountain and set them free, along with his horses, as he simply did not have the desire to go on.
Saddling Brave for the first time since that dreadful day, Jessie added saddle-bags to his load and filled them with a mixture of corn kernels and oats. In addition, he slid his .30-06 rifle into his scabbard and holstered his rugged old Colt revolver, topped off with six fresh .357 Magnum cartridges.
To stumble across Jessie in the mountains in his current state would be a formidable sight. His long, unkempt hair, graying beard covered in soot from his wood stove, and the dead, crazed look in his eyes, would give even the boldest villain pause. Combined with his load of formidable weapons and a large-horned Navajo-Churro ram for a sidekick, he seemed like a character straight out of an old western dime-store novel.
As Jessie mounted Brave to begin his search for the flock, he looked down at Lobo, who was watching with curiosity, and said, “Well, boy, are you coming? Or are you staying here?” With a nudge of his boots, Brave began trekking into the snow, with Lobo immediately following along behind. Leaning down as if he was sharing a secret with Brave, Jessie said, “Looks like he’s going with us. Heck, I wonder if he has any clue what’s going on?” Realizing the one-sided conversation he was having with Brave, he quipped, “Heck, like you even know.”
As he rode toward the area where he had last seen the sheep, Jessie studied the snow and his surroundings, looking for any signs of potential threats. Unfortunately, the heavy snow of the previous night would have undoubtedly covered any recent sign of animal or human activity. As the morning sun reflected off the snow, Jessie couldn’t help but feel pleased to be out of the confines of the barn. As recently as the day before, he had resolved to live out his final days there, caring for the horses until spring, but now, he felt as if he had a real purpose, even if it was only short term in nature.
Spooking a small brown mountain cottontail rabbit as they approached, Jessie flinched at the sight of movement in his peripheral vision. Reaching instinctively for his Colt, he chuckled when he realized what it was. Though not in a position to be hunting, he thought to himself half-jokingly, I’ll have to remember where that little fella is. Some fresh meat would be a nice change of pace.
Looking back in the direction of Lobo, Jessie could see that he was having a little more trouble traipsing through the foot-deep snow than Brave. With that in mind, he eased back on the reins to slow the horse to better match Lobo’s pace. “You want that corn in the saddle bags, do
n’t you, boy? Don’t worry. You’ll get it eventually,” Jessie said with a smirk.
Upon reaching the hilltop overlooking what was once the grassy hillside where his sheep grazed, Jessie pulled his rifle from the scabbard and began scanning the area with the rifle’s scope. “I don’t see a thing, Lobo. Not even a single trail in the fresh snow.”
With a deep, loud baah, Lobo seemed to be calling for his flock. Patiently waiting and listening, Jessie said aloud to himself, “I don’t see or hear a darn thing. Then again, I can’t see Lobo’s trail from yesterday because of this new snow, so I guess that doesn’t mean anything at all.”
“Come on, boys,” Jessie said, nudging Brave forward.
Riding several hundred yards beyond the hillside, Jessie stopped once again to scan the lower terrain with his scope. Alternating between the lowest magnification setting of 3X to gain the widest field of view, and the highest magnification setting of 9X to scan for detail off in the distance, Jessie searched tirelessly for any signs of his sheep.
Just as he was about to give up while scanning from left to right, he saw a brown spot lost in a sea of white snow. His breath fogging his scope, he quickly wiped it bare with his glove and tried desperately to reacquire his target. “There’s one!” he said aloud. Luckily for Jessie, Navajo-Churro sheep often have colors other than white, making this one easy to spot in the distance against the all-white background of the freshly fallen snow.
“Let’s go, boys,” Jessie said as he nudged Brave forward, down over the snow-covered hill.
As they began to draw near, Jessie whistled to the young lamb that was trudging its way through the deep snow. Every time he used to supplement their grazing with grains as a treat, Jessie would always use the same recognizable whistle, hoping to entrench the Pavlov’s dog effect within his flock, making them easy to call in. Luckily, that training technique appeared to be working in his favor today as the young lamb, probably no more than eight months old, began working its way toward him.
