by Steven Bird
Without slowing down to inspect his wound, Jessie ran as hard as he could, knowing he was in a make or break situation. Hoping that finding their dead comrade would slow their pursuit, he ran and ran, dodging limbs and branches, running straight through brush as if he was a wounded deer being trailed by a hunter.
After it appeared he had shaken his pursuers, Jessie trudged across a small creek and watched the final rays of the day’s sun shining through the trees.
Dropping to his knees, his head began to spin and the vibrant colors of the forest in the evening light began to blur into a gray.
~~~~
With his head swirling, an overwhelming feeling of nausea came over Jessie and he attempted to roll over and vomit. The sudden movement sent a searing pain throughout his side. Wincing, Jessie heard a voice say, “Calm down over there. You’re gonna tear that wound back open. I worked awful damn hard to get you stitched up. I ain’t about to do it again.”
Turning toward the voice, Jessie strained to focus his eyes as he lifted his head. Hearing footsteps, he saw a blurry figure come into view. “Who... Who are you?” Jessie asked.
“I’m Isaac. Isaac Clanton,” the man answered. Standing nearly six-feet tall, the man had grey hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen scissors from a qualified barber in quite some time. His beard was peppered grey and his eyes were as blue as the sky. He had the build of a man who worked hard for a living; fit and stout, especially for a man of his years.
“Well, don’t just lay there. What’s your name?” Isaac asked.
“Jessie. My name is Jessie Townsend.”
“Where are you from, Jessie Townsend? What brought you to the creek bank where I found you? Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have just left you there.”
“Colorado,” Jessie grunted, fighting back the pain. “I’m from a small town in Montezuma County, Colorado. Across the rocks from Denver. As far as giving you a reason why you shouldn’t have just left me there, I’ve got none. Maybe you should have.”
“Well, at least you ain’t a bullshitter,” Isaac said as he lifted Jessie’s blanket to inspect the wound.
Reaching over to the table next to the bed, Isaac picked up a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and poured a little over the wound, causing Jessie to tense up in pain.
“Oh, come on now, you can handle a little sting. This doesn't look like the first time you’ve been knocked to the dirt. You look worn out as hell. You look like you’ve put a lot of miles on your body to get from the Rockies to Arkansas.”
Looking around the room and seeing he was in what appeared to be a rustic plank cabin, Jessie replied, “Travel isn’t exactly easy these days. There are still some good people out there, but the bad seem to be outnumbering them more every day.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Isaac said as he stood and placed his hand on the revolver strapped to his side. Jessie’s eyes followed his hand, noticing the pistol was in an old, well-worn brown leather holster.
“Which brings me to my next question,” Isaac said. “Who were you running from when you were shot, and why?”
“I was riding my horse through the woods…”
“To where?” Isaac interrupted. “Where were you going?”
“Tennessee. To find my sister,” Jessie replied. “Anyway, I was riding my horse through the woods when a shot rang out. Eli twitched and spun around, jerking his head so hard he nearly pulled the reins out of my hands. He staggered briefly and then just dropped out from under me without an ounce of struggle. The poor ol’ boy was hit directly in the neck.”
“Where did you get Eli? Did you steal him?”
“No,” Jessie replied. “I came across Eli on the outskirts of Fort Sumner, New Mexico. We seemed to need each other equally at the time. I was without transportation, and he had just lost his owner, a man who wasn’t in his right mind and hadn’t been caring for him as he should. We were a blessing to each other.”
“So, someone shot your horse, Eli, in the woods,” Isaac grumbled, reiterating Jessie’s statements. Getting back to the topic of why he had found him where he did, Isaac asked, “And then what?”
“Yes,” Jessie said insistently. “When he fell, his body rolled to the side where my rifle had been kept in its scabbard. I couldn’t get it free with all his weight on it. Whoever shot him, took another shot which barely missed my head. I had to run for cover with nothing but my Colt,” he said, instinctively reaching to his side to see if his beloved single-action revolver was there, only to find that his arms were in restraints. Realizing he was no longer dressed in his regular clothes, and wore only pajamas, he asked with stress in his voice, “My Colt. Where is it?”
“Just what good is that beat-up old thing gonna do ya?” Isaac asked in reply. “The barrel was bent all to hell, and the cylinder wouldn’t even turn because the pin was bent. What did you do to that poor thing?”
“It must have been from when the ATV hit me,” Jessie replied.
“ATV, huh?” Isaac queried as his curiosity was obviously piqued.
“Yeah, there were several ATVs. They were coming from all directions, all firing blindly, or at least it seemed like they were. It was chaotic. I collided with one of them while running across a trail. It knocked the lights out of me. That bastard almost finished me off, too. When I had dealt with him properly, I retrieved my Colt from the trail behind his ATV and ran until, well, until I awoke just now. That’s all I remember.”
Looking Jessie over while he was trying to process the story, Isaac stroked his peppery grey beard and said, “Dealt with him properly? Huh?”
“I did what I had to do,” Jessie replied without hesitation.
“Hell, that’d don’t bother me any. I just wish you could have ‘dealt’ with a few more. You can stay here while you heal up. It sounds to me like you had a run-in with some of the low-life trash I’ve been having to deal with around here lately. They’re like a pack of hungry coyotes—only worse. They all need to be put down like a damn song dog, too, if you ask me.”
Turning to walk away, Isaac stopped and said, “Now, get some rest. We’ll talk more later. From the shape you’re in, I’d say we’ll have plenty time to get acquainted.”
“Where’s my Colt?” Jessie again asked with concern in his voice.
“I told you, it’s bent all to hell,” Isaac snarled.
“I need it,” Jessie replied. Searching for the right words, he said, “Just hang onto it for me. Please.”
“Is it your security blanket or something?” Isaac asked. “Cause it ain’t worth a damn thing now. I told you, it’s bent all to hell.”
“It was my father’s,” Jessie replied. “It’s all I have left from my old life.”
“Old life,” Isaac said with understanding in his voice, looking Jessie in the eye. “A lot of people these days think back to what they had before the attacks and the chain of events that followed. If you ask me, people need to just get the hell on with what they’ve got in front of them. Dwelling on their old life isn’t gonna get them any-damn-where.” Pausing, Issac looked around the room and then turned to Jessie with a nod of understanding. “It’ll be here for you when you get up and about. For now, shut your yap and get some rest. Like I said, we’ll talk again later.”
Jessie watched as Isaac turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Laying his head back on the pillow, Jessie’s mind raced with thoughts of those he had encountered during his journey from Colorado to Arkansas: Ash, Spence, Jörgen and his crew, and most recently, Leina’ala and the fine folks of Fort Sumner. Were any of them still alive? Jessie knew in the world he currently faced, there was no certainty of that. The struggle to survive was a daily battle between nature and humanity, and good and evil. Nothing could be assumed in this harsh new world. The only thing he felt for certain was the struggle would only end with his death—something he wasn’t sure he still feared at all.
Chapter Three
Lying awake on the small b
ed in Isaac’s home, Jessie stared at the ceiling, trying to recall the events that had led him here. The moon shone brightly through the window that must have been left open by Isaac to allow fresh air from the breeze outside to cleanse the room of its musty, stale smell.
Damn, that’s bright, he thought, when he looked at the vibrant harvest moon through the window. Looking at his wrists, he could still see he was bound to the bed by his host—or his captor. He wasn’t sure which title applied just yet.
Hearing a distant howl, Jessie thought, Wolves? No, not here. Not in Arkansas. That must have been coyotes, but they sure as hell sounded like wolves.
Closing his eyes and listening intently, trying to paint an image in his mind, Jessie heard another howl. This time, it was followed by the yips of a pack of coyotes appearing to draw closer with every yelp.
They must be chasing a fawn. It is, after all, that time of year. Poor little bugger. When I go, I’d much rather it be by a bullet than be torn apart by teeth.
As the yips and yelps of the pack now sounded like there were song dogs all around the cabin, he heard a loud, ominous howl as if the alpha was signaling to the others that the time had come to take down their prey and feast.
Startled by the sound of scratching at the side of the cabin just beneath the window, Jessie turned to see shadows dancing off the opposing wall, cast by the bright light of the moon. He could see the shadows of the hellhounds bouncing up and down as if trying to jump up and into the window.
With his heart now racing, he tugged at his restraints to no avail. Hearing the sound of four paws thumping onto the floor of the room, Jessie turned to see a vicious, snarling coyote begin to circle the bed, as its claws scraped across the old wooden floor with each step. The larger than normal coyote never took its eyes off him while it worked its way around the bed.
Just as he began to yell for Isaac, the coyote lunged and—
Storming into the room, Isaac shouted, “What is it?! What the hell is wrong?!”
Looking up to Isaac, Jessie frantically looked around the room, but the coyote was gone. Turning to the window, he could see it was closed and clouds had now obscured the moonlight.
Breathing heavily, Jessie said, “Oh, thank God. It was just a nightmare.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Isaac asked, cocking his head and looking at Jessie with a half-annoyed, half-concerned facial expression.
“Sorry,” Jessie replied as his heartrate began to slow. “I’ve just been through a lot, I guess.”
“Who hasn’t? You’re gonna go through more, so don’t crack up just yet,” Isaac quipped.
“It’s... it’s these restraints,” Jessie said, tugging at his arms. “I think they just make me feel vulnerable.”
“If you weren’t restrained, I’d feel vulnerable,” Isaac replied. “I don’t know you from Adam, yet I took you in to patch you up. Don’t go guilt trippin’ me about what I feel I need to do to stay safe. I haven’t survived this long allowing my feelings to get in the way when I make decisions. I do what I must, when I must, and how I must. It’s worked so far, so I ain’t changin’ nothin’ on your account.”
Standing up straight and looking around the room, Isaac pointed at Jessie and said, “Now, you just lay there and get some rest. Heal up, so I can be rid of you. And for heaven’s sake, keep your screaming like a little girl to yourself. I’m trying to sleep, too, you know.”
Watching as Isaac turned and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him, Jessie laid his head back on the pillow and said, “Damn these dreams.”
~~~~
Early the next morning as the sun’s rays shone through the bedroom window, Isaac entered the room with a plate of breakfast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. On the plate, Jessie could see fried eggs cooked sunny side up, bacon, and grits with butter flowing off them like golden rivers. To Jessie, a man who hadn’t had a warm, home-cooked meal since he’d left Fort Sumner, it was a sight to behold. The smells that rushed into the room caused him to salivate like Pavlov’s dog when it heard the ringing of the bell.
“I guess if I’m gonna get ya strong enough to be on your way, I’ll need to feed ya,” Isaac said, as he placed the food on the table next to the bed. Holding up a key to the restraints, which were merely handcuff loops minus the chain and what appeared to be saddle leather tied to the bed, he added, “Don’t make me regret this,” and he patted the old Smith & Wesson top-break revolver on his side.
Looking at the gun and the well-worn brown leather holster, Jessie thought, this guy knows how to use that gun. You don’t carry a gun like that if you don’t know the drill.
Releasing Jessie’s right hand from the restraint, Isaac said, “Don’t go thinkin’ I’m lettin’ you go. Your arm is going right back in that restraint when you’re done eatin’.”
“Yes, sir,” Jessie replied. “I’m just glad to have the hot meal.” Gesturing with a nod to Isaac’s revolver, Jessie swallowed a bite of food and asked, “Is that a clone?”
Looking down at his side, Isaac answered, “It’s a real Smith & Wesson, but it’s from 2000, not 1875. It was from their limited run.”
“Those were only chambered in the original .45 Schofield, weren’t they?” Jessie asked, forking another bite of egg into this mouth.
Looking at Jessie with a raised eyebrow, Isaac said, “Yes. Yes, they were made in .45 S&W, also referred to as .45 Schofield. There ain’t too many fellas out there who would know such a thing.”
Swallowing his food, Jessie smiled and said, “Well, you can tell I have an affinity for the finer times,” referring to his old, battered and reworked Colt. “You don’t have a problem finding .45 S&W ammo?” he asked.
“Ya can’t find anything these days, but no, I roll my own,” Isaac replied.
With a nod, Jessie said, “That old Colt of mine was my father’s. He had owned it since he was a young boy when it was given to him by my grandfather. He carried it instead of the .38 special Colt Police Positive he was issued during his time in law enforcement. Later, when I followed in his footsteps and entered into a career in law enforcement as a sheriff’s deputy, and eventually becoming the sheriff of Montezuma County, Colorado, I too, carried that old gun. I had it rechambered for .357 Magnum to bring it up to date a bit. It had originally been chambered for .38 WCF. I wouldn’t have altered it in such a way, but the barrel was shot out from years of use and the timing was noticeably worn as well. It needed a good going-over by a good gunsmith.
“There was a gentleman in Cortez, Colorado who specialized in cowboy-era firearms. He had it for about a month, but when I got it back, she was like new. I’ve carried that old Colt a long, long time. She’s seen me through quite a few tight spots along the way, and although it’s antiquated by most people’s standards, she still gets the job done while giving me a piece of my former self to hold on to.”
“Were you a sheriff when it all went down?” Isaac asked. “When the attacks began, that is?”
“No,” Jessie replied, as he placed the now empty plate back on the table next to him. “I was swindled out of office by a bit of election fraud which, by then, seemed all too common throughout every level of government. It was amazing how entrenched the deep state had gotten by that point. Not a damn person would swear to have voted for my opponent, but he won by a landslide.”
Taking the cup of coffee with his free hand, Jessie took a sip, and continued, “Anyway, I could see the writing on the wall. He had the backing of people deeply entrenched in the system, and I was just a small-town guy trying to earn an honest wage. I cashed out my retirement plan, sold our home in Cortez, and moved my family to a homestead in the mountains.”
“Cortez, huh?” Isaac said while looking Jessie over. “Are you part Indian? I’m sorry, Native American?”
“Why do you ask?” Jessie said with a chuckle. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about your terms with me. As long as you aren’t actually trying to offend me, I don’t care what w
ords people use.”
“Well, it’s that, or you’ve got some Mexican in ya. Judging from your whiskers, I’d assume you’ve got some native in ya.”
“Ute,” Jessie said. “My grandmother was Ute.”
“Back to your family,” Isaac said, getting back on track. “Where are they now?”
Swallowing his coffee, Jessie looked Isaac in the eye, and said, “No matter how prepared we may think we are, it’s never enough. The world will eventually catch up with you.”
With a sigh, Isaac said, “I apologize. I should’ve known better than to ask.”
“It’s okay,” Jessie replied. “If anyone deserves to know who I am and what haunts my soul, it’s the man who opted not to leave me for dead. You could have just ridden on by that day, but you didn’t. That says a lot about you.”
For a moment, the two men looked at each other, as if peering into one another’s soul. Breaking the stare, Isaac took a seat next to Jessie, removed his hat, and stared out the window for a moment, contemplating his next statement. As he watched a squirrel scurry up a tree beside the window, he said, “A few months before the attacks...”
Seeing pain and agony on Isaac’s face, Jessie anticipated a heartbreaking tale similar to his own.
Clearing his throat and pausing to gather his thoughts, Isaac continued, saying, “A few months before the attacks, my wife was diagnosed with stage III cervical cancer. If not for the resulting government takeover of our key infrastructure components in the wake of the attacks, she may have had a fighting chance. But once it all went to hell, her treatment went with it. I cared for her the best I could here at home until the end.”
Wiping a tear from his eye, Isaac turned to Jessie and said, “She didn’t go peacefully like we’d all hoped. It was a hellish nightmare of pain and suffering. She wanted me to help her. She wanted me to end her pain. But... but I just couldn’t. I was selfish. I didn’t want her to leave me here, alone.”
