Gypsy Blood

by Vernon, Steve

  He wondered just when he would catch up with the drygulching bastard.

  And he would catch up with that dirty damn hard shooting bastard - come hell or gully high water.

  And then, because he was thinking of something else beside what he needed to say, the words rose up.

  “Good bye you brainless sack of windy oats. If I get half a chance, you know I’m going to avenge you.”

  That seemed holy enough.

  He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, damn near deafening him. The horse didn’t hear a thing.

  Another bullet whizzed home, tumbled and popped through the big horse’s gullet, splashing Jonah’s face with a slurry of dead raw meat.

  “Damn.”

  The raw meat didn’t feel nor even taste good. He spit and sputtered and rubbed his face into the chewy Texas dirt.

  Damn.

  He could have saved his bullet.

  That was an insult salted down on to injury – an insult that hurt worse than his busted up knee. Another shot whipcracked down from above. The shot slammed into the horse’s gut.

  Whoever was up there was making damn sure the horse stayed dead.

  Jonah flattened out like a fresh laid shadow. He belly crawled for the nearest bit of shelter. He spotted a couple of tombstone shaped boulders and middling sized saquaro, cacti, standing in the shade of a snarling old pizon tree.

  It wasn’t much as shelter went, but he made for it, cursing all the way.

  “Juniper britches hurlberry running trots!”

  Half way there the fourth bullet hit. It damn near took his nose off. He got a squintful of sand back-sprayed into his eyes. He didn’t stop crawling, just cursed a little louder.

  “Hell’s ringing bells, louder than dirty assed angel farts!”

  But he was grinning. Sand in his eyes, and Jonah was still grinning.

  He was hurting worse than heart broke pain, but at least he had something to look forward to.

  Revenge.

  He’d seen where those shots were coming from.

  A cloud of gun smoke drifted up from out of a patch of shadow halfway up the mountain, like the shade was stretching itself out. It looked to Jonah like the mouth of a cave, a long way off. Whatever that pigheaded booger was firing had a strong streak of cannon in its bloodline. A Sharps, maybe, or could be a trapdoor Springfield rifle – which would account for the slow rate of fire.

  “You pigfucking, dogassed, boogerhead. I’m going to get you,” Jonah promised himself. “And I won’t be polite about it.”

  Of course he knew that he didn’t have a sinner’s hope of knowing how he was going to get the booger. The booger had all the advantages: height, cover, and a bigger gun. Everything a man needed in this life.

  But Jonah was going to get that booger, just as sure as shit grew maggots.

  Still, he didn’t have anything that could match that range. Everything he was packing was built for close up work. The only iron come close was his Winchester rifle and that was piss poor at best. Not enough throw power, by half. At this range he might as well be chucking dried beans.

  But he had to do something.

  He unlimbered his Winchester. He checked it quick for dirt or dust. It wouldn’t do to have the darned thing blowing up in his face while he was getting set to take the distance shot of the century.

  He tipped the sight up. He thumbed a little spit on to it, making sure a chunk of road dirt didn’t frig up his aim. Then he settled his aim in on the cave hole.

  High and far above him.

  Maybe too far to hit.

  Or maybe not.

  If he took a straight shot he’d just plunk it somewhere halfway down the mountain.

  He tilted the barrel up, like he was aiming for ducks on the wing. If he could loft the bullet high enough in the right direction, it might make up for his lack of shooting power. It was an old buffalo hunter’s trick. He could walk his shots up the side of the mountain and with a little horseshoe luck, put it squat in the cave hole.

  He waited, hoping for the sign of another shot.

  Nothing.

  There was something moving out there. In fact, there were a whole lot of somethings by the look of it. He saw them out there, crawling out of the foot of the mountain like a line of drunk-drawn ants. It looked like bodies, like they were walking down towards him.

  It looked like maybe a half a dozen, maybe more.

  Hell.

  Jonah saw the plan, clear as the wart on the nose on his face. The cave booger’s long rifle killed his horse and would keep him pinned down long enough for the foot soldiers to come get him.

  He spat in the dirt.

  “Nothing I hate worse than organization,” he griped.

  The army of walking bodies was getting closer. They looked like Indians, maybe, only he’d never known any of the desert tribes to go afoot like that. It didn’t even look like they were walking right.

  Actually, they were sort of hobbling, like an army of lepers.

  Sick lepers.

  To hell with it.

  He stood up straight, snugged his rifle to his shoulder bone, and popped one off. If he was dying, he was going down trying.

  These at least were targets he could hit.

  Except he must have missed, because the figures just kept on coming. The one in front had flinched a bit, as if he’d been shot but it didn’t seem to slow him down any.

  Jonah dropped his sights a tad more careful, sizing up the one in front.

  “You’ll fall this time,” he promised.

  Jonah tacked the barrel up a half a bull hair to allow for the range.

  He let his breath ease out from between his lips, calm and slow.

  “Piss in a fish barrel,” he softly swore.

  He let fire.

  He knew he’d hit this time. When you hit you can feel it, if you’re firing right.

  Only the one in front kept on moving. His arm being blown to the ground didn’t seem to trouble him at all.

  He was a God awful tough bastard, or too stupid to just lie down.

  “Damn.”

  Jonah stared at his rifle. Whatever was in these bullets of his was firing shotgun hard and cannon wide. There was no way a rifle bullet could do that to ordinary human flesh. Knocking limbs off was shotgun territory, for certain sure, and bastard luck at that.

  By why didn’t the bastard fall?

  “To hell with it.”

  There was no way Jonah was going to let himself worry about them not falling, either. He’d shoot them to pieces without a hindsighting compunctional regret in the world. He leaned his squint a little to the right. He felt the rifle barrel shifting inside itself, like it was centering home.

  He let one more fire.

  He felt the hammer dry click on a dudded-out shell.

  “Shit knickers on a squawling, halfbreed pissant.”

  He fumbled the rifle, trying to clear the jam.

  While he was fumbling with his rifle the cave booger fired again.

  Only not at Jonah.

  The bullet took the walking bastard’s head clean off at the throat. The head bounced, like a tumbleweed full of ugly. It bounced and rolled into a patch of jumping chollo and stopped moving hard.

  Damn!

  “Whose side is that booger on?” Jonah wondered aloud. “And what’s he firing?”

  The walking bastard was dead for sure. Losing a head will do that, every time. Only the walking bastard kept on coming. Stumping along like a riderless horse. Head or no head, the walking bastard just wouldn’t die.

  Shit.

  That went beyond tough. Whatever these bastards were made out of, it sure wasn’t dying fast.

  To hell with it.

  Jonah shifted back into his aim. He leaned his Winchester right back, aiming for the booger hunkered down in the cave hole. That’s the booger that wronged him. That was the booger who’d shot a hard-stole horse half way in the middle of an emptied out nowhere and dumped him in this mess.


  To hell with those walking bastards. You could only shoot one bullet at a time. The first thing he figured he had to do was to find out if the booger died any easier than them that were walking at him.

  He’d deal with the walking bastard leper army when they marched on up to him.

  He squeezed the trigger. It felt good to do something, even if it was next to nothing.

  Mind you, it was a hell of a good shot. It nearly made it half way there, which wasn’t saying much. The booger was hiding somewhere close to the mountain’s kneecaps, and all Jonah was hitting was the mountain’s big toe.

  He leaned back, tilted the rifle further and took another shot. He had time to spit while waiting for the bullet to hit home.

  He watched carefully for the back splash.

  It socked in, maybe a couple hundred yards closer to the booger in the cave hole. Figure halfway up the mountain’s foot, and nowhere near the kneecaps.

  Then the booger shot back.

  It was probably the same gun, but it sounded twice as loud. Or it might be Jonah’s ear holes were still ringing from his own shooting back.

  Well, hell.

  Jonah was caught between the devil and the whoremonger’s privy. What could he do? Things were too tangled to tell. It was worse than trying to unfigure a greenhorn’s friggered knot – trying to tell where one end started and the other one let go.

  That leper army got closer. They weren’t moving too fast, but that didn’t matter much. Jonah wasn’t moving at all, so every shambling step they took brought them a little bit closer.

  He could see them clearer now. They looked worse the closer they got to him. They looked like they were wearing baggy, yellowed out, pissed in long johns—except as far as Jonah could tell that was their skin. Mind you, it might have been paint. He’d seen some Indians daub wet clay on themselves when they danced, and it’d dry sort of gray yellow chunky, just like this.

  Only this wasn’t clay. This looked more like that vinegary pale color corpses grow, after they’d sat too long in the Texas sun. Some of them were going black too. Not black like Negroes, but black like flyblown meat. A deep greasy black, the color of a gassed up leg wound.

  Jonah touched his knee again.

  He tried not to think too hard about that last mental image.

  He studied on the walking bastards.

  There were bits of white, like broken china, sharding out of some of them.

  Jonah swore it was bone – only there was no way in hell that any bastard standing could keep on standing with that much bone poking out.

  He shook his head.

  Bone bits, boogers and walking bastard haunts. What the hell had he tumbled into?

  He paused a moment.

  Should he go down shooting at an army of things that looked already long past killing, or try an impossible shoot out with a holed up booger firing back at him with a rifle barrel as long as a Spanish bull’s pizzle stick?

  That’s when the rock lifted up.

  The rock in the dirt, right beside Jonah’s left foot.

  An old man poked his head up from under the rock. For a moment it looked like he was buried neck deep in the Texas grittle.

  “Hey, younker,” the old man said. “Don’t waste your bullets popping at them things. Shinny on down here if you want to keep breathing, this side of Tartarus.”

  Jonah couldn’t believe his eyes. He opened his mouth, like he was trying to eat dry air.

  That was when the eighth bullet hit—dead bang on.

  It opened Jonah’s skull like a can of peaches. A fistful of his brains splattered across the buffalo skull.

  Jonah saw a flash of red light lifting off the Heavens, singing in his brain like a burning double lasso. Flights of screaming angels, soaring like coal oil buzzards through a hot orange sky in long looping figure eights. He saw the last ebbs of coal in a tamped down campfire whispering good night.

  Then nothing. Nothing at all.

  He was dead long before he hit the ground.

  And he hadn’t heard that shot, either.