The Desert
I
She fled. In the midst of a brawling thunderstorm, sweeping through Nephilim Cove, running off to the unknown void of the West. For weeks, riding on deserted roads. Lost, petrified, tracing circles around herself, riding through sand dunes, and canyons, beneath the cloud, and scorching sun, as sandstorms covered the road signs just outside of Rocky Spine Ridge, bewildering her in trickery furthermore. Crinkled map clutched in her grip, struggling to read it, comprehend it, in failed attempts to orient herself in all her inexperience, she rode further towards the nearest town.
Her face still lingered within her mind, unable to forgive herself for letting it come to that. Eyes of menace and aversion that haunted her all her life, suddenly turned pale, glazed with serenity she perhaps longed to feel in all her weary demise, cloaked in ominous grace she never had.
Death; its face revealed to her at last, not in an expectant gaseous instant form, yet in an unflattering brutality, oddly leaving her with an eerie coldness in her heart, as though the loss of her mother was but a relief, as though death was meant to not stir any emotions, as though her heart wasn’t taught how to break for someone yet.
There was an odd relief to not have to endure the years of psychological turmoil, nor to witness her mother’s decline, as if death was something she carried within her all along, creeping up in her soul, in the sin and the filth she clung onto. Tangled, stubbornly, bound to rot in it.
She was young. Yet twenty-six years too old. A blend between inexperienced naïvety and acquired wisdom. It took that long to suck in one final courageous breath to make a life-altering decision; to free herself. From her. Her words. Scared, yet brave enough — or perhaps stubborn enough, at best, to travel through unknown terrain — begging to sink into a trap within Great Desert Basin’s vast potential for an untimely demise.
Her mother warned her about the West, enforcing the idea that nowhere was safe enough for her to escape to — imprisoning her furthermore, for her own needs. Her own selfish motives. She’d always crack a grin on her face, one of dark amusement and satisfaction, watching her daughter crawl back into that hollow room with the packed saddlebags over her shoulders. Crushed.
Yet since her death, there was nothing more tying her to her hometown, for her mother was the sole reason she had remained; petrified to disappoint her furthermore, and yet disturbed to leave her alone, knowing her mind had deranged, clasping the edge of Hell, or rather Hell clasped her all along.
She kept her hand hovering over her dirty old revolver — one she barely knew how to even use, let alone disassemble to clean. Scanning around herself frantically, barely shutting an eye every night, she crossed vast stretches of cacti and sweltering sand, rotten brush and drought cracked rivers, traveling beneath star stricken skies with gloomy clouds swallowing her shadow whole. Names of gunslingers echoed in her head, for she’d seen them back in that mucky hometown of hers. She’d seen what they had done to women and children. The romantic notion of riding out west, and settling down, was long gone, she thought, riding further, halting at a sign; it too was covered — a thick layer of sand, dried up in sparkling specks.
Head bowed back down.
Cougar’s Tooth, it read on her map.
A town of chaos, its only force keeping it together was its marshal, Patrick Tilghman — the one respected marshal in the entire state; feared by outlaws and gangs, as he was well known for his cold-heartedness to uphold order in this town. Deadly efficient in his use of power; were someone to disobey him, chances are they’d disappear too in a blink of an eye. Ruthless, yet awfully charming. So her mother always said.
II
“We are almost there, boy.” She sighed out loud, gently patting the horse’s burgundy neck that was dripping down with white foamy streaks of perspire. “I can already see the windmill…so I believe, the town will be right after this hill, and then, we’ll be able to rest some without having to worry about anyone killing us in our sleep…” She snorted caustically. “Well, perhaps not you, for you’re too pretty to be killed, my love.” Her hands lowered the reins, letting them rest on the saddle horn; her braided ponytail swinging back and forth, following the movement of the horse’s hindquarters climbing up the hill. Back arched, stretching for some comfort, neck tilting left and right, feet hanging loosely beside the stirrups, trying to regain some feeling in her benumbed legs.
It was a strenuous journey, riding through the desert under the hot beaming sun. A desperate fool would only attempt this, her mother always forewarned — and yet, perhaps she was right for once.
Trotting into town with great anticipation, envisioning a soft tidy bed, and a dark room to provide some shade and escape from the scorching heat — for the sun was burning down their necks for far too long, and the thirst had been building up for the last hours — they both sighed in great relief. They licked their lips simultaneously, trying to hydrate any cracks, only to make them worse.
Cougar’s Tooth was a good place to restock on canned supplies and have a refreshing drink at the saloon. If you were a man, that was. It was peaceful, yet lively, considering how desolated it appeared — nothing compared to the desert’s silence, traveling with no sign of life around. The general store offered a wide variety of dehydrated foods, such as meat jerky or even fruit, as well as handmade ponchos to help stay cool under the sun — albeit, none of that she could afford.
“Here, sir.” she said to the stable boy, clinging onto her horse’s reins until she felt comfortable enough to entrust him with it. “He’ll need a good brushing and some fresh hay; land’s been too dry to graze on, and…well, he has a long journey ahead of him. Please, do offer him a few carrots, and you can add that to the bill as well, sir.” she ordered the stable boy, now allowed to grip the reins and lead the big chestnut stallion into the barn.
She always felt uneasy trusting her horse to others; horses were considered livestock, a mere form of transportation — not a lifelong partner you trusted all your belongings and life to, as they carried you through rocky terrains and steep cliff sides, battling ambushes and predators with their shield of a body.
Finn was different to her; he was all she had.
“Where ya headed, miss?” A robust voice startled her. None other than Marshal Tilghman’s, as he shouted at her from the inside of his building, rocking on his chair with a polished star shining bright on his modishly tight vest. Eyebrows cocked with judgment, studying her clumsy movements as her exhausted legs struggled to walk. It was unusual to have travelers come through, let alone a young woman with a piece of metal on her hip.
“Traveling north.” She sighed sheepishly, with a tremble in her voice that betrayed a white lie.
Tilghman was a giant of a man; brawny, well-muscled, equipped with all sorts of silvery bling-blings she could not identify, intimidating in every aspect, and every word someone spoke could be held against them if possible. He was smart as a whip, and wasn’t fond of strangers, or people in general for that matter. Luckily he did have a soft spot for helpless women, or anything pretty-looking, really. This alone would fool the smartest of men, it seemed.
“I have…family expecting me near Birdsboro, sir.” she added, after taking a sip of water from her refilled canteen, swallowing down her lie with ease.
“Mhm…family, is that so?” He smirked, amused, as somehow he didn’t believe her.
“Yup…family, indeed…” She bobbed her head, slowly tearing her gaze away from him. He was charming, she briefly noticed, from all she could see in shadow.
“Mhm…good for ya then, ma’am.” He smiled with a shiny golden tooth — placed two teeth to the right of his front — unable to not fixate his gaze on her body as he did. “Stayin’ here for the night?” he then asked, and she swallowed down a knot.
“Yes, sir…but I will be heading out at dawn.” she said, and he nodded.
“Alright then…keep your eyes peeled; there’s lots of evil, and it don’t show no mercy to no one.” He pointed with his silver Lemat revolver to a prisoner in his jail, who was barely hanging onto the cell’s iron bars as the flies devoured his sunburnt skin. “Have a good day, miss, and a safe trip.” He winked at her and proceeded to light up a cigar, his eyes still nailed on her, somehow more polite and intrigued than usual.
“Thank you, sir.” She tipped her hat to him, gifting him a smile, and walked hastily towards the wooden shack she’d rented for the night.
III
Finn was rested; he greeted her with a playful neigh as she walked into the barn, flapping his velvety lips at her as he did. She wrapped her arms around his strong muscular neck, letting her fingers rake through his mahogany mane, while his soft muzzle was nibbling ever so gently at her long wavy ponytail. The stable boy had him already saddled up, tethered to a post, and thoroughly brushed from head to toe; he even sneaked some fresh carrots into the saddlebag, as he took quite a liking on Finn — after all, he was a very respectful stallion, who always sought attention with his loving and comical personality.
Leading him out of the barn, she halted briefly beneath a lantern, still dimly illuminating the world around her, for sun hadn’t risen yet. “Alright…so…Boomtown is further that way…” she muttered to herself, letting her finger slide across the map.
“Marshal! I saw the coyotes!! Got ma chickens!!” A man’s shrill voice hit her ears, followed by another one, a lot deeper and robust.
“Yes, Earl…What else is new? Every goddamn night there’s a damn coyote at your place! And I don’t even need to know ’bout it!” the marshal fussed to him and she blinked awkwardly at them, able to see one large silhouette and one more of a midget in comparison, slowly advance towards her.
“But Marshal! I always have to alert the authorities of the town!!” the man spoke again and she suppressed a chuckle; somehow it appeared comical to her.
“Goddammit, Earl…don’t ya have church to go to so early this mornin’??” He grumbled, and tore his gaze away, absently locking eyes with her. She froze, petrified, yet was unable to pull her glare away, and neither was he, until Earl tugged on his shirt to her rescue.
They left Cougar’s Tooth in haste, at dawn to avoid the sun for a few hours. Galloping across the desert, through brush and cacti. Roads were empty, and the whole world was at their feet. Finn wasn’t fond of the desert reptiles they would come across; known to spook at the smallest of threats, yet would have no issues trampling over an entire pack of wolves if he needed — to which she prayed, it wouldn’t come down to that.
Covered in a dusting of fine desert sand, they finally arrived in Boomtown. A graveyard would appear more inviting than this illness-infested town. People laid there, unresponsive outside the buildings — someone would have to poke them with the rifle to see if they were still moving, yet nobody dared, nor cared to. They were just a number for the coroner to write down in the books, just another rotten body to dispose of. Some were grunting in harrowing pain, others were emptying their guts in the alleyways. Corpses were laying in freshly dug-out holes just outside of the town; not bothered to be covered or properly buried. There, death ruled more than life; even the air was ominous and vile.
Finn, who was studying the people as they passed them carefully, would flare his nostrils, pin his ears, and paw at the ground as if to warn her. A snort with every stride, as the fragrance of a death rattle stirred the arid air.
“Easy, boy…” She soughed, brushing a hand across his neck. “We won’t be stopping here…just passing thr…” A loud crash interrupted her; shards of glass spread throughout the air in front of them as time froze still before her gaze. The sound of a deep, blood-curdling growl alerted her, as a large mass, draped within a dark cloak followed right after through the saloon’s now shattered window. Upon closer inspection, it was a man that slammed against the ground.
Finn reared up, frightened, for the man landed right in front of him — creating a whirlwind of a blinding sandstorm around them. His eyes dilated, aghast, ears set forward, neck arched curiously as he reached to sniff the man’s body lying before his feet, covered by the thick air as the dust had yet to settle.
The man, upon lifting his head, locked eyes with Finn and startled at his significant presence hovering right over him — for his intoxicated mind made Finn appear horrendously distorted, he stumbled over his leg, failing to get up, landing back on the ground again. The man, flustered, dug his hands in the grimy soil, lifted his body up, and the snapping sound of his knee forced him to let out a hesitating groan, making her jolt and clench her teeth in compassion. He brushed off his duster coat, picked up his leather hat off the ground — brushed it off as well against his chest. A black leather hat, with two loops of dark brown rope coiled around it.
She cleared her throat nervously, and his gaze nailed at hers, locking eyes through the golden haze and the sudden eerie silence that engulfed them.
“What yer lookin’ at?” He scowled, clasping his hand on his knee.
“I said, what yer lookin’ at, lass?!” He growled, now in embarrassment, pointing his finger at her with a faint threat. A thick irish accent escaped him, and all she could do was blink, for now she realized the furious man was referring to her, since she was staring at his bloody face, busted lip, and torn-up vest.
“My apologies sir, I was just…passing by.” she mumbled worriedly, eyes dropping at the double holsters attached to his belt. His fists were clenched tight, and lips quivered in rage. He bowed his head, feeling his breath suddenly come in shallow gulps. Then turned to face her with a frown, in bewilderment. His brows snapped together in fury, and his mouth cracked open to scowl again.
“Good. Now, git!” he gruffly said, turned his back away, and limped towards his horse that was hitched in front of the saloon.
Finn pinned his ears and snorted at him.
Rude, Finn must have thought.
“Don’t ever come back here, ya son of a bitch!” A throttling voice followed right after, with a balled fist shaking frantically through the window; a face busted open, drooling of blood, as the saloon owner hid behind him, shaking irrationally, wilted into a ball of fear.
The man shoved his boot into the stirrup, hopped a couple times, and mounted his black, blue-eyed steed. Spitting out some blood to the side, he squinted his eyes in great discomfort — feeling the sudden pain shoot right through his leg, he collected the reins in a hand as his other held onto his knee cap steadily. He pressed his spurs into the animal’s sides, and not long after, they galloped away — leaving nothing but a storm of dust behind.
Who knows what went on in the saloon; usually, Boomtown is sluggish and hauntingly tranquil. You couldn’t pay someone to even consider staying there for longer than it took a drink to gulp down. The curiosity was nagging her, but even more so, she was appalled by this man’s ill-mannered demeanor. After all, it wasn’t her fault he made Finn spook like that.
IV
The desolated desert was long behind them, now. Riding into the wilderness of Kitunaha, she could finally embrace the freshness of the gnarled trees — tall and primeval, reminding just how much wiser they were than herself. Richly colored leaves brushed against her face as she weaved her way through. Lithe branches whip-lashed against them, almost in a foreboding manner, for the woods of Kitunaha bore secrets of their own.
The subtle sweetness of the wildflowers — a burst of colors, yellow and purple, gently luring them out of the woods — and as they pranced through them, a wave of prickling wind crystallized all the blooms in front of her eyes. And there, through the empty gap between two ironwood trees, the sinuous, fertile meadows of Caledonia Territory laid out in the near distance. She smiled in a sigh of relief.
Finally, you could walk through the spring-grown grass, which was utterly irresistible to Finn. He proved to be a handful to ride that morning; for the relentless gush of chilled wind encouraged him to feel frisky and trot a buoyant stride, lope all his pent-up bucks out, and behave like the stubborn yearling he still was in his mind — and yet she couldn’t blame him, for alone the sugared grass he nibbled on was as if he had forgotten what it tasted like after so many days in the desert.
They had reached Caledonia Territory, and were headed to a town called Bisonhorn, named after the spiritual belief in the animal symbolizing both survival and safety — as the town was inhabited by both the elite and common settlers from the West, both starting new beginnings in a fresh land of opportunity.
Finn’s saddle cinch had worn out, it was essential to replace it to continue the journey, and this town carried the finest selection of handmade saddles, and other useful tack this side of the Mississippi River.
“This cinch is woven from the finest mohair; it’s durable, lightweight, and flexible — it will take you aaaaanywhere you please, and will give your horse the comfort it deserves. Four bucks and you got ya self a deal, lady!” the man said, excitingly offering her with a steady wink upon his lazy eye, and waved the cinch before her own eyes enticingly.
You didn’t have to do a lot of convincing, as she would give any money in the world for this horse — if she had it, that was. She was a smart woman, but when it came down to Finn, she would lose her sense real quick.
The town lit up its lanterns as evening approached. From townsfolk walking on the sidewalks, couples visiting the inviting looking theatre, or the weary retired photographer still busy across the street — it was alive at night. A nostalgic feeling overcame the excitement of the new cinch, as her eyes wandered around her.
“We don’t have time for this now, do we, Finny boy?” She patted his neck and continued leading him around town. Trying to suppress any wishful thoughts that may have arisen, suddenly she noticed some posters hanging on the walls, with a very familiar face printed on them. She rode closer towards them.
WANTED
for murder, escape, robbery
myriad atrocities against man
sacrilege in the eyes of God
offering $25,000 cash reward
for capture of Mac Kinnon
valid both dead or alive
last seen in Spanish Peaks
She looked at the man’s eyes and recalled the same hollowed eyes looking back at her. With the chiseled jawline, the cleft chin, and the stubble beard — even covered in blood, you could not mistake this admittedly attractive face.
“That rude, rude man!” she yelled loudly in disbelief. “I told you, Finn, he was an odd stick!” She pointed at the poster, as if Finn would be able to read it.
She hitched her horse and marched to the sheriff’s office with the poster clasped within her fist, ready for her vengeance. Knocking frantically on the door, a man showered with gray hair and wrinkles cocked his brow at her upon snarling the door open.
“Sheriff, this man! This man right here was last seen in Boomtown! Last seen by Finn and I! I mean…by me, in the very front of the saloon! Covered in blood and dirt and sand and had a limp and…”
“Slow down, miss! Slow down! Ya mean to tell me, ya captured the Mac Kinnon?” He chuckled, caustically, glancing over at her womanly frame, with the holster wrongly attached around her belt. “Is he…tied up on your horse, madam? Or perhaps…kept at Boomtown, at the sheriff’s jail?” He grinned tauntingly, spotting Finn munching on the wooden facade of his office building.
“Yes, sir! I mean, no sir.” she stammered awkwardly, as she realized she seemed, and sounded, like an utter fool to him.
He looked at her confused, puffing on his cigar — blowing the earthy scented smoke at her face through his crinkled nose.
“Which one is it, miss?” he asked, irritatedly.
“I saw this man…Mac, right in front of me in Boomtown. He was in a bar fight, I assume, or perhaps drunk? I ain’t sure…but he was thrown through the window right in front of my horse. He made my horse spook, this rude man, he did! Ugh.” She paused to take a deep breath, as the frustration made her forget what actually happened; meanwhile, his eyes widened in shock, and his lips shook with an eerie thrill of excitement. “I did not realize he was a wanted man, so I let him go, or rather said, he…well, he made the decision for me…” She bowed her head and shrugged her shoulders in exasperation, then noticed the sheriff twitch his mustache nervously upon lifting her uncertain gaze up to him.
“Kinnon…out in civilization…” He snorted. “Can’t be possible, lady…the man’s been in hidin’, for too long now…” he muttered to her, as the cigar sat loosely between his lips.
“Sheriff, this was the man I speak of!” She shook the poster before his eyes. “I ain’t gone crazy yet…” She noted, almost doubting herself, as perhaps the desert had messed with her mind.
“Alright…let’s assume so then! Which way did he go, ma’am?” He started walking towards the deputies, slinging his rifle around his back in haste.
“Ehm, I think…” her writhing arm lifted north.
“This way, boys! We got a hint for our dear boy, Mac! Buckle up! We’re gonna have a hog-killin’ time!” he ordered them excitedly as he swung his leg over the saddle. “Ma’am, I’d lay low, was I you — this man ain’t to be meddled with. If ya really was the last person he seen, he’ll make sure to drop ya out of sight.” He warned her earnestly, as he realized she was indeed rather young and innocently ignorant.
“Oh, I ain’t afraid of no man, especially him.” She hinted briefly at her holster, pretending to be stronger than she felt. The deputies burst out in laughter, and rode past her — demeaning her without a spoken word needed.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” The sheriff chuckled at her frown, as he adjusted his necktie, now trotting on his way out.
“Charlotte.”
V
Bisonhorn’s docks were occupied by fishermen early in the morning. The butcher was skinning carcass after carcass, and deputies would make the rounds in town after the news of the outlaws’ appearance had spread like a wildfire. Charlotte couldn’t help herself but think about Mac Kinnon, and how he got away so effortlessly — twenty-five thousand dollars would have changed her life situation quite a bit; if she could’ve caught him alive, that is. Mac wasn’t a man of puny size; his broad shoulders, large wide chest, and arms that could wrestle anyone, somehow stuck within her memory, as faint as it was. She reminisced how his duster coat shaped against his small waist and how his muscular back eyed her menacingly, as he walked away from her.
“No question about it, I could have shot him right then and there…darn me.” she fussed through clenched teeth — realizing she had never shot a man before, thinking it surely wouldn’t have been so hard to do.
Living on the road was no easy life for a woman; besides all the dangers, she dreamed of a better life for herself and Finn — and money; money simply seemed to change everything. She sighed, looking at the townsfolk dressed in pretty long dresses, matching their elegant teardrop hats. Flourishing skirts of all colors, corsets that accentuated the women’s shapes, and dainty heels that echoed all across town as they walked so eloquently through it.
No telling how much they paid for this…she wondered, as she looked down at her torn-up pants, hiding the tear with the palm of her hand — in shame, as if anyone could see it.
VI
The sheriff and his deputies had arrived in Boomtown late the night before; interrogating the whole town of “walking dead” regarding the whereabouts of Mac Kinnon. “Tell us about that varmint Kinnon, from the day before.” The sheriff leaned over the bar, staring right at the saloon owner’s face — following the quivering of his mouth, demanding a swift answer out of it.
“He…he…was having a couple sh…sh…shots, a…a…and…he…he…” A deputy banged the owner’s head with his revolver before he could finish his sentence.
“Boss, we ain’t got time for that! Speak loud and clear, you peasant!”
“He dr…drunk and and B-Big E recognized him, he started to br-brawl, but w…was too…drunk to…” the man stuttered in immense fright, protecting his face with his shaking hands, as he kneeled down before them, begging to not get hit.
“This ain’t helpin’ us any! That much is obvious! Where did he head to??” the sheriff angrily demanded, grabbing the man from his shirtfront.
“N…n…n…north!” he exhaled with every fiber of his being, keeping his eyes shut, his teeth clenched, and his head tilted away from them as his sweat dripped down his chin.
VII
Still dejected from the ordeal with the sheriff and his deputies after they had moved on, the saloon owner looked over at the corner of the bar. Big E was leaning forward on his elbows behind the old poker table, creating the illusion of a small breakfast nook due to his sheer hulking mass; though there was space for twelve grown men to play around the circle.
All the owner wanted to do was put this mess behind him as much as he could, while still holding a cold slab of meat against his head to combat the repeated offenses of gunmetal striking his head, time after time at the hands of the law.
He was still in far better shape than Big E, though; he had been sitting at that table, ever since the night before on a record binge of utter depression — even by his standards of “days off”.
Every Friday for the last decade, Big E was the undisputed champion of the saloon’s illegal bare-knuckle boxing ring, as he’d never lost a single match. The bets against him never printed, but he was certainly a draw for aspiring fighters and gamblers to bring at least some money into the long-forgotten town.
He knew the story he told the sheriff wasn’t true, as Big E was even meaner drunk than he was sober; in fact he’d never fought without being at least three sheets to the wind anyway. So even the owner couldn’t understand what happened that night, and curiosity got the best of him.
“What really happened, E?” the owner asked, as he finally sat down next to the champion. Big E looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and let out a groan as he laid his throbbing head back down on the table.
“Saw a ‘legend’…felt like stompin’ a mudhole in his ass.” He sighed with a gurgle, and a burp for good measure. “Couldn’ touch ’em. Little bitch shoulda’ been cake. Couldn’t land nothin’, Hell…he knew what I’d do before I did.” He actually started to tear up, amazing the owner even more than the fight itself. “He was gonna kill me, bud. Nothin’ I could do but push him off me…lucky I did…sorry ’bout your winder, but I don’ care ta fight no more. I’m done.”
The owner swallowed down the lump in his throat in greater dismay than the brush with the law could ever have caused, because his entire family’s livelihood in Boomtown was already hanging on by a thread — and that thread was called Big E.
VIII
Finn was prancing in the paddock beside the barn, where he was stalled for the day — utterly excited to be, for there were mares in the distance. Big, stout, well-bred, Thoroughbred mares, grazing in the wide open, so he would neigh and paw, and throw his head around, arching his muscular neck and look back at them to capture their reaction. A reaction of nothing more than pinned ears and squeals, which only upset him further more.
“Silly boy, it will take a lot more than that to get a lady’s attention.” She chuckled with his silliness, and climbed up on the fence, mucky boots shoved within the gaps.
“He is a fine specimen…” A man strode towards Charlotte, while his eyes examined Finn’s vibrant mahogany color, his asymmetrical yet perfectly placed white stockings sinking deeper into the mud the harder he pranced around. His toned muscles and swollen veins illuminated by the harsh sun, emphasized all the more by his long smooth strides.
Charlotte, startled, looked at the man standing suddenly behind her — almost slipping off the wooden board, by the swift way she turned towards him. “Thank you, uhm, sir…” She halted her breath, when she noticed his dignified and fancy attire — making her wish he was blind, so as not to see her pitiful condition. “He is…my pride.” she added, embarrassed, tucking her loose shirt within her roughened pants. She wasn’t used to talking to strangers; and certainly not to the elite of high society, as he appeared to be. Bisonhorn seemed a busy town, too hectic for what she was accustomed to.
“William Griffiths.” He bowed his head, reached his hand to her with an endearing smile on his face, as his pocket watch that hung from his vest, swung towards her as well. “But, if I may, and it is not too bold of me to ask, please, do call me, Will, my lady.” he said and she blinked, almost terrified.
“Charlotte…” she mumbled faintly, and reached for his hand tentatively. He clasped her palm gently and raised her hand up to his lips to kiss. Her face fell, and her hair stood erect — shone by the early sun’s light, for a man’s lips had never touched her skin before, and it rather prickled and goosed it.
The dark-haired man with the sharpest pencil mustache, tidy, taut across his upper lip — and with no hint of alcohol or food remains atop it she was more accustomed to seeing, stared at her in awkward silence, as if shy himself. She tore her gaze away from his, aiming it right back at Finn, as if Finn would come rescue her from the elitist creature she didn’t know what to do with.
“Miss Charlotte…” The creature spoke again, and she almost choked. “May I ask, what brings you here in Bisonhorn? For I suppose, if it is not too rude of me to declare, I would have noticed you before.” He smirked kindly, still clasping her intense hazel eyes within his mind.
“Oh, you would’ve, huh?” She cocked a brow, the snide words spurting out of her mouth involuntarily, for sarcasm was all she knew. His brown doe eyes blinked at her in response, and swiftly, a lump of embarrassment clogged her throat.“I’m just passing by…I’m leaving the town this evening — headed north to find some work…hopefully, that is.” She cleared her throat, meanwhile thinking of all the work she wouldn’t qualify to do — besides riding and talking to ponies.
“Already, miss? That is certainly a shame…” He folded his arms, disappointed, as ideas stormed in his mind.
“Yes…yes, indeed. Well…I uhm…”
“I am familiar with a place of utmost decency, that is seeking for a hired hand if you were so interested, Miss Charlotte…For I can’t ignore the vigorous character you so elegantly portray, for you appear like the kind of lady that might enjoy the art of ‘wrangling’, for better words, horses, if I may assume such.” He smiled again, that rare smile of kindness that perplexed her, noticing his eyes glance down to her riding boots — weathered, with a loosened heel shifting off its place as she walked. “It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say you would find yourself greatly accommodated at the ranch.” he said and she suppressed a laughter.
“…delicious?” She gaped at him, and he bobbed his head in earnest.
There was a sudden breeze that interrupted them; picking up leaves off the ground, whirling them in the air. Some elderly wanderers were setting up camp nearby, with a warm stew already brewing — herbs of thyme and oregano were tingling their noses, and the tastes of flavors suddenly flooded in their mouths. A flock of ravens flew over them, stretching their enchanting onyx wings, as if they’d encourage them to fly with them.
“I truly apologize, kind sir…I have to saddle him up and get to it. Albeit, I will consider the offer…” she said, trying to find the words to meet his level of speech, and before he could form a sentence, she spoke again. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim!” She then rushed to the stable, with the bridle in her hand — shutting the heavy gate behind her, disappearing into the barn.
“Entirely mine…and, it’s Will…”
IX
The water felt so satisfyingly cold against her muddy skin; after weeks of traveling, Charlotte could not afford a luxurious bath in town and the constant itching of dirt feasting at her flesh had gotten unbearable. The river was every bit as pleasant, though, and the strong currents would wash away every stain on her body. She un-braided her long hair and scrubbed it between the rosy palms of her hands, laying on her back, spreading her arms wide open, and floating on the surface as she watched the hawks fly over her — blocking the sun for a split second to gift her some shade. Armies of bluebirds and cardinals flying in from the south danced around her, and she observed their vibrant feathers in awe.
Sweetwater river was crossing the Kitunaha territory, Caledonia, and the Freelands region. It was a popular fishing spot for bluegill and trout, and any fisherman’s wildest fantasy.
Charlotte didn’t have the best experience with fishing, but she did carry a bamboo fishing pole with her — just in case anything was dumb enough to bite all her insufficient bait. She didn’t grow up around a father figure to teach her how to hunt or fish, not even how to shoot a gun to defend herself. Her father was just a client; a client with no name or face known to her, as her mother was a working lady in the alleyways of Nephilim Cove. Eventually, succumbing to her fate. Shot, dismembered, and discarded in the woods of Red Giants, found dead by her very own daughter.
Charlotte would cast the line, and untangle it from branches of trees behind her; she would twist her body, hold the line with her trigger finger, and release it while she cast again. She would wait a while and pull when she felt the line resist, only to drag up a bunch of seaweed and startle Finn as she did.
“You’re one scaredy-pony, Finn!” She laughed as he snorted once again, bending his body away from an intimidating slimy yellow monster.
“Oh, how I wish this would go faster…” She sighed disappointedly as she absently flicked the pole, watching the fishermen up ahead, catching fish after fish and hanging them on their line.
“Canned beans it is, then!” She impatiently collected her line, and secured the pole on her saddle with a loose strap of leather, her gaze drifting off to the pebbled sand. Dreading to feel her stomach rumble for the rest of the evening, starved.
“Miss Charlotte!” A familiar voice emerged behind her, and she gasped with a startle.
Charlotte turned after looping the leather piece through the buckle of the saddlebag and faced him, baffled. “Sheriff?”
“How are the fish treating ya this fine morning?” he questioned her, as he noticed the piles of seaweed lying pitifully around her.
“Can’t complain…” She forced a kind smile, hating to admit any failure; particularly to him, after his deputies were mocking her the other evening.
“Terrific. So tell me, miss…” He sniffed and twitched his grey mustache. Dismounting his horse, the whole saddle shifted, and the bay-colored steed re-adjusted to catch its balance. The sheriff was rather frail; much worn down by this line of work. He had a steady limp, but carried himself proudly — he should have been retired by now, but seemed to enjoy chasing after outlaws instead.
Charlotte was leaning against Finn’s saddle, interested to hear his words further.
“…they said Kinnon was headed north, same direction ya was headed to.” He cocked a brow, and her jaw slacked.
“Oh — you do not think I have anything to do with this scamp, sir?” She interrupted him in great annoyance, raising her voice respectfully.
“Whoa, ma’am!” He motioned with his hands, confused with her defensiveness. “Quite the opposite; we was thinking of some way to…” He paused, glancing over at the fishermen luring in their fish. “…to lure him in.”
Charlotte was quiet, confused, and her mouth could not make a sound. Even fishing suddenly made more sense than this.
“Ya see, ma’am, Kinnon is a smart fella…he ain’t foolin’ round leaving no trace behind. There are no campfires, no remains we can track; he is changing clothes, perhaps cutting his hair every time he crosses a border to a new state. He’s been a wanted man for over a decade and has changed many faces and personas. A new identity every time, and our trail goes stone-cold…if ya could even say we had one to start with.” He patted Finn on his cheek, and turned his head to face Charlotte. “We need your help, madam.” he hummed urgently, as her eyes dilated in shock.
“Wh…what do you…”
“Twenty-five thousand dollar reward; all yours, if ya can lure him in for us — ya won’t have to waste a bullet on him, ya won’t have to do nothin’.” he promised, as he wanted to be the one to capture him alive in blood and flesh. Charlotte’s head spun around, her gaze trailing off to the woods behind them, feeling so lightheaded she almost could see a face imprinted on the bark. “He’s headed north…been old scuttlebutt for a decade now, that he’s been seen in that ol’ two-horse town called Marysville — drinkin’ with a chap of his. Quite risky, if ya ask me…yet, we’ve never been able to catch him, and ol’ Mickey disputes the accusations…naturally.” He brushed his mustache with a gaze of sudden hatred, the more he thought about it. “There’s a high chance that he’ll pay him a visit again. He hasn’t been ’round these parts of the country in many a year…and he’ll know if we’re ’round, but he won’t suspect ya.” He kicked the seaweed back into the river, as he drew in another breath. “Ya can visit the saloon owner — don’t care how ya do it, but keep a low profile.” He looked her in the eyes, expecting her to shake his hand to seal the agreement. “Question the chap…find out what ya can, and if he steps inside…just leave from the back door, and notify the town’s sheriff.”
“What’s the catch?” She shifted her weight on her leg, pressed her fingers against her head, and exhaled a deep worried breath held in for too long.
“The catch is…controlling your fear.”
X
“Can you believe this nonsense? Why, oh why, did I ever agree to this! I’m not even capable of shooting a rabbit properly, and now I’m supposed to go on a wild goose chase to locate a gunslinger, a…wanted murderer, so he can eventually be shot dead, or captured alive?” She paused, stealing a quick look at her surroundings, making sure no one heard her. She leaned over Finn, and stroked his neck nervously. He let out a deep breath, and kept on trudging lazily through the thick woods of the Pine Hill Forest. “Oh Finn, I should’ve just gone with that weird, fancy fella’s offer…how was he called again?” She titled her head back with a frowned brow, trying to recall his name. “Wrangling horses don’t seem so risky now, compared to dealing with…outlaws — however, I could never dream of making that amount of money as a ranch hand… probably get kicked in the head while trying.” She reminisced that one time Finn kicked at her when he was just a naughty young colt, as they both learned the language between horse and man.
She snatched the hat off her head, and waved it in front of her face anxiously. She slammed her eyes shut, and gave the reins to her trusty steed to take her to the town of Marysville. There was just one road leading there, night’s ebony cloak had draped the whole world around her, and she was mentally exhausted with worry spiraling within her before her “assignment” had even begun.
XI
“Twenty-Five thousand bucks for our dear gringo…” The man grinned, as he passed the poster to his gang members. “Headin’ north, he is…” He stroked his goatee, intrigued, after hearing the rumors from the gossiping almost dead, almost alive townsfolk of Boomtown.
“Winter’th thuppothed to be bad, both…” His man warned him, as they were riding towards the Rockies West mountains — hoping to stay ahead of Mac Kinnon, for they were certain he had the same idea of laying low in the most secluded area known to man. “Hunterth died rethently from avalantheth!” he added with great worry.
Now the man paused in his tracks, sending a menacing glare of immense irritation. “An avalanche won’t be the thing killin’ ya, amigo, if ya don’t shut your goddamn toothless mouth right now!” he leered and pointed his dual revolvers at his head, while his sharp eyes evaporated the misty chilled air before them. “Now, let’s get…the gringo won’t be expectin’ us in them mountains…” he chuckled eerily, as he imagined the sweet smell of freedom sure to be handed over to him by the government, with immense gratitude to have the elusive Mac Kinnon hang in exchange. “After-all…I do want that Winchester 1887 back again.” He smirked playfully, urging his mule to climb up a snow-capped rock wall, as his men steadily followed right after into the treacherous path before them.
XII
Marysville was otherwise known as Mudtown, since the streets, buildings and residents were seldom clean — even the tick-infested dogs tried hard to avoid walking in the soupy roads. Nevertheless, it was a hard-working town, where cowboys and herders would bid at horse and cattle auctions, often resulting in a shootout with the slightest disagreement. It was certainly a good place to start snooping around regarding Mac; at least, that’s what the sheriff intended.
“Did you have a good night, miss?” the hotel owner spoke, as he heard Charlotte’s boots trudging down the squeaky stairs.
“Oh yes, I slept like a rock! Thank you, sir. I really needed a soft bed to rest my worries for once.” She chuckled awkwardly, suddenly feeling herself get anxious all over again by the thought of her assignment.
“Oh, how wonderful I could help! Hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Marysville, ma’am!” He put his glasses back on, after cleaning them with a piece of cloth.
Although Marysville was quite the muddy mess, it had lots of unhurried and tranquil life to it. Carriages, wagons, and riders on pack horses passing through, elders entertaining themselves around a poker table in the saloon, simple townsfolk shopping at the general store or having a jabbering talk along the sidewalks. Young men working in construction, with a cigarette in one hand and a hammer on the other. Everything felt real, it felt genuine, and it was the closest thing that could make Charlotte feel like home, for Bisonhorn, albeit enchanting in its own way, was a town where a lady with no means could not survive for long.
She was once again running low on supplies, so she visited the general store to restock on some canned food after counting the coins in her tiny leather pouch, nervously, over and over again.
“Howdy, ma’am!” the store owner greeted her with the biggest smile on his face, as he leaned over his desk — waiting patiently to assist her.
“Howdy!” She smiled back, matching his level of speech — a lot simpler than the elite creature’s. Fiddling the coins within her sweaty hands, she sheepishly advanced to him.
“Anything I can help you with, miss, you just let me know. We have a great selection of clothing that you can try in our changing room.” He pointed to a wooden door right next to some hanging wolf pelts that served as decoration.
“Oh, thank you, but I’m…I’m just here for some canned beans and salted meat…if I can afford so, that is.” she murmured, casting a swift glimpse at the brand new pants. “Do you…do you happen to have these? My apologies, I’m new to this town.” she then asked.
Charlotte could not afford any new clothing, as she counted every penny to make ends meet for survival. Her mother had kept a hidden stash of money in the attic, she later discovered while looking for a gun before starting her journey — perhaps neither of which combined would be enough to pay for a pair of trousers, were she to sell it.
“Sure, sure we do.” The man reassured her, jolted in excitement from his seat, and walked towards the shelves with the canned food — proudly showing her his wide variety. He loved taking care of his customers, let alone travelers, and he made sure to leave a good impression of his store, and while he talked a lot to newcomers, he was a kind man that lived vicariously through their stories.
Charlotte was grabbing can after can, when accidentally she dropped one on the ground, missing her boot by an inch. The man, without giving her a chance to apologize, reached down to pick it up. He noticed her torn up pants right above her knees, that seemed to have been patched a multiple times already. His gentle heart sunk, and his smile slipped within his thick, disheveled beard.
He supported his weight with his hand on his leg, and stood up slowly in awkward silence. “Ma’am, I would like to offer you a welcome gift — it’s a…it’s customary of my store to do so, with new visitors — yes, it is.” he spoke to convince himself, and walked past her to the corner of his shop where all sorts of pants were hanging. A selection of saddle pants, made with a rugged denim cloth to last for an eternity and withstand any hard work.
“Levi’s jeans! All the way from Mon Louis’s renowned tailor! These are a new addition to our shop, and our customers have been quite pleased with their quality! Here, pick one!” His big smile returned to his aged lips.
“Sir, I cannot possibly accept this gift; I could never afford this…”
“Shh shh, miss, I insist. Pick one you like, and I will give you some privacy to try it on” He led her proudly to the changing room, handing her a bundle of jeans.
You could hardly see Charlotte’s head while she was carrying them to the room — in subtle but great excitement as she went. After a while of him waiting in great anticipation to see Charlotte’s reaction, she walked out, shutting the door behind her as she did, with her new pair of jeans on — embracing her fine waist and accentuating her curvy hips.
“That looks excellent on you!!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, trying to lift her spirits, and her cheeks crimsoned.
“Thank you…so very much, sir.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it in hers, trying to hold back any emotions, as she was left in awe with the unexpected kindness she received from a mere stranger.
XIII
The waves were kissing the rocks harshly, and the moon was lighting the narrow hidden pathway of the cliff as the wind blew through the pine trees that were guarding it along the way. The sparks of the campfire were brushing against his worn-down leather boots, the orange light reflecting on his gently spinning spurs.
He was wiping his hunting knife clean that still had bloodstains from his recent skinning — a whitetail buck carcass strapped onto his horse, that would feed him for the upcoming weeks. He tilted his hat over his face, took a last sip of whiskey, and squeezed his body between the cliff’s boulders. Trying to rest for a few hours, with his cocked and loaded rifle entwined within his arms.
XIV
“Aargh!” he grunted, as the knife cut through his finger.
“Haha! What’s wrong, Tommy? Are ya losing your fingers over there?” The bartender mocked the man, trying his luck at five finger fillet on a rusty scarred table in the corner of the room. The man grumbled and ignored the remark, resuming back to his game.
“What can I do for ya, miss? Which poison are we havin’ tonight?” He leaned over the bar with his fingers tangled; a cloth over his shoulder, ready to prepare Charlotte a drink.
“I would like a whiskey, please.” she ordered, still distracted by the man’s self-destructive knife skills — as well as impressed that he would serve her.
“What brings a pretty lady ’round these parts? I’m surprised you’d want to visit a town full of dumb, drunk, stinkin’ cowboys.” He laughed while wiping down the counter, and then handed over her drink.
“I actually quite like it here, I must admit…” She smirked, causing a subtle dimple next to her full lips. “I’m surprised you allow women to enter here, let alone order a drink; I hate to complain, but the other saloon forbade me to enter, so… that’s why I’m here, bothering you now.” she added, twisting her glass of whisky on the counter, taking a quick sip — exhaling the burn she was quite accustomed to, for besides a stash of money and a gun, she also found an old bottle of whiskey in the attic that nurtured her along the journey by making her forget the feeling of starvation.
“Oh well, ya know, bunch of backwards milksops over there — no offense, but unless you’re a working lady…chances are you’re stayin’ outta there.” He glanced over at Tommy, who had fallen asleep on the table with the knife comfortably stuck in between his fingers.
“None taken, sir…?” She tilted her head, waiting for him to reveal his name.
“Mickey!” He pressed his hand against his chest, bowing his head before her.
“Mickey…” She cracked a smile on her lips, for his kindness radiated across the whole saloon. “I rarely have a drink, but today…oh God, today I really felt like I needed one.” She sighed upon an eye-roll, insinuating she was troubled.
“Sorry to hear! That surely will take care of it!” He grinned as he happily poured some more poison into her glass. Charlotte giggled, feeling herself strangely comfortable around him, as his infectious smile and undemanding aura warmed her up instantly. “You’re travelin’ alone?” he questioned her, watching her swirl the liquid in the glass.
“Y…yes…” she hummed tentatively, as she suddenly remembered why she was in the saloon to begin with — supposedly to rob this man’s kindness and hospitality. She cleared her throat. “You see… I’m being followed by a wanted man…” She leaned over the bar counter, locking her hazels with his. They flickered with the candle light beside them, and all he could do was get lost within them. “…and I’m so afraid…traveling, all on my own…” she soughed to him, trying to entice him, hoping for him to betray some information.
The man couldn’t help but lower his gaze at her lustful lips, wetted from the drink he just served her, and felt instantly hypnotized by her almond-shaped eyes looking directly at him. He wilted — slowly, steadily, like the delicate new branch of a tree gently bending.
“I wish someone could let me know if this man is roaming this town…as I can’t keep an eye shut at night…” She looked around and back at the man, sliding the wanted poster across the counter towards him — her mouth remaining slightly open after it posed the question.
Knowing how to act seductive was the only thing she learned from her mother while she had to watch her “work” up her clients as a young child, and the alcohol surely accomplished its own evil, as it worked well to loosen her up and rid her from the embarrassment that otherwise would hinder such an act.
In total confusion from the sudden change of Charlotte’s tone and gesture, the man swallowed nervously and looked down at the poster — pouring himself a drink, as well. “… Ma’am, I…”
“I know I’m probably…asking the wrong man; I just don’t know who to trust around here” She crinkled the corner of her mouth into a pout, disappointed, and locked eyes with him again. “…and so far you seem the most intelligent out of those…milksops…” she whispered, noticing him stare at the poster with a troubled face; a face that could hide a raveled story.
“Listen, miss. I’d advise ya to…”
The door slammed wide open behind them; Tommy woke up in startled panic, almost falling off his chair, as a gang of five cowboys stormed inside, bringing the chilled wind with them.
“Mickey! Mickey, my boy! Would ya please pour us some whiskey, will ya!” A man with half a tooth still attached in his mouth instructed orders to the bartender, while reserving a table for his fellows.
“Sure thing, Butch, but I don’t need no trouble here again, got it?” Mickey warned him, pushing the poster — suspiciously, protectively, back to Charlotte’s hands.
“Oh, but we would never…” The sarcasm brightened up Butch’s greasy face as he kicked a chair away from the table and flopped himself into it.
Charlotte quickly hid the poster underneath her coat. Frustrated at the loss of opportunity, she grabbed her drink and chugged it down.
“Sir, I have a pony waiting to be fed at the stables, I’ll be back another day…perhaps…we can talk then?” She gave a hopeful look, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re welcome anytime…” he mumbled, concentrating on the following thoughts as they escaped his mouth. “Ma’am, please don’t…”
“I’ll be back…” she interjected abruptly, forcefully winked at him, trying to still remain in character, then rushed on her way out of there, as she could smell the dangerous fumes of intoxication already lurking in the room — fumes that were all too familiar.
While she was shutting the door behind her, Charlotte caught one of the men’s eyes. There was a sudden grin scarring his face, a sick grin of dark amusement, and after patting Butch’s shoulder, he stood up swiftly. Already drunk, bumping into the chairs, he shuffled on his way out to follow after her.
He belonged to the O’Donnell’s Gang — with Butch being the notorious founder and leader. They were outlaws, mostly of Irish descent. Ruthless, filthy, and never hesitating when it came down to murdering innocent men, women, and children — yet the gang’s founder was closely related to the town’s sheriff — therefore, his crimes always found a serendipitous reason to be swept underneath the rug.
“Madam! Oh, maaaadam!” he called after her with a sickly flirtatious tone in his voice, as he sped up his stride obsessively.
Charlotte felt a knot in her throat, her chest rose, her pulse thudded at the crease of her neck and her breath cut within her lungs. She immediately reached for her gun, and paced faster away from him. The town had gone quiet, apart from the pianist in the more popular saloon, and the drunk gamblers singing along the tune as they raised their stakes on the table.
“C’mere ye pretty thing; if you’re woman enough to drink, you’re woman enough for more…” He laughed caustically, a distant, vile laughter, and started running after her, sinking in the mud and stumbling over his own legs, while the squeaking of his leather holster was the only sound that prevailed the closer he advanced to her.
The images of drunk men forcing her mother into despicable acts came flashing through her mind. Tears started coursing down her face, for suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. She felt disgusted with herself for fooling around with the bartender over a damn poster, and now this — running from a filthy cowboy in the middle of the night with her brand new Levi’s jeans that were covered in mud. Already knowing and fearing what was bound to happen to her, feeling her stomach twist in woeful agony.
Making a sharp turn into an alleyway in hopes of reaching the back of the hotel, the entrance to her safety, for him to lose sight of her, for this vile man to disappear once and for all — sadly she realized, she found herself in a maze of darkness and trash scattered around. After twirling around herself in a desperate hunt for a door, she lifted her gaze and the man surprised her, waiting lecherously at the end of the alley.
As her legs wilted beneath her, cramping and paralyzing into a state of freezing panic, the man launched to her, and tackled her to the ground. He grabbed her hands in his fists, covered her mouth with his greasy elbow, pressing her head against the muddy ground with a vicious force. Charlotte started screaming and kicking the sides of his body — yet he was too drunk to feel, too strong and heavy to move.
“Feisty thing, are ya? Let’s see what ya have hiding here…”
He climbed atop her and pressed his body against hers, freeing his hands and coiling them around her tender neck. She could not move, could not make a sound, slowly choking by his menacing grip.
“Come on! Give it a lash!” he nagged, enjoying the sensation of her squirming body underneath him, in utter helplessness.
Trying to reach for the cold metal on her hip with the last ounce of vigor within her, while he was unbuttoning his foul-smelling pants after tearing her shirt apart — she started getting weaker; her body was giving up the fight, her eyes barely able to stay open, tilting her head away as if this was her last way to fight — her last symbol of resistance.
Then suddenly, she felt the air shift. She heard a wing-clopping of a large bird shoot out from above them, smelled a strong fragrance of smoke, and felt drops of a scarlet liquid showering her like rain.
“Arghh!! Sssonn offf, aaaarlllhh!”
The man’s grip slowly loosened around her neck, his voice, now a groan of agonizing harrow, his speech a slurred, unfathomable buzzing in her ear — spit and blood came flushing out of his mouth, dripping on top of her bareness. Charlotte felt the shock slither through her, as she dared to look back at him only to notice a thin rope looped around his neck, digging deeper and further into his flesh.
She did not realize yet the turn of events, thus was trembling still in panic, wishing she had never gone to the bar, wishing she had never agreed to such a hideous assignment, wishing for the suffocating air to swallow her whole and end her suffering already, as a wave of woeful regret washed over her, while the rope tightened ever deeper.
A covered face appeared behind the man’s strangled neck, briefly halting his lethal grip on the bloody rope to examine Charlotte’s condition. Her eyes flared, aghast, slowly realizing why she was still able to breathe.
Swiftly covering her exposed body in shame, while he tossed the dead man to the side effortlessly, he reached for her hand with his — all but a single finger dressed in a black leather glove. She dithered for a moment, for all she could see was a black bandana wrapped around his face, and a faded raven duster coat buttoned up until his neck.
“Th…thank you…” she stammered, barely audible, as his sharp eyes paralyzed her even further. He remained hidden in the darkness, still and collected into place, as his eerie silence surrounded her — his hand still held out firm for her to reach.
“Bill!! Where the damn hell are ya!” The Irish accents emerged from a distance. Now Butch and his boys were wandering around suspiciously, yet annoyed, for their fellow gunslinger to have disappeared so suddenly. “Bill, ya damn bastard!” Butch yelled, inspecting every alleyway they passed.
Charlotte’s fleeting breath increased rapidly, for their voices now thudded in her head, advancing to them by the minute. She started to shake, eyes hunting around herself frantically — watching out for their silhouettes painted distortedly on the walls.
“Shh…” The man placed his finger on her lips, and motioned with his hand for her to follow him. She swallowed dryly and nodded to him, now in compliance for he had saved her life after all. They sneaked together through the alleys with muffled movements; him jumping swiftly over broken-down fences and helping her climb over them, keeping his eyes away from her bareness as he did. Hiking up the stairs to the barn’s loft, they crouched in slyness and waited in the shadows.
Charlotte, unable to grasp her own condition, let alone the man’s strange attire that obscured his identity, nervously she slashed the silence with a question,“Wh…what are we doing now, sir?” She sucked in a stutter, noticing the fresh bloodstains on his coat.
“Shh!” He muted her swiftly, still crouched by the window.
Charlotte hid behind some moldy hay bales, adjusting her torn-up shirt in the attempts to cover herself up more modestly, for no man had ever seen an inch of her skin before, and even though she was almost choked to death, she felt ashamed to appear this way before his eyes.
The man was quiet. She could barely hear him breathe. Even the rattling of rowdy rats and the snores of sleeping pigs beneath the loft were louder than him. He moved like a shadow, as if able to take the shape of any object beside him and morph into it, in utter stillness.
She watched him, dumbfounded, observing the stranger as he slung his rifle around his shoulder to his chest, getting into position to look through what seemed to be a half-damaged scope. The swell of his arm flexed the moment he lifted the heavy gun, and as he looked through it, he slowly exhaled and locked his breath within himself.
He was following the men with it, like an eagle eyeing its prey from a distance, observing every step they took, when suddenly Charlotte reached for his rifle and lowered it with her hand.
“Just…just because he hurt me, we should not kill any more…sir.” she suggested kindly, while her eyes traveled to his finger slightly touching the trigger.
The man looked at her with his thick dark blond brows raised in confusion, as if he had never heard a dumber thing before. Suppressing a caustic snort, he lifted his rifle back into position, completely disregarding her wishes, until her quivering voice interrupted him yet again.
“No! Stop! Please!” she shouted a little bit too loud for the delicate situation they were in, all the while pulling on his coat frantically — waving the barrel in all the wrong directions.
He rushed to her, covering her mouth with a large gloved hand, throwing a sharp glance back at Butch to see if he noticed, as his face halted inches away from hers — with his gun pointed as far from her as possible.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered worriedly behind his strong hand, feeling his warm breath escape through the cotton wild rag. She was emotionally drained and unable to make sense of anything. She sat back in promised silence and unbearable shame — exhausted, cold, and staring at the stranger who was not flinching, not leaving from his vantage point of the men.
“The boy probably got lucky tonight, for once! Let’s head to camp.” Butch shouted, spat on the ground and mounted his chunky horse — which raised its head up, startled by his brutal landing on the saddle. He never much cared about his men; quantity over quality was his preference, and his men were always replaceable. They loped off.
Her head nodded against the bale, as her eyes started to shut unwillingly — she tilted her head back to him, stealing one last glance at the man in black, hiding in the darkness before her. Slowly dissolving, within the misty veil of the ebony night.
XV
The sudden sounds of squealing pigs and wing-fluttering chickens flooded the barn. Charlotte woke up, startled, with her head itching from all the hay she had slept in the night before — a blanket covering her body, that smelled of cigarette smoke and burning logs of wood. Prying her eyes open, and immediately getting blinded by the sun’s rays that pierced through the loft, she peeked outside and spotted herders dividing their sheep into the pens with the help of their heeler dogs. They were pushing the sheep forward while staying behind them, sometimes nipping at their legs if they didn’t move fast enough.
“Finn! I gotta feed Finn!” She panicked, scanning around the barn once more, not realizing yet where she had fallen asleep, not even remembering the reason why. “What in the… where am I!” Her eyes flared, as she saw a red-feathered rooster make the rounds some feet before her — giving her a threatening leer, as if she was intruding upon his kingdom of chicks. She rushed down the ladder, almost trampling over the rest of the chickens that were picking away at corn and insects on the ground. “Finn! Where is my horse?!” she shouted frantically at the stable boy. “Where is the chestnut stallion!” she persisted, without giving the boy a chance to answer.
“He’s here, ma’am! Horses grazin’ on the west paddock this mornin’.” he answered, irritated with her disturbance, for he was oiling a saddle — fortunately too occupied to notice her half-braided hair covered in hay, her brand new jeans stained with blood, and the torn up shirt clinging onto life by a mighty strong button.
Charlotte rushed to her horse, picking the itchy pieces of hay from her hair as she did. A sigh of relief escaped her chest the moment she spotted him — resting underneath an oak tree, contentedly overlooking the mares in the next paddock. “Finn!” She shinnied over the fence, running up to him and embracing his neck tightly — breaking down into a well of pent-up tears. Finn stood still like a statue; his shoulder was the only one she could ever cry on all those years, the only shoulder she could ever rely on.
“My dear boy. Never. Ever. Again.” she promised in earnest, as he lowered his head for the bridle, and was swiftly kissed by her on his muscular cheek. He wrapped his neck around her and snorted softly, playfully nibbling on her coat. She saddled him up, and the stable boy watched her lead him out of the barn.
“Leavin’ so soon already, ma’am?” he questioned her with a cocked brow, for she mounted with suspicious haste, and a soft plop as she hit the saddle.
“Yes. Indeed, we are.” she said decisively, as she held the reins as tight as her trembling hands could. “Thank you…for the care.” she spoke her thoughts; a twisted bundle of confusion, within her traumatized head. They loped their way out of Marysville — hoping never to return.
