The Lone Wanderer.

INTRODUCTION

The sun beat down on the parched earth casting long shadows across a desert landscape. A lone figure walks with his face obscured by a hat and bandana. He leads his horse through the inconsistent land, compassing himself with the sun.  and the stars when the sun got tired. The land he called home would change with the winds

He had no destination. He wandered aimlessly and with no haste. Behind him was everything he had ever known, an intolerable existence. Now, he was seeking something he could not place and someone could not name.

He paused with his horse. His knee touched the sands and he placed a hand to it. A distant rumble grew louder. The sand told him something was coming. He lowered his brim down over his brow and squinted into the distance. A cloud of dust rose up from the horizon and the sun shone through it with a hellfire orange and without hesitation he quickened his pace. He neared an outcrop of rocks and a singular dead plant to which he stashed his rucksack and tied off his horse. A glance into the distance showed him that the dust cloud had grown since the last time he looked.

A group of riders were approaching. The horses kicked up dust and sand as they galloped towards him. 

Who?

He drew his revolver, shined to perfection whenever he had a moment to himself. He had plenty moments. Ready to defend himself against whatever lay ahead, he counted his shots: Six shots in six chambers. The steel piece lay by his thigh in his right hand. His left hand held his brim down to keep the dust and sand and all matter of small eye-killers. The riders approached, their faces donned red and black bandanas and they wore wide hats with flat tops. The group slowed a couple paces ahead of him and his horse. The lead rider left the group and trotted up to him.

“What do you want?” The lone figure asked, his voice unwavering.

The lead rider said nothing, but drew his own revolver and aimed it at the man. A tense moment passed, with the two men standing in silence, the desert wind whipping around them. 

Then, the leader holstered his weapon and shared a nod with the others. His back-up arranged their leave and they turned and left him. The man knew not if he had escaped death or only crept himself closer to a future good-bye. He kept walking with his horse.

 He was free, truly free, for the first time in his life. A band of men, nomads, homeless, would not shake him from his journey. As he continued on the barren land he remained on his course. His course to nowhere. He walked with no purpose other than to reach a place and a person. It was this or return to a town that no longer existed. Where he no longer existed. Where his past, his present and his future no longer held ground. 

The prairie stretched out before him. Tufts of grass dotted the lands and small rocky outcrops plagued wanderers with their false sense of shade and safety. A limestone escape could very well lead to a venomous and tormented death. A waterless and hunger-tortured death. He deserved a death of the violent kind. The sort of death where witnesses and rememberers wonder what a man has to do to receive such punishment. He was the one that got out and he was the one that escaped when no one else could. He couldn’t save his loved ones. He didn’t save them.

He was a man who had lost much but wished to save many. Either as repentance or as a final dying effort in heroics. Or, he was saving his name. Now, he was a man with no name. He was a man who wandered. He was a man alone; always walking forward, always thirsty, always hungry. His town was behind him and there it would remain. The ruins of his life left charred and smokeless, rained on, swept away by the moving sands and griefers who came in after and looted. Remnants and reminders were taken by the wind and mementos of loved ones lay everywhere but in the houses and pockets of those that wish to remember. 

The clouds cracked and shot bullets at the earth. The rumble shook the sands and the grains jumped and dance with excitement for the coming rain. 

Don’t look too good.

He wedged himself between a boulder and a lighting-struck stump and unfurled the tarpaulin and tossed it over the stump and the top of the boulder. He dug up rocks smaller than the boulder but bigger than a pebble and placed them at the corners and sat under his makeshift roof and ruffled through his knapsack. 

He closed his book and scooted the sand from under him with the bottoms of his boots. He kept the spurs in his bag. They were too loud. Drew too much attention. He kept his eye on the horizon and the clouds and watched them fade as his eyes opened and closed. He slept.

He was awoken by the vibrations of the earth. His ear pressed against the stone he could hear the rhythm of gallops.

Three. Maybe four.

He counted the beats between and looked to the horizon. The sands were flat and the spots of grass and brush could have been thirty yards away or three hundred. He wasn’t looking for grass or trees or bushes or brush. He studied the land for movement and shapes that were unlike the vast emptiness that surrounded him. 

Four silhouettes rose and wavered in the glistening heat of the sun in the distance. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

He opened the cylinder on his trusted steel. The cylinder spun in his fingers and he traced each bullet with the tips of his fingers. His eyes never wandered from the four riders ahead, although only dots in the distance, he prepared to make his move.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. One for each and three for the head. Find the 

head after. Kill first search after.

There is no where to hide when the land is flat save stone and brush. He left his tarpaulin and his sack and his hat in their place. The blue shelter stuck out in the morning sun. If they had come last night the blue may have stayed hidden and the man safe but the light now left him and his built home exposed. He remained supine and pushed backwards with his heels dug into the dirt and sand and slid under the tarpaulin wall behind him; hidden from view from the horizon ahead. The four riders gained ground and all focused their attention on the lean-to. 

Go on. Jeb take Marcus left. Pete and I will head up in.

The lone man peaked his head above the roof of his makeshift shelter and barely raised his eyes above its level. He watched the riders split and like an alligator poking its head above the water he watched the four riders approach. His right hand rest upon the forearm of his left atop the face of the boulder; it swayed ever so slightly. He steadied himself. His breath slowed and he squinted his left eye and his right shifted focus back and forth from the riders that split and his front sight. The sight’s red marking had faded over the years but he would always remember how it lay. It laid straight and it laid true. 

Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale and his body relaxed and his hand shook no longer. The riders that split––Jeb and Marcus––trotted over. They slowed and stopped several meters from the man’s camp. 

An echo erupted and Jeb fell from his horse and Marcus fell of in his attempt to hurry off and behind his horse for cover. 

Jeb! Talk to me buddy!

Jeb gargled a few words. Gibberish. The dying often spoke gibberish and certainly spoke gibberish when their death was unwelcomed and unpredicted. The hole in his throat quickly filled with blood. When the echo reached Pete and the other rider they leapt off their mounts and stood behind them, rifles in hand. 

Who got hit! Marcus talk to me!

Jeb!

Everyone okay over––

Another echo rang out and with no walls or trees or mountains to ricochet off the sound came from everywhere all at once. The man watched the riders and their horses and waited. One rider left to his right and two dead ahead. He waited and chose Marcus. The top of Marcus’ hat inched above the butt of his horse and with no hesitation the man laid him on the sand with an open mind. The sand stained red and pink. Two riders remained. 

What do we do? He’s gotta have a Sharps with a sight.

Shut up Pete.

Boss he got Jeb and Marcus.

He ain’t got us though. 

Two bandana-men endured the loss and inched forward. The man lay silent and calm-breathed behind his lean-to, never wavering. The riders ahead gave their horses a pat and they inched forward and their eyes surveyed the blue tarpaulin lean-to. The two rifles swayed and the man’s barrel stayed. 

Not a step closer. He said, switching his focus from man to man.

Who’s there?

Nobody.

Two against nobody sounds like a death sentence. You sure you ain’t wanna 

come out boy? Awful fine mornin’ to get done in.

The two bandana-men inched forward and the man fired off a warning shot freezing the advancing gunmen. 

Don’t come no closer now.

Pete and his friend collected themselves. It was a long while before the two took another step towards the man. 

Take a look Pete can y’see him? Take ya hat off man!

Pete took his hat off and eased his way around the side of his horse to get a gander of the shelter and the army of one which lay behind it.

I don’t see nothin.

Look closer ijot.

He inched forward more and more intervening his movements with a final peep he landed on the floor. If he didn’t bleed out from the head he wouldn’t be able to eat for his jaw lay strewn across the desert and his eye hung from his socket. He coughed and spat his life out.

The last rider, seeing this, went into a rage and let off both his pistols in a barrage of fire ripping the shelter to shreds and decimating any trace of man. In heavy breaths and sweaty steps he walked to the lean-to. He was twenty-or-so yards away as he squinted his focus to scan the shredded area for man. Nothing.

With a whiz and a punch, a knife flew out from behind the rock and stuck itself into the last rider’s thigh. He let off two more shots into the air on his way down and his pistols ran empty and the lone wanderer emerged from the boulder. The man with the knife in his leg lay wailing and writhing in the sand. He kicked up dust and threw handfuls of it at our wandering man as he looked up at him.

You know me?

The dying man didn’t speak; couldn’t speak. The Lone Wanderer gripped the handle and twisted. The rider let out an echoed shriek. The knife squelched on its way out and the man wiped it on his jeans and slid it back into its place. 

CHAPTER I 

The man sat alone in the saloon. The hanging glow from the walls and the cigarette smoke moved over the crowd. He shut his leather bind and wrapped a shoelace around it and stuffed it in his satchel that sat on the velvet table. 

You gon play a round or you just gon take up the last table? 

I’ll move when I’m good n ready.

Four men with belligerent eyes and puffed ties stood over him. He sighed and looked at the ground and tapped his boots and his spurs jangled. He tapped on the chair and the table and deliberated in his head which one of the three men that stood above him was to be given the quick death, which one would be given the loud death and which one would be given the slow and painful death. He grabbed his satchel and stood from the chair. 

Hmph.

The Lone Wanderer pushed his way through the men and shouldered two. 

“What an ass.” One of the puffy-tied men said.

He stopped. He turned his head and tipped his hat to them and kept moving. He walked through the dancing crowd and scooted his way through the loose chairs and empty tables and brought himself to the bar where he laid his elbows and shook his head. The music was loud and it played fast. He tapped the counter-top and made eye contact with the bartender.

One more. Brown. Top right.

The bartender swiveled his little bar-ladder to the right of the bar and inched his way up it to the top shelf and pulled down a fine whiskey. 

Just leave it open.

He left it uncapped and it lay next to the man on the counter. The man fiddled with his empty glass. He thought about the killings he’d seen and the killings he’d done. He thought about the killings he ain’t done yet. He thought about the killings he wanted to do.

One for tonight, please sir.

I got a balcony suite and a corner room.

Corner room please.

The man pulled a lump of coins out from his satchel and placed it on the table.

You ain’t gon need that much here sir.

How much?

The bartender pulled two silver coins from the pile.

That’s all. Enjoy y’stay.

The man remained at the bar for a while longer. He sat there and watched the crowd behind him through the bar mirror in front of him and he kept drinking. The bottle came to him three-quarters full and it was almost empty by the end of the night when he staggered upstairs. 

He slept for the night. A knock at his chamber door woke him up and a shrill voice called him from behind it. He liked to sleep in. He preferred being woken up by the sun, it turned his eyelids bright pink and no longer shaded him from the shine. The voice continued and, groggy, he forced himself to stand and hobbled to the door. His bones ached in the mornings and at nights and during the day. His bones ached. 

Yes?

There’s someone here to see a Mr.______.

Who?

They won’t say their name.

Just one?

Got four or five fellers downstairs lookin’ to talk to ya.

Hmph. Aight. I’ll be down.

He took himself away from the conversation and back to the bed. His hat hung from the bedpost and his satchel lay under. He slept in his boots. Hat on first, then wrap around the satchel and he’s got hisself situated. 

He opened the door and sauntered downstairs. The tavern was alive but with a dull sort of hum for sustenance. Just barely holding on. There was no piano player and no women. No harlots and no lost girls. Just rusty men who woke early to sleep late and work in between.