The Reckoner: Dead or Alive, Part 2

Aiken was jolted awake from a kick at his boots.  He grabbed for his rifle as soon as consciousness began to overcome sleep.  The click of a hammer being cocked stopped the motion.  He quickly counted four men around him.  There was no need to shield his eyes from the sun, it had begun to set and the shadows cast by the men surrounding him were long.  What was happening to him, he thought. 
“Stand up!” The man who had kicked him barked.
Aiken rose his hands above his head, filling his mind with the visage of each man with their guns drawn.  The farthest one from him was the man he was tailing, it was the scraggly beard, patchy and unkempt, that was seared into Aiken’s mind.  The other three though, they looked familiar as well.
“Not so fast.”  The same man continued to bark as Aiken reached down to the ground to help himself to his feet.  “Keep your hand away from that iron on your hip as you stand.”
“Be careful, he’s mighty handy with that.”  His prey warned from the back.
“We’ve seen it before Tom, or have you forgotten?”
Aiken made the connection, it was at the Maze.  His mind played through that gunfight, each man on their horse ready to attack and yet fear played in their eyes.  That fear was no longer there.  It was replaced with malice, and envious victory.  Finally he was at his feet.  Each man held their pistols out, all aimed at him.  Through the entire play though, the mare continued to lay there.  She was awake but didn’t have enough energy to stand.  She lay there, pathetic and dying, appealing for rest.
“So what’s the play?”  Aiken asked, never taking his eyes off of the mare.
“What’s the play?”  His rival laughed.  The others began to do so as well.  “You’re going to die.”
Aiken finally lifted his eyes from the mare.  It was fire, re-ignited.  As each man looked into Aiken’s eyes their grip on their pistols faultered ever so slightly.  They didn’t take a step back but it took a moment for them to regain their nerves.  One man, his hands out, burned with the fire of hell behind his eyes.  He had forgotten what it had tasted like, but like an old love it returned and embraced him.
“Give me him,” Aiken pointed at his quarry, “and be on your way.  There is no doubt that you will see my face again, but today is his day.”
“I don’t think you understand.”  The leader daringly walked right up and put his pistol in Aiken’s face, “Today is your day, you may have gotten the best of us at the Maze but today is your day.”
Aiken stared at the man, never taking his gaze from the man’s eyes.  He never paid any mind to the pistol only inches in front of his face.  He just stared, sizing up the man.
As a striking rattler, he hit the leader’s arm with his own at the same time kicking him as hard as he could in the gut.  The pistol went into the air as the bandit fell backwards.  Aiken watched it spin in the air for a moment, in that half second he had pulled the rifle from its holster.  Before the pistol landed in the desert dust he had dove behind the mare.
“I’m sorry.”  He said as he looked the mare in the eyes.  Her body tensed with each report of the pistols, even if she had enough strength it would have done no good.  She slid into death’s embrace.
“Damn!”  He muttered under his breath. 
There wasn’t much around him that would do for cover.  Short sage brush and the occasional cactus were the only mocking cover.  With each shot that he heard slowed time down, more and more.  He felt each hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, the goosebumps rise upon his sun-chapped arms, he relished the embrace of death’s presence as it heightened each sense.  With each droplet of sweat that burst upon his brow he worked out a plan, there wasn’t much to hope for, but nonetheless, he would take as many to hell with him as he could.
A shot barely missed the horse and blew a spray of dust into the air at its side.  As time got closer to standing still, Aiken watched and took account of each pebble and grain of sand as it tumbled in the air.  They bounced off of each other, colliding and ricocheting into one another before finding their way back to the ground.  Each shot fired sounded miles away from Aiken, but each cloud of dust that erupted from the ground or deep thud into the horse reminded him that they were right behind him and it wouldn’t take long for the men shooting at him to work their courage up enough to descend upon him.  All he could do was wait.
The gunfight at the train ran through his mind.  It had all started there.  What would have happened if he hadn’t have jumped from the train?  And here he was, fighting down the same bandits.  Some sick trick of fate’s?  Perhaps he wasn’t on some twisted road to redemption but rather some narrow path to hell.
Shots continued to fire, from the instant that the shot reached his ears it seemed like minutes before they hit the ground around him or came speeding over his head and into oblivion.  He knew that he would have to peek over the horse to get an idea of where his attackers were at.  He slowly turned around, never losing touch with the horse as he did so.  He felt each individual hair on the horse’s hide as he rubbed his cheek upon it, slowly moving his head up so that he could peer over the horse’s back.  They were slowly advancing on him.
He was at the Maze, facing down the same bandits.  Water trickled at his feet as he faced down the gang around him, they on their horses and he on foot.  Time fled to the boy who had pulled the gun on Virgil while Aiken sat on the roof of the Oriental.  Each successive gunfight while riding guard on the coach ran across his mind.
The shots had quit for a split moment.  In that moment there was Virgil’s face, a smile upon it while he laid in the shade, dying.  That damned smiled.
It was the moment that Aiken was waiting for.  He cocked the lever of the rifle as he leaned back against the heels of his boots, ready to spring to his feet when the time came.  He took a deep breath and sprung to his feet.
The rifle recoiled in his hands and against his leg where he held it.  The presumed leader of the gang was just getting to his own feet when the bullet slammed into his chest.  Aiken had the rifle cocked again before the man fell to the ground.
The sweat began to drip down his forehead, he fought against the burning that had reached his eyes as he turned the rifle to another one of his attackers.  The rifle pounded against Aiken’s leg again as another bandit clutched at his chest and fell to the ground.  Aiken hadn’t noticed the sweat that had burgeoned upon his palms until the rifle shifted ever so slightly in his grip.
There were two left.  He swung around the face down his third target.  He felt the burn in his stomach at the very moment he pulled the trigger.  He was immediately drawn through a tunnel as time instantly returned to its monotonous rotation.  Each gun shot became deafening as time sped up; the spray of dirt that flew with each errant bullet was a chaotic mess of pebbles and sand grains, the sweat was a flood issuing down his face, soaking his hair and his shirt.
He saw his bullet miss, hitting the bandit in the hip.  Before he closed his eyes and fell to the ground behind the horse Aiken saw the bandit fall to the ground.
The horse arrested his fall and afforded him a place to lean against.  He let go of his rifle as he clutched at his burning gut.  Blood trickled down his front, down his pants and against the mare.  The ichor ran free from his gut as he watched, waiting.
“Tom!  Help!” The bandit Aiken had hit yelled in agony for his friend.
The sweat grew heavier and heavier as it ran down Aiken’s face in torrents.  He wanted to call out, wanted to let loose with grit and tell Tom that he had better help his friend before Aiken urged the strength to make one last stand.  But he just watched, working up some modicum of strength.
Tom walked up to his friend, the bandit laying on the dusty desert floor.  Aiken watched as the play unfolded, forcing himself to watch it to the finish.  Tom stood over his friend for a moment, he eyes moving over the body in the dust, seemingly measuring up the situation.  Without saying a word he raised the pistol in his hand, cocked the hammer…
“Tom, don’t!”
The smoke tendrils that rose from the barrel snaked their way heavenward, a sad mockery of the spirit that was wending its way to hell.
With one hand still on his stomach, Aiken struggled with the other to reach for his rifle.  He found it, his eyes never moving from the bandit that now had his back towards him.
He fought to stand up, one hand on the rifle, the other pushing himself up using the horse as leverage.  In the meantime the bandit, Tom, had found and mounted his horse.  Aiken spun the lever through his hand, the rifle cocking as he did so.  Tom turned the horse and began spur it along.  Aiken butted the rifle against his hip, his left hand, the one that he had held his stomach with, never got a good hold on the forearm of the rifle.
The rifle slipped in the blood and fell from his grip as the recoil hit his hip.
He missed.

The Reckoner: Dead or Alive, Part 1

The morning sun was hanging low in the sky when Aiken saddled the horse and began to ride north.  Each night saw his dream end the same, there was no reprieve.  How he wished that he could muster the strength to wake before the gun went off in his hands.  But it always did and there was always Johnathon Berg laying dead in the grass.  He'd wake with sweat beaded upon his brow, yet he was ready to hunt.
It was taking its toll on him however.  There was never a reprieve from the burning sun, even in the shade it was scorching.  Water had been scarce since he had left the stagecoach.  It was the Indian Figs that had kept him alive.  Occasionally there was the lone jack-rabbit that had crossed his path, but they were few and far between.  It was the small red fruit on the cactus that filled his belly each day and somehow kept his mouth somewhat moist, wet enough to continue through the week and a half that he had been out.  He kept hunting.
Every day marched on.  The one blessing of the desert, there was no rain to hide the hoofprints that Aiken was following.  Everyday he got closer and closer to his quarry, but never saw him in the distance.  It was those prints that kept him hunting.  Justice was never going to let him stop until it had been served.  Justice for Virgil, it was that thought that pushed him forward when his legs were ready to give.  That’s what he told himself.  Virgil.  But it was justice for justice’s sake that had forced each step before, and perhaps that is what kept him moving through the hardtack desert.  Or was it something behind him that forced each step?
Nagging at the back of his mind was the man who had come around the bend at the stagecoach.  Every morning, once he was able to shake the dream of Johnathon Berg it was that man whose very visage filled his mind.  There was no reason in his mind for it though, he had never seen the man before in his life.  It filled his veins with ice, always running cold in the hot sun, always running.  He never turned to look back but he knew for some reason the man was somewhere behind him.  And he continued to hunt.
Aiken was travelling in territory that he had only heard of.  He had been working northward since he left the coach.  He knew he was entering Navajo territory and was slightly nervous of that fact.  The Navajo had been on the reservation for decades, and were still under the thumb of the government.  But on the reservation it was best to ride with the cavalry if a person wanted to even suggest the idea that they were protected from the natives.  Natives and renegades were the only ones brave or stupid enough to travel through Indian territory without permission or a military escort.
Aiken was neither and he knew that everyday was one more day closer to potential danger.  Even outside the reservations the danger was real.  But he had travelled through hell before and he would do so again.  Perhaps he was there. 
The day dragged, he was alone with his thoughts the entire time.  Occasionally he would talk out loud, hoping that his horse would respond.  He was amazed that she kept going on, there were days he was certain she would crumple with him in the saddle.  Most though, he walked alongside, giving her some small reprieve from her appointed life.  Fortunately for her, she could drink the water that he wouldn’t, the small mudholes that hid from the pounding sun in what little shade they could find.  Most were filled with flies and those that weren’t were too brackish.  Even those the mare resisted to drink from. 
They followed hoof prints for days.  At times they would cross the prints of the wild stallions that called the desert home.  It was the shoes on the horse that they tailed that kept them on the right track.  Two days before, their prey had met up with three more horses, all shod.  Aiken knew that it wouldn’t be long before he met the bandits.  Each step was one more closer to that fateful gunfight.
He could sense the gunfight coming.  Each step closer was one step closer to death.  Most of his waking hours he spent on that thought.  Each step closer was one step closer to death.  He had trailed a man through the Yellowstone years before.  He could remember the fire holes, water boiling, sulfuric clouds billowing.  At times the sulfur was so thick he would have to choke and cough his way through.  It was unmistakable, each step closer to those fire holes it became clearer that he was coming closer to one.
Death was the same.  The same poisonous flavor burned the back of the throat.  It filled his nostrils, each breath was more difficult than the next.  Against his skin it felt warm and then cold, warm and cold.  It was intoxicating and he lived for it.  It was what he knew.  No matter how much he wished to forget the smell, be rid of it for good, it called him back. 
And the thought that was most disturbing for him, this trip into death’s land was his.  Each time he had passed through the black before, it was justice that pushed him forward.  Justice and mercy, an atonement for one crime through the indifferent justice of another’s.  His first step through death’s land was an unwanted step, hated and tumultuous.  It robbed him, it was pain and agony.  And he knew that the only way back was through the valley of the shadow of death.  The idea scared him at first, and yet he was always there, always ready.  He grew to feel it, to anticipate it, and over the course of time he had learned to pass through that valley without the least hesitation.  One sin, he thought, atoned through the unfeeling retribution of another’s, that was his lot.  Perhaps, just maybe, there was a green pasture.
This trip into death’s realms was different however, and he couldn’t shake the thought.  This was his trip.  It wasn’t some divine justice that motivated each step, he wasn’t some unwitting executioner.  It wasn’t some long forgotten forgiveness that forced each step, it was his own purpose.  Virgil.  His friend, his only friend, pushed him forward.  His thoughts continually turned to Virgil, laying dead against the tree.  Remorse, always tinged with regret.  He steeled himself against those thoughts, but they continued to fight through his armor, chipping away little by little.  And he was laid bare, this was his trip through death’s territory.
The mare had stopped walking and it was the jerk of the reins in his hand as he continued that brought him out of his thoughts.  Instinctually Aiken reached for the gun holstered at his hip.  He looked around, searching for the slightest change that would give away his prey’s advantage.  There was nothing.  He continued to inspect everything, looking for the smallest thing, a broken twig amid the sagebrush, a change in the direction of the hoofprints he was tracking.  It was difficult, each day becoming more difficult, cutting through his thoughts to focus on such details. 
He pulled at the reins twice, both times the mare resisted.  The sun was high and he could feel the heat burn and eat away at himself.  How he wished that he could stumble across an unopened cache.  His quarry, and the friends he had met up with, had buried some about every ten miles.  Aiken would find an opened hole in the desert floor, the discarded gourds, hollow with a few drops of water remaining, littered upon the ground.  A hole dug in the desert floor, lined with small branches, overlapping each other like the outside of a cabin, to keep the hole from caving in on itself.  Each cache guaranteed life in the lifeless desert, and Aiken was tempting fate with each empty cache he passed.  The gang must have planned this job for weeks, Aiken told himself after they had passed by the third or fourth cache.  As he tried to encourage his horse to move, her resistance becoming stronger with every pull of the reins, he wished he could stumble upon just one forgotten stash.
It was futile and Aiken finally sat down, he didn’t worry about gathering prickly pears and it was only an afterthought to move into what little shade he could find underneath a tall sage brush plant.  He laid there, the shade barely covering his face as the sun beat upon the rest of his body, for some time before he felt the horse lay down at his side.  He could feel her breathing, hard and ragged, her skin was hot, burning, and dry.
“We’ll find some water when we wake.”  Aiken said as he patted the horse on the side, the gentle tinge of despair creeping in his voice.  He closed his eyes, not noticing the coldness that sank about him.  The slight change in the breeze, everything in the desert getting calmer, waiting for the storm to hit.  He let himself sink into sleep.

The Reckoner: Unforgiven, Part 3

Aiken knew that he had to stop to sleep.  He told himself it was because he would never find his quarry if he stopped for any length of time.  But he knew the true reason was he was scared that his own hunter would catch up to him.  But he had to stop and get some sleep before he fell out of the saddle.
He found a tall rock that he could shelter next to.  Getting off of the horse, he quickly built a fire to rest next to.  He hurriedly removed the saddle from the horses back and then hobbled it, he just had enough energy to do those three things before sleep washed over him.
**********
Clouds whipped through the sky, a storm was moving in and he would be lucky if he saw anything big enough to take home to his family.  Not that he needed to shoot a deer to put food on the table, no, he just wanted to shoot his brother's new rifle.
It was a Winchester '73, the barrel and receiver were case-hardened instead of the simple blued steel that was all too common and the walnut stock felt silky smooth in his grip.  His brother saved any spare dollar that he could convince his new bride to part with, it took him nearly a year but he finally had the gun sent through the post. His brother hadn't told his new wife, but he also ordered her a new gingham dress and she soon forgot about the expense of the rifle.  It didn't matter, though, that day it was Aiken's rifle and he was burning to shoot something.
Stalking through the scrub oak, he pretended that he was a scout in General Grant's army during the Civil War.  Every branch that cracked or leaf that rustled was a rebel guerrilla that needed to be stopped before they could report to General Lee.  He continued to climb further through the hills of the Idaho Territory and the sun finally broke through the clouds.
Aiken found himself in a calm that was surrounded by storm clouds, he knew that if there was a chance to see a deer before they found a place to bed down to weather out the storm was right then.  He had to stop though, the sun felt good upon his face.  As the light fell upon his face every muscle tightened as the blood rushed to his cheeks to soak in the warmth.  The gentle burn that began to spread across his brow and down into his cheeks held his attention and for a brief moment he forgot about Johnny Reb or the new rifle in his hand, it was just him and creation.
The wind picked up again.  The stormclouds raced through the sky.  Leaves rustled at first and then began to beat upon each other, a race to be the first off of each branch.  The smell of rain filled his nostrils, it wasn’t going to be long before the storm was right above him.  If he was going to see a deer hopefully it would be soon.
There was a crash in the trees above him.  Branches whipping and twigs on the ground cracking.  Aiken looked up and saw the light tan color he was hoping to see.  It was big, perhaps an elk.  He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, it felt smooth and practiced.  The stock fit into his shoulder as if the two had been molded together.  He sighted down the barrel, a natural extension of his arm as his hands held onto the forearm and straight grip of the rifle.  He focused down the sights, everything except the sights and the elk in front of him were out of focus.  The cold steel of the trigger resisted the squeeze of his finger.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bolt of lightning that was all too close for comfort, the thunder that roared through the trees knocked him back and he pulled the trigger.  “Bang!”
He steadied himself, narrowly escaping the fall.  If he had fallen though he wouldn’t have seen the riderless horse run through the trees, the saddle on its back a sure sign that he had a rider at one point.  The horse was beautiful, Aiken noticed the red dun coloration as he ran off.  As it ran off, he noticed that in the distance the red coloration was strikingly similar to that of an elk.  Aiken’s heart fell to the bottom of his gut as he watched the horse run.
Each step was heavy, deliberate, as he walked towards the place that the horse had been when the shot was fired.  He pushed through the tree limbs, fighting every urge in his body to turn around and leave.
There he was, shot in the chest.  Aiken knew him, it was Johnathon Berg who owned the farm next to his parents.  Aiken’s heart fell further.  Johnathon Berg!  He had a wife and three children, one a few years younger than Aiken, another about six or seven, and the youngest was just learning to walk.  Johnathon Berg!  He had helped Aiken’s father build a new well when the old one collapsed.  Johnathon Berg!
No one was going to believe that it was an accident, he told himself.  I killed him, he kept repeating over and over in his head.  They’ll hang me for this, he fought back the tears of his own impending death.  He decided then and there that the only option was to run.  How deliberately fooled a young mind is.  He was afraid, truly afraid.  The only afraid a person that faces death knows.  And he made the decision to run.
He levered the action of the rifle.  The spent casing tumbled through the air.  Every single turn it made Aiken watched.  The wind felt cold upon his face as the storm picked up.  That same wind blew the acrid smell of the casing into his face.  He inhaled, immediately hooked to that pungent aroma that followed death.  As the wind blew the shadows of the trees changed shapes, elongating and shrinking.  Everything slowed down as he watched the brass casing tumble through the air.
And then it found its landing.  It fell upon the chest of Johnathon Berg, standing straight up, a cruel magic trick that robbed Aiken of any shred of innocence.  He turned his back to the grim sight and ran.  Afraid, he ran.  Ashamed, he ran.  Guilty, he ran.
**********
Aiken woke, the fire had died and the embers barely gave off any glow.  It didn’t matter though, the sun was just peaking over the horizon.  Aiken removed the hobble from the horses legs and put the saddle on its back.  He then got started again.  He followed the path of his prey, but there was something that made him nervous of what may have been behind.

The Reckoner: Highwaymen, Part 4

His hands hanging limp at his side, Aiken could only watch as the highwayman grabbed the strongbox from the jumble of wreckage, and shoot the lock off with his pistol.  Falling to his own knees, he dug through the box and filled his pockets with the cash, gold, and silver that was stored in the box.  The entire time, Aiken knelt their motionless.  He felt the cool wind against his sweat veiled brow.  He watched as the shadows lengthened.  He could taste it on the air.  Death.
The last surviving highwayman would leave a trail.  Aiken knew that smell and could track it better than any hound.  It was his unfortunate misery.  But at that very moment, he didn’t know what he could do.  Virgil laid against the tree, the blood revealing itself from the hole in his stomach glistened in the sun.  Aiken could only watch.  The bandit had grabbed what he could and retrieved his horse, he never even looked in Aiken’s direction.  He was off and Aiken would be on his trail.
He left his rifle in the sand of the wash when he finally stood.  The distance between him and Virgil was not very far, but with each step it felt like the path to Calvary.  With each step, every life that he had taken came flooding back to him, a torrent rushing back to his soul.  With every shot that he remembered he forgot every smile that he had made.  He forgot the smooth, cold feel of the nickel that he had begun to win at the faro table and it was replaced with the cold, smooth feel of the brass casings that he had spent so much time of his life with.  The warmth of friends was replaced with the coolness of death. 
And yet, Virgil, laying there dying, still had a smile on his face, “I believe it exists.”  He fought through a rush of blood filled coughs, “And you’ll find it at the end of your road.”
Aiken knelt at the side of Virgil, nearly as cold as the first time they had met.  Getting colder as the lifeblood faded from Virgil’s face, Aiken could only look at his friend, wishing, hoping that there was something that he could do, knowing that within a minute or so there would be nothing left to do. 
Virgil coughed again, “You’ll find it.”  It was his last cough.
Aiken watched as his only friend died at his side.  He never thought what could have happened differently, he knew exactly what could have happened differently.  And yet, if that was the case he never would have hoped that things had happened differently.  He knelt there for a minute or so more, the entire time wishing that he could let everything go.  A wish to forget everything, let it pass before him with an eye turned away.  And yet it would never come.  He knew what he had to do, it called to him.  He walked back to his rifle, a purpose behind every step.  Each step tempered his soul.
He had forgotten how it felt to be cold, how comfortable it was to feel nothing except the cold embrace of doomed judgement.  He shivered slightly as it embraced his soul.  He felt the air upon his skin again, each change of direction he felt.  He saw every movement with the crisp vision of a soothsayer.  He thought he felt whole again, and yet his soul finally remembered what it had forgotten so many years before.  It was that small memory in his soul that wished for warmth.
He found a horse outside of the cedar lined wash.  He tightened the saddle a little before placing his foot in the stirrup and kicking himself over.   It was no longer blind justice that forced him to ride out.  He stopped the horse at the cedar that was Virgil’s headstone.  For one instance, Aiken saw the face of justice.  And he hoped that his friend was right.
The prints of the horse the highwayman had taken followed the road, the way that Aiken would follow.  It was straight across the wash and then continued on to the horizon, bearing straight the entire time.  The wash was his only option and even knowing that nothing could be done differently, there was still a prick of regret.  Perhaps it was that prick that forced him to turn back around and look one last time on the only man he had called a friend, maybe it was chance, or it may have been his soul feeling its own judgement.
Turning back he saw fear.  He had only felt that type of fear once before.  It washed over his soul, over his entire body, fear forced itself upon him.  Every hair on his body stood to attention.  The muscles across his chest contracted, forcing each breath shallower and shallower as each came faster and faster.  It filled his veins with ice, physically chilling every part of his body.  Instinct cried out to him again.
A lone horseman came around the bend at the exact moment he turned to look back.