“Gotcha,” Kyle replied.
“And, just in case the negotiations stall, and we find ourselves hung up on such trivial matters as positive identification and contract fulfillment. I have a tried and tested method that has never failed to convince even the most gifted skeptics. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to retrieve my machete from the pack mule,” Coal said turning and walking back to the horses.
Kyle covered his face with a gritty hand and asked, “You’re going to cut off their heads aren’t you?”
“Bingo!” Coal shouted behind him.
The scout and the Scavenger rode out as the sun began to rise. They left the bodies where they lay, well most of the bodies Kyle thought, reflecting on the bloody canvas sack now tied to Coal’s pack mule. As the country around the pair slipped past, Kyle’s thoughts kept returning to the firelight ambush and inevitably to the man he had killed. It wasn’t guilt he was feeling, at least not exactly. He knew he would be dead if he had hesitated a moment longer but the killing still had a weight to it. A weight that now rode on his shoulders as nothing ever had. Lost in his thoughts the pair left the canyon country and broke out onto a wide desert plain.
Kyle rode with the shotgun resting on his hip. Feeling every bit like a Mayberry Deputy, carrying an empty gun. At least the deputy had a single bullet in his pocket, Kyle’s pockets were empty. He had tried to return the weapon to Coal as they packed, or more accurately as Kyle watched the Indian pack.
“Hold on to it today, keep it up where it can be seen when we ride. It makes us look a hell of a lot tougher if we run across any more of those types,” he had said nodding his head in the direction of the dead raiders.
The land was more open now, with just sparse brush in patches all the way to the horizon. Kyle knew the desert could be deceptive to an inexperienced eye. What looked like flat land for miles was actually crisscrossed with dry streambeds and washes. More than enough cover for an opportunistic group of raiders. The Indian seemed to relax a bit and let his horse slow and fall back beside Kyle. Coal didn’t speak, but he realized the Indian’s attention had shifted. He wasn’t scanning the ground in front of them, he was concentrating mostly on his left. Kyle realized the Indian was trusting him to cover their right. Apparently, his action in last night’s ambush had at least earned him a bit of the Indian’s respect. Though the respect of a notorious killer and probable psychopath didn’t seem like much of an accolade.
The pair rode side-by-side in silence for hours. Compared to the canyon lands they made good time. Finally, the Indian broke the silence. “Kyle, I have to ask you something. I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer, it’s just something that has bothered me for a bit now. I hope you don’t mind?” the Indian asked in a carefully measured tone.
Holy shit he knows. Kyle thought. He fought down the urge the grab for his pack again.
“When you track long enough, especially when you track folks, you start to pick out the subtleties in the their tracks. I have crossed your back trail; I don’t know maybe half a dozen times in the last year or so. I would guess that other than myself you’re out here more than anybody else in town. There are still a few left, Scavs like yourself that go out. But most never go near as far out as you, and none of them ever travel alone,” Coal paused looking at Kyle as if weighing his next words carefully.
“And?” Kyle asked in a strained tone. He stared straight ahead, and his heart was pounding in his ears.
“You always travel heavy. A big man, he weighs a lot, and his tracks show it. Skinny fella or even average, like yourself, his tracks don’t. The thing is when you go out you’re a heavy fella and when you come back in your not,” Coal said in a matter of fact tone.
Kyle didn’t respond at first and then turned and looked Coal dead in the eye.
But Coal was not an easy man to intimidate. “Makes me wonder what it is you could be hauling out of town, all that way, all by yourself, just to leave out there, kind of a little mystery to me,” the Indian said.
“It’s not a mystery Coal, it’s a honey bucket.”
“A honey bucket?” the Indian asked confused.
“A honey bucket. Every morning Anna makes me empty the chamber pots and fill up a honey bucket. I load it into a pack and haul it all the way the fuck out here to dump it. She says my shit stinks that bad. She won’t let me dump it any closer to town,” Kyle replied a grin sliding across his face.
The Indian’s laughter was loud and genuine. Kyle couldn’t help himself, and soon both men were laughing like idiots in the middle of the open desert. The laughter died away, and with it, Kyle felt the tension ease.
“Alright Kyle, that’s one mystery solved for now I guess. One thing though, you may want to brush up on your own tracking skills. It’s just a suggestion, mind you, but I would hate for some Indians to ride up on you when you weren’t looking and steal your shit,” Coal said with a grin.
“That would be a…” then from the corner of Kyle’s eye he saw the riders.
Coal laughed again.
Four Indians on horseback rode about a 100 yards to Kyle’s right. They matched the easy pace of the pair and were watching them closely. Three of them appeared to carry spears, and the last had a bow slung across his back. They all wore blue jeans and were either shirtless or wore simple leather vests. Several of their horses had feathers tied in their manes as did some of the riders. The Indian’s kicked their horses into a trot, the speed matching Kyle’s pounding heart.
“Steady there now Tonto. Just be cool. If they were going to try and kill us, they would have tried before now. We have been on their land most of the day," Coal said in a calm voice.
“What the fuck? We’re in the Nation?” Kyle almost shouted, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off of the group of Indians.
The Indian Nation claimed everything East of town as theirs and had so for the last 10 years. No travelers ever came through their lands from the East, and no one from town ever ventured out into them. Occasionally stories would spread of someone too brave or too stupid to know better than to cross the Nation’s land. The stories always ended the same. The violators found, staked out in the desert, with much less skin than when they had started the trip and many, many more ants.
“Yeah we are in the Nation. Actually we’ll be out of it in just a couple more miles. Why do you think I slacked off the last few miles and let my guard down? Not even raiders would risk operating in the Nation. That gap in the hills is the edge of their lands," Coal said nodding directly ahead of them. “And just passed that is I-8 and home,"
“Perfect, if I’m going to get skinned alive I may as well do it in sight of home,” replied Kyle.
“That’s if they don’t put your eyes out first,” Coal added.
The group of Indians (Kyle was trying very hard not to even think the term “War Party”) crossed the duo’s trail about 100 yards ahead. Coal pulled his horse up to a stop. Kyle pretended to do the same but was convinced at this point that at all the mare could be forced to do is follow Coal around. The Indians sat on their horses silently staring at them. Kyle couldn’t help but be intimidated a bit, each was dark skinned, darker than Coal, literally. Three of the men were shirtless, their chest painted with a variety of designs and shapes. Their hair was long and unkempt, they all wore a mix of bright colored bandannas around their foreheads.
One of the group, an especially large and unpleasant looking fellow, held his spear up over his head. From where he sat Kyle could see the weapon had an aluminum shaft and what looked like the blade of a thick kitchen knife for a spear tip. Coal raised his rifle in the same matter. An exchange of salutes so it seemed.
“Coal what the fuck is going on?” Kyle whispered.
“Just a little game. That’s them telling us that they knew we were here on their turf the whole time and that they could have killed us if they wanted to,” Coal replied in a quiet voice, not taking his eyes from the Indians.
“Could they?” asked Kyle.
<
br /> “Don’t know, never really want to find out either,” he replied.
The little display over, the Indians turned and kicked their horses into a gallop back in the direction they had come. One of the group, a slender man with the bow across his back paused a second longer than the rest. He shot Coal a grin and a nod before racing off after the others. Coal smiled and waved in reply. Coal kicked their horses in motion leaving Kyle simply dumbstruck.
“Coal, what was that?” he asked in disbelief.
“That skinny one was my cousin,” Coal replied still smiling.
“What? No, I mean what the fuck was that?” Kyle asked his voice rising.
“What do you mean?” Coal responded his smile sliding away.
“I mean how did we just ride across the Nation for the better part of a day. Then when the wild Indian’s catch us they literally just wave and ride off. I mean… what the fuck?” Kyle was maybe more scared now than when he had first seen the Indians.
The townspeople lived in terror of the wild Indians that claimed the lands of the Nation as their own. Almost every year the Black Jackets, Murphy’s Men, an angry mob, somebody caught an Indian “spy” in town. Most of the time the “Spy” didn’t even survive long enough to be hanged, mob justice ruled. Such was the fear in the town of the Indian Nation. Yes, Coal and a half dozen other “half-breeds,” a term no one was brave enough to call Coal to his face, lived in town, but they weren’t wild Indians. They were like everyone else, just trying to survive. Was this how Coal seemed to always be able to find meat to hunt when so few in town could? Was he even hunting at all? Did he get the meat from the Nation in trade? What was he trading? Information? Kyle’s thoughts ran wild fueled by fear.
As if hearing Kyle’s thoughts, Coal stopped his horse. Again Kyle’s horse did the same without any input from him. Coal let out a quick breath and turned to face Kyle. The look in Kyle’s wide eyes was enough to give his thoughts away, and Coal punched him just over his right eye. Kyle’s world exploded in stars, and then a quick evolution of blue sky and brown desert left him lying on his back. He closed his eyes trying to fight back the bright lights and a feeling of vertigo. His chest felt heavy, he opened his eyes again, and Coal’s face floated over him. Not the happy go, lucky joker, as he had hoped, the wild-eyed killer now sat on his chest. The scout had his hunting knife in his hand, and Kyle knew he was dead. Coal shoved the Scavenger's head back into the sand and moved the blade to Kyle’s throat.
“It was water Coal,” Kyle croaked.
Coal’s knife rested on the Scavenger’s throat, but his hand didn’t move any further.
“What?” Coal asked in confusion, as if from far away.
“Your mystery, my secret. I haul water out and hide it, for over a year now,” Kyle wheezed almost choking.
“Why?” Coal asked as if dazed. His knife still held firm.
“To escape. Can’t carry enough water to cross the desert. Have to cache it along the way.”
“Escape? You think the world’s any less fucked on the other side of all of this sand?” Coal asked sounding confused but more like himself again.
“Don’t kill me, I’ll explain,” Kyle choked out.
Coal looked down at the Scavenger and then at his palm and the knife still resting there. Without taking his eyes from the blade he spoke. “I don’t care, but if I hear just one word about the Indian Nation and me, you’re done. I don’t care who says it or why I’ll kill you. I will also tell everyone that’ll listen that you have been stashing water all over the wastes. I suppose I don’t have to tell you what that means to any friends or families you would leave behind," Coal stood allowing Kyle to breathe again. Kyle understood, many folks had been killed or tortured over rumors of less.
Coal sheathed his knife and walked back over to Kyle’s horse. He untied Kyle's pack and threw it to the ground next to the still panting Scavenger. He stepped back around to his horse and mounted back up smoothly. Kyle found his way back to his knees and sat looking dumbly up at the Indian.
“This is where we part ways, Kyle. You’re not too far from home like I said just through that gap in the hills, you can’t miss I-8. Just be sure not to linger out here on the Nation’s land. Indian’s can be awfully tricky, they may double back,” Coal said looking down at the Scavenger.
Kyle stood slowly, still feeling light-headed. He stooped down and picked up the shotgun from where he had dropped it. Stepping forward he handed it up to Coal.
“Keep it. Call it your share of whatever the bounty will be. In fact, let’s forget we crossed paths out here at all. I don’t want rumor spreading that I need a partner to take down bounties or anything,” Coal said turning the horses.
“Coal… I’m sorry. Thank you,” was all Kyle could reply in a raspy voice.
In reply, Coal kicked the horses on and rode away.
Homecomings
Coal rode out of the Indian Nation and didn’t look back. He crossed the few miles of open desert and could clearly make out the Interstate ahead. Most of the pavement was covered with several inches of desert sand now, but it was still easy to spot. Signs, guardrails and rusting vehicles still sat where they had for the last 15 years. Most of the vehicles had been burned at some point, all had been stripped of anything useful. This close to town anything that could be burned, eaten or traded had been stripped away and given very little chance to regrow. It was a wasteland within a wasteland, and it marked the boundaries of what passed for civilization these days.
Marking a pair of rusting tractor trailers as a landmark the scout led his horses over the interstate and further south. Following the road would be shorter but just outside of town the derelict vehicles grew thick on the road and weaving a path through them was just too dangerous. Too many opportunities for attackers to get up close unseen. Crossing over several sets of rusting railroad track, Coal drove his horses into what had been an industrial area. Now the factories and warehouses were silent. The streets were wide here though and mostly free of debris.
His horses quickened the pace, knowing from experience that fresh feed and water lay ahead. The Indian was eager too, not necessarily to be back at the ranch but to get out of the open. The sound of his horse’s hooves reverberated down every alley for blocks. The sound marked his passage, announced who he was and displayed his wealth. It made him a huge target. Letting the reins drop and giving his horse a free head he held his rifle in both hands making it obvious he was ready to shoot. Movement drew his eye, a pair of scrapers in an alley stood staring but didn’t move as he passed. A pair of kids chased a rat from a burned out factory building pulled up short to stay clear of his path.
As Coal came up to the first major intersection, he headed his horses left. This was Main Street USA or at least that’s what most referred to it as now. The wide street had been cleared of all abandoned cars by the town early on. Back when a sense of community still existed, and the City Council had wielded enough power to organize such an undertaking of manpower. This also had the distinction of being the only street in town routinely patrolled by the Black Jackets, the city council's law enforcers, with an emphasis on the enforcer. At night the length of the street would be lit by burn barrels at each intersection. As if summoned by Coal’s thoughts a pair of Black Jackets came into view. They both leaned against a wall looking every bit of their street thug roots. They watched Coal pass, and he pointedly ignored them but kept his rifle in hand.
Main Street USA ran straight to the heart of town; at one time it was a small park. Now it was known as the “Hub” or simply the market. The park was now covered by an assortment of rough wooden shacks, old R.V.s, and handcarts. This is where trade happened in town. Two dozen shops lay in a rough circle facing the street. The shop owners paid taxes to the city council, and in turn, the area had a larger presence of Black Jackets than anywhere else in town. Here the crime of theft could catch you anything from a beating, up to and including a beating to death.
The Hub never closed. E
ven after dark when most of the town’s residents were huddled just together hoping to survive the night, there was activity at the Hub. Scrappers peddled their new found treasures, desperate women peddled the oldest wares of all, and fix-it men worked and tinkered on bits of anything for the right trade. Men stood in front of candlelit shacks and yelled out to the passersby, like carnival barkers of old.
Then there was always a handful of snake oil salesmen, the “Juicers.” They peddled the sweet drinks, whose ingredients included whatever was on hand at the time. One day it may be actual Agave juice spiked with Sweet n Low, the next may be rat blood and anti-freeze. The hitch, of course, was whatever it was you needed it, chocked full of vitamins, minerals, and hope. The desperate, the foolish, or perhaps just the desperately foolish were the only ones that took these men seriously.
The only group that Coal held in less esteem was the Meat Merchants, his competitors, or so they liked to portray. A half a dozen shops and individuals selling meat. Coal couldn’t even remember the last time one of them claimed to have pork or beef or even dog. Now it was simply meat. One little franchise raised rats by the thousands, they raised them in glass aquarium tanks, enough to fill a warehouse downtown. Rat shit could be smelled for blocks. Another small family prided themselves on their snake meat. Going out every morning and beating the brush for rattlers and checking dens they had built for snakes themselves. Then, of course, there were the meat merchants that didn’t even try and tell you where their meat had come from. If you asked too many questions, you were promptly told to beat it. Coal knew these days nothing went to waste, including a fresh corpse.
Many hungry eyes followed Coal as he passed through the Hub. His latest kills still hanging from the back of the mule. This was his way of putting the word out. Tomorrow morning a crew of Coal’s people would be here with fresh meat to sell, he liked to call them the “Chuck Wagons.” Teams of his employees, more than a few of which would be along just for security, made the rounds almost daily. Coal’s employees would make regular deliveries of jerked and cured meats to The City Council, Murphy, the Black Jackets, and a few others. A few things were always on the top of Coal’s list of needs, ammo for one, but most of the times trading was done strictly for chits.
To Cross a Wasteland Page 6