Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  “I’d like that.” Jensen nods to Lord Louis, who returns an elaborate salutation followed by a bow.

  The Dwarf cracks the reins, with a “Yahh.” And they are underway.

  The Carnival Caravans slowly make its way, iron trimmed wheels treading through earth at a leisurely pace. Jensen has nothing to think of, not the bitter need for justice, or the hurt of his history. He smacks a wry smile across his jowly jaw. Never had he met people who fits society worse than him. The sun began its fall as it races them to the horizon.

  It was unusual for Chyou Chen not to be down in the den at this hour, just as clientele were drifting in. She would help guide them, let them feel at ease and naturally push her wares on their complying wallets. She had no misgivings to her status or her purpose here.

  Right now, she wasn't in the den, she was upstairs, lightly stoned, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She gently combed her fine grain hair. Her mind conjures images of Jensen and the first day he crashed into her hemisphere. Only he can start a fight in the opium den. Jessie Weaver was a regular at the den and had the misfortune to reach over and smack Chyou's slender behind when Jensen was there. Luckily for Jessie, he didn’t feel his broken jaw through his drug haze, and Chyou managed to get him to Doctor Parker that same day. Jensen was like a sorry schoolboy boy. He may be a brute, but he was a brute she could feel safe with.

  She avoided the Den today as there were whispers and rumours about an incident at the gaol. How that crazy old pig farmer had gone loco, attacked the Sheriff, and one of the bank raiders in the cell. Now the Colonel was going to get a posse of men, with someNative tracker to hunt him down. The bounty had been set at five hundred dollars, to be taken to trial.

  She knew Jensen had his reasons, yet now the town of Dunston talked about this kidnapping over the robbery that took place only days ago.

  Chyou could hear shouting and commotion out on the main throughway below. She glances out the window, at the Colonel, who in peacock fashion is lecturing eight men. Behind the Colonel, scanning those around him, a hyena measuring lame prey, is a Native American.

  The dark, brooding tracker looks directly up at Chyou, she’s behind a veil, yet it’s as if he knows he’s being watched. Chyou feels her blood stiffen, frozen by the chill in her gut. She backs away and draws in deep breaths. Moments later the whooping, shouting and the rolling cannonade of hooves as nine horses rumble out of town.

  It’s been a few hours of peaceful riding for Jensen and the Carnival. Jensen figured he had maybe a good half a day or more on those men who would mean to deal their brand of justice on him. He chuckles to himself at the thought of Dunston pissing his britches in a fury.

  There's been a lingering silence, which Lord Louis decides to confine.

  “Not often one meets folk on the road, decent folk that is.”

  “First time I’s been held as decent.”

  Lord Louis smiles.

  "You may be… Obstreperous, or resistant on occasion, I'm sure. But you are decent."

  Jensen attempts to mouth the word. Ob-str-p-o… Lord Louis freight trains on.

  "Our little family here has come to the end of its tour. Little Sparrow, the Chief, Lynn, and Joseph Joseph, are riding with us North West, to my cousin’s farm… More decent people.”

  “Gotta warn ya, you’se’l be riding through the Indian Nation, it’s called the Savage Lands, as they don’t take too kindly to folk.”

  Lord Louis smile. "One of the many advantages of being a freak of society, both ours and theirs, the Natives believe… they believe we’re cursed, and they give us a wide berth.”

  “Freak?” A muffled voice calls out from the back of the wagon.

  From the wagon's cover punches out a small head, with thick brown shoulder length hair, an open, honest face, laced with the need to make mischief, she's feisty and somehow adorable in the same sweep. This is Lord Louis' daughter, nine-year-old Mazy.

  “Papa stop saying those things.” She doesn’t notice Jensen. “You’re no freak… …You are amazing. Can we stop for my necessaries?” Lord Louis nods in Jensen’s direction.

  “Mister Hills, meet Mazy.”

  Mazy stares at Jensen for a confused beat, she then pops her head back behind cover.

  "Howdy." Jensen is too late; she’s gone.

  “Excuse me, Mister Hills.” Lord Louis calls back. “Mazy we haven’t been transiting for long. Couldn’t you’ve gone before?”

  “Papa! There’s someone listening.”

  “He’s not… are you?” Jensen shakes his head, no. “See… …Use the travelling bowl.”

  “But it may splash upon me again.”

  Her bladder forces her hand; Mazy jumps out on to the box seat by her father.

  "It's okay Papa; I can go on the move. I’ll just jump off.” She turns to Jensen in a la-di-da swagger, putting on an elegant accent. “Even a princess needs to pee.”

  Mazy motions to step off the wagon, her footing slips, momentum pushes at her as gravity’s grip pulls. She tumbles, bounces off the roan’s shoulder to land hard in front of the oncoming, turf churning, wagon wheel. Her small frame will be furrowed in half.

  Before, Mazy hits the ground.

  Before, Lord Louis felt the stabbing pain of fear impale his gizzard.

  Before Jensen can think, he moves.

  Jensen flings himself ground-ward.

  Lord Louis smacked with panic, stiffens and yanks at the reins.

  Jensen lays on top a Mazy as the slowing wheel hits his back and grinds deep. He feels the burn of stretched flesh, gloved by an intense throb of a body braced to its limits and wrenched to the verge of breaking. Jensen involuntarily grits his teeth, as the crack of electricity punches into his spine. He shouts out.

  The wagon stop, Joseph Joseph’s broad back braces against its mass, with an iron will and iron warping muscles, he too shouts out as he moves the carriage off of Jensen.

  Lord Louis dismounts.

  “Mazy!”

  Jensen dazed, breathing heavy, scoops Mazy out from under him. She stands, brushes herself down as if getting up from a picnic.

  "Thanks, Mister. You okay?"

  Jensen looks to Mazy and wearily nods. – Yes.

  “Lucky for us you’ve got a lot of padding.”

  Jensen is bewildered by the remark, as he accepts Lyn’s help in getting to his feet.

  "Thanks, Ma'am."

  Lord Louis shakes Jensen's hand and pats his shoulder; Mazy runs off.

  “Be back in a minute Pa. Thanks again Mister.”

  "Mister Hills, thank you, thank you." Lord Louis is still vigorously shaking Jensen's hand. Lord Louis, Joseph Joseph, Lynn Doll, Waylen Daly and Little Sparrow stand around Jensen.

  Jensen tries to play down the reaction.

  "Look it ain't nuffin, I often find messlf doing things without' thought."

  “Your actions were of a Brave.” Little Sparrow added.

  Jensen looks to Lord Louis, confused and concerned.

  “She said I had lots of padding?” It’s almost as if Jensen doesn’t realise how large his girth stretches.

  “Sorry.” The dwarf adds. “She uses rudeness as a defence… Got that from her mother… and just like her, she’s in charge as well.”

  Joseph Joseph places a hand on Jensen’s shoulder and without a word, gives him that look of concern. Jensen waves it off, it hurt but I'se all good.

  “Are you Okay Mister Jensen?”

  “I won’t be needing one of your potions quite yet Waylen.”

  Waylen smiles, he turns to the rest of the group.

  “Right my fellow, fellows.” He bows. “Once again it’s been a fruitful season, but I must end our running gambit and head to pastures new.”

  Each travelling companion, in turn, hugs Waylen goodbye, as he declares his new destination.

  “Keystone.”

  “Keystone?” Jensen asks Lord Louis.

  “The mining town due North. Waylen thinks there’s a ripe market for
his elixir. Got permission from Robert Devon, himself. The place is full of chain gangers and the like, how much custom can you get from that?”

  Jensen had heard of the name Devon, from that lad that gone an hung himself; who was also from a chain gang. Jensen fumbles for his note pad, he flips the pages of each name until he reaches one. He asks the dwarf.

  “Is his son Tyler Devon?”

  "That's right," Waylen interjects.

  Jensen strides with purpose to his horse, his recent meeting with a wagon is now long gone. Jensen mounts his roan, and he glances to his mule in tow. He hands the reins to Lord Louis.

  "I won't be needing the mule, jus' slow me up… She's served me right for this last day. She's got feed and such on her. Give her to the kid, from me."

  Before anyone can say goodbye, Jensen bolts off. The Carnival glance to each other, then to the ever stretching piece of land between them and the stranger.

  Lord Louis speaks out as if talking about a memory.

  “Strange one, that Hills fella.”

  Little Sparrow brings weight to her words.

  “Father said, there’s a storm on the horizon.”

  They look to the horizon, it's a bright, beautiful day, with a fading reddish sky on a flat land. The only thing on the horizon is Jensen, galloping with fury. His roan's hooves are shovelling turf as he passages to what could be the gateway to his reconciliation, whatever that may be.

  25

  THE LONG SHADOWS OF RIDERS lay flat against the turf. The Sun, a dimmed orange ball balanced on the horizon, steadily stretches these dark spectres till they merge into a shade.

  In the shade, under a tree, gently swinging is the strangest of fruit, Winston Harley.

  Beau Dunston watches his men cut Harley down. He watches as Daniels conducts a decent burial. Marujo, however, is stroking the turf, reading signs, to then sit against a tree in meditative wait.

  A shallow grave, with a few stones across its mound, is sufficient in the Colonel’s eyes. After all, Winston was hardly a war hero, or from good stock.

  The Colonel and Marujo are eager to leave. As the last of the stones were laid, Daniels, Tunstall and the Pinkertons mount their horses. Now, this has become a man hunt. The air of disbelief is pushed aside.

  "That murdering son-ov-a-bitch," Daniels mutters.

  Gill Tunstall is still in shock, something inside stirs, a whisper from history comes calling. “Never thought he’d have it in him.”

  “Men.” The Colonel commands.

  Marujo knows they’re on their way and he mounts his horse. Dunston continues.

  "You know what this… this renegade has declared himself, judge, jury, and executioner." Dunston's horse starts to snort, and hoof the turf; he feels the palpable tension. “We cannot let this continue, it is an affront to the civilisation we’re building, an affront to me …The bounty is now one thousand dollars… Living… Or dead."

  Marujo leads the charge, as they thunder in pursuit of their prey.

  26

  THE NIGHT RAIN RENDS the air to bullet onto the oiled canvas of a marquee. Nature's percussion only slightly dims the man-made din from inside. The sound of songs, drink, cheer, with the occasional scuffle of bodies in a ruckus, accompanies the hard bitten rain.

  The Marquee is the centerpiece of Keystone mining town. This is the place for the predominately male population to gravitate. No longer were the workers allowed in Dunston town so the Marquee was constructed, and became an extra source of revenue for Keystone. Then came the stores and more workers and living quarters. Keystone was a town that was on the opposite side of the board to Dunston. Where Dunston was a blossoming in its gentrification, Keystone is run by criminals, policed by criminals, to control the criminal element that worked there. There's a steady flow of people pouring in and out the marquee.

  Jensen in his long duster coat, with saddle bag over his shoulder, brushes past the marquee’s flap of a door. He bumps into a body that's exiting… A young upstart of a man. They briefly stab eyes at each other.

  Tyler Devon didn’t recognise the oafish old man that just collided with him as he was exiting the Marquee, and he recognised most the faces in Keystone. Whoever it was that brief glance they shared showed the man had no clue who Tyler Devon is. It was lucky for that geezer that Tyler was looking for action of a different kind.

  As Jensen stepped in from the dank, dark night into the Marquee, it felt like he was striding into a fabric of noise, smoke and liquor fumes. Jensen instinctively eyed the place, filled with working girls, two bars, a stage for a band, and sentinel shotgun security littered around the room. Jensen noticed the patrons of the marquee had no holsters or pistols. He pulls out his note pad, as he turns the pages, Jensen sees the parchment is wet, fibrous from the torrent, he can make out one name.

  Beadfurd Tanone.

  A Shotgun wielding guard, a former convict and soldier, sees Jensen armed to the teeth, he whistles a warning to the other shotgun totting scar-hewed guards. Their guns snap to Jensen. The Captain of the guard, strapped with the look of a bitter Confederate soldier just waiting for the war to spark back into life, approaches Jensen. He’s direct as a 45 round.

  “You, sir. Side and field arms are forebode in the marquee.” Shotguns raise to shoulders with intent. “Oblige us, by handing them over.”

  Jensen already knows this is a fight he has lost. He raises his arms in the air and thinks fast.

  He puts on a strange accent, like an impression of an impression.

  “I’m Waylen Daly. I am a listed tradesman on your books.”

  Jensen slowly reaches into his saddle bags; shotguns twitch, he motions calm and moves slow. Jensen pulls out a bottle of elixir.

  The Captain nods to a nearby guard, who thumbs through a ledger. His fingers trace across names, he finds Waylen Daly and shows it to the Captain.

  "Well mister Waylen, sir." The Captain responds. "You seem to be early… But welcome to Keystone. You will have to forgo the pleasure of carrying sidearms."

  Jensen nods and unbuckles his holsters. He passes his guns and belts over, he asks.

  “Can I make an announcement?”

  "It's a god-blasted monsoon," Tunstall calls out. "How we gonna follow his tracks, in this?” The mounted posse wait in the drench.

  “You ever been in a monsoon Tunstall?” The Colonel challenges.

  There’s no answer.

  “Then like I said, keep your lip buttoned… An’ don’t fret about this old man, nobodies expectin' much of you anyhow."

  A gentle wisped glow in the night slowly approaches them; it floats with a gentle bobbing rhythm. It's Marujo; his face is the apparition of death in the light of the lantern he holds. The Raven tattoo, which stretches its unfurled wings across his cheeks, seems darker than the pitch of the night. His eyelids blink, revealing their blackened ink across them. His eyes are swollen balls of porcelain white, with blackened holes to a soulless vessel of hate.

  Marujo looks to the Colonel and nods.

  “We’re going the right direction.” Shouts the Colonel, as Marujo mounts his steed, the men ride off.

  Marujo sits in a moments silence, bringing the hex bag to his nose, to snorts in deep, he can taste a man's soul, and it's the only hunger he has ever known.

  Marujo rides hard into the night, knowing that a soul eater must consume.

  Jensen’s muddied leather boots stand on the stage. Jensen stares out at a mass of people, drinking, singing, cavorting, yet one by one they turn to look at him. The guards seem nervous, the Captain signals, it’s okay.

  The saloon quietens down, the piano's tempo staggers to a stop. Jensen has his lower stomach in his upper torso; it's like the moment with Lotus, only unpleasant. The crowd senses weakness. Jensen fumbles for Waylan’s elixir. The crowd of criminals, former criminals, soldiers, hard bitten whores, feel a feeding frenzy coming on, someone heckles Jensen.

  “Get on with it!”

  That’s what Jensen needs, something to react t
o…

  “That’s what your wife said to me last night.”

  The heckler stands up dumbfounded.

  "This magical elixir I behold here will enhance every aspect of your life."

  Another raucous crowd member pipes up.

  “Bullshit.”

  The primer set, the barrel ram rodded with powder ball and ready to fire. The room was waiting for the sparks to fly and the powder to ignite.

  Jensen sees the whore sat on the vocal man’s lap.

  “Better hope it don’t cure her blindness, cause this will fix anything but your face.”

  The crowd roar, laughing in agreement. Jensen has just thrown his hat into the ring; had has come out shining, he’s winning the crowd over. Jensen continues.

  “My name is.. W-Waylan Daly and my magic elixir will offer the benefits of improved health, wealth and,” Jensen grabs his own groin. “seeding qualities.” Jensen points to one of the Hecklers. “You’re gonna need two.”

  “He’s gonna need more than that.” When the crowd is with you, they’re with you.

  “It sounds like you know too much.” Jensen retorts, another wave of laughter washes over the crowd.

  “Listen up, listen up” Jensen waves the crowd down. “I came here for one day only, I leave tonight, as in two days yonder a young Winston Harley, a robber by trade, is up to for a hanging in the town of Dunston… One of his fellow robbers… A certain,” Jensen looks at the name on the soggy paper, "Bedford Tannon has a bounty of five hundred dollars, and another five for each of them riders that rode wid’im. So be assured they will be apprehended in due course.”

  There's confusion in the air; firstly this broad bellied stranger was trying to sell his elixir, now he was giving a public announcement. The name Bedford Tannon had people glancing around the marquee; he seems to be known.

  Jensen sees two shaded silhouettes at the back of the marquee make a nervy exit. Jensen jumps off the stage in pursuit. The Captain nods to the musicians who kick up a score again. One of the hecklers grabs Jensen.