Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  The slug punctures Clyde's stomach lining; it spits out blood and gut juice in a watery crimson trail, which chases his arcing mass to the dirt.

  Jensen charges past, his hooves plumes dust in his wake. As Clyde slams to Terra Firma, Jensen has passed, he never looked back, as the bullet left the barrel he knew the shot was good. He had always known, from when he first killed a man, to no doubt the last.

  Out of the Ravine is a mountain trail leading to the plains in The South, or directly ahead there’s a rickety rope bridge that leads to an overbearing, shaded forest. The ragged bridge sways gently in the breeze, below the rushing of water resounds like distant applause.

  Ben explodes out the ravine, he heard two shots and can only expect the worst. As he looks back, he sees a figure riding hard after him. It isn't Clyde. Ben draws a pistol and without aiming fires back as he, like a man possessed, rides on.

  Jensen tucks in tight, till the shooting stops, then sits up high and whips his reins across his horse’s rump.

  The roan closes in.

  Ben arrives near the rope bridge; he doesn't even see the mountain trail, it would be too slow anyhow. Ben's horse’s hooves beat their rhythm against wood. The horse locks its legs a feared, it refuses to go any further. Ben dismounts and drags his horse across the remainder of the bridge.

  “Come on. Come on.”

  Before Jensen can arrive, Ben has made it clear across the bridge. Ben mounts his horse, on the other side, in a pocket clearing that’s engulfed by forest.

  Jensen stops at the rope bridge; he'll be as easy to hit as a limping buffalo in a snow drift; if he attempts to cross.

  Ben and Jensen stare at each other. Ben grins, he’s triumphant.

  "You're stuck, Marshal. You can't cross the bridge, cause I’ll shoot it down and you with it.”

  Jensen chuckles to himself, “Huh, Marshal.” He looks around; he recognises where he is. He has an ace to play.

  “Look around you kid. You’ve crossed into the Savage Lands.”

  Ben nervously looks around, into the gaping dark of the forest.

  “Trust me.” Jensen continues to bate. “The natives here have had enough of our kind, all that killing, raping and raising their culture to the ground.”

  Ben begins to panic, the pocket of clearing seems to be shrinking, the ghostly spectres of trees have strange symbols and various skulls and bones hanging from them. They chime a haunting rhythm, which carries on the wind, like the whispers of the dead.

  “So tell me something.” Jensen sneers. “Who’s stuck now?”

  It’s eerie and darkly mystical, Ben watches Jensen dismount and draw out a bowie knife. He places the blade across the load-bearing suspension ropes of the bridge.

  Ben glances fearfully to the shadows within shadows of trees; his horse becomes edgy, so does he. Ben rides up and down trapped by his indecision.

  “They’re coming.” Jensen prods.

  Ben makes a choice. With a “Yaa, Yaa.”

  Short spurs kick into flesh. Ben sets to the bridge towards Jensen.

  Jensen steps out into his pathway as if blocking the incoming horse. The old gunslinger adopts a bring it, posture.

  Ben’s eyes flicker with excitement of possibilities.

  He energetically jerks the horse.

  The bridge rattles under pressure, ropes torque and creak.

  Ben with pistol in his hand fires at Jensen.

  BANG – BANG – BANG… The air splits and whizzes.

  Slugs punch into rock, dirt, the wood of the bridge.

  Ben is halfway across its span.

  Jensen slowly unbuttons his holster. As the horse increases with shortening perspective, Jensen imagines what it is like to be trampled down, to have a ton of stamping animal crush his ribs, break his arm, shattering his neck.

  Another Whizz of cut air brings Jensen back.

  He flicks his wrist; his thumb rides the hammer, his holster empties.

  BLAM - of flashing powder and acrid blue smoke.

  Jensen side steps to allow the rider-less horse gallop past him, smoke tendrils linger from his barrel.

  Jensen slowly strides across the bridge, he checks his pistol, pumps the chamber and expels a cartridge. From his belt, he takes another round and slides it into the beckoning chamber.

  Jensen stops by clambering fingers on the bridge’s wooden slats.

  Ben’s holding on, his body a swinging pendulum, legs kick and dangle, his shoulder drips claret residue. Ben looks up to Jensen looking down.

  Ben is young; he's never had to face the idea of death before, now above him is a harbinger of ill intent. A man who just stares down at him, who cuts into a wad of tobacco and chews. Ben can feel his grip loosening.

  “Please help.” Ben whimpers.

  Jensen squats down to talk to Ben.

  “I didn’t wanna hit your horse." Jensen peers over the edge of the bridge to the rushing water way below. Their eyes lock for a shared moment of understanding; they both know how this ends.

  Ben pleads “Why are you doing this?”

  Jensen doesn’t answer.

  “You’se young, you may survive the fall.” Jensen stands up and draws his pistol. “I don’t want that.” …Click – BLAM…

  30

  JENSEN FEELS HIS AGE, the night’s chill unsettles his joints, his stomach twinges of a gently teething beast that promises to bite deep at any time. He stacks dry brush wood, kindling and makes a fire. Takes supplies from the other rider’s saddle bags and personage and lays out the two remaining men by the camp fire.

  Clyde, lead in gut, gently groans in pain. Morgan’s out cold, propped against the ravine, his bleeding has congealed, yet he’s lost a lot of fluid.

  Jensen sits quietly on one of the saddles, rested on the dirt. He smokes his opium pipe and stares into the flames. After the first draw of poppy tears, Jensen's aches, pains, and complaints dissolve into a fading reflection that plays on the edge of awareness. He feels his old age seep from him.

  Morgan, bleary eyed and groggy brained, stirs. Jensen looks over at him, then to Clyde propped against the ravine, racked in paralyzing pain. Clyde’s foot has been carved open, just a mess of bone, blood, and fluid where his boot was. Jensen sees Morgan stare at Clyde's shotgun mangled foot.

  “Yeah, he kinda shot ‘imself.” Jensen chuckles, smoke billows out. "Darnest stupidity."

  Jensen leans over and offers Clyde the pipe. Clyde looks away from the pipe, Jensen is calm, empathetic.

  “It’ll ease the burning in your belly.” Jensen, smiles, and nods – go on.

  Clyde draws upon the pipe, as Jensen sets a candle to the resin. Clyde slumps back, released from the talons clutching at his gizzard. Jensen smiles.

  “There, better. No.”

  Jensen sees Morgan looking around, gathering bearings.

  “Thought you were gonna bleed out. Weren’t planning on your company.” Jensen nods to Clyde as he draws on the pipe.

  "I gots ‘im smack in the belly. Real slow, real painful ways to go. Got shot there mesself, had to turn to the poppy… It were a real boon."

  Jensen passes the pipe to Clyde; he happily draws on its tip. Morgan stares at Jensen.

  Morgan had served in the army, the Southern Brigade, turned his hand to being a Marshal and made a fair living from tracking down the vagabonds and vagrants who turned to crime. Morgan decided that crime paid better, and started working for Tyler Devon. He brought his friend Graden White with him. As he stares at Jensen, he knows what’s happened to Graden, this old man, no doubt, butchered the kid. Morgan glances to Clyde.

  “Where’s Ben?” He asks Jensen. “And who are you?”

  “Ben?” Jensen fumbles the treasure trove of brutal gore he holds as memories. He nods, he thumbs over his shoulder. “He’s back there.”

  Morgan looks down the ravine to the rope bridge. Jensen illuminates.

  “I shot ‘im… in the face.”

  “Who are you?”

  Jensen pond
ers as he tries to remember

  “Me. I’m just some old pig farmer, not a good one mind. Took me a while to work that out.”

  Jensen reaches into the saddle he’s sat on a pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He looks to Morgan and holds it aloft.

  “You mind?”

  "No, go ahead." Morgan is phased, by this grizzly's manners.

  “Obliged” Jensen pops the whiskey open and knocks back some. He holds the bottle for Morgan.

  Morgan shakes his head. “Why you doing this?”

  “The bank robbery in Dunston.”

  “We didn’t get any money.”

  “This ain’t ‘bout the money, son.”

  Jensen’s teeth grit.

  "This ‘bout making right, what you wronged. You killed a kid, mowed him down as you and your friends were hightailing outta town.”

  “I know nothing ‘bout that.”

  “Well… now you do.”

  “Whatever the bounty we carry, I’ll double it. If you let us-“

  Jensen chuckles to himself like he's in on a private joke.

  “Bounty, kid, there ain’t no bounties. Not on you’se anyhow, I probably gots a pretty penny on my head ‘bout now.”

  Jensen stares off.

  “I don’t understand?” Morgan asks. He glances over his shoulder to follow Jensen’s eye line, all there is is a canvas of black. Yet this old man is staring and smiling into the nothing.

  Opium peels away the scales between this world and the next, and once that veil lifts, dreams can become reality, prophecy. Jensen stares into the black, and William Grace is stood there, smiling, like when they first met. He's soft, angelic; the old war-horse feels a wellspring of joy. Jensen raises a hand. Morgan watches on, now he’s worried.

  Jensen leans over and offers Morgan the pipe. He refuses.

  “Just tryin’ to help… There’s two more of you’se . Those that road North… …Where they headed?’

  Jensen offers the pipe to Clyde as he talks to Morgan, Clyde’s draw is getting weaker.

  “If I tell, you can let me go. I will not say nothing... to no one. Not say you're crazy, or... That you... Are you going to kill us?" Morgan can just feel Jensen's blank stare bore through him. “Ok, they’re headed to Johnson City. Do you know Johnson City?”

  Jensen’s blank stare becomes filled with memories, the opium haze keeps him numb.

  “Yeah, I knew it once.”

  The silence of the night and between the men is a backdrop to nature's gentle chorus. Jensen looks to the sky; shattered pearls on celestial black. His dream state allows his attention to comprehend the magnitude of its beauty.

  A gentle calling of his consciousness snaps him back to why he's here. Jensen stands up, slides out his Colt, checks the cartridges, it’s all good. He talks to Morgan as Clyde isn’t listening.

  “Your friend there. I'm going to leave him to meet his maker in his own time, natural like. But I'll be fair, in a manner, you seems reasonable." Jensen is waving his Colt around to in rhythm to him talking. "But the crux of all this, hoopla. This chasing and killing is… I got to take from you. Cause you and your friends took from me."

  “Took, took what?” Morgan is petrified.

  “Peace.”

  "We had an agreement; I bargained with ya."

  Jensen gets on with business. “If you be a God feared man, you best be asking forgiveness. Cause that's something I'm all out of… You got thirty seconds."

  Jensen cocks his hammer with a resounding click, ready to ignite and shoot. Morgan hangs his head, half praying, half thinking of a way to talk himself out of this.

  "Dear Lord. Please forgive me, Morgan Sandhill Lewis from Missouri. Jesus, I ain't sure on what's a man is s'p'osed to be asking, or even why I'm here-”

  “-Wait.” Jensen stops proceedings. Morgan squeezes his eyes closed, pressing tears out, he’s ready for the slip into the abyss. “Sandhill-Lewis, you related to Moses Sandhill, ol’ four fingers Moses, by River’s Clutch?”

  “Yea, yes, he’s my cousin, on my Pa’s side. Got three fingers now.”

  Jensen leans against the ravine he lowers his pistol as he dances with nostalgia. Jensen probes further.

  “Critter trapper?”

  “Yea, great tracker, but couldn’t catch a hibernating two legged prairie dog. Could tell you where it was and what it had for breakfast a season ago.” Morgan gushes with hope. They have a common thread.

  “Was your cousin that taught me how to track, hunt, live off the land and such. I reckon he saved my life once. A grizzly, I were ‘bout your age." Jensen rolls up a sleeve to show a large scar running down his arm.

  “Hell o’ a scar.” Morgan’s impressed, and he feels like they’re connecting.

  There’s moment of silence. Morgan smiles at Jensen who smiles back.

  Jensen stands up straight and brushes himself down; he's very nonchalant

  “…Time’s up."

  Without thought, Jensen lifts his pistol, the barrel hogs Morgan’s field of focus

  BLAM-

  Morgan's lifeless shell rocks against the ravine wall, with his head whipping back from the shot, it cracks hard on the stone. What was Morgan, now slumps in drunken pose, with a slack jaw. Jensen holsters his pistol and moves back to the saddle.

  Jensen turns to Clyde.

  “You’re awful quiet.” He places his boot on Clyde’s hip and shoves him.

  Thump - his lifeless body sags to the floor.

  Jensen has himself a shot of whiskey and grabs the pipe.

  He glances to Clyde.

  “Fella, you dead?” He draws on the pipe, a wash of numb cascades over him. “Well if you ain’t, you’ll have to ‘scuse me. But it’s your kind that pulled me back into killin’ again…” something twists inside. “I promised I wouldn’t… now it’s broke.” Jensen pulls out his Colt and BLAM - Clyde’s body jolts from impact.

  Jensen holds up the barrel of his pistol and watches as its recent heated exertion, leaves tendrils of smoke, wisping from the muzzle lip. The smoke intertwines on the black of the ravine's throat. Behind the smoke, in the smoke, and off the smoke… Is William.

  William looks beaten and bruised, as if fresh from death. Jensen stares on; his eyes become wet. William's wounds still seep blood.

  “Grace… are you real?”

  “More than anything.” William offers a solemn smile.

  “I don’t want to see you like this.”

  “But here I am Mister Jensen.”

  Jensen tussles with the moment… The words trigger feelings that labour his tongue.

  “Wh-Why did you do it, son?”

  William approaches "Cause; you told me not to be scared."

  Jensen breathes the hurt out. He tells William of his plans.

  "They've gone to Johnson City. I mean on going there… Make ‘em pay."

  "You should know Mister Hills; they're coming for you."

  “I, know Grace… I know.”

  William; a gaunt, sallow wraith, appears next to Jensen. He blasts cold through his marrow.

  “They’re here.”

  William points down the ravine to distant glowing will-o’-the-wisp lights, gently floating. Jensen knows they’re lanterns carried by riders. He didn’t know how many, yet he was sure as his gun was iron, that these men meant him harm. If he saw their lights, they must have spotted his fire.

  Jensen stands by his roan; he's checking the saddle. He strokes his hands down his roan’s legs, feeling for any knuckled muscles. She’s good, but she’s jumpy, something has spooked her.

  Jensen can hear something in the brush, moving with a cadence that sounds too quick, too quiet, to be human. His lingering opium haze, chased by the adrenaline kicking in, heightens his senses.

  The air is fresh in his nostrils.

  A dreamy billow of dark mist creeps from the brush.

  KAAAAA – a screeching raven bursts out from cover, in an explosion of feathers.

  Jensen snaps his pistol out its h
olster.

  That sound of rushing wind through the trees still strikes him. Jensen is unsure; he glances back to the rope bridge, the unwelcoming dark of the Savage Lands, where the earth whispers of a thousand tortured deaths… But he has an escape.

  Jensen hesitates, filled with uncertainty. He unsheathes his Bowie knife, which sits side-by-side with his drawn pistol, like jutting wolf fangs.

  He turns to the oncoming sound.

  …CRASH… A man’s outstretched silhouette, tears from the bush like the raven.

  He sails through the air, arms spread, hair fanned, all blackest of sable, except for the glint of metal in his hand.

  Jensen instinctively steps back, aims his pistol and BLAM – he knows he missed.

  The moving shadow glides across Jensen, the blade dances, and SLICE - margins Jensen’s face, he drops his gun.

  The pain, brewed with adrenaline keeps Jensen focused through the opium haze.

  The shadow spins, stabs.

  Blades connect to a sharp shrill, then SLASH - Jensen is cut again, pearled red droplets fly. THUD – A solid kick into Jensen’s chest sends him stumbling back.

  The shadow stops, there’s a distance between Jensen and this specter… Jensen’s vision clears, he sees the tattooed raven saddled on the face of Marujo. Jensen recognizes this creature from his dreams. Marujo is muscular, squat; he moves crab-like, he sways his head like a snake. His pitch eyes never leave Jensen, he slowly cuts ribbons of the air with his bloodied knife. It’s almost hypnotic.

  “Ant’jjhnii.” Jensen is unsure what the Indian said.

  Jensen backs up, dabs his face, still raw to the nerve. Jensen and Marujo in silent agreement start to circle each other.

  Jensen knows the others are not far behind, but this is to the death.

  “I dreamt about you, demon. Thought I’d be scared if we met.” Jensen waves his blade. “I ain’t”… and with that, the circling stops.

  Their eyes locked, their intent aligned, and once again in silent agreement, they charge each other.

  Jensen lunges, his Bowie’s blade cleaves the air, Marujo rolls under it.