Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  Marujo spins past Jensen’s leg –SLICE- his freshly whetted blade, finds the flesh of Jensen’s thigh.

  Jensen lurches, knowing his nemesis is behind him, he snap-spins, blade leading the twirl –WHOOSSH – He misses.

  Marujo lands a kick, crunching into Jensen’s thigh.

  Jensen stumbles and falls back; his body crashes by the camp fire his Bowie knife skids away from his grip.

  Jensen’s face is lite by the orange hue of the angry fire; he hears Marujo behind him grunt, as if to say – that was easy.

  Jensen rolls onto his back, reaches for the pistol across his side.

  Marujo is too quick, he leaps onto Jensen, colliding with his mass, ramming his knee across Jensen’s arm, pinning it to the body.

  The Indian’s fingers are like talons around Jensen’s throat.

  This is the last of Jensen’s breath, as his wind pipe closes.

  Marujo moves closer to Jensen, face to face, Marujo sniffs Jensen’s aura. He sits back up with a self-satisfied scowl. Flips the knife in one hand, it's now a fang ready to stab down into soft, yielding flesh.

  Jensen's faced death before; he recognises its countenance, one that strikes the fear into men, when the fear strikes, men die. The trick is when death comes calling, is to not listen to the song.

  Jensen feels the heat from the fire; he knows he has one choice, he has to time it right. Marujo, with blade ready to arc down, smiles at Jensen and flexes for the the final strike.

  Jensen’s free hand reaches up, snatches at a branch in the fire and brings its raging shaft across Marujo’s face.

  The sweet sound of sizzling skin, as Marujo's flesh sears, flesh warps under the yoke of heat. Marujo stumbles back, knocking the flaming branch aside. Jensen rolls out the way, in the same fluid move he unholsters his pistol and ceases his roll with gun-arm honed on Marujo.

  Marujo has vanished.

  Adrenaline is still the primer. Jensen staggers to standing, holsters his pistol, grabs his other pistol, and Bowie.

  He briefly gazes at his hand, its trembling. The Indian spooked him, and the concoction of hormones and drugs in his blood has him wound up tight, the aftershock of it all is a blow to his soul.

  The sound of rolling hooves approach, the calls of men can be heard; they're smelling the blood of their game.

  Jensen snatches his roan's reins… And runs.

  He uses his internal dissonance, to fuel each stride, to pound every beat. He drags the horse across the rope bridge. He has a focus, a purpose to which to align.

  “Come on girl.” He encourages.

  Behind Jensen, the throat of the ravine spews riders out from the shadows, first the Colonel, then Robert Devon, Daniels, the Captain and the remaining posse.

  “CUT LOOSE.” Beau Dunston rides hard. “Yonder rope bridge.”

  Pistols and rifles unsheathe, poised for the killing.

  “Fire!” commands the Colonel.

  He feels the thrill of pursuit, the moment before the slaying. Perhaps the greatest excitement that resides in the chest is just before the kill.

  Each and every weapon speaks – BOOM – BANG – CRACK.

  Jensen knows not to look back; there's no point. His focus is on getting across the bridge, to ignore the burning of exertion that staggers his stride, or the incapacity of his lungs to eat up oxygen.

  He may be slowing, but he won't stop moving.

  The sound of gunshot.

  The familiar whizz of bullets ripping air.

  Wood splinters, ropes are grazed, the earth in the pocket of clearing chews up lead.

  SNAP a supporting rope frays, the bridge yaws, Jensen stumbles, he reaches out and holds on, his roan his spooked.

  The Colonel reaches the start of the bridge, he stops and signals for everybody to wait.

  "Hold ya, fire."

  Robert Devon is livid. “What you waiting for Dunston?”

  The Colonel calmly pulls out a long rifle, efficient in design and slick.

  He opens a pouch on his side and slides in a round as long as a finger, and with the crank of a lever, it's loaded.

  "This is an Enfield Martini Henry; I have to import the .557 snider cartridge, especially." Beau shoulders the rifle squints down the iron sites to the bead at the end of the barrel. “Used this beast to kill the last buffalo on the Silver Creek Plains." He guides the bead to land on Jensen; it's a tight shot as the roan is in line. "That kill was four hundred yards fifty yards, maybe five.”

  Jensen falls into line with the bead; the Colonel raises the barrel four inches above the figure of Jensen.

  A throaty, hollow - KA-BOOM – with puking flames and spewing smoke.

  The rifle slams into the shoulder of the Colonel and the barrel arcs to the sky, in salutation to its leaded load’s release.

  The heated slug passages across the bridge, splitting the air till THWACK, flesh ripples like water, explodes like a volcano, erupting tissue and claret.

  In concert with the Colonel, Jensen feels the slam of the slug CRACK into his upper left back; he's bodily flung to the ground, bouncing off the last slat of the rope bridge to the rim off dirt that leads to the clearing.

  The roan walks into the clearing, past Jensen’s motionless mass.

  The Colonel slides the warm barrel of his rifle back into its saddle holster.

  He bears a self-satisfied smirk. He takes off his wide brimmed, felt, slouch hat. He dusts it down.

  “He’s for sure dead. I’ve witnessed a round like that relieve a negro of his own head. Sheered clean off.” He calls to the posse. “Go get ‘em boys.”

  Two of Robert's men and a Pinkerton walk across the bridge; they have pistols ready just in case.

  The Colonel slips his head inside the slouch hat, and chin strap.

  "Right Devon, you say your boy's gone to Johnson City, it seems he's now safe, and we're back to being partners."

  Robert Devon is relieved and angered in the same sweep; he can't help but despise Dunston.

  “So it seems Dunston.”

  Dunston, Devon, The Captain and Gill Tunstall watch the men cross the bridge.

  Marujo steps out behind them, his face with a patch of twisted flesh, a brand from his encounter with Jensen.

  Marujo mutters a warning.

  “Nah-I gv-no-dv.”

  The Colonel looks sharply to Daniels; he processes the translation.

  Daniels seems bewildered. “He says Hills ain’t dead, sir.”

  The Colonel has learned to take his Indian tracker seriously.

  Robert grabs the Colonel’s arm.

  “He can’t be.”

  Jensen, face indenting dirt, would be out cold if it weren't for the searing heat that ripples from his back. The roan sniffs at Jensen's head. With the flowing of relentless pain, and fatigue kicking to the fore, Jensen struggles to turn his mass onto his back. The earth presses against the open wound, Jensen lets out a whelp and is staggered of breath. He draws out a Colt, loads the hammer, and uses two hands to aim.

  The Colonel calls out to the men.

  “Get back.”

  The men turn to look at the Colonel, then each other, they’re momentarily confused.

  “Run” beseeches the Colonel.

  Jensen aims at the rope bridge, if he can just hit the knuckle of rope, attached to the wood, it’ll cut him off from everything else.

  BLAM – wood splinters.

  The men on the bridge understand what’s happening, they start to run back to the Colonel.

  Jensen grits his teeth, his very breath stabs into his back and washes through the rest of his body. He bends his leg and rests his arms across his inner thigh.

  BLAM - He has the knowing.

  The taut supporting rope carries the load of wood, more rope and three men bounding across its stretch.

  The .45 bullet thumps hard, the delicate balance of forces yield to this new phenomenon.

  The rope instantly unravels, as the twisted layers of strands, cut to yarns and
snap to fibres, the last of the latent energy keeping everything taut is released into the ether.

  The cascade continues along the length of the bridge.

  It pitches, yaws and snaps.

  The night light silhouettes the expanse of collapsing bridge, the BLAM from Jensen’s pistol resonates down to the water, over the Colonel and across through the throat of the ravine.

  The bridge buckles and submits to gravity.

  The men in synchronised course fall also; wailing as they plummet to the crashing water below.

  The Colonel stares on in a screaming silence.

  Next to him, Robert Devon is transfixed in horror.

  Behind them, Marujo grunts, he grins to himself as he leaves.

  Daniels looks from Marujo to the Colonel; he notices the vexed blood coursing through Dunston's veins as he neck pulsates in pent up fury.

  Robert turns to the Colonel, half happy to see the failure of his nemesis, half in open surprise.

  “He’s still alive.”

  The Colonel feels disgust pitted against disgrace; he ignores Robert and peels away.

  One by one, they follow the Colonel, they now have to regroup and remold their plan.

  Jensen, supine, stares up at the twinkling stars, his body doesn’t seem like his own, he’s detached aware of the peripheral of existence.

  He hears the walking of footsteps; he glances to his left, he sees a woman's bare porcelain feet standing next to him. Jensen looks up the figure’s fine legs, over her white dress, splashed with a deep red blood stain, a soft hand strokes his face.

  This vision is like a whisper through time. The woman’s voice carries softly.

  “I forgive you.”

  Jensen looks away.

  He feels this, more than the stabbing, the cutting, the burning bullet that’s lodged in his sinew. He feels pain. His eyes well and tears of sorrow burst free.

  Then… THUMP, the thud of pain, snaps him back.

  His focus is brought back to the centre. He glances over to where the woman was, in the trees, hanging with the other symbols is a dirty white dress, with red stain. A warning to people that none are safe.

  Jensen pushes the floor away from him; he gets to a knee, then to a foot. The roan is near. He rests upon her to clamber to standing. Jensen’s boots scrape through the earth. Jensen and the roan stand on the edge of the nether world; a gateway from which he may never return.

  He reaches out and touches a trinket hanging from a tree; a carved eye, sprouting feathers.

  Hanging bones chime, there’s the smell of rotten flesh and decay.

  With no place to go but hell, he moves onwards.

  Blood stained, battered, he felt better when he thought he was dead.

  Jensen guides his roan into the savage lands.

  Shadows within shadows, trees within trees engulf their frames.

  They’re swallowed by the black.

  31

  IT’S THAT DARK ORANGE where the night inherits the day. The posse rides out of the maws of the ravine, carrying two corpses that were slew by the old pig farmer.

  Colonel Dunston leads, inwardly seething, outwardly calm, though cracks are beginning to appear. Robert rides up next to him.

  "Deals off Dunston, Hills is still out there, and he'll be after Tyler."

  “Devon. Listen to yourself. Hills has been shot, stabbed, now he’s in the Savage Lands. No white man can get through there and live.” Dunston glances to Robert and decides to be more diplomatic. “But to show you how I value are soon to be partnership.”

  Dunston turns to Daniels and signals him over.

  Daniel rides up.

  "Daniels, take three men, travel round north of the Savage Lands. Just ‘case there's any sign of Hills. If you spot him, come and get us at Johnson City… Do not engage.”

  Daniels rides off and calls out.

  “Lester, Hopkins, Curly. Come with me.”

  Three Pinkertons ride off with Daniels.

  “I’m sticking with you Devon, cause once your son is safe, I’ve got something for you to sign.”

  The Colonel then rides on, as Devon slows.

  The Captain pulls up next to his boss, Devon. Robert trusts his Captain, he glances at him.

  “You ever think you been tricked by the Devil? … He shows you gold, and you go home carrying lead."

  The Captain also trusts Robert Devon.

  “Sir, do you mind if I speak my thoughts on this affair?”

  “That’s why I’m paying you.”

  "I lived near Johnston city and as far as I can recollect. Some folks say The Butcher was doing service in the army when his wife and child were killed at home... No one knew who did it, or the reasoning... But he rode on up to Johnston City and killed ny’on everybody. Then went crazed with loss and found refuge in mountain dwelling.”

  “Him or not, it makes no difference, he murdered decent folk, in these boys.”

  “Mister Robert, twenty-five years ago Johnston City was the start of the Kansas Bleed. Jayhawkers came to town killing all the Free Staters, led by some of the Coleman gang, an everybody from Virginia remembers what the Coleman gang did. Well, his wife musta been caught in the crossfire, an’ the Butcher took to taking and tracking down every Goddarn Jay Hawker and Free Stater a like. Not saying this Hills fella is him, you understand. Just thought you oughta know… In the Savage Lands, he's as good as dead anyhow.”

  Jensen is like a stumbling drunk grizzly, his hulking figure crashing through branches.

  He’s tired, pained, dirty and bloody.

  He leans against a tree; he rests his face against the pitted bark. The burning in his back is rawer, now that the opium is wearing thin. His roan follows, gently stepping over rocks and unsteady ground, finding her footing.

  Jensen reaches into the saddle bag; he plucks out Waylen Daly's elixir. He uncorks it and sniffs its pungent aroma. It's like he's socked in the nose, he pulls away from the offensive smell; it has liquor content. Jensen hoists the bottle and pours it over his shoulder, to douse the wound in this unknown liquid. The brown fluid laps down his back and washes over the open wound. Electric pain sears from the wound. It etches across Jensen’s face as nerve endings agitate in roused excitation.

  Jensen’s hand clutches at the tree bark; he grinds out a growl.

  Jensen breathes energy into his lungs as he decides to troop on, to where? He isn’t, sure.

  He comes across an ancient looking tree, with crooked branches, a twisted trunk, it looked like it is made of a thousand screaming faces. Dozens of snakes hang in the trees, some living, most dead. They sway and twist and hiss, trying to break free of their predicament.

  The roan becomes nervy, Jensen guides her past the tree, she struts up off the ground. Her mass knocks into Jensen, he slips and stumbles, his foot lands on a branch that rolls and flips his mass forward.

  The trajectory has Jensen tumble down a sharp incline.

  CRASH - Through thick cover, his hands and face are slashed by thorny barbs.

  WACK - Into a branch, which yields in a snap.

  BOUNCE – Off of dirt.

  He rolls.

  And rolls.

  Till.

  SPLASH - His mass breaks into a stream’s bank, thinly running over stones.

  The cold lapping waves caress him in one moment, to splash and mock him the next. Jensen sees his blood mix in the water, as clouds of flowering liquid flourish red downstream.

  Jensen didn’t know how long he laid for, a day, a week, or had he just arrived?

  Time had no consequence, or value, on the edges of death. First, his roan dips her mouth into the water, and either an hour or an era later figures dismount on the edge of his vision.

  They walk upstream towards him.

  He could tell from their slender buck skin garb, low hanging rifles, and tassels to break up their silhouette, they were Comanche dog-soldiers, out on the hunt.

  Between his bouts of fading black and awareness, the Comanche st
alk him, when they realize this isn't at a trap they run up the stream. Even in the black Jensen can hear their splashing feet, crash towards him. He feels the thump of a foot connect with his side; he doesn't respond, just absorbs the blow. He hears the chatter of a tongue he doesn’t know. When the Comanche were satisfied that Jensen was half straddling this world and the nether plains, they examined the roan. He could feel a tugging hand on his pistol.

  Then they stop.

  The chattering falls to the silence of the babbling river.

  In the distance are the feint sounds, of ungreased, metal rimmed wheels, slowly churning over stones.

  Jensen hears the Comanche splash their rapid exit.

  He fades from the black, to see two more people approach. A woman and an Old man, both Natives. He fades back into the sea of black, and this time he feels he shan’t return.

  Jensen hears whispers from the other world, the one where he used to play. Filled with splendour, colour, scent, sometimes tears, sometimes laughter. Patches of pain stitched with joy. That was then; now there was nothing, just a faded light in an ocean of black; in which he’s stranded. The whispers are more prominent.

  "He carries the curse of the battle." An old wise voice, thick, strong, with a hem of frailty.

  The next voice Jensen recognised. Little Sparrow, she was very matter of fact.

  “It doesn’t matter now; he's dying."

  32

  THE BACK OF THE WAGON is a cramp confine for its contents of four people. The fur covered walls and floors, made it seem more so. There’s a sense of the mystical at play. Incense sticks burned, chimes were ringing, the wagon occasionally jolts, as the wheels bounced on an unsteady road. The wagon is in transit.

  Jensen is laid out in the middle of the wagon, covered in a fur. Little Sparrow brushes burning sticks over him, to help heal his spirit. To his toe, a red tethered string that leads to a small hex bag, to ensure his astral form doesn’t leave his body. It also draws all his ailments into the animal gizzards and Hawthorne in the bag.