Redemption's Blood

by Chris G R Webb

  The days and the nights roll by; no one mentions the violence that took place in the camp. Nobody brings up ‘The Butcher,' or enquires about Jensen's history. Jensen thought that there would be unease, questions that need answers, but no. The caravan carries on, as though nothing happened. Maybe Jensen was the only one truly affected by it. His attention would be bound to the horizon, a nearby forest or trading post, for any possible hostiles that may follow. He would habitually maintain his weapons, always have them close by.

  Jensen was slightly on edge. He knew peace for him was always punctuated by blood, and as such, it was never really peace at all.

  Louis glances over to Jensen; he's sat next to him on the driver's seat. Jensen has his Winchester resting across his lap, as he peers into the night.

  “We’ll stop soon, make camp. You can rest then.” Louis mutters out loud.

  Jensen glances to Louis, then back out to the horizon.

  “I don’t need rest.”

  “We all need rest.”

  Jensen glances to Louis. They hold that momentary gaze, Jensen has a hardness about him, as though he’s put aside anything that will slow him, or cause him to hesitate.

  Jensen gazes back to the horizon.

  “Okay… well, I need rest." Louis quips.

  They go back to Louis driving and Jensen on watch.

  It doesn’t take long for Louis to start talking again.

  "By morning we'll be at my cousin's. From there you can do what you want. You're welcome to come and stay for some after you take care of your business in Johnston City."

  “Yea… once I take care of business.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I know.”

  “They could be waiting for you.”

  …

  “I know.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Jensen has no words; silence comes when there are too many things to say. Louis seems to understand, that this comes somewhere from deep inside of his new found friend. So deep that he has to act upon it, but he doesn’t know why.

  Jensen takes a deep breath, he begins to talk, as if the very action itself will help him come to an understanding.

  “I- I… It’s just something I have to do.” He breathes deep. “A friend of mine, the ones I’m after, they… They run him down.”

  He looks to his little friend. There’s no condemnation, or judgment in his eyes. He looks forward.

  “I see.”

  "-Bear come." Little Sparrow rides up beside the wagon.

  Jensen glances from Sparrow to Louis; the dwarf knows what’s coming.

  “Running Cloud.”

  Jensen hasn’t seen much of the man who saved his life, Little Sparrow's father. He typically kept to himself and Jensen was never the kind to intrude, he understood the need for solitariness.

  Jensen, he starts to clamber down off the wagon, and passes the Winchester to Louis, he takes it and gives advice.

  “Listen and speak truthfully, or say nothing at all.”

  Jensen nods.

  Jensen’s outside the back of Running Cloud’s wagon, loaded with a twisting trepidation; matching the moment's anxiety before the first draw of opium. He didn’t fear what was behind these doors; he only feared what it might reflect in him. His gnarled hands run over the knotted cedar wood of the wagon. It's musky, earthy scent reminded Jensen of a snowy mountain’s face, and how the fresh, clean air harried amongst the living timber, to bluster the scent for miles.

  Little Sparrow arrives to see Jensen captured in the moment, she sees he’s touching wood, wandering in memory.

  “Scent can claim memories for itself.”

  "Yeah, that it does." Jensen is still striding the passage of his history. He snaps to the present. "Cedar reminds me of the the Mountains of Kansas territory.”

  “Colorado.”

  Jensen looks to Little Sparrow; she’s reminded him of the changes that have taken place over the last decades, names, places, faces.

  “Yeah, Colorado… Kid, it seems like the older you get, the slower you get and the quicker life becomes.”

  Little Sparrow reaches up and opens the door, its hinges creak, like the branches pressed by mountains breath. Jensen smiles at the irony as his soft leather boots step up into the wagon.

  The wagon is its own moody, mysterious world, where bared possibilities become probabilities, and where probabilities, in turn, can become manifest. The walls, floor, and ceiling are lined by animal furs, with symbols and trinkets amongst them. Jensen looks to the floor where his fever broke, where he had a vision of death. It's a smoky atmosphere, Jensen stares into the pitch, he can't register anything. He must be alone, with that he sticks his finger in his ear and indignantly waggles it.

  “Welcome.” A rooted, whispered voice slips out from the behind the veil of black.

  It’s Running Cloud.

  A lantern flares to life revealing skin, like rust rock of the Mojave Desert, eyes sullen sunken, like sinking quick sand. A worn white, silken top hat, with feathers resting awkwardly on it.

  Jensen surreptitiously removes the finger from his ear, as naturally as possible.

  Running Cloud gestures for him to sit.

  Jensen lowers himself to his haunches.

  They both sit motionless for the moment. Running Cloud hands Jensen, a pipe; a long wooden stem, a stone bowl filled with burning embers. The pipe has decorative carvings, horsehair, and feathers. He nods to Jensen – take it.

  Jensen sups in the first burns of embers into his lungs, he holds it in deep, it burns to the bottom of his chest.

  Running Cloud brings the lantern and its hem of light, close to his face. It illuminates the craggy red skin, with tribal scars like harrowed heavy clay. The scars ride across a tattoo that rides high on Running Clouds left cheek, a small black raven; the same as Marujo.

  Next to it is a small tattoo of a Sparrow.

  At the Raven, Jensen coughs out the contents of his lungs, plumes of white clouds splutter out. Jensen passes the pipe back to Running Cloud.

  “Do you and I have a problem?” Jensen’s question hangs in the air.

  "You have problems Jensen Hills" Running Cloud states as matter of fact. "Many of them." Running Cloud draws on the pipe. “But, I am not one of them.”

  Running Cloud gaze sits on Jensen’s, as he touches the raven on his cheek.

  “I know you’ve seen this before. When the man you gunned down came, I knew. That man rides with U-ne-gv O-yo-hu-sa… White Death. The military man.”

  “Dunston.”

  Running Cloud strokes the Bisson’s head he’s sat by. As he gently caresses the fur, the dam of memories burst and comes flooding back. Running Cloud closes his eyes, as his theatre of dreams play out.

  "When my people would dance for the sacred life giver before the great ice winds came. He would answer the call of our pounding feet and beating drums and send the buffalo. As many as ancestors in the sky.”

  Jensen’s seen it once before, a tribe would gather in the plains, and their stamping feet and beating drums would call a sea of Bisson to thunder from the horizon. Jensen watches the old American Indian and sees a face that has witnessed history.

  Running Cloud continues.

  "Then I became a man, a Chief. We would dance and dance, the buffalo, no longer came."

  There’s a tinge of unforgotten pain in his words. Perhaps the pain bells from the knowledge that very few will remember how things were.

  “I went to the fields of life… there was only death.”

  Running Cloud glides his hands across an imaginary plain, filled with the rotting corpses of skinned buffalo, that's run crimson with their blood. Running Cloud can no longer spend time here; he opens his eyes.

  He passes Jensen the pipe.

  "The stench of death filled many tribes, and the buffalo were no more. Now the tribes are no more."

  Jensen understands loss, not on the magnitude of a society, or culture, yet loss reco
gnises its essence. Jensen apologises.

  “It’s our way, to take and keep taking without thought.”

  Running Cloud reveals the purpose of his story.

  “First the buffalo, then my people. Now, you’re the dying breed.”

  Jensen draws in deep on the pipe.

  “I’m dying alright.” Jensen coughs. “Your raven, I’ve seen it before, first in a dream, a nightmare, then on him.”

  Running Cloud nods impressed. “You dream weave?”

  “The China-man’s pipe.”

  "Strong medicine." Running cloud continues. "When I was in the spring of my time, our tribe prayed to the Great Spirit and burning flame to deliver a blessing upon us… A boy was born… But his body was still, cold from Sun to Moon, like untouched snow."

  Running Cloud can almost see the baby cradled in his arms.

  “His spirit walked and in its place came many spirits. He became Marujo.

  Marujo squats examining the earth, he’s in the middle of a street, he’s in Johnson City. He turns as if someone has called his name. Colonel Dunston, Robert, and their posse wait for direction from their tracker.

  Marujo slowly stands and points to a Saloon.

  CRASH – A saloon bedroom door is kicked open – Robert enters with his Captain.

  In bed is Tyler who's just been interrupted from frolicking with a young woman. Robert grabs Tyler and drags him out of bed. The room clears, and Marujo enters. He glances to the female in the bed; there's no lust or desire in his empty stares.

  She senses his animal aura and promptly leaves.

  Marujo walks to the window.

  Marujo’s dark eyes stare out across the streets, beyond the town’s edge and further. Out there is the prey he wants so badly. He reaches up and touches the burn mark on his face. The mark that Jensen left.

  Running Cloud creaks with emotion.

  “He rides with the White Devil… Dunston… Marujo lives for the hunt. We believe the Great Spirit is in all, like The Sun through raindrops. Marujo believes when he kills another, their spirit will strengthen his. Your body attests to your soul. He wants that and all those you have claimed."

  Running Cloud, with a tinge of pride, riddled with shame and bound in regret, reveals what Jensen already now knows.

  “Marujo is my son. You must stop him, only when he’s no more can my tribe be lifted from the curse of bearing him.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  Through the haze of smoke, they stare across to each other.

  Running Cloud emphasises his point.

  “You must.”

  “I’ve a little life, less each day. I don’t have time. I must right those wrongs that I ride for. To take from those who took.”

  “Before you find peace, or make the wrongs, right. Before that, he will stand in before you. Marujo’s coming, he always does.”

  They both sit in a silent union, that becomes their meditative solitude. Jensen weighs up the words they've shared. He understands that the symbols on Running Clouds cheek represent, Marujo, his son, and Sparrow, his daughter.

  Little Sparrow enters the quiet remains. She sits in the smoke between her father and Jensen. After a while, she breaks the wordless void.

  “Bear, this Devil Colonel, does he have a marking across his face?” Little Sparrow traces her finger across her face. “Like so. A carving?”

  Running Cloud speaks in his native tongue to his daughter. Jensen understands the context, yet not the content of the words.

  “Sparrow, forget your pain, our pain. Your father and mother have forgiven you, now forgive yourself.”

  Sparrow ignores her father and keeps her gaze fixed on Jensen.

  Jensen feels obliged to answer.

  “Yes, he does.”

  He feels it's best not to pursue why he passes Sparrow the pipe.

  She smokes, the three of them slip back to silence.

  Little Sparrow burps.

  “O’ listen, the Great Spirit speaks.” Running Cloud’s joke snaps all three from their internal vistas into the present.

  Each of them smiles.

  They glance at each other.

  Then glance back into nothing.

  37

  MAIZE IS ON THE TURN, the flourish of their crowning silk is shifting to dust bronze, the shade before brown. The sweetness of each kernel is turning to a starchy sour.

  The dent corn stands in combed rows, like browning lines on green parchment that flurry in the wind. The corn has been ripe for the picking for days now, yet there's no one here to claim the bounty.

  The corn plants come to an abrupt end, forming an eight-foot-high thick wall of vegetation. On the borders of its field is a hollow of land, where a wood and stone farm house sits in a patch of green grass. Next to the farm house is an outhouse, and a small shed. Though it looks unoccupied, the farm house has little wisps of smoke, and five horses penned outside.

  From a distance, Louis drives his wagon to the farm house, in expectant happiness that he will soon be with Isaac, his cousin, Isaac’s wife Frances and their new born, who he hadn’t met yet. He understood the child would be called Nathan if a boy, or Matilda if not. The pleasant expectation is cast under the shadow of curious concern as they close in on the property.

  The wagon-train is wheeling down a twisting road towards the farmhouse, there’s nothing else in view, just waves of green rolling behind them.

  Louis reaches his hand out and touches Jensen’s forearm.

  “Something is… not right.”

  Louis and Jensen share a weighted glance.

  "Stop the wagon," Jensen responds.

  Jensen leans out the side of the wagon and waves for everybody to slow down.

  Louis and Jensen look over the farm; Louis reveals his fears.

  "Isaac would never leave corn to turn; it should have been harvested weeks ago."

  “Yet there are five horses reined up," Jensen observes.

  “Exactly.”

  “Could he have sold the farm, moved on?”

  “Unlikely, but possible… he was having trouble with some bandits, but he’s a stubborn cuss.”

  “Right.” Jensen’s suspicious.

  Jensen slips from the wagon, as a pistol slips from his holster, two more pistols are tucked into his belt.

  Joseph Joseph stands next to Louis. “Okay?”

  Louis nods then nods to the figure of Jensen gliding the outskirts of the farm, out of view.

  Mazy pops her head from the wagon; she's just finishing a delicious yawn.

  "Pa, we're here." She glances about, ‘Where's Bear?"

  Louis “Bear’s gone a hunting.”

  Mazy looks up to see Jensen, crouched nearing the farm house.

  She slips back into the wagon. She bites her lip; she's deep in conflicted thought… It takes her a moment to reach a resolution.

  Mazy ducks out the back of the Wagon. Her mind is set on helping Jensen; she's not sure how, yet it seems the right thing to do.

  Jensen is amongst the wall of corn, peering through the breaches between the stalks.

  Journeying from breach to breach comes a Black Man, walking from the farm house to the wooden outhouse.

  Jensen watches.

  After some mentation, Jensen decides upon a passage to the farmhouse.

  There’s a disused wagon, lurched on its side, and just beyond that, a seeming tool shed, and the next stop before the farm house is, the out-house.

  Jensen peels away the stems of the corn plants as he clambers his way to the edge of the enclosed terrain. Jensen emerges from the wall of leaves and stems, into the open, he remains still, his peripheral focus encompasses all, waiting for any sign of movement. Jensen breathes deepens, his focus contracts and he bolts for the tool shed.

  Mid-sprinting-stride…

  Jensen’s boot unwittingly collides with a resting hen, hidden in the long grass.

  WHOP - She relinquishes a shrilled squawk, then quickly retreats into some clustered cl
ucks of indignation.

  Jensen’s statue still, pistol in hand waiting for the repercussion in the form of a violent cascade. His breathing slows, the beating in his chest is an audible backdrop to the stillness of the farm. Jensen glances to the chicken, who lays a beady irate eye on him, they both turn and part their ways.

  “Stupid bird.”

  Jensen closes in on the tool shed; he wedges his hands between the misaligned boards.

  Jensen forces his ample girth into the through the gap.

  The shed is dank, with light breaching the loose slats, illuminating suspended specks; the residue of decay. Jensen’s focus darts from the outhouse as he takes in his immediate surroundings. Various tools hang, each wearing a layer of an oxidised pelt. Axe, spade, a bail hook… Strewn on the ground; critter traps, rusty locks and heavy chains.

  Jensen grabs hold of a Lantern; he sloshes its contents, there’s kerosene inside.

  Jensen hears the outhouse door being shoved open. He peers between the slats, the waft of musky wood fills his nostrils. The Black Man strolls to the farmhouse, as the farmhouse door opens and out stumbles a Hispanic, unwashed, in unkempt leathers, pistols tied to his waist with a sash. In his hand a bottle of whiskey he necks.

  Jensen grunts with disdain, "Comancheros."

  The two men bump shoulders to spin into a playful stand-off; laced with menace, as if two dogs were testing the threshold for dominance. Words and sneers are exchanged.

  The bottle swaps owners, as the Black Man carries it loosely back to the farmhouse.

  The Hispanic stumbles to the outhouse. He slams the door closed.

  He lets loose an involuntary groan and sits with his breeches concertinaed around his ankles.

  He grunts a few monosyllabic drunken words.

  SMACK – The door bursts open, and in its frame stands Jensen, pistol trained upon the sitting Hispanic. The Comanchero reaches for his gun and stops when Jensen cocks his hammer.

  “If you can shit forty-fours, go ahead.”