The Hispanic furrows a frown, he doesn’t understand.
“That was a waste.”
Jensen tightens his fleshy hand into a hard bony fist, CRACK - The Hispanic’s head snaps back, and he slumps into the numbed state. Jensen takes the Hispanic’s pistols and hurls them into the corn field.
Four half-drunk Commancheros sit or stand in a dishevelled farmhouse. Cupboards have been emptied, plates and pots are strewn on the floor, there’s stale bread, booze, and a half a cooked chicken; it’s a putrid breeding ground.
They will no doubt move on days after the drink has dried up and their heads have cleared, yet for now, they remain.
Each of them is dazzled by the daylight that accompanies the crashing open of the door. It takes a moment to realise that the figure in the doorway, enveloped by corona is not their friend. As their eyes adjust to the stabbing crown of light, they see two pistol barrels settle upon them. They, by instinct, reach for their guns.
“Ah, ah, ah… Play nice and I will.” Jensen walks into the room. “You. Speak. English?”
Three of the bandits look to Benito.
Benito responds in a thick accent.
“Hombre… What are you doing in our home?"
“I’ve come to an understanding that, this is not you home.”
“We found it… empty.”
"I know your kind, since the Comanche pressed into reservation territory, you ain't got no one left to trade with." The very name Comanchero comes from the trading primarily with the Comanche; they composed of people from the frontiers villages of the northern and central New Mexico Territory.
Jensen continues “And so now, you’re left to hound good folk.”
"Listen, Amigo, the people here sold us horses that died; we needed to make that back."
“Right-… oh shit.” Jensen stops, his perception is snatched away, mouth involuntarily tightens, jaws clamp to each other.
He stumbles back.
Jensen feels the heat of the high noon sun in his belly, a fiery torment like a beast clawing its way out. He drops a pistol. His hand reaches down as if clutching a hand full of belly will dissuade it the pain.
It doesn’t.
Jensen still has one quivering pistol aimed at the four rough-necks. Their eyes glint as the table turns to their fortune. One speaks to another… Benito smiles at Jensen with counterfeit concern.
“Amigo, you don’t look so well.” Benito steps forward. Jensen raises his pistol, the last growl of a wounded lion, surrounded by hyenas.
“Let me help you.”
Jensen slips down the wall, pallid face wet from sweat… Jensen’s hand spazms, the pistol falls to the floor, Benito reacts… He launches himself at the pistol and boots it away.
Benito stands over Jensen.
Jensen barely notices as he feels he's being dragged over a field of searing pain.
A Comanchero quips to Benito as he pulls his finger up his centre as if to gut Jensen like a tied hog. Benito waves him down. Benito boots Jensen in the gut WHOP –
“Does that make it… better?”
Benito squeezes Jensen's cheeks; he stares into Jensen's face, he seems to recognise Jensen.
“Where do I know you from?” Benito thrust Jensen to the floor. "I know…"
Jensen slips to the floor, his face pressed against the wood, he's in a bubble of oblivion. Benito stands above him, and SMACKS- Jensen across his cheek. He speaks in Spanish to his cohorts. There's a sense of celebration about them as if they have struck gold.
Benito stops, he stands back away from the fallen old man. Out of the rim of Jensen's view, he sees the cause; Mazy is stood in the doorway with a pistol swaying and barrel sweeping across all the Comancheros.
“Leave him alone,” She strikes a defiant chord. It’s only her outer courage that stays the bandits advance. Inside she’s a riot of angst, waring with daring.
Jensen punches out the words. “Go… get.”
“Mister Hills, I’ll wait here till your vigour returns.”
A Comanchero edges his way closer to Mazy. She snaps to them.
"Don't fret Bear, I'll land a slug in 'em before they lay hands on you."
The Comancheros glance to each other, they strike a silent accord, and in unison lunge for the pistol wielding girl.
Mazy is quick decisive -BLAM- the recoil knocks her back.
The Comanchero next to Benito jolts, as if kicked by a mule, his flesh flowers in red, as innards spill, and the slug plunges deep.
Mazy staggers to standing, to be forcefully shunted to the floor.
The shot Comanchero swears in Spanish; it’s pandemonium.
Jensen sees Mazy lying next to him, as buckskin boots march about, and voices are deciding what happens next. Their eyes connect, she looks scared. The blanket of black that comes with the pain envelops Jensen. He feels as if he’s falling into an onyx ocean. Like a drowning man, he feels himself reaching out to Mazy… But it's too late… There's no action, no thoughts, there's… Nothingness…. …Then… The black.
38
IN THE MIDDLE of the golden expanse, moated by its reach to the horizon, is a town… A place known as Johnston City… From any frame of reference, it's hard to see this place called Johnston as a city. But it got the name mores in the ways of what was hoped for than realised.
This town seemed underpopulated as if its heyday was a fading recollection. It was the Bleeding of Kansas a violent border war involving the ‘Free-Staters’ and ‘Border Ruffians,' from 1854 to 61, that led to the demise of Johnston City. The Great War between the Union and Confederates also hindered the town’s expansion.
A lone rider passages across the golden brown, towards Johnston City.
Benito rides with a mile eating gallop up the main and only street… Past the saloon, filled with whores and drunks, past a half shelved store to the dilapidated sheriff's office. He dismounts, hitches his horse and strides with purpose.
Mounted on the Sheriff's office is a board, nailed to the board are various wanted posters, some faded, some new, no doubt some of the occupants of the board are dead, while others are still running wild. Benito snatches at one poster… It's fresh, and has a rough drawing of Jensen, with a $5000 reward. He mutters words of self-congratulation. Another image catches Benito's eye, he peels away the layers and snatches the old faded poster from the board. There's a similarity between the pictures, one is Jensen as he is now, and one is Jensen years past. The old poster that seems to be left for nostalgia is of the Johnston City Butcher.
39
THE RESIDUE OF BOOZE and smoke radiates from the saloon as its pungent essence. Sat in the cloud of smoke, bathed in the stench of whiskey sit: Beau Dunston, Tyler Devon, Bedford Tannon, Robert Devon, Robert’s captain. They and their men are sat, or stood around an oak and felt card table. Other Bounty hunters and Marshals are in the saloon. Beau Dunston has a bravado about him.
“Well Devon, I think it’s only fair we give the Butcher two more days to arrive, before we can move on with business.”
Robert Devon, is losing patience with Dunston. “Our deal will carry through, when I see his dead body myself, and if he isn’t dead. I want him alive.”
Beau Dunston turns to the men in the saloon. “After you men help me capture the Johnston City Butcher, I’ll turn this dirt water squalor into the prosperous city it were meant for."
Alcohol soaked cheers meet this declaration; Beau turns to embrace the applause. Tyler stares at the back of Beau’s head. He has a particular disdain for the Colonel. Tyler always acted cocksure from insecurities, yet for Colonel Beau Dunston, this was no act. He was cocksure as they come.
Robert Devon stoicism is a veneer to his anger.
"Let's get on with the game Dunston."
Dunston slowly turns back to the table; he picks up his cards and stares at Robert. Robert Devon doesn't look to his cards; he just matches Dunston's stare.
Beau breaks the silence, but not the stare.
“Robert,
Robert, Robert. I knows you’re on the bluff.” He turns to Tyler. “You can see it in a man’s eyes. When they’re scared.” Tyler looks away from Dunston. “I’ve faced death more ti-“
“-Just play the damn game!” Robert snaps.
Tyler whips up some courage, by his father's response, and to show to his friend Bedford, that Devon's don't take shit from no one.
“Dunston, shouldn’t your man, Daniels, have rendezvoused with us by now? I do hear you veterans can lose it at any given moment… Perhaps the glory days of all that slaughter has been caughting up with him. All those women and children he so bravely killed.” Tyler can see a flare of anger behind Beau Dunston’s smile. “Or perhaps the Butcher got to him.” Tyler decides to step it up. “How many Native women did you force your seed upon?... I hear you’ve sired more braves than you’ve slaughtered.” Tyler and Bedford chuckle. Beau’s had enough; his steely cold stare fixes on Tyler. Yet Beau's words are aimed at Robert.
"Devon you should teach your boy some history. Then maybe he'd comprehend, it's people like me that carve out a society fit for him to live in… If he steps outta line again… I’ll have him roped and drawn up main street, buck naked.”
Tyler gives Dunston a riveted glare of hostile intent, the kind of look a man gives when his next breath accompanies violent enterprise. It's a look Beau Dunston has seen before; it's a look he's given before… The last look he gave his father.
The turbulent stillness has everyone caught in its eddy.
The tourniquet of tension twists, till Tyler snaps…
…and snatches for his pistol.
Marujo, a spectre, slips from the shadows. His hands scoop Tyler thrusting him, and his chair to the saw dust floor.
Bedford, next to Tyler, reaches for his pistol, he instinctively freezes as the cold, sharp metal of Marujo’s blade kisses his throaty flesh.
Tyler still on the floor looks to Robert.
“Pa, say something.”
Beau Dunston and Robert Devon, the two most notable figures in the room, take a moment, and as soon as Robert Begins to talk… The Saloon doors crash open, as Deputy Ford rushes in, this is the spark in a powder keg.
Pistols snap from their holsters to the door.
Deputy Ford, barely in his twenties, raises his hands, he mumbles a silent prayer. Without lowering their pistols Dunston barks.
“Come on boy. Speak!”
Deputy Ford stutters “W-we g-got him.”
Marujo removes his blade from Bedford’s neck.
Marujo once again feels the flames that have caressed the side of his face. He senses the pump of adrenaline, as each breath feeds the desire in his belly. His thousand-yard stare seems to peer into eternity. Before the day is through, Jensen Hills’ soul will be ripped from him.
40
IN THE BLACK… there’s a swirling of consciousness with an undercurrent of awareness.
Jensen's eyes slip from the cover of their lids. The black of unconsciousness trades its state for the dazzling daylight of awareness. Jensen slowly lifts his head; he feels his back pressed against something solid, he's sat on the ground.
Slowly he accumulates, the where's and what's… Jensen feels his arms stretched out to his sides. He tries to move them; there's a gentle rattling of iron on iron.
As quickly as Jensen fell into the black, he now fully emerges from that numb pleasure. He becomes acutely aware of where he is; he glances across from arm to arm, they’re crucified out wide, chained and trussed to the wheels of the upturned wagon. Jensen is leaning against the wagon’s underbelly, with his behind on the ground.
Jensen is trapped, he looks out to the pastures, his back to the farmhouse. He has one thought.
“Mazy, Mazy!” He tries to crane his neck… "Hey, Kid!" As if two alpine yodellers calling to each other, she answers.
“Bear. Ya okay!?”
Outside the Farmhouse and watched over by the three remaining Comancheros, sits Mazy. Next to her, Louis, next to him, the rest of their companions: Joseph Joseph, Lyn, Running Cloud, Little Sparrow. One Comanchero still has lead in his belly; he's rested up against the outhouse. The Comancheros notice Little Sparrows handsome lines, her tight figure – But Benito gave strict instructions to leave the others unhurt, untouched, as the sheriff may not take to kindly to raped woman, and brutalised folk. There’s a reward at hand.
Mazy stands, to project her voice.
“They got us under gun. Huh-,” she's shoved to the ground. “One of them went to town, something about a sheriff.”
Jensen pulls on his restraints… He stumbles to standing and yanks the chains. He braces a foot against the underside of the wagon and thrusts out, he groans, wood creaks, but the chain holds fast.
He slumps back down.
Jensen knows Tyler Devon and his friend Bedford had rode on up to Johnston City, at least that’s what that kid, Morgan had told him, the kid he killed. Jensen stares off into the distance as his mind roams through his recent memories, for the first time he weighs up his feelings about the four young men he recently gunned down. Of all the people that Jensen had sent on their way, they were perhaps the most innocent. A resolve washes over him, those innocents, unwitting or no, were guilty of the killing of a young boy. His mind inclines to William Grace, his friend. Mazy too has shown Jensen the kind of kinship he missed. Jensen stops.
Is it possible Dunston has trailed him up here?
He calls out.
“Kid if you get a chance, just get the hell out of here, when these men arrive, that’ll be your chance!”
Mazy ‘s nod is unseen by Jensen; she turns to her father.
"They'll kill him, Papa." Louis slips a comforting arm around her. He motions to speak but has nothing to say.
The Comancheros leer at Little Sparrow, their focus is no longer on the others, or even Jensen, primal drives are now in control. Running Cloud is all too aware of the situation. He mutters to the others.
“Be prepared; our enemy are about to expose their underbelly."
41
MANY THOUGHTS race across Benito’s mind, but there’s one that predominated all others.
Will these strangers he’s riding with want some of the reward for the Butcher?
The Sheriff assured him they only want to see this vagabond dead. Is it possible they'll only send them on their way after the deed is done? Benito is used to a third class citizen, treatment. That's why his people traded with the Comanche, it may have been dicey, yet they were not as treacherous as the white folk who poured down from the North.
Benito glances to his side, there was the tall man, a soldier, with what looked like a duelling scar partitioning his face. They called him the Colonel; he seemed in charge, he shouted, boasted and lead the way. Benito had seen men like him before, men who had been brought up to be expectant of life, a sense of entitlement. Benito understood that what he had a hard time comprehending was this cold sweep that stroked his left side, a presence.
He glances to his left, and there was that native, squat, muscular with a fresh scar across his raven painted face. Benito was rarely scared of any man, but this man draped in dark raiment, glances at him with a blackish slant, and Benito knew, that cold he felt, was fear.
The Farmhouse is just moments away, getting away from this native and filling his pockets is all that concerns Benito now.
42
LITTLE SPARROW had become accustomed to the attention she elicits from men, she understood these moments. One Comanchero in-particular had basal designs on her; he stands above Little Sparrow his eyes brim with lustful intentions. She slowly looks up at him, she stoic, calm. Her look isn’t inviting, yet it’s not challenging either.
Mazy feels differently.
“Leave her alone!”
Louis gestures for her to quieten down.
Mazy notices Running Cloud, Louis and Joesph Joseph sharing looks that have a language only intimate friends acquire. She knows something’s up.
She calms down.
>
There’s an argument brewing between the Comancheros, either they don’t want their companion to molest Little Sparrow, or they wish to go first, it’s difficult to tell. After gun waving, shoving and the like, the lust filled Comanchero makes his way over to Little Sparrow. He glances back to his companions, who remain quiet, they’ve seen and participated in this before.
The Comanchero’s face is close to Little Sparrow’s; she can smell the thick stench of his fetid breath. He snatches her head forward, for the first time she resists.
He pulls back.
He smiles. He laps his moist tongue across Sparrow's cheek, she shudders.
She glances to her father; Running Cloud has moved his hand to his boot. He nods to her.
Little Sparrow moves her hand down to her boot, while her eyes engage the Comanchero.
She whispers, loud enough for the others to hear.
“Now.”
Louis snatches Mazy away, as Little Sparrow snatches a short, slight blade from her boot. She snatches the back of the Comanchero's head, as her other hand drives the small blade into his neck… She's splattered with red, from the spurting fissure in his artery.
BANG – His pistol, a plume of smoke, as turf next to her is churned up.
Running Cloud has also pulled out a blade; he throws it at the other Comancheros, it finds the flesh of a shoulder, the recipient fumbles his pistol.
Joseph Joseph snatches the bloody body off of Little Sparrow. He braces it against his arms like a meat shield, as he charges at the remaining Comancheros.
Jensen calls out “What’s happening!?”
The Comancheros unleash round after round into the on-coming muscle-man, each round violently nestles into their companions fading flesh. It crashes into them, sending them dirt bound. They scramble as they see this man of undiluted power bear down on them.
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