Southern Ouroboros

by Matt Kilby

  The old man shrugged.

  “You have the same choices,” he took his hand from John’s shoulder and walked in front of him. “You can go alone or with the army I just convinced to help you.”

  “But how did you do that?”

  “If I tell you and you don’t like it, will you go home?”

  Those wearing buffalo hides paid attention to how he answered, and he didn’t think it was for curiosity over the white man. They were ready to fight, tired of sitting cold and waiting. These were men who wouldn’t turn back when it came. He just needed to make sure it did.

  “Hell. I didn’t come here to freeze, but no one kills Arstrom but me.”

  “Whoever you point your gun at, no one will touch,” the bear promised.

  “Good,” Lester’s smile brightened. “That leaves the question of when.”

  “Now,” John stood. “Before this cold takes my nerve.”

  “My mind does not change so easy,” the bear said. “I doubt yours does either. We wait until morning and go rested with our minds prepared for blood. You are welcome to stay with us.”

  “We will,” Lester nodded deep. “Thank you.”

  “We will?” John glanced at him.

  “Tomorrow morning,” the old man squatted while the bear addressed his people, “you’re going to fight beside these men. Some will offer their lives in the name of your revenge. If it’s pride bothering you, swallow it. If fear, fear more for those soldiers.”

  “Fine,” John stood. “We’ll stay, but I’m going to need my things. What did they do with my horse?”

  A woman brought the animal, and John checked the saddle bags to make sure everything was there. Satisfied, he took the rifle to the fire and sat, checking the trigger and hammer, though the real question was the revolver on his hip. The officer had one too and would be better at it. If John had any chance, he had to shoot first and hope hate trued his aim.

  The bear and his warriors left John to make their own preparations. A bison was dragged into the middle of camp to be prepared for their supper, its throat cut to collect the blood into bowls, which were set aside to congeal. The men ate the organs raw, though the meat was skewered onto a spit brought to the fire to cook. John divided his attention between the ritual and the fire, wondering if he was expected to participate or if brooding was enough. He considered asking Lester but thought the old man might not stop talking once he started. So he stared into the fire, seeing the man with dark eyes and a viper’s smile. He imagined his face when he realized what was coming, understanding that moment of realization was when he needed to shoot. He played it in his head and again for good measure, stopping when the bear came to the fire with a girl who carried one of the bowls. She knelt at John’s feet and dipped a finger into the blood, drawing a line down the bridge of his nose and then over his cheeks. She took the bear’s instruction, painting John’s eyes and forehead. He waited until she was sent away before he looked at the smiling bear.

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think I’ll get near the fort looking like this.”

  “Blood will wash away, but the spirit who comes while you sleep will not leave as easy. It will help you fight the same as us. That is how we will win and how you will have the man you are hunting.”

  John looked at Lester, who nodded to say it was something to be endured.

  “In that case,” John forced a smile, “thank you.”

  The bear nodded. “Now we will go and summon our ancestors for war. I cannot allow you to come, as it is a sacred ritual to our tribe.”

  “I understand,” John said. “You have secrets and want to keep them. Saves me the trouble of saying no. I’m too tired to go wandering through the woods and need my rest for tomorrow. But if your ancestors come asking for a human sacrifice, old Lester there will do.”

  The bear laughed and patted John’s shoulder as he walked away. Lester shook his head with a smile that faded when they were alone.

  “After all my help,” the old man said, “you still don’t like me.”

  “Like has nothing to do with it, but I don’t trust you any more than when we started. You did something to make them help us.”

  “What do you think I did? Magic?”

  “I still don’t know why you’re helping me,” John ignored the question. “And I don’t buy that ‘fan of justice’ nonsense. You’re serving yourself in some way, and I’ll have that from you before this is over. As soon as this man is dead, it’ll be time for a real talk.”

  “Yes,” Lester met his eyes. “But until then, you were right when you said you needed rest. I’ve been told we can take our pick of the tepees. I’ll sit watch if you can trust me for that.”

  “Ain’t you tired too?” John asked as he stood.

  “Since the day I was born,” Lester said, “but right now I want to watch those women carve a pile of bison bones into weapons. Whatever your victory looks like tomorrow will come from the animal you’re wearing on your face.”

  “Good night then,” John started down the hill, aiming for the tent closest to where they tied his horse.

  “Good night,” the old man said behind him.

  Inside the shelter, the snow was scraped to the frozen ground though was better than bedding in a melting ditch. The dirt was hard, but not too cold with the buffalo hide around him. Still, he didn’t think he would sleep a second with the anticipation swirling in his head. He wouldn’t get the drop on Arstrom—definitely nothing like his brothers. He had to earn his revenge, and he blamed the cold for any doubt he would. He remembered how he felt at that first camp, shooting at a branch the same as a man. Then, the wound was fresh and his hate palpable, but now felt different. Head on the ground and eyes following the tepee’s skin walls, he couldn’t help thinking of the men who’d die tomorrow having nothing to do with what happened. They had families like he had his, but there was no way around the misery coming for their wives and mothers. They had to die because Arstrom did, and the only way to stop that was to go home. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And somehow within all that dread and worry he drifted to sleep, woken by Lester the next morning.

  “It’s time,” was all he said before crawling through the tepee’s flap. John sat up, stiff from the solid ground, but it didn’t slow him much. He checked his revolver one last time and joined his army outside.

  The men gathered in the center of camp, still bundled in buffalo robes, though now many wore their hair in mohawks propped by what appeared to be porcupine quills. Some added ash to the blood on their face, blackening their eyes to look half-dead as they pumped their legs and arms. Some struck each other in the chest with open palms and others danced in place with eyes closed. The bear passed among them like a general, nodding approval until he came to John.

  “Are you ready?” he called with a smile and closed the gap between them.

  “I thought so,” John said, “but your people make me wonder if I ever knew the word.”

  The bear bellowed as if drunk and clapped John’s shoulder. “Be ready to kill your man or the fire of the fight might for you.”

  John was working on a response when Lester took his elbow and pulled him away.

  “Time to ride,” he said as he led him to his horse.

  “I’m not sure about this anymore,” John said, his voice low. “Maybe there’s a better way. Something that won’t get other people killed.”

  “Too late for that,” Lester nodded to where the Indians were worked into a frenzy. “Now see it done so we can get out of this snow.”

  “Okay,” John started to turn, but the old man grabbed his arm again. He squatted for a handful of snow to rub over John’s face. He forgot about the blood and was glad someone remembered or his part in the fight would be over quick.

  “All set,” Lester said when he was done.

  “Thanks,” John stepped up into the saddle.

  “Just remember my help when this is over,” the old man said.

  “When we talk,”
John reminded him.

  “Indeed,” Lester turned to walk back to the waiting bear.

  John made sure his rifle was secure behind him and then stuck his heel into the horse’s side. The cold kept the animal slow, its wheezing breath making him doubt it would make the trip out of Kansas. If he got back to Pine Haven, he would tell Delmar how much use it had been and pay him double its worth. He didn’t know where he would earn the money but swore he’d find a way.

  In the meantime, the mile passed slow under the sharp-biting cold and nagging anticipation of what would happen at the fort. Then, at some point, it seemed too close. Before he set his mind to what he needed to do, he found the road and the fort’s buildings ahead. Halfway there, two soldiers told him to stop and dismount.

  “What’s your business here?” one asked when John put his hand in his coat.

  “A letter for one of your officers,” he pulled out a sealed envelope. The second soldier stepped forward, but John snapped it away. “My instructions are to give it to him alone.”

  “You aren’t dressed like any postman I’ve seen,” the first soldier said.

  “In this cold, we wear what we need to survive.”

  “I’m surprised that even mattered,” the second huffed. “You just rode through Indian country, and the ones around here are mean bastards.”

  “I must have missed them,” John tried to look surprised, as if luck or a divine hand saved his scalp. They bought it with a shared glance and mutual nod.

  “Go ahead then,” the first said. “The officers’ quarters are down on the right. If you hear a piano, it’s in the next building.”

  “I appreciate that, fellas,” John returned the envelope to his coat. He mounted and rode forward, wishing he could tell them to run fast and far because what came behind him wouldn’t spare their lives. They were going to die because of him, but maybe they would figure it out when the danger showed up. Maybe they were cowards, though he couldn’t swear to it. However things went was beyond him now as he rode into the fort. The morning was too cold so he rode unimpeded to the building with a piano playing inside. He bet it was a saloon and thought again of Riley’s bar at the other end of the road that led him there. He thought of the man with the cigar and bet he would find him sitting that exact way inside. But instead of going in, he took out the envelope.

  “I’m here for Colonel Richard Arstrom,” he put his free hand on his leg next to the holstered pistol. “This letter is from his sister.”

  At first there was no response, but then footsteps creaked across the wooden floor inside. The doorway was so dark, anyone on the other side would see him first, and his nerves almost made him draw his gun, but then he thought about all he didn’t know. Inside, Arstrom was as likely to ignore his face for the anticipation of the news he brought. Even if the drawn gun gave him an advantage, he didn’t know who was watching from the buildings around him, an easy distance to take him out with a rifle. So he listened to the creaks grow louder, his heart pounding heavier with each. The familiar face emerged and stepped into the pale snow, tired and half-drunk. The man belched as he pulled his coat tight and came forward.

  “What the Hell is this about?” he slurred, giving John a glance before the bright world drove his eyes down. “She can’t need money so soon.”

  “She didn’t say,” John held the letter so Arstrom had to come to him. “Just told me it was urgent.”

  “Urgent,” the colonel stumbled before stopping again to lean back. “You bring it to me. Don’t you know I’m an officer in your country’s army and deserve a little god damn respect?”

  If he did, John would give up his advantage. It evened the odds, meaning it evened them against him. He would never outdraw the soldier or outshoot him, so he kept the letter beside his horse’s neck.

  “Did you hear me, mailman?” the colonel’s eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his coat as if meaning to draw the silver revolver inside. “You hand me that letter like a man.”

  Without much choice, John swung down from the saddle to carry the letter to the saloon. He weighed his options in those few steps and decided to stand close to him to hide his hand when he drew. But first there was the letter, and he put that into the colonel’s waiting hand.

  “That’s better,” he said with the same sharp smile as the night they met. He tore open the envelope, the grin faltering enough for John to put his hand to his gun.

  “Do I know you?”

  If he saw what John did, he didn’t show it. Instead, he blew into the envelope and fished out the letter. He looked into John’s face another moment before giving it his attention. He read to himself, his face betraying his progress when he got to the part that said his brothers were dead. The shock washed gray from his eyes to his mouth, sobering him in an instant. He looked to John as if he might explain, though he couldn’t expect he would at first. Not until recognition brought the color back to his cheeks.

  “I do know you.”

  “You sure do,” John snarled and drew his gun to point into Arstrom’s gut. He pulled the trigger but nothing happened except the dry click of the hammer. His eyes widened as his second try gave the same result. The third time, the damned thing jammed.

  Pulling back, the colonel saw what he tried to do and clubbed him in the head with the fist holding the letter.

  “You’re the peckerhead from the bar,” he threw him backward. “We kicked your ass.”

  “You did more than that,” John slapped the gun and hoped that fixed it. Before he found out, Arstrom had his out quick. He fired and would have shot him if not for the arrow that whizzed past to stick in the wall behind him. The surprise sent his aim off, and John rolled from what might have seen him dead or close. The snow pocked near his horse’s back leg and startled it into a retreating trot. As the colonel reeled, John jumped to his feet and ran to the animal’s side.

  “You fucking murderer,” he heard Arstrom yell as he rammed his foot into the stirrup and straddled the saddle, lying low. The next shot went over him, and he was out of range before a third came. Ahead, his Indian army rode toward him with arrows strung and fight gleaming in their eyes. Beyond them, two bodies lay in the road where the soldiers stood their final watch, but the shouts behind him assured they wouldn’t die alone. Past the last of the Indians, he turned his horse to look back down the street and make sure they kept their word. After the warning shot, no other arrows flew toward the saloon until Richard dove inside. Then other officers came with rifles and the real battle began. John couldn’t stick around to witness or help. He failed his part and wouldn’t have another chance if he didn’t take one now. He rode between the buildings and behind another until he came out behind the saloon. As he suspected, the officers’ horses were tied there, the one he needed untying his fast. John spun his revolver’s cylinder with one hand as he aimed. This time it fired and took a chunk of the post near the colonel’s head, but not a drop of his blood. John rode down the side of the saloon and then hard toward the woods, looking behind him to be sure Arstrom followed.

  John led the way out of the fort, hoping Arstrom didn’t lose his nerve or come to his senses. Among the trees, it was too late to look back. To do that meant slowing and giving him a chance to catch up or maintaining his pace and risking a low branch taking him to the ground. By his estimation, either option ended the same, so he kept his horse moving steady. Out in the silent snow with war cries and rifle blasts far behind, John swore he heard a horse snort close, but it might have been his imagination—a wish to be finished and not have ruined the plan with a misfired gun. To keep from being shot in the back, he maneuvered around any tree large enough to block him as he worked toward the Indian camp and hoped someone better than Lester Johnson stayed behind to protect the women and children.

  When he saw the camp’s fire, he feared Arstrom would notice too and realize what was coming. He prodded his horse with his heel, hoping to catch him off guard, this time sure galloping hooves followed. He broke the tree line and bar
reled toward the end of the clearing, swinging his leg over the horse to leap into the snow. The colonel rode fast and had to twist to adjust his aim. As long as his revolver fired this time, John had him dead, but before he got the chance, an arrow came from the other side of camp and pierced the throat of the rider’s horse.

  It went down fast, front legs buckling to send Arstrom flying over its head. He hit the ground hard, his gun vanishing into the white several feet away. At first he didn’t move, and John thought the Indians had killed him, but as he got up and approached the still form, the officer flopped onto his back. John kept the horsehead revolver aimed at his chest, glancing away only once to see the bear holding his bow and Lester watching beside him. His attention back on the colonel, John cocked the revolver.

  “Tell me why you did it,” he shouted as Arstrom struggled onto his knees, searching for his gun.

  “You did it to yourself,” he yelled back without looking. He swatted the powder twice before giving up. “You came into that bar like something special, and I saw it my duty to prove you weren’t. Some drunk sharecropper mouthing off to an officer and his brothers. Guests in his town just wanting a drink. You’re lucky you didn’t come out worse.”

  “Worse,” John echoed. “How the Hell do you think anything could be worse?”

  “You have a wife,” the colonel tilted his head back. “We could have gone after her.”

  “You did,” John growled.

  “Did we?”

  “You murdered her. She was about to give me a son, and you killed her.”

  For a moment, the man stared, but his attention drifted to where the others stood. He squinted and understanding washed over his face.

  “He tell you that?” Arstrom nodded toward them, and John knew he meant Lester. “Because we didn’t touch a hair on your woman’s head. We beat on you, sure, but then went on our way, figuring it best to leave before any local law got involved. But that old man over there? We passed him on the road, heading your way. I’m guessing it wasn't to help you out of that ditch.”

  Crunching snow signaled Lester’s approach, but John kept his aim on the officer. He couldn’t will his hands to believe, though his thoughts ran rampant around the doubt. He never understood why Lester helped him. If the officer was telling the truth and Lester passed him unconscious, only to follow him to South Carolina, it was suspicious. Still, he had trained his hands to one purpose, and that was on his knees in front of him. It was hard to keep his finger off the trigger even as Lester walked up beside him.