Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  Of the long, luxuriant hair, all that remained were a few locks of frayed strands clinging to her charred scalp. Bright red flesh shone through cracks in the blackened skin. The buckskin dress—what remained of it—hung in tattered pieces that fused to her body. A lipless mouth gaped at me, moving in silent speech. Her eyes stared straight at me from a face scorched fleshless.

  She reached a skeletal hand toward me, her mouth crying out in silence, eyes pleading. Blinking away tears and ash, I drew back the hammer on my revolver, took aim and put two bullets through her head. Her body jerked and one eye drooped closed. The other eye, its lid already burned away, remained fixed on me.

  “Nice of you to put her out of her misery, Jimmy Boy,” a rough voice said behind me.

  Charlie Garrett reined in his horse beside me, his rifle barrel still smoking. I tried to say something, but couldn’t form the words.

  “I’d say we’re about done here, eh?” Charlie said.

  I nodded dumbly and drew my horse around. Charlie shouted for a couple of the men to round up the Indians’ ponies, which had been picketed a little way from the camp.

  “Ought to make a nice bonus,” he said, “seeing as the colonel’s put a stop to counting coup.”

  I ignored him and the continued hoots and hollers of my men, pointed Rigel toward our base camp at North Platte, and rode away from the smoking holocaust.

  I dangle from the tree branch and wave my free hand.

  It’s the same dream I’ve had so many times before, and I wonder why it’s come to me now.

  I look down to see Ma and Pa and Becca, Zeke and Ketty— and a stranger, whom I vaguely recognize as the Cheyenne girl. Her dazzling white smile is made all the more brilliant by deeply tanned skin. Long, loose plaits of jet-black hair frame her face. I lock on to her deep, brown eyes, captivated by the intense gaze that sends a chill up my spine. In a graceful, fluid motion she rises, smoothes her buckskin dress and climbs toward me.

  The tree bursts into flame. Slender walnut leaves turn brown and curl in on themselves as a thick, acrid smoke rises from the green wood. From high atop the tree, I can just make out the calm world beyond the smoke and flames, but I can see nothing directly beneath me.

  The branch from which I hang is smothered with flames. Even as it sags, a form emerges from the inferno below. First comes a hand, fingers stiff and curled into a death grip by the fire’s heat. Clawing at the burning branches, the arm pulls its owner into view. Her hair is nearly burned away, the flesh of her head charred and cracked to reveal the bright red of raw meat beneath.

  Her white teeth shine out still, not in a smile but in a ghoulish rictus exposed by lips that have burned away. Her eyes fix on mine as she nears me. She clutches my clothes to draw herself closer, and the stench of her seared flesh overwhelms me. The flames grow higher, wrapping us in a torrid embrace as she draws level with me, her eyes staring into mine. She brushes my cheek with one hand while the other clutches tightly at my shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” she whispers in my ear, somehow forming the words through her lipless mouth.

  Even as she speaks, the branch gives in to the flames, tearing away from the surrounding limbs.

  “It’s all right,” she repeats more emphatically, roughly shaking my shoulder as we plunge into the fiery abyss.

  “Mister, wake up. It’s all right.”

  The hand roughly shook my shoulder, then fell away as I jerked up in bed. I stared blindly into the darkened room, my breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps as I tried to find my bearings. Sweat streamed down my back, my naked skin sprouting goose bumps where damp flesh met cool night air.

  “Are you all right?”

  I jerked around toward the voice and tried to make sense of things as the woman turned up the oil lamp. Her henna-dyed hair was mussed and frazzled, and glowed dimly in the lamp-light. Her wide eyes were only slightly brighter, and I recognized in them the vague, unfocused look that comes out of a laudanum bottle. She wasn’t quite ugly, but I could see how dim light and a smoke-filled room would favor her. My thrashing around had played havoc with the sheets, which now bunched around her hips to reveal fair, pockmarked skin— almost ghostlike in pallor. Her small breasts bore testimony to the chill in the room.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, and the words rasped through my dry throat and whiskey-swollen tongue.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, blinking hard against the nightmarish images that still lingered. When I opened them again, my gaze was fixed on the woman’s midsection and a dark tuft of hair that gave the lie to her red locks.

  I looked away and took in the drab room. The walls were papered with worn purple velvet, the floor littered with rickety, mismatched furniture. I tried to remember how I came to be here.

  There’d been the celebratory gunshots as we rode back into town, Sperling’s offer of whiskey all around, and the flash of red hair across a smoky saloon. Things became dimmer after a second round of whiskey and a steamy bath, but I got the gist of how things had gone.

  “How long have I been asleep?” I asked.

  The woman relaxed as I came back to my senses.

  “Can’t have been long,” she allowed as she leaned against a pillow.

  She laced her fingers behind her head, and the twin patches of black under her arms matched the one beneath the sheets.

  “I don’t usually fall asleep on the job,” she said with a grin that I supposed was intended as lewd, “but you must’ve wore me plumb out. I’m surprised you had any energy left in you, after such a horrible experience.”

  “How’s that?” I said.

  “Your friends told us all about being attacked by those savages,” she explained. “It must’ve been terrible, not knowing if you was gonna live or die?”

  The words were spoken in a tone of comfort, but her eyes had the hungry look of a carnival-goer in line for the Hall of Wonders.

  I shivered, both from the carnal look and from the events that spawned it.

  “There, there,” she said as she sidled toward me, wrapped one arm across my chest, one somewhat lower. “Jeanne’s here to take care of you. Is it Jeanne?”

  “Gina,” I corrected her.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Gina’s here to take care of you. You just lie back, and everything’ll be just fine.”

  But it wouldn’t be fine and this wasn’t Gina and I hated myself as I took her again.

  And yet again.

  The sun was just limping over the horizon as I hobbled down the rickety, narrow stairs of the saloon. The stink of the place grew thicker with each step. The pungent blend of tobacco smoke, stale beer and unwashed bodies mixed with the tang of fresh sawdust and the stench of even fresher vomit. I tried to hide myself as I looked for the quickest way out, disappointed to find the table nearest the door occupied by Charlie Garrett and a handful of other men.

  “Jimmy Boy,” Garrett shouted around the cigar clamped in his teeth. He gestured for me to join them. “You survived, looks like,” he said with an obscene laugh as I neared the table. “Here, I saved a seat for you.”

  He kicked the chair out for me, and I dropped into it. The table sat near the open window, where the fresh morning air held some of the room’s foulness at bay. A pot of coffee and some cups sat in the middle of the table, though most of the men still had whiskey glasses in front of them.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” I said as I reached for the coffee pot. “Colonel.” I tipped my hat to the man at the head of the table.

  Colonel Francis Augustus Sperling sat with regal bearing as he held court at the small table. Garrett and the others tried to outdo each other in currying favor with the man.

  “James,” he said in greeting. “I trust you had a proper debauch.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer the man, so I just raised my cup of steaming coffee in toast to him and sipped the near-boiling liquid. Blisters instantly rose on my tongue, and the pain served to clear my head.

  “I understand you had quite a scrape wi
th those raiders,” the colonel pressed me.

  Sperling had tracked Quantrill and his men throughout the better part of Missouri during the war, and raider was among the vilest of epithets to the career military man.

  “I wouldn’t exactly describe it that way, sir,” I said.

  “Really?” he said, and slupped his coffee from a saucer. “Exactly how would you describe being outnumbered three-to-one by a band of Cheyenne warriors?”

  “I told the colonel all about it,” Garrett chimed in before I could sputter my objection. “How we were ambushed by thirty of the savages while we rode under a white flag. How we fought them back, and they set fire to their own tents—women and children inside, the bloody savages—so their families couldn’t see them get whupped. Ugly business,” he pronounced, then threw back a double shot of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table.

  “That it was,” I managed to say, sickened as much by the lie as by the truth.

  The blood rose in my cheeks and ears, and the pounding of my pulse drowned out the buzz of conversation at the table and the cries of agony that echoed in my memory.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and moved toward the door, bumping into men and chairs until I made it through the opening and into the fresh air.

  The morning’s coffee churned a stomach already rebelling against the night’s whiskey. I just reached the alley before I spewed my guts onto the boots of some passed-out wretch. I stood doubled over, head between my knees, as I tried to catch my breath.

  “Better?”

  “I’ll live,” I said as I turned to face Charlie.

  “That’s more’n some can say, eh?”

  A wicked sneer twisted his lips, revealing ugly, yellowed teeth.

  “You and your men made sure of that, didn’t you?” I said.

  “Don’t tell me that’s what’s eating at you. You were there,” he said. There always meant the war when it was said that way. “You seen people die before.”

  “Yes, I have,” I answered sullenly, and my fingernails cut into my palms as I clenched my fists. “More than I care to remember. I’ve watched men die before. I’ve killed before, but this . . .You murdered those people in cold blood, and you made me a part of it.”

  “It was you started the charge, you damn fool,” Charlie said. “The boys and I just backed your play. Besides, the only one I seen you kill was that little bitch, and she was good as dead anyway. You just helped speed her on her way. Pity, though. She looked like she’d have been a bit of fun for a while. Well, before the fire got to her, anyway.”

  He laughed at his own joke, then folded his thick arms across his chest.

  “Now that I think about it,” he said, “I’d be mad, too, if I was you. You had to waste two bullets, plus a sawbuck upstairs, when you could’ve got it for free if we hadn’t roasted that little slut.”

  Charlie’s lips kept moving, but the sound of his voice faded beneath the pounding of blood in my ears. Before I had a chance to think, I found myself hurtling through the air. My shoulder drove deep into Garrett’s gut as we flew out of the alley and landed heavily in the empty street.

  “Boy, you just made a big mistake,” he growled.

  His meaty paws pried my grip from around his waist. He brought his knee up and caught me in the groin, then threw me over his head and sent me tumbling through the dirt and manure that littered the road.

  Rage masked the pain as I picked myself up and turned to face him again. Before I made it all the way around, a sledgehammer fist smashed into my jaw and sent me reeling. A boot rushed toward my head, but I managed to roll away. I staggered to my feet, and Garrett fought against the whiskey and his own momentum to keep his balance.

  Seizing the temporary advantage, I rushed him again, only to be brought up short by a vise grip at my neck. Garrett rammed his knee into my stomach once, then again, oblivious to the blows I rained down on his head and shoulders. Still holding tightly to my throat, he stood me upright and delivered another clout to my jaw. Blood flew from my mouth as I fell back under the assault, but I managed to keep my feet under me. I staggered back a few paces and brought myself to a stop just in time to meet another wallop.

  The pulse in my head was replaced by an insistent ringing in my ears. My left eye swelled shut and the teeth felt loose in my head. Through my blood-clouded right eye, I saw Garrett say something I couldn’t hear. He cocked his arm for a final blow. As his fist sailed toward me, I pivoted on one foot.

  A look of surprise flashed across Garrett’s face as I spun toward him, rather than away. The surprise deepened as I drove one fist into his thick paunch, the other into his Adam’s apple. His momentum gave more force to the blows than I could have managed on my own, and sent me caroming off the big man.

  Garrett sagged to his knees as I staggered back to my feet. His hands clutched uselessly at his throat as he tried to draw breath. I limped toward him, rage burning in my breast. Part of my mind argued for restraint, now that the man was down. The louder part reminded me of the screams of pain and horror wrought by his cruelty.

  Don’t sink to his level, the voice of conscience implored me. If you strike while he’s helpless, you’re no better than he is.

  I knew the voice was right.

  I also knew that I didn’t give a damn.

  I spun on one leg and delivered a roundhouse kick to Garrett’s head. I watched in satisfaction as blood and teeth flew from his lips. In an instant I was atop the fallen man, clutching at his blood-and sweat-stained shirt as I pounded my fist against his face, switching hands when the first tired from the blows.

  “That’s enough, Jim.” I hardly heard the voice through my murderous rage. “Enough.”

  Strong arms pulled me off Garrett, hauled me to my feet and pushed me away. I redirected my fury and swung blindly at the new target.

  Dave caught my fist in his hand and twisted my arm up behind my back. Taking hold of my collar, he lifted me bodily and hustled me away from Garrett, toward a watering trough.

  “I’m not finished,” I said, and struggled vainly against my friend, my anger and hatred not yet spent.

  “Oh, I think you are.” Dave forced me to my knees in front of the trough and plunged my head beneath the water.

  “Son of a bitch,” I spluttered as he pulled my head from the trough. Long strands of horse saliva mixed with the water that streamed from my face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You want to make a mess of yourself?” he said. “Fine. But no amount of whoring or drinking or killing will bring Gina back to you.”

  “What do you know about it?” I spat over my shoulder, Dave’s grip still firm on my collar and wrist.

  “You self-absorbed prick,” he rasped. “You think you’re the only person to lose someone? The only person to feel alone in the world, to carry their mistakes around like a stone in their heart? Pull your head out of your ass and look around, Jim. The world’s full of walking mistakes, people loaded up with guilt and regret. The best any of us can do is just push through the pain and get on with life.”

  “And what if I don’t want to?” I turned my head toward Dave, and the rage in my heart turned to something colder. “What if I can’t?”

  “Then don’t bother holding your breath this time,” he said, and plunged my head once more into the trough.

  I take a deep, surprised breath, only to find myself once more leaning against the great walnut tree. I shake off the images I’ve just seen, knowing full well what’s to come.

  “I don’t want to see any more,” I say.

  “You always were a weak little cunt.” Another figure breaks away from the circle of dancers and steps toward me. Removing the head covering reveals cold, steely eyes, a crooked nose and sneering mouth. “I half-feared you might see this through. Should’ve known you’d tuck tail.”

  I look to the first man, the kind one, but he just stares silently at me through calm, green eyes. The newcomer stalks forward. I shrink back as he reaches t
oward me, but he just throws his arm around my shoulders and draws me aside.

  “Am I glad to see you,” he says in a conspiratorial voice. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to that bastard. You know who he is. You know what he done. Shit, you must’ve told me a dozen times what a sumbitch he was. All he wants is for you to go with him to whatever hell he’s made for himself. My own whore of a mother tried the same thing when I first got here. But I didn’t listen to her. No, sir, not me.”

  He draws me farther from the tree, toward the gap he’d left in the ring of dancers.

  “Now you listen, and you listen good.” He stops and grips me by both shoulders. “I don’t know what they’ve cooked up for themselves on the other side, but ain’t no use in jumping through all their hoops to get there, with, ‘Oh, I did this and I did that and ain’t that too fucking bad. ’Where I am, it’s just like old times with whiskey and whores and everything you’d ever want.”

  “Is she there?” I ask.

  His eyes lose their ravenous glow for an instant. They flicker away then back to me.

  “Her and a dozen more just like her, if you want,” he says. “I tell you, boy, it’s a paradise for the likes of us. I saved a seat for you and everything.”

  I look up at that. His eyes are wide with hunger and his tongue flicks out as he licks his lips. I shake his hands off my shoulders and feel the scratch of claws raking through my flesh.

  “Get away from me,” I say, and back toward the tree.

  “You’re coming with me, boy,” he says, stalking me as his eyes take on a yellow glow.

  I back into the tree, and my old friend looms over me, teeth bared in a demonic grin. I throw an arm over my face and cower against the tree. I feel the hot, wet breath against my sleeve.

  And nothing more.

  I chance to open an eye, to peek over my arm. The leering face is still there, inches away. Saliva drips from a ghoulish fang. But the eyes have lost some of their glow, replaced by the look of a child who fears his toy might be taken away.