Santa Muerte by Evan Conaway

Santa Muerte by Evan Conaway

          Crimson droplets rained down from Miguel’s shoulder as Peter kicked the door of the adobe house open and carried him inside.  Peter was frantic, breathing hard but trying hard not to aggravate the gunshot wound in his companion.  He dragged in the wounded man and laid him in a bed, then raced back to the door and barred it shut.  Peter was wiry and muscular, just barely over twenty and of German descent, but pale in the bright Arizona sun that beat down over the roof and shined through the windows of the little cottage they hid in.

          Miguel groaned but gritted his teeth and struggled to keep himself quiet.  With every movement he made, pain shot through his shoulder like fire.  Sweat ran down his forehead and dripped off his bearded face to intermingle with the blood that soaked into his shirt, and when he shifted to get comfortable, more red oozed forth to stain the sheets he now lay upon.  He clamped a hairy hand on the sheets and tightened his grip while he tried to find the least painful way to lie. He was nearly a decade older than Peter and weathered, a child of northern Mexico.  His fingers fumbled absentmindedly with a pendant of a skeletal woman as he twisted about.

          Peter returned to his side and unslung the “Yellow Boy” Winchester ’66 from his shoulder.  He propped it against the wall and pulled a small knife from his belt, which he used to cut away Miguel’s shirt.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbled as every tug of the cloth caused Miguel to moan in pain.  “We’ll be ok, Miguel.  I promise.”  Miguel closed his eyes and nodded.  His mouth moved in silent prayer.

          Outside, shouts and whoops were heard in a slowly closing noose.  Cutter Barrett’s men took up positions on the rocks that surrounded the house and trained their rifles on it.  A potshot ripped through the air and ricocheted with an angry whine off the roof of the hut.  Another cracked a hole in the top of the door, while a third shattered glass as it tore through the window.  The eight men cheered and hollered with excitement as they encircled their quarry and trained their weapons to silence life at the first instance of movement.

          Back inside, Peter tore away Miguel’s shirt and cut off a clean strip to tie over the wound.  He wrapped it around and pulled it taut, making the man yelp.  Miguel exhaled forcefully through closed teeth and looked up at Peter.  “Go, get out.  Maybe they’ll stop if they only catch one of us.”

          “What are you saying, Miguel?  I cannot do that,” Peter sat beside his bearded companion and used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his brow.  “We’re in this together.  I may not have ever shot at a man before, but I won’t run and leave you here to die.”  He set his hand on Miguel’s good shoulder.  Miguel reached up and patted Peter’s hand with a strained nod.

          “Then we fight, and we pray,” Miguel struggled to speak clearly.  “Search the house.  There may be a pistol or something.  And steer clear of the windows.  If you are staying, then I need you.”

          Peter nodded and began to search the house.  Outside, another round pinged off a rock near the door and flew into the dirt, accompanied by the guffaws of Barrett’s men as they mocked their own for poor marksmanship.  “Come out, ya miserable buggers!” Barrett’s voice boomed in the hot, dry air.  It rebounded off the rocks that encircled the house, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.  “Come out and fight!  The faster you do, the quicker this’ll end!”  A boom from the far side of the house told him that the Erly brothers were in position.  Barrett, a big, dirty man with a thick black beard, produced a flask from his pocket and waved in salute before taking a sip and whispering to himself, “This’ll do ya, buggers.”

          His shouts went unnoticed in the house by Peter, who returned to Miguel after a quick search with brass shells and an aging coach gun, sawed-off short at the twin barrels.  The sight of it made Miguel wince, but he waved it over and broke open the action to load it.  Peter sat on the floor beside the bed and checked his Yellow Boy again to ensure it was ready.  Popping both shells in place, Miguel closed the break and set the coach gun beside him on the bed.  He reached out and patted the mop of Peter’s dirty blond hair.  Peter turned and looked up at him, worry in his eyes.

          “We’ll get through this,” Miguel whispered and smiled weakly.  Peter closed his eyes and nodded.  Another shot outside made him flinch, but Miguel kept his hand on top of his hair and nodded.

          Peter looked up at his companion.  “We have to fight back, Miguel.  It’s the only way.”  A bullet broke through and shattered another window in the room they sat in, accompanied by guffaws of laughter, and Peter’s knuckles turned white as he clutched the rifle.  Miguel’s blood-stained fingers reached up and rubbed a pendant around his neck, and again he silently prayed.

& & &

          Under the shade of a dead juniper tree, Tom McConnell pulled the hat from his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.  Despite the heat, he refused to remove his dirty duster, and it hung limp in the stale, hot air, but he paid it no mind.  Instead he listened quietly to the sound of distant gunfire before lowering his hat and shrugging.  They were some distance away, miles, and under a big sky where the clouds billowed like rising smoke, it did not seem so strange a sound.  His attention returned to the task at hand, a dying horse under the sparse shade that kicked its hooves slowly in the air in a feeble attempt to rise.  The animal had been too old to make the journey, but still a rancher had been keen to sell it to Tom, making sure it was his problem to deal with.  Tom rubbed the gray stubble of his unshaven chin, bent down and patted the horse’s neck sympathetically, and withdrew his pistol.  With a flick of his thumb, Tom pulled back the hammer on his Colt M1873 and discharged a round, an old man putting down an old horse.  It shuddered, let out a final gasp, and collapsed on itself.

          Tom gave the dead animal one last look over and then opened the cylinder of the Colt to replace the spent cartridge.  He sheathed the weapon in his belt and listened again to the retorts of rifles echoing off the hills.  It must have been only a few miles away, but it did not appear to get any closer.  With a grunt, he knelt down to struggle with his saddle.

          A woman’s voice behind him gave him a start, “You seem accustomed to using that gun.  It would seem you’ve done this before.”

          Tom rose and spun on his heels.  A woman stood only a few feet from him, dressed in white with a thin white veil covering her face.  Red ribbons hung from her wrists and tied in neat bows on red slippers adorning her feet.  The dress she wore hide her figure, but there was a definite femininity in the way she carried herself, and her voice held a musical tone that held the ear, like a choir in an empty cathedral.  Around her the wind stirred the Arizona dirt, yet her dress was unruffled.

          Captured by her otherworldy grace, it took Tom a moment to recover from gawking at her and respond.  “Yes, ma’am, I’ve done this a few times before.”

          The woman cocked her head to the side.  Another gunshot echoed in the distance.  Something about the way her head moved beneath her veil made Tom suspect she was frowning, but she gave no hint of unhappiness with her voice when she spoke.  “And not just horses, but men.  Yes, you’ve used a gun against many men.”

          Unsure whether he should feel insulted by this comment, Tom decided it best to just nod and acknowledge the truth of it.  “Yes, ma’am.  Ever since the war with the Yankees.”

          “Very good,” the woman’s voice was approving.  She paused, long enough for another echoed gunshot.  “I need a man of your proficiencies.”

          Tom and the woman both stood in silence for a moment, before Tom replied, “Let me hazard a guess.  Whatever is going on over in the distance, you have some part in.”

          “I have two…children in need of help.  They are men, but they are not as used to the gun as a man such as you.  I need your abilities to help them.  I need you to kill.”

          Tom grunted, and when he spoke, his voice was tight and drawn.  “Who are you?  And for what reason should I get more blood all over my hands?”

          “I am unimportant.  But you are alone out here, with a dead horse, far from town.  I will provision you and ensure you have my blessing.  Believe me, my favor is bountiful.”

          “Uh-huh,” Tom muttered as he pulled out his Single Action Army and checked the cylinder.  “And if you’re so great, why do you need an old man like me?”

          “There are things in this world that I cannot do.  And there are things in this world that I should not do.  Handling something like this, alone, is one of those things.  That is why I need you: an avatar, of sorts.  A man who is comfortable with bloody work.”

          Tom did not respond.  Instead he continued to focus on his revolver and did not look up at the woman.  After a moment of silence, she parted her lips and spoke again.

          “Please.”

          It was not the word she said, but the way she said it that caused Tom to freeze.  The voice she had used was familiar, one he hadn’t heard in a long time, from a woman he had loved but hadn’t seen in over fifteen long years.  Chills ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes and held the sound in his mind.

          Finally, after several long seconds, his eyes still closed, he muttered, “I’ll do it.”

          “Excellent.  Keep your eyes closed,” the woman replied.  She reached out, and with fingers chilled and white as bone, she took Tom by the hand and began leading him toward the sounds of gunfire.  Though the distance was several miles, time seemed to slow around them, and the world felt as if it rolled inwards on itself to shorten the trip.  Tom did as he was bade and did not open his eyes for any of it, not sure he would like to see whatever was happening around him.

          After what felt like only seconds but could have been hours, the woman let his hand slip away and whispered, “Open your eyes, but be quiet.  We are very close.”

          Tom opened his eyes.  The two of them were standing beside a rocky formation covered in barren shrubs.  The sound of rifles firing was very close, intermingled with laughter and wicked taunts.  Tom’s hand slid to his revolver, but the woman motioned him to crouch beside her, and he did as was told.

          She outstretched one of her ivory hands and pointed down into a valley below.  An adobe hut sat in the middle, the windows shattered out and the walls pockmarked with bullet holes.  Another rifle shot pierced the air, and Tom watched the bullet impact the side of the house.  He slowly turned his eyes around the edge of the valley, watching the shapes of men rise and fall as they walked around freely out of cover.

          “Three…four, maybe five over on that end.  One or two on the other.  These men are sloppy and overconfident.”

          “There are eight in all, including their leader, a cruel man with a bushy beard the color of coal named Cutter Barrett.  This is his gang, and they have their fun by robbing and harassing others,” the woman explained.  “Ordinarily I would not care, but as they have attacked my children, I now want them dead.  Do you understand, Tom?”

          Tom raised the brim of his hat and eyed the woman before nodding.  “I understand, ma’am.  I’ll do your dirty work.”  He took another minute to scan the hills for Barrett’s men and then slinked away.  With total silence, he moved past jutting rocks and dry grass, under trees twisted in the Arizona heat and around shrubs that swayed in the dry, hot breeze.

          The first men he came to were on the far side from Barrett’s main group.  There were two of them, and Tom laid out in the grass and spied on them as they fired off rifle rounds and laughing.  They were both dirty blond, with leathery skin and worn clothing, dirty and sun beaten from the trail.  These men were brothers, Tom thought, and he pulled the knife from his boot and prepared himself for what was about to happen.

          One of the brothers fired off a shot and patted the other on the shoulder.  “All right, Jonas, I’m gotta piss.”

          “Best hurry, Clem, or I might gut those two while you’re gone,” Jonas guffawed.  Clem let out a smirk and pulled away from the rocks that concealed them from the house.  He sauntered off around a large rock, chuckling to himself, unawares as he passed within a few feet of Tom.

          As soon as he was gone, Tom rose to a crouch and leapt from his hiding spot in a flash.  Before Jonas had time to move, Tom clamped his left hand over his mouth and jabbed the knife sharply into his lower back, aiming for his kidney.  He yanked it out and stabbed again, repeating the action several times in rapid succession.  Jonas’ legs quivered , and the earth beneath him turned to mud as the dirt mixed with the growing red stain that spread down his back and side.  It took only a few seconds before Tom felt the body relax and go limp.

          With Jonas bleeding out and too weak to fight back or scream, Tom released his grip on the man’s mouth and pulled himself back toward the rocks that Clem had passed.  He waited in silence, listening as Clem finished his business and began to whistle.

          “You kill them buggers yet, Jonas?” Clem asked with a laugh as he turned around the rock.

          Tom’s caught him unawares, again pressing the palm of his left hand to Clem’s mouth as his right hand brought the knife up and forced it up under his jaw at an angle.  Clem’s eyes rolled back in his head, and blood squirted down the front of his clothes.  Tom pushed his head back and pulled his knife away, letting the body fall in a plume of crimson that sprayed Tom with a smattering of red.

          Behind him, Tom heard a clapping, and he turned to find the woman perched elegantly on a rock, daintily applauding.  “Bravo, Mr. Tom!  Bravo.  I knew I found the right man for the job.”

          Tom did not reply.  He rubbed his knife against his coat, leaving two streaks of red that clotted in the dust which clung to him.  Once cleaned to his liking, he sheathed it back in his boot and turned his attention to the woman.  “You have a sickening ease with murder, miss.”

          “Well of course I do,” she said with what sounded like a grin as she twisted and turned her veiled head.  “And yet you do the act, no questions asked, without even knowing my name.”  She giggled musically.  “But there are more men to kill, and my children must be saved, dear Tom.  You must go into the valley, to my children.  You must protect them from the rest of Barrett’s men.”

          Tom turned his head and glanced into the valley that stretched out before them.  He shook his head.  “Even with this side clear, I don’t like the odds of running into a valley where six men have their rifles pointed.

          “Oh, Tom, don’t you worry.  I will ensure that no harm will come to you.  Just calmly walk into the valley.  Meet with my children.  And then do what you do best.”

          Tom turned to look back at the woman, but she was gone.  He grumbled and spat, then stalked over to Jonas’ corpse.  He grabbed the man’s rifle, a Winchester 1873 carbine chambered in .44-40, checked to ensure it still had rounds.  Finding four bullets still ready, Tom kept the rifle and hunkered down as low as he could, moving near the ridge line for cover as he sought a way into the valley.  A few dozen yards from where the two dead men lay, Tom found a gentler slope hidden within a copse of pinyon trees.  He took it, trying to frame the adobe house to be between himself and where he knew Barrett’s men stalked the ridge.  Though they would occasionally fire, the rounds fell nowhere near him, and Tom wondered if they were drunk or just stupid.

          Soon enough, he found the ground leveling off, but the land ahead was sparse for nearly a hundred yards.  Even with the house between him and the far hills, there was no way he could make it there without Barrett’s men seeing him.  The woman had said he could just walk to the house and no harm would befall him, but Tom was not so sure.  But those men were awful shots, truly awful.  Perhaps if he ran for it, he could make it…

          Tom gritted his teeth.  Whoever the woman was, he didn’t think she was the kind of person he should cross.  And if he left, it was just a matter of time before Barrett’s men came down from the hills and raided the house.  And when they did, they’d discover their dead men and likely be after him too.  Better to resolve this now, so as not to have to worry about a bullet in the back later.

          And that was that.  His decision made, Tom broke from the pinyons that had concealed him and took off in a run toward the house.  He held the rifle low in his right hand and moved as quickly as he could, hoping that if he did take fire, none of it would fly true.

          Cutter Barrett was taking a swig from his flask when he saw the figure move into open ground and book it across the open field.  His eyes widened in surprise, and whiskey splashed out onto his beard and down his chin.  He made a disgusted face at the lost booze and shouted to his men, “The hell are ya’ll sitting around for?!  He ain’t one of ours!  Shoot that sumbitch!”  Immediately the five men beside him swung up their rifles and started firing.

          Bullets began to rain down around Tom, and he could hear them whizz past or ping off rocks and kick up dirt, but none struck him.  He moved as swiftly as he could, leaning forward and bending down to keep low.  There were shouts echoing from amongst the gunfire, truly vile swears as Barrett berated every one of his men, but Tom did not listen.  He did not stop and raise the rifle to return fire, he just ran.

          By the time Tom reached the house, Barrett was angrily swatting at his men with his hat.  “What the hell can’t you hit a damn man for on open ground?!  You’re worthless, the lot of ya!  You can’t kill the buggers and now you miss one man out in the field like that?  We’ll kill them, and then I’ll string ya’ll up for fun!”  His five men smirked amongst themselves at Barrett’s angry ramblings, having heard it before.  They passed around their canteens, some filled with water, some with far more potent moonshine.  They laughed and didn’t care that Tom had now reached the door.

          With a grunt, Tom threw his shoulder into the door, crashing through and swinging the rifle up to aim at Peter first, then Miguel.  Peter fell back with a shout, and Miguel tried to shift but groaned with pain.  Tom swept the rifle between the two of them and then lowered it slowly.  “So this is what she meant by ‘children,’” Tom muttered, and he spat on the floor.  He noticed the poor red-soaked binding around Miguel’s shoulder and nodded.  “How bad?”

          “Bad enough,” Miguel grunted.  Peter shifted on the floor as if to rise, and Tom turned his eyes to him.  The three stood in silence for a time, before Miguel hesitantly asked, “So…do you intend to kill us?  I don’t remember you from Barrett’s gang.”

          “No,” Tom replied coldly.  “Someone asked me to help you.  I’m here to see how bad off you are.”

          Peter sat up and looked at Miguel with an uneasy smile, his hand reaching up to hold the older Mexican’s.  Tom looked away, glancing instead to the broken glass from the windows and the splintered wood from the frames.  Outside, a roar could be heard, the voice of Cutter Barrett’s, and Tom’s eyes came to the broken window and looked out at the ridge beyond.  Behind him, Miguel’s voice was tired but still strong, “I am Miguel, and this is Peter, my… We are together.”  Tom looked back over his shoulder from Miguel to Peter and then tapped the brim of his hat and nodded.

          “Tom,” was all he replied.

          From outside, Barrett raged with a fury that caused his men to stare.  “Damn it, you bastards can’t even hit a man in a run on open ground?!  What the hell kind of worthless trash are you?!”  The man beside him turned and opened his mouth to speak, but Barrett’s fist promptly shut it again.  “Like hell you get to speak up, Paco.  No more laughing, we kill those buggers now.”

          Paco rolled away and moaned, spitting out blood that flowed from his split lip.  Behind him, Sal shifted his weight and shook his head.  He was a dirty man with a thick handlebar mustache that drooped when he talked.  “But what I ain’t a-figurin’, Cutter, is why didn’t them Erly boys do him in?”

          Barrett grunted and spat. “Good question.  Go find out, Sal.  Mercer, I want you, Juan, and Smith to keep an eye on that house.  And Paco, quit yer Gawd damned sniveling!”

          Paco gave Barrett a dirty look, rubbed his lip one last time, and rolled over beside the other men as they moved to the ridge, rifles at the ready.  Back down at the house, Tom crouched at the window and lined the Winchester up towards the hills outside.  He didn’t turn as he asked, “Is that coach gun loaded?”

          “It is,” Miguel responded as he squeezed Peter’s hand and let it go.  “But I’m in no shape to be firing it.

          “That’s fine.  I expect Barrett won’t want to be sitting in the hills soon enough.  It looks like one of his men is heading around the ridge.  I expect they’ll be rushing us soon.”

          “Rushing up?” There was worry in Peter’s voice.  “But with eight of them, what chance do the three of us stand?”

          “Keep your wits about you, boy.  There’s only six,” Tom muttered as he concentrated.  The rifle barked, and a scream let out from the hills.  “Five now.”

          Up on the ridge, Barrett turned in time to see Smith’s face explode open with a howl as his head bucked backwards from the bullet that killed him.  The corpse tumbled and came to a stop as the mouths of Barrett and his men hung open.  A shout came from across the valley, and the shock on Barrett’s face did not dissipate as Sal came running back, shouting and breathing hard.  “They’re dead, Barrett!  The Erly brothers are dead!”

          Anger spread across Barrett’s face.  There was no way the two men in the house had done it.  It must have been that man who had run into the valley.  And it must have been that same man who had just put a bullet in Smith.  Barrett roared with fury and threw his hat in the dirt.  “Gawd damnit!  I’ll kill him!  I’ll kill that bastard!  Paco, Sal, Mercer, get down there and murder him!  Murder all of them!  And bring me the head of that man who ran across the open.  I wanna see that sumbitch’s face!”

          Paco rubbed his swollen lip with a grunt.  Mercer, a little dark-haired man with a caterpillar mustache and stubble down his cheeks and chin, nodded and grabbed his rifle.  Sal spat and pointed at Juan, “You better cover us down there.  I ain’t getting shot by no bugger bastard like Smith.”

          Juan responded by raising his rifle and firing blind down toward the house.  Barrett took Smith’s rifle and fired after him, and Paco, Sal, and Mercer took off in a run down the hill.  Tom saw them take off down the hill, but before he could squeeze off a shot, a round smacked into the window frame beside him, and he ducked and threw the rifle to Peter.  “Take it, boy!  Just like I figured, they’re rushing us.  Hand me that coach gun, Miguel.”  Miguel tossed him the gun as best he could, and Tom rose up against the wall, opposite the door, both barrels held ready at the hip.  Peter checked his Yellow Boy once more and set the Winchester ’73 on the bed beside Miguel, who set a hand on the trigger, just in case.

          “Have you ever done this before?” Tom’s voice was firm and unwavering.  Peter shook his head, but Miguel nodded.

          “Aye, I’ve been through something like this before,” Miguel’s voice was low and hushed.  “My father and the other men of my home would sometimes hunt bandits when I was a boy, and when I was old enough, I began to help.  But one summer night we were overrun, and my father forced me to hide in a cave.  This group of men killed my friends, my father, and then made me wait for hours as they picked through and looted the camp.  I lay in that cave in silence for hours, until finally they left.  Then I ran.  It was what drove me to head north, until I met Peter in El Paso two years ago.  We have been together ever since.”

          Tom glanced over at Miguel, and then at Peter.  “Peter, when it happens, it will happen fast.  Don’t expect them to only use the door; keep an eye on the windows.  If someone gets past me, you’ll have to shoot him.”  Tom nodded to Miguel, “I don’t know if he’s in a state that he can defend himself, so watch him.”

          Peter tried to smile but failed.  He leaned his head over and looked out the window, but a rifle shot rang out from the ridge and made him pull his head back.  “They’re almost here,” he mumbled with a quaver.

          “Then get ready,” was all Tom replied.  The three men waited in silence.  Outside rifles began to bark in unison as rapid footsteps plodded heavily into the dirt, growing steadily nearer.  None of the three men bothered to look outside.  They avoided the windows and steeled themselves for what would come next.

          Mercer reached the door first, and he kicked it open with enough force to nearly tear it from the frame.  Tom’s met him with both barrels of the coach gun at point blank range, and Mercer’s body flew backwards as it exploded in a crimson mist and hit the ground with a meaty thud.  But now Sal was throwing himself through the broken remains of a window, and Tom hurled the spent weapon at him.  He spun away and ducked it, but Tom was on him in a flash, and the two men tumbled to the floor.  Sal one the struggle with his larger bulk and pulled himself on top, but Peter moved up behind him and swung with enough desperation to split the back of his skull open.  He tumbled away, and Tom struggled to push him off as Paco moved past what was left of Mercer and threw himself at the door.  Tom reached for his revolver, and Peter spun and raised the bent remains of his weapon as if to fire it.

          Paco only laughed at the broken rifle in the young man’s hands and move to fire, but Miguel hefted the Winchester on the bed with him and put a round into him that past through and impacted the wall beyond.  Paco’s arms went limp, and he tried to paw at the spreading stain on his gut before falling backwards and sinking into a slump, his weapon useless at his side.

          Just as swiftly as it had begun, it was over.  Tom pulled himself out from under Sal and used his knife to make sure both he and Paco were truly done in, while Miguel shook his head with distaste and Peter looked away.  Outside, Barrett and Juan waited for the confirmation of victory from their men.  When it didn’t come, Juan raised his head to take a peek.  A bullet met his shoulder and tore it open, and he screamed.

          Barrett roared as Juan squirmed in a pool of his own blood.  “Gawd damnit, you rotten bastard!  You done killed my men!  I should kill you myself!”

          “Then why don’t you?” Tom shouted back up the hill.  “Come on down, and we’ll do this like men.”

          “Because you’ll shoot me dead on as soon as I start down this hill or as soon as I get down there to fight!”

          Juan shifted his weight and howled.  Barrett spat, swung his rifle around, and fired it into the screaming man’s face.  “Worthless.  Finally, some damned peace,” he muttered.

          The new silence hung in the air for only a moment before Tom shouted, “How about a deal?  You come down unarmed, and I’ll come out and wait for you!”

          “And what about them two buggers?!  They’ll do me in, soon as I’m in sight!”

          “No, they won’t.  One of them’s too injured to raise a rifle, while the other’s too green to use it.  I’ll meet you out here, fair and square.”

          Barrett sat back.  He thought for a moment to himself and grunted.  This was surely a trap, but it might be the only chance to kill the man who must have done in his gang.  And once he did, he could easily off the other two and then go form himself a new group of men.

          “I’ll do it then,” Barrett shouted.  He tossed his rifle away and rose slowly, his hands in the air.  Step by step he made his way down the hill into the valley. Taking care not to kick up loose dirt and slip.  When he reached halfway, Tom stepped outside with his rifle raised high and set it by the door.  He moved away from Mercer’s carcass and stood waiting with his hands out and empty to show his intentions.  Barrett reached the edge of the valley and approached until he stood only ten yards from Tom and the house.   Peter came to the door, while Miguel watched through the shattered windows.

          “No guns,” Tom muttered.

          Barrett smirked and shrugged.  “Bare hands, then.”  The two men slowly reached for their gunbelts and unstrapped them without removing their pistols, Tom’s face stoic, Barrett’s never leaving his confident smirk.  They tossed the belts aside, and Tom knelt down and pulled his knife, which he tossed between them.  It stuck into the dirt roughly half way, the handle nearly vertical from the Arizona dirt.

          “We go on the count of five from Peter,” Tom said with a nod of his head toward Peter.

          “Uh…uh…One.” Peter started to count. “Two.”

          “Just so you know, feller, soon as I finish with you, I’m gonna gut both of them and then go get myself drunk,” Barrett spat over the sound of Peter’s counting.

          His words echoed back just in time for Peter to declare, “Five.”

          With a roar, Barrett leaned forward and charged full tilt.  Tom sprang forward gracefully but couldn’t match the terrible pace that Barrett set as he rushed.  Barrett ran right past the knife and tackled Tom full on, knocking him straight to the dirt and proceeding to swing his fists wildly as he tried to beat the man down.  Tom brought his arms in close and tight, letting Barrett rain down blow after blow, until sensing an opening and shooting a palm straight up and catching the side of Barrett’s face.  Tom raised his legs as the larger man fell away and pulled himself out from under him.

          Barrett struggled upright, but turned just in time for Tom’s fist to slam into his cheek and rattle his teeth.  He stumbled with a grunt but raised his arm in time to catch the next blow near his shoulder.  He returned in kind, his knuckles catching the side of Tom’s nose and sending a few droplets of blood flying through the air.  He swung again, but Tom reeled from the punch and ducked the second, coming up beneath to catch Barrett in the gut.

          The man doubled over from the punch, and Tom swung again, but Barrett’s pain was just a ruse.  The side of his hand darted forward, impacting Tom’s chest and disrupting his punch.  His fingers tightened on the older man’s coat and pulled him close, where he could repeatedly slam his knee into his gut.  Tom tried to escape from the fierce attack, but pain shot through his body with each hit, and he felt himself sinking to the floor.

          Barrett dropped his leg and hammered his fists down onto Tom’s shoulder, which laid him out flat on the ground.  As Tom looked up at the sky and groaned, Barrett went for the knife.  He wiped the dirt off of it as he returned to his near-helpless opponent with a grin.  “Looks like I win,” Barrett roared defiantly as he sat on Tom’s chest and stabbed down with the knife.  Tom crossed his forearms and brought them up under the man’s wrist, but he was too weak to stop him.  Slowly but steadily the blade sunk closer and closer, gravitating towards Tom’s left eye.  He watched in silence as it was now six inches away from his face, now five.  The old man tried to muster every last ounce of strength he could, but it was no use.  Barrett laughed.  The sharp point gleamed in the sunlight, now just three inches from him.

          Gunfire ripped through the sound of Barrett’s guffaws as a bullet ripped the large bearded man’s  face open.  His body suddenly went limp and fell to the side, and Tom raised his arms and pushed the knife away with the corpse.  He rolled up onto his shoulder and looked to the house.

          Peter stood with his mouth hanging open, the rifle Tom had set aside still smoking in his hands.  He made a sound like a low moan and stared wide-eyed at the corpse which now lay beside Tom in a growing puddle of blood.  Miguel hobbled out of the doorway of the adobe house and set his good hand on top of the rifle, helping push it down.  Peter turned to him, tears welling in his eyes.  “He was going to…I had to stop him…”

          Miguel nodded and pressed his forehead to Peter’s.  “Shh…,” he spoke in a soothing whisper.  “Shh…I know.  I know.”

          Tom rose from the ground and gathered his things as he wiped the blood from his nose.  He tightened the gunbelt and waited quietly as Peter sobbed against Miguel.  Miguel turned and looked at Tom, and the old man pointed to show he was leaving.  Miguel nodded.  “Thank you, stranger.  You’ve saved us.  If ever we can repay the debt, we will.”

Peter sniffled and turned his head to look at Tom.  He pulled his head away and wiped his eyes.  “Yes, thank you.  Miguel and I appreciate it.”

Tom tapped the brim of his hat in salute and turned to walk away.  He did not speak as he walked and listened to the sound of Peter’s tears fall away in the distance.  Eventually he reached the edge of the valley and climbed out, leaving behind him the two men, the broken and pockmarked house, and the numerous corpses which were already beginning to draw buzzards in the sky.

After a while, he heard footsteps shadowing his own, and he looked over his shoulder to find the veiled woman trailing closely behind him.

“You did well, Tom,” she said in her strange singsong voice.

Tom grunted and shook his head.  “Cutter Barrett and his men are dead.  Your “children” are safe.  I’ve done what you asked.”

“Yes, you did.  Peter and Manuel will be safe now.  I will see to that.  And you have done me a great favor, Tom.  So I shall repay you.”

“And what will you give me?”  Tom stopped and turned around to face her.  “What could you possibly give me?”

The woman giggled and pointed to a dead Juniper tree nearby.  “For starters, you are on foot in the middle of wilderness.  How about a horse?” She snapped her fingers, and the earth trembled and shook beneath Tom’s feet.  The ground rent itself open, and with a whinny the ailing horse that Tom had put down rose from the hole and stood before him, in perfect health and already saddled.

Tom stared at the horse for a long minute and reached out to touch it.  He ran his hand down the length of its neck, felt its mane, examined where the bullet should have impacted it, and nodded.  “I don’t know what witchery you use, woman, but a horse will do.”

“And that is not all, Tom.  As for your wife…” Tom turned and glared at the woman.  She reached up and lifted the veil.  The face that smiled at him from beneath was one he had not seen in many years, still in the bloom of life, with the same sorrowful smile she had shared with him as he had gone off to war, the last time he had ever seen her.  The woman held up the veil, her eyes penetrating Tom, and he stood in silence for a time just staring.  Finally, without a word, she pulled down the veil.

“Wait!” Tom shouted as he reached for the veil.  He grabbed it and tore it away. But the face of his long vanished wife was gone.  This time when the veil pulled away, only a skull remained beneath.  Its jaw dropped open, and a terrible laugh belted forth.  Tom fell backwards to the ground with shock and reached for his pistol.

By the time he drew his gun and raised it, the white woman was gone; her laughter still rung in his ears.  Only the horse remained of her presence, next to a bewildered man who only slowly managed to pick himself up from out the dirt.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Evan Conaway 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com