The desert sun beats down upon John. He swallows the last of his water and lets his canteen drop. His supplies are empty, left to the orphaned boy in Fairfield. He pushes his Stetson forward protecting whatever he can from the sun’s rays and rubs a finger across cracked lips.
A cactus grows up from the dry earth. John sinks to his knees, removes his knife from its sheath, and drives the blade into the plant. A slow trickle of juice pours. John catches what he can in his hands and drinks. He finishes with a gasp, coughing and rubbing his blistered neck.
John continues following the rail line towards Garrison. A shadow appears above. A vulture circles.
John stoops down and retrieves a smooth pebble from the ground, placing it under his tongue. His father once told him that sucking on a stone helps keep the mouth wet, that the saliva would keep flowing long enough for him to make it out of any situation. The rock is bitter, the taste of slate, but he endures.
No wind blows in the vacant land, the time John needs it most. He gasps for breath as he struggles up a winding hill of sand. He reaches the top and peers across a valley of fire. No town lies in view. The blistering sun continues to blaze overhead.
***
Prince leads his horse away from the inn where he slept. His strength has returned, his weakness lost. He is strong again. He leads his horse through Fairfield and approaches the booth the elderly ticket salesman manages.
“Hello, Bill,” he says.
“Hello, Prince,” the salesman replies, nervously shuffling papers across the desk, pretending to be busy.
“Now tell me, the train left a while ago, correct?”
“Yes sir. About six hours ago.”
“Almost eight, don’t lie, I was here when it began to move. I may have lost my eyes but I know the passage of time.”
Bill shakes his head.
“Okay. Eight hours,” he says.
“And who was on it?”
“You know who.”
“Who bought a ticket from you?” Prince persists.
“No one.”
Prince sighs. His dead eyes stare off as he draws the revolver from his holster. He sets it on the countertop and spins it slowly, speaking in a casual, almost offhanded, tone.
“I’d hoped we could do this kindly,” he remarks, “Don’t forget, I remember where your grandchildren live.”
“I don’t know,” Bill whispers.
“I’ve seen where they sleep.”
“Please—”
The fury breaks.
“I will come for them in the dark of night. I will cut them, rape them, beat them, burn them, and kill them all if you deny that he came here one more time!”
Tears drip from the old man’s nose. He wipes his eyes.
“Alright. Alright…”
“Where did he go?”
“He never said. He just bought a ticket and boarded the train,” Bill says. He quivers behind the sheet of glass.
“He thinks he can beat us, kill the Riders. He is wrong.”
Prince turns and mounts his horse. He stares into the afternoon sun, dead eyes leaking from the blazing light. A young boy makes his way across the street. He carries one of Paul’s canteens upon his back. Prince can smell John’s scent upon the child.
“Boy!”
The child turns. His eyes widen at the sight of the black guns that hang from the blind man’s waist.
“Do not think that he will live. Do not place false hope upon him. He will die and I will drag his lifeless corpse under your nose to prove that he changed nothing!”
The child turns and sprints away, dropping the canteen in his haste. He does not pause to retrieve it. Prince laughs and spurs his horse. It sets off at a gallop, following the rail line’s path.
***
John reaches the top of another hill but nothing lies ahead. He sinks to his knees and rolls to the bottom of the pit. He lays unmoving at the foot of the dune and stares up into the blazing sun that taunts him from its zenith.
“I cannot die here, not like this.”
“John.”
A voice echoes from beyond the sand. John sits up, swaying from exhaustion as he threatens to tumble asunder. Rose stands before him.
“No. Not now. Please leave me,” he whispers, shaking his head and shielding his eyes.
“Today is not the end.”
John lets out a soft moan.
“But why? Why do I live?”
“It is not your place to decide whether or not you die. I can do nothing.”
He reaches out and takes hold of his love’s hands.
“I want you with me. I want you so badly.”
Rose smiles. Her body fades and John is left holding nothing but blowing sand. He beats his fists in the earth.
“What do you want? What do you want from me?”
A whooping cry sounds over the dune as if in reply to his tortured plea. From above the mountains of sand six men atop white horses emerge. Red paint lines their darkened faces. Tomahawks hang from each of their belts. Three carry bows notched with arrows. The other half wields weapons of white men, rifles held with practiced hands. The Indian closest to John lifts his arm and shouts a foreign language. The men urge their horses forward, eyes focused on the lone stranger.
John buries his hands in the sand.
“Kill me," he says.
The Indians whisper to one another and study John as if he were some foreign being, an alien wandering through their land. Their horses slow to a stop, each facing inward, creating a circle of beasts around him.
“Please. Kill me.”
The warriors ignore his words. John raises his gun and fires a round above his head.
“Kill me, come on!” he begs.
The horses buck but the men remain steady, bows knocked and rifles drawn. John’s vision slides in and out of focus. He approaches the closest Indian and sinks to his knees. He grabs the barrel of the man’s rifle and presses it to his chest.
“Let me be with her.”
The man yanks the gun away and raises his head to the sky to utter a piercing cry. John lets himself fall. As he fades he feels himself being plucked from the earth, carried away to a hidden place, guided by spirits unknown.
***
Prince breathes John’s scent as he rushes pulls his stolen horse to a stop beside the railway and dismounts. He drops to his knees and drags his hands through the rough sand. Splinters of wood scatter beneath his palms. He can feel the imprint John left when he leapt from the black rail
Prince shifts through the dirt and pulls away. He buries his face in the sand, tasting the pain and anger, smelling the sweat and fear his prey left behind. Prince stands and opens his canteen, spilling water across his face and hands, washing the sand away. John continued on foot. His prey is close now, the time for haste has gone.
Prince dusts off his hands and approaches his horse. The creature whines as he nears. He shushes the beast.
“Take comfort. We are one now, you and I. We are Riders. We ride. We hunt. We kill. All as one. Do not fail me, friend, for I place my life upon you.”
Prince strokes the horse’s mane. The beast’s cries cease. Prince mounts the steed and breathes once more the desert air. He feels alive, fresh as though touched by the silent hand of death and given a second chance. He feels he is changing, becoming one with the sand and the fire and the earth. He is a titan, a crusher of the righteous and the damned. To him, a mere man such as John is nothing more than an ant, a pitiful insect begging to be spared the heel of his boot.
“I will not waste such power on you, John. You’re a wild one, yes, but you’re still damned. You’re still a broken man left twisted in the dust. A titan such as myself shall find nothing worth saving in you. So flee, John, flee into the darkest corners of the deepest pits, for I will find you and hunt you and kill all that remains of the Riders past. A new age is dawning and I will be there for it.”
Prince spurs his horse and takes off, a bringer of death no longer a servant of the day.
***
John opens his eyes. A patchwork of leather hangs as a roof overhead. He lies atop a bed of soft fur. Panic overtakes him. He tries to sit up but a soft hand presses against his chest and pushes him back.
“You must rest.”
John turns to the sound of the voice. A young woman sits beside him wetting a rag in a bowl of water. She carefully dabs his face with the damp cloth. Water spills down John’s bare chest. He places his hand to his face. His lips are cracked and peeling but they no longer sting beneath his touch. The woman raises a cup to his lips.
“Drink."
John downs the liquid, coughing and sputtering in his haste.
“Careful. Not too much, too much is bad in your condition,” she says.
John studies the woman. Her raven hair gleams in the light, sweeping down past her shoulders and swaying with her movements. She seems no older than John himself yet her voice carries wisdom far beyond her years. Her skin shades dark, her eyes piercing. He feels that they can see into his mind and soul, beyond his own sight, but they hold familiar warmth. She is thin but strong, body built from days of work. John reaches out and grabs her hands, rough to the touch but comforting.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Sonya Proudfoot.”
“Proudfoot?”
“It is the name given to me by my elders.”
“Your elders?”
“I am a member of the Comanche tribe.”
John shakes his head and wonders if he is dreaming still.
“An Indian?” he asks.
“Yes.”
John glances around the room. Pottery of immense beauty scatter across the wall. A spit with the remains of a long ago eaten animal sits across from him. Pelts and cloth hang above. A quiver rests in the right corner. A flurry of arrow tails emerge from its depths. A bow of redwood sits beside it, strung with grace and beauty, decorated with foreign symbols. The walls curve to a point above. He’s in a tepee.
As a boy John read about these structures, seen pictures of them in his dime novels. He’d read that Indians were savages. John watches Sonya work. He sees no savagery, no rage or anger, only affection and concern. He feels safe.
“Where am I?” John asks.
“This is my hut, where I live.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
“My name is John.”
“Hello, John.”
“I want to thank you—”
Sonya leans forward and places a finger to his lips.
“Do not thank me. It is the will of the tribe that you live, I have no say. You are a white man, John, and I am surprised my tribe decided as such. I spoke with the hunters who found you. They said you were begging to die. A man in such pain has no place to die. He must conquer his suffering, not embrace it. Why do you embrace death so freely? Why are you in such pain?”
“I have lost much.”
“Loss is but a part of destiny. Those you lose await you in the afterlife. Their spirits guide you in death as they did in life. Have faith. Though those you love are not here in body they forever watch over you in spirit. They miss you as you miss them, but they wait for you to return to them with patience.”
John stares into her deep, winding eyes.
“Do you believe in God?” he asks.
Sonya smiles.
“My God and yours are one in the same,” Sonya replies, “Though we embrace different beliefs we both hold a place in his kingdom.”
“There is no God.”
Sonya shakes her head and dabs his lips with cloth.
“You do not truly believe that. You are filled with rage and anger for your God. You may even hate him but you cannot deny that he is here, watching us, watching all of man.”
Sonya rubs her hand across the old wound on John’s stomach.
“You have many scars. I wonder, do you still feel the pain? Or are you as dulled as the flattest blade? I do not believe it to be so. You still hurt. You still cry. Now sleep, John, rest your weary soul.”
Sonya smiles, brushing back her hair as she rises. She makes her way across the room but pauses at the entrance. She turns back and calls to her patient.
“Have faith.”
Then she leaves. John turns his head and looks up through the hole where the three wooden beams meet, watching as the clouds drift above and wondering if they watch him in turn.
***
John wakes. His head is groggy but his vision no longer blurred. He sits up. The room has emptied, night fallen. Outside, rays of red light shift. A drum sounds in the dark. Beats reach out to him. Chants rise beyond the tent. John stands, pauses to retrieve his holstered pistols, and makes his way through the entrance.
A frenzy of movement meets him, centered around the large bonfire that roars in the center of the band. Flames illuminate tepees painted wild shades of color. The Comanche dance and shout around the fire, their hands raised up in feverish rhythm. John weaves through the celebration. The tribesmen pay his approach no heed, each man and woman lost in their own world. Their chants burn through his mind. The pounding of the drums sounds in his ears. He feels his heart swell, feels his blood race with the burning passion the tribal dance exudes.
John makes his way to the center of the camp. The elders sit and smoke while the medicine man dances before them. He stares up at John with face painted white. His eyes flash as he twirls his staff through the air, attention locked upon the outsider. The crowd surrounds the fire. The medicine man stomps once more to the song and ceases his dance. The drums slow to a halt. Their final beats echo through the plains.
Sonya emerges from the audience alongside a painted man. He towers over the petite girl, deliberately slowing his walk so she can keep pace. Sloping lines of blue and green cross his chest in the form of a shrieking eagle, its talons raised in fury. Tangled hair drifts over features that hold the same noble strength as the woman beside him, hiding his eyes. The entire tribe focuses upon the outsider.
The chief stands. A veil of black feathers that spread down to his back cloak his scalp. He raises his hand to silence the crowd. His skin is twisted, his body bent, yet he stands and speaks with the voice of a leader.
“Sonya tells me your name is John.”
“It is.”
The chief nods.
“Tell me, John,” he asks, “Do you dream?”
“We all do.”
“Do you see those who you have lost in your dreams?”
“I do,” John replies.
“Then you do not dream, you see. You see the visions. You are a special man.”
“I am nothing more than a lost soul.”
“So you believe.”
The chief turns and motions for him to follow. John casts a nervous glance at Sonya but her smile reassures him. He turns with Sonya, the medicine man, and the stranger escorting him through the camp. The chief calls out in his native tongue and the dance begins anew, drums returning to their former rhythm.
John edges towards Sonya as they travel towards a small campfire that rests beyond the sight of prying eyes.
“What are we doing?” he asks.
“The chief wants to test you,” Sonya says.
“Test me?”
The man beside Sonya speaks.
“A vision guide. We will see if you are what we think.”
Sonya motions to the man.
“John, this is my brother, Charles.”
“Charles?” John asks.
“I was named after the missionary who wed my mother. He taught us English and cared for us,” Charles replies.
“A white man?”
“He was as much a member of my tribe as I.”
Ahead, the chief fans the burning fire while the medicine man tosses pieces of wicker on the flames. Sonya, Charles, and John make their way around the circle, taking their seats. The medicine man hands the chief a bowl which he fills with brown liquid. The chief places the bowl in John’s hands.
“Drink.”
John stares at the swirling substance.
“What is it?” he asks.
“A herbal elixir. It is safe.”
John turns to Sonya. She nods. He stares down a moment longer then raises the concoction to his lips. It chills his throat. The medicine man begins to sway, muttering a soft chant, his arms raised to the sky. John drains the bowl and hands it back to the chief. His head swims yet his vision remains clear. He breathes deep, muscles contracting within his thin frame. He feels strong. The fire shifts beneath the blowing winds. The chants intensify.
“Look into the flame.”
The fire cracks in bursts of orange and yellow. John stares through the burning flames to the other side of the circle. The medicine man thrashes, snapping his head from side to side, and shrieks out words unknown. John gasps.
Rose appears in the middle of the blaze holding his child. She smiles and fades. The Tall Man stands over the body of his father. His black weapons shift and twist in the flames. The fire cracks again. A man with dead eyes rides towards the camp, burning the tribe, slaughtering women and children. He laughs in horrid delight. The vision fades.
John leaps to his feet and flees the circle. The nails on his bare feet crack against rock as he stumbles through the grass. He mutters wild nonsense, shaking his head in disbelief. Sonya rises but Charles holds her back and chases after the outsider.
“John, what did you see?”
“What have you done to me? What curse is this?” John screams.
“It’s not a curse. It’s something you are born with.”
“I am a white man. I am not like you!”
“Only a seer could have witnessed the vision.”
John draws his pistol and trains it on Charles, blinking from the sweat that stings his eyes.
“You stay away!” he shrieks.
Charles raises both arms up in a sign of piece. He takes a single step forward.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Stay away.”
John sinks to the ground and beats his hands against his temples.
“What have you done? What have you done?”
Charles kneels before the outsider and places a hand on his shoulder. John looks up into his piercing eyes. His breath rises in his throat.
“Your eyes…”
“Yes?”
“Your eyes, they are the eyes of The Tall Man.”
“The Tall Man? “Charles asks.
“Anton.”
Charles goes rigid. He stands, face contorted in the dancing light. For the briefest of moments, the pride and strength and glory he emits passes from his form.
“How do you know my father?”
***
John and the others sit before the fire. Sonya and Charles study him with narrowed eyes. The chief speaks. His voice is quiet, solemn. His shoulder’s sag with invisible weight.
“We raised him as one of our own. That was many years ago. He left our tribe as a boy only to return twelve years later a new man. He was always a child with penchant for violence but this time he was something else. He’d changed. He killed a man who stayed with us, a deserter, and burned our tribe. He was so blinded by hate that he didn’t even recognize us. He traveled with three others.”
“My father,” John says.
“Your father was a Rider?”
John nods, unsure of what to say.
“He slaughtered us, raped my mother,” Sonya says.
Charles takes hold of his sister, pulling her close and soothing her pain. He speaks to John.
“And now you hunt him?”
John nods again, his face somber, unmoving.
“Then good luck.”
“What did you see?” the chief asks.
“I saw my family, The Tall Man, and a Rider with dead eyes. He was torching this tribe. If what I see is true, then he is coming.”
The chief rises from his seat. He lifts his hands. The crowd remains silent, all eyes upon him.
“We must prepare.”
***
John stands beside a new horse, saddle bags packed and filled. He adjusts the straps and tightens his stirrups. He turns to Sonya and Charles.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us,” Sonya says, “it is your fate.”
John smiles. He offers his hand. Charles accepts.
“Be careful.”
“And you the same.”
Charles makes his way towards his horse. He mounts the steed and takes off alongside a pair Comanche warriors, singing out ancient songs as they ride for battle. John looks to Sonya.
“You will be hiding?” he asks.
“With the women and children and elders. The men will face him if he comes, if Charles fails to stop him.”
John nods. The two embrace. Sonya whispers in his ear.
“Kill him, kill my father.”
John pulls himself atop his horse. Sonya watches as he, the last true Rider, the son of a good man, races off across the plains to take the life of her father. Her tormentor. The Tall Man.
***
Prince bursts across the land. He pulls against the horse’s reins, driving the animal to a halt, and leaps to the ground. John fell here, surrendered to the sun. He was carried away.
Prince traces the tracks with his hands. Above the wind he can hear the sound of approaching horses, the whooping cries of Comanche warriors. Over the dune Charles and his two warriors emerge. Prince turns from them. He stands his ground. The horses stop behind him, held steady by their masters.
“Who are you?” Charles asks.
“Just a traveler. A hunter. A seer, you might say.”
“This is our land, white man, and you are not welcome.”
Prince chuckles.
“That’s funny because I could’ve sworn your tribe didn’t make that same offer to John.”
“No foreigner has passed these lands,” Charles replies.
Prince’s listens to the thundering beat of the warrior’s hearts. All their strength and all their power cannot mask the fear that grips them. The rider’s voice deepens, his patience lost.
“Do not lie. I smell his scent, mixed with the stench of you half breeds.”
Charles raises his bow, drawing an arrow and knocking it. The two warriors mimic his movements. His voice cracks with anger.
“You dare insult our tribe? I give you one chance, turn around and face me or head back the way you came.”
Prince spins, his pistol drawn. Charles lets his arrow fly. The head buries itself in Prince's shoulder. He fires three shots in quick succession, each trained on the men’s hearts. The two warriors drop dead. Charles tumbles back off his horse and into the dirt, bullet lodged in his breast. His leg catches in the stirrup and he struggles to free himself, kicking weakly, finally sliding from the bond.
Prince grasps the shaft of the arrow and yanks it from his body, grunting as the jagged tip shreds his flesh. Blood pours from his wound. He removes a needle, thread, and a bottle of bourbon from his saddle bag, taking a seat beside the choking Charles. Prince slowly cleans his wound and watches as the fallen warrior struggles to pull himself up. He sucks in air through clenched teeth as he pours the bourbon into his wound.
“You could have left him here to die but instead you chose to doom everyone you’ve ever loved,” Prince says as he sprinkles the remaining bourbon over the dying man’s head.
“You wouldn’t know about love,” Charles whispers.
Prince scoffs as he threads the needle and pushes it into his skin.
“Love is a weakness,” he replies.
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Love gives us strength. Love gives men like me and John the strength to defeat men like you and Anton.”
Prince kicks Charles with his boot. Its silver spur leaves a thick gash across his eye. Blood pours down his face and into the sand.
“You don’t deserve to call him that,” Prince says, “Not even I have that honor.”
“You’re wrong. I have that honor. As his son, I have that honor.”
Prince stops. A chill runs through veins carried by blood cold as ice. He returns his focus to his wound, not daring to glance upon the fallen man. Charles laughs into the dirt.
“You’ve killed your master’s son. Let that live in your conscience for as long as you serve him.”
Prince finishes suturing his wound and stands. He turns from Charles and mounts his horse.
“Your tribe will burn.”
“They’re ready for you,” Charles says.
“No. Not for me. For a man, yes, but not for me.”
Prince rides off, leaving the fallen warrior alone in the sand. Charles rolls over and stares up at the blinding sun. Overhead, the clouds drift serene through the sky, unburdened by his passing.
***
The Black Rail pulls into Garrison, metal gears grinding as it screeches to a stop. Father Peter makes his way down the compartment, stepping over the dead guard. He crosses the ramp and waits on the edge of the platform. The Tall Man hands him the envelope. He accepts the package, pocketing it quickly, and awaits his master’s leave.
“Good luck, Peter.”
“I will not fail you,” the priest replies.
“See to it that you don’t.”
Peter nods and stops as if taken back by sudden thought. He glances up at The Tall Man, seeing age upon his leader’s face for the first time he can remember.
“Sir, are you well?”
“I feel like I’ve lost something. Something very dear to me. Something I never knew I had or never knew its worth.”
“It’ll pass.”
The Tall Man does not turn his attention back to his servant.
“When the deserter comes, make sure his boy dies as well.”
“Yes sir.”
Peter turns and steps off the train. He marches down the main road towards the towering steeple beyond. The Tall Man follows his passage as the locomotive exits the Garrison station. He steps over the guard’s corpse and takes his seat. He stares off into the plains and watches the earth fly by. To his surprise, a tear spills down his cheek. The Tall Man weeps in silence, not knowing why, only knowing that a terrible sadness has gripped him, taken him by his heart.
“God’s do not cry,” he whispers, trying to throw off the crushing sense of unknown loss.
***
Sonya stands alone in the midst of the swaying corn. She holds a basket in her arms, shucking the plants in rows and placing the cobs inside. A gust blows through the field and shakes the green sea of crops. A whisper dances along the breeze.
“Sonya…”
Sonya drops her basket. She glances around for some sign of her brother, knowing that he is already gone, that his spirit now watches over her.
