The glint of The Tall Man’s rifle shines off into the desert and stretches across the land. Grasping the crafted handle tight in hand, he marches towards the sloping plateau leaving a trail of shallow prints. He reaches the top and stares out over the plains, towering above the miserable animals below. Mere mortals. And he, a god. A bed of grass shifts. No wind flows. The Tall Man drops to his knees. Behind him Thomas Prince mimics his movements.
“It’s a wolf, sir,” Prince says.
“You can tell?”
“The heartbeat. Its breath. Its breath is so slow. He’s dying.”
“Dying?”
Prince nods. His dark hair shudders in the wind. A black poncho wraps loose around his form. His gray eyes stare off into the distance, never seeing but always watching. Dozens of scars slope through them tracing the past sufferings of his youth. The black that Prince sees has become his home over nearly every year of his life. By his side lay two black pistols, the tools of The Tall Man’s elite. His dusty boots make quiet crunches in the dirt.
“I may be more than a man, Thomas,” The Tall Man replies, keeping his sights set upon the creature, “but no one has eyes like you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Tall Man raises the rifle. The end of the barrel juts out from the weeds. He closes his left eye and focuses his aim, feeling the wind, waiting for it to stop. The wolf steps out from the grass and stares up at The Tall Man, its yellow eyes magnified beneath the sun. It stands ready, as though accepting.
The Tall Man opens his closed eye and hesitates for the briefest of moments, the wind gone. He fires. The creature drops into the dust.
“You hit it,” Prince says.
“Is it dead?”
“No sir.”
“Let’s go.”
The two make their way down the plateau. The wolf lies in the clearing, legs moving in slow circles, pawing the air and trying vainly to rise. Its body has been broken from a previous encounter. Part of the front paw is missing. A curved scar runs down its eye. It draws in shaky, rattling breaths. Its uninjured eye stares up at The Tall Man. A pitiful growl issues.
Prince lays a hand upon his master’s shoulder.
“The coach is coming.”
“And?”
“The driver has wet himself. I can smell his fear. The others are absent.”
“And John?”
“I’d imagine he’d be alive somewhere, perhaps dying, but by that smell, that awful smell, I think we have a problem.”
The Tall Man nods. He wipes the edge of the rifle with his sleeve and glances back towards his general.
“Send a letter warning Barrow. Tell the men to search the fields. Kill the driver.”
“Yes sir.”
The Tall Man raises his rifle and steadies the barrel. The wolf’s growls intensify. He cocks the trigger and fires once into the creature’s chest.
* * *
John wakes. He lies upon a soft featherbed covered in fresh sheets. His muscles convulse with effort as he tries to sit up. A bandage loops around his stomach. His skin burns as he shifts beneath the blankets.
John studies the room. A small bricked fireplace lies across from the bed filled with more dust than ash. Along the walls hang framed pictures of unknown men. His eyes catch the last photograph, faded and dirty, the oldest of the set.
Three young men stand alongside each other, posing for the picture. The two on either side smile but the man in the middle does not. John recognizes the curve in the man’s cheeks, the narrowed eyes. The Tall Man rests between the two, arms locked around their sides. On the right stands John’s father, younger than John can ever remember. The man on the left he doesn’t recognize. They stand shoulder to shoulder like old friends who’ve not seen each other in many years, near embrace. From their belts hang silver pistols carved with the sign of the wolf.
The door opens. John breaks from his trance and raises curled fists. A man many years his elder enters. Around his waist hang the revolvers from the picture.
“You mustn’t move," he warns as he approaches the wounded boy.
“Who are you?”
“The stitches might break.”
“Why do you have my father’s guns?”
The man takes a seat beside the bed. His shoulders sag with the burden of age. Fading gray hair hangs over his face, obscuring his features. He pushes it back revealing blue eyes that shine with glory and lost youth. His lips form a thin grin as he stares up at the yellowed picture before turning back to John.
“I was always the oldest of the band,” he says.
“Who are you?” John asks.
“My name is Paul. Paul Daniels.”
He offers John an outstretched hand. John slowly accepts. Spots darken the man’s skin but his grip is strong.
“You still didn’t tell me who you are.”
Paul shakes his head and sits up straightening his back with a crack.
“Your father was always impatient. You’re very much like him, even have his eyes.”
“I’ve been told that before. Who are you?”
“Like I said my name is Paul, and these are the guns of a Rider. Your father rode too.”
“A Rider?” John asks.
Paul nods. He wipes a speck of dust from the side of the frame. He stares at the picture as though he has not gazed upon it in many years.
“We fought together. He was a strong man. We were hunters.”
“Hunters?”
“I’ll tell you more later,” Paul replies, “For now, sleep.”
* * *
“How long did you ride together?”
“Many years, longer than you’ve been on this earth.”
“How many of you were there?”
“In all? Over fifty, but only the four of us traveled together at first.”
John rubs his eyes and places his hand over his bandages. The stitched wound stings beneath his touch. Paul hands out a bottle of brandy.
“It helps, son. Trust me,” he says, motioning for John to accept.
John grasps the bottle and stares at its contents. Brandy sloshes inside the brown container. He raises his head back and takes a long draw. The liquid burns his throat. He sputters as the drink warms his body. He gasps from its strength.
“The Tall Man.”
“Who?” Paul replies.
“The man in the photo.”
Paul turns. His face sinks and he looks away from the photo.
“We called him Anton. He never cared much for the name. Never had one.”
“No name?” John asks.
“He told us he was born and left to die in the desert. His mother died during the birth. He was one with the sand. The Comanche found him and raised him before he left their tribe. He told us he found the man who’d abandoned his mother, said he murdered him.”
John’s sight locks upon the hanging picture. The Tall Man’s eyes match his gaze.
“You were friends?”
“Partners. Me, Anton, your father, and Charlie. Charlie was wounded when we took this picture. We snuck him out of the hospital a week later to avoid paying the bill.”
John stares at the frame.
“You hunted men.”
Paul picks up the brandy bottle and downs what is left. He grimaces as the drink slides down his throat.
“We did.”
* * *
Prince approaches the clearing where the two guards lie. Two Riders on horseback follow close behind, marching in unison. The bald man lies with his throat slashed, his boots and revolver gone. Hair drifts across the young boy’s eyes concealing the bullet hole that bores into his forehead, a look of peace plastered across his face.
Prince kneels in the sand and lets the mysteries of the event course through him. His useless eyes rise up to the empty skies.
“He was wounded. Badly,” he says, sucking in the heavy air.
“Are you sure, sir?” a rider asks.
“Yes.”
Prince shifts against the dirt. Dustbowls spin beside his form. Sand flutters against his skin. He breathes deep. The crowing of a vulture echoes from above. The rustle of a startled jack rabbit rushing for the safety of its burrow enters his mind. His body rocks with the wind. He slams his fists into the dirt letting the scent of blood and sweat drift up.
“He went on, east. The blood has dried. The two of you head through the clearing and into the woods. Split off as you pass them. Search every house and every hole along the way. If he’s dead bring him with you. If he’s alive, make sure you don’t hesitate.”
“Yes sir,” the men reply as one.
The Riders spur their horses into a trot as they approach the field. Prince calls after them.
“Hurry, storm’s coming.”
The closest horseman stops and looks up. The clouds lay unmoving, the air dry. No wind draws breath.
“How are you so sure?” he asks.
Prince rises to his feet. The soft prints of his hands remain upon the sand.
“I can smell the rain. Now ride.”
* * *
Raindrops patter the window beside John’s bed. Soft beads of water slide down the glass, twisting and joining one another before plummeting to the ground. Paul opens the door and takes his seat.
“How’s the wound?”
“It’s better.”
Paul nods. He hands John water in a tin cup.
“Drink.”
John raises the container and drinks. It isn’t as good as the brandy but it does the trick. He lowers the cup and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
“You were friends, you and my father?”
“We were almost brothers,” Paul replies.
“Did you enjoy the ride?”
“We were young. All alone. We did what we did yet we changed.”
John’s breath rattles as he watches Paul rock in the chair.
“He’s dead, you know that?”
“Yes. I’ve been watching you for all your life, John. You may not know me but I’ve watched you grow."
“Do they search for you?”
“Yes, but they won’t find us.”
John shakes his head. Out beyond the window the last rays of sun drift into dust.
“Do you still watch the sunsets?” he asks.
Paul nods.
* * *
John wakes shuddering in the night. He gasps and reaches out for Rose but she is gone. He lies shaking and sweating, holding the pillow to his chest and crying in the night. He rocks back and forth and clutches the sheet in his arms, imagining it is Rose’s soft skin. He calls out her name. He cries out for his father, for Samuel, for anyone to save him from the cold that racks his lungs.
He places his head against the pillow to muffle his words. He screams through the house. The stitches on his side have broken. Blood stains the sheets. Paul bursts through the door and grabs hold of the thrashing boy. John weeps against Paul’s chest until the shaking stops.
* * *
John sits with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. Paul sits beside him and pulls a threaded needle through the edge of John’s wound.
“I want you to teach me,” John says, gritting his teeth as the needle passes once more into his skin.
“Teach you what?”
“To shoot. To fight. I’m going to hunt him.”
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
Paul shakes his head and cuts the string on the needle. He spreads his hand over the new stitch and inspects his work.
“You’re too weak.”
“I can train.”
“You can’t even walk.”
“I can stand.”
“No.”
John grabs hold of Paul’s hand and pulls himself up. He slowly releases his hold and steadies himself of shaky legs, arms outstretched on either side for balance.
“He took everything from me,” he says, “Everything. My father, my brother, my love. He took my child, Paul. He’s taken everything. All I can do is die.”
“You’re too young.”
“You fought younger.”
“I’m too old, John. I haven’t fired my guns in fifteen years.”
“Neither had my father and still he fought.”
“No.”
John turns and crosses the room, struggling to keep his legs from giving way.
“Then what use is this place?”
“John, stop.”
Paul grabs for the boy but John pushes him back. He reaches the front door and steps out onto the porch. His legs buckle from the strain as he takes the first step and he hits the ground hard. Paul follows. He freezes upon exiting the house and stares out across the lawn.
A Rider sits atop his horse, face drawn back in shock, having just stumbled upon his prey. He goes for his gun. Paul draws his silver revolver in one smooth motion, leveled before the man has even touched his.
“Don’t move. I keep them loaded, son.”
The Rider watches him with narrowed eyes. His hand hovers over his belt. He looks from John to Paul. A thin smile spreads across his face.
“You won’t.”
Paul fires three times into the man’s horse. The beast drops and sends the Rider toppling to the earth, his face buried in dirt. He clutches his chest and groans from the impact. Paul’s finger tightens around the trigger.
“I’ve killed far better men than you, trust me on that,” he says, taking aim.
John places his hand on the Paul’s shoulder. Paul stops. He looks down at the fallen man.
“Get up.”
The Rider rises on shaking legs with his hands held up in forfeit. He glances down at the horse. Its tongue splays out, black eyes empty. The beast’s mane shudders with the wind.
“You saw nothing,” Paul says.
The Rider nods.
“Good. You better lie well because they’ll kill you if they think you’ve betrayed them. You tell the truth and I’ll hunt you myself. Bullets won’t stop me, son. You hear?”
“Yes," the Rider replies.
“Now go.”
“The walk will take me weeks.”
“You have water, plenty of shade along the way. You can make it if you save your breath.”
The man stands still. Paul’s eyes flash. He raises his revolver.
“Go."
The Rider takes off into the field. Paul fires a round above his head. The Rider doubles his pace and vanishes into the twisting sands. John stares up at the aged marksman.
“Fifteen years?” he asks.
“Fifteen years.”
“Teach me.”
“You need your rest.”
* * *
John can hear Paul cough at night, hear him struggle to breath. It goes on for minutes without pause. John closes his eyes to pretend he doesn't notice but the sound goes on and on, filling the house.
John stands and makes his way through the darkened hall. His feet patter against the cold wooden floorboards with each step. He enters Paul’s bedroom. Paul sits up, coughing wildly, his body shaking from the effort, forcing a stop upon spotting John.
“John?” he asks, panting and clutching his chest.
“Yes sir.”
Paul sighs. He points to the wooden chair next to his mattress.
“Take a seat.”
John sits next to his caretaker. Beside the bed lies a picture of a young woman. She sits in a grainy photo, holding a flowery umbrella behind her head. Her beauty shines through the dust and wear. Paul lifts the frame.
“This is Lisa. She was my daughter.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died long ago. I would have liked for you to have met her.”
He sets the frame down, hovering over the memory of his girl a little longer, and turns away.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone, John.”
“Yes sir.”
John shivers under his bandages. He struggles to speak. The darkness of the room surrounds them both. Outside, the harsh wind roars against the windowpanes.
“Without Rose, I feel I’m wandering in the night, like I’m lost in the dark with no one to guide me home.”
“Not all who wander are lost,” Paul replies.
Paul glances up. Curtains of moonlight spill across his eyes. He speaks.
“You’ll eat in the dining room tomorrow. We’ll start your training in the morning. I don’t think we have long.”
* * *
Paul paces around John. His blue eyes blaze with light. He watches his apprentice with long forgotten fire in his heart.
“Focus. Steady your aim. You have all the time in the world, John.”
“Not in a firefight.”
“No, but now we train. Steady the gun. Keep your shoulder locked in place and absorb the force of the weapon.”
John squeezes the trigger. The bullet hits the target circle just outside the bull’s-eye.
“Good. You know how to shoot, but we need to teach you how to focus. Your father taught you well, but well isn’t good enough. Again!”
Paul stands behind John, adjusting his shoulders and arm.
“Keep your finger on the outside of the trigger, it gives you time to check that it is a foe. We can’t have you shooting friends. Your legs should be level. Don’t bend your knees.”
John turns slightly.
“Good. Keep that stance. Now for the hard part. Keep the barrel level at all times. Never hesitate. You hesitate, you die. Don’t tense up. Breathe in deep, slow breaths and fire when you’ve finished breathing in. Remember that!”
“Yes—” John begins.
Paul spins around, his voice magnified.
“Don’t interrupt! Keep the weapon level. Keep yourself strong. Now wait for the wind and adjust accordingly. Just wait. Fire when you’re ready.”
John lets his breath flow in steady streams. He shifts his aim slightly as the wind picks up. He squeezes the trigger three times. The bull’s-eye explodes from the impacts of the shots. Paul smiles.
“Well done.”
The weeks pass.
* * *
Prince and The Tall Man sit beside the campfire. The embers of the flames blaze in the night, briefly illuminating the endless dark. Ash falls upon the sand in quiet death.
“He approaches,” Prince says.
“I know,” The Tall Man replies.
“There’s no body, no stench. His horse is gone.”
The beaten Rider appears. He marches his way to the fire, his clothes torn and covered in dust. He glances around with wide eyes searching for a drop of drink.
“Where is the boy?” The Tall Man asks.
“Couldn’t find him. Water.”
“Why do you return so late? Where is your horse?”
“Bit by a rattler. Please, water.”
“A rattler.”
The Rider nods in frantic exhaustion. The Tall Man turns to Prince.
“Thomas, fetch me a water can,” he says.
Prince tosses him a small canteen. It hangs by a metal chain wire-like in its design but strong. He kneels before the Rider and passes him the container. The boy drinks greedily from the lid.
“Thomas?” The Tall Man asks.
“He’s lying.”
“I know.”
The Rider’s eyes fly open and he shakes his head. Water spills down his lips. The Tall Man loops the chain around his throat and tightens it against his flesh. The Rider shakes as his hands flail at his leader. The Tall Man pushes his knee into the boy’s back and pulls the wire deeper. The man’s jugular bursts in a jet of warm blood that bathes The Tall Man’s hands. A sickly shade of black spreads across the Rider’s face and his body spasms as his bowels loosen. The stench of death fills the camp.
The men are silent. The only sounds that rise are the crackle of the campfire and the choking gasps of the dying man. He falls limp against the chain. Blood drips down his shirt. The Tall Man turns to Prince and lets the dead Rider drop to the dirt. Prince stands.
“Sir?” he asks, awaiting his master’s words.
“Find him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Kill him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Try not to miss the train.”
Prince turns, bloodied canteen clasped between his thin fingers, and mounts his horse. The beast neighs as he spurs its haunches. The Tall Man watches his right hand disappear into the night.
* * *
John and Paul sit at the dining table eating fresh ears of corn. Cooked cobs pile high inside a porcelain dish that rests in the center.
“Why does The Tall Man hunt you?” John asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long night.”
Paul smiles.
“It was after the war ended. Charlie, your father, and I, we’d grown tired. We’d grown up. You were almost three. Charlie was married. Me? I was just old. Lisa had died earlier that year. We were hunting war criminals and abandoners, murdering our own men. Anton led the pack. He’d found more loyal followers. None better, but men willing to die. His pistols were already black. It was sometime in the summer that we stormed a house and pulled out the occupants, an entire family, all because of one man who was guilty of nothing but running from death.”
He stops a moment to take another bite. John sits quietly, waiting for him to continue. Paul swallows and speaks.
“They had many children. Seven in all. An infant. Anton told us to shoot. We just couldn’t. He killed them all. The woman with the baby, how she wept. Anton’s men pried the child from her arms and threw it up for a target. Oh, how she wept. We turned our guns on each other soon after. Then we split. We killed every man Anton had before he let us leave. When we turned to go he shot your father in the back. He barely survived. We left Anton lying in the dust. I remember his screams as we left him bleeding in the dirt, the raw sounds. I couldn’t bring myself to end him. None of us could. Despite all his sins, he was still a brother to us. I knew he’d come back, wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie is dead as well.”
John sits in silence before returning to his senses. Paul watches the boy. He pushes his plate aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“John?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“How’s the wound?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good.”
Paul frowns. He rubs his hands through his hair.
“John.”
“Yes sir?”
“This is your last day here.”
John stops. His fork falls from his fingers. He stutters as he tries to speak but his throat is too tight. A single word exits his lips.
“What?”
“I’ve packed your horse. You have food and ammunition, horse shoes and feed, water, everything you’ll need. You’re leaving tonight.”
“But—” John begins, but Paul waves his plea aside.
“I’ve taught you all I know. I want you to stay so badly but you can’t. I never told you, but I was there at your birth. Anton never knew, neither did Charlie, but I was there. I remember how small you were, how you smiled when you saw me. Babies that young aren’t supposed to smile but you did. Your father asked me to be your godfather. I said yes.”
He smiles and wipes his eyes.
“I want you to stay so much, because I love you as if you were my own, but I can’t ask. You have to go. I’m dying, John. I can feel myself wasting away. I cough blood in the night. I forget where I am when I wake. Sometimes I think Lisa will come running into my room and jump upon my bed, like she’s just hiding beyond my door, and it hurts. It hurts so much. Now I need you to go. I want you to start a new life and leave these thoughts of violence behind because you won’t survive this. You won’t.”
John shakes his head.
“I can’t stop.”
“I know, but you can’t stay either.”
Paul reaches down, undoes his holster, and places the silver pistols on the table.
“Take them.”
“I can’t.”
“Take them.”
John gathers the weapons in both hands and pulls the shining revolvers to his chest. He stands.
“Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye, John.”
John turns from the dinner table and exits through the back door. Silence returns to the house, swallowing it once more. Paul does not rise from the table, does not make a sound. He sits there for some time before he starts to cry.
