John sits alone in the middle of the desert road shivering under the bundle of blankets Paul packed. A crimson fire crackles before him. He spears a slice of dried pork with his fork and roasts it over the flames. The salty taste lessens and he chews slowly, watching the fire as it dances with the blowing wind. He raises a tin cup to his lips and drinks his lukewarm coffee.
His horse shuffles in place and stares down a bushel of no particular importance. John rises and approaches the animal. He removes a satchel of carrots that he bought from the feed store a couple miles back and pours a few in his right hand beneath the horse’s nose. It chews loudly, neighing happily and slobbering over John’s sleeve. He returns the treats and checks his provisions, should have enough to make it to Stanton.
John makes his way back to the fire and lays and watches the flames as they dance. Above, an eagle soars, a shadow in the night. Stinging embers drift against John’s skin. He turns away and balls up in the dry dirt.
In the glow of the fire a black tarantula and a desert wasp engage. Their dark black forms shift as moving shadows, the glow of light reflecting upon the rapid movement of the wasp’s wings and the bristles of the arachnid’s thick legs. The hulking spider strikes at the flying insect but the wasp hovers above and lands upon the tarantula’s back, stabbing the spider with its stinger before taking off. The wounded beast manages a few proud but hopeless steps forward then stumbles to the side and turns upon its back, legs raised to the sky.
* * *
A boy sits cross-legged on the faded house porch. His father rests in his favorite rocking chair holding a tattered picture book in his hand. John stands behind his father, a nonexistent specter. He doesn’t speak. The toddler rocks impatiently and watches his father with wide eyes.
“Finish the story, Pa!”
“It’s late.”
“Please?”
“I’m tired.”
A voice arises from inside the house.
“John, listen to your father.”
John’s mother appears in the doorway, her blonde hair stringy and unwashed. Crusted cooking grease cakes her dress. Her stomach bulges beneath her apron. She wipes her forehead, only adding more grime.
“It’s late and dinner’s been ready for five minutes. I’m not serving a cold meal.”
“But Ma,” the boy whines, “Pa won’t finish the story!”
John’s mother smiles and rubs a hand through the boy’s hair.
“Tell you what, when dinner’s done and you’re ready for bed I’ll finish the story.”
“Promise?” the child asks. He leaps to his feet, voice rising with hope.
“Of course.”
The boy hugs his mother and scrambles inside. John’s father stands and takes his place beside his love. He offers a gentle smile and rests his hand upon her back.
“Ain’t you a sight.”
John’s mother pushes his hand aside and lets out an exaggerated huff. Her smile gives her away.
“Stop, you’ll get dirt all over your clean clothes,” she says.
“It’s worth it.”
“Well I’m the one who cleans them so you quit.”
John’s father kisses her cheek. His wife rests her head upon his shoulders.
“You all right?” he asks her.
“I’m fine.”
“And Samuel?”
“He’s kicking more, whenever you’re around especially.”
“He’s a fighter.”
“Like his dad.”
“Like his dear old dad.”
John’s mother laughs. She grasps his hands in her own, turning them over and holding them to her chest.
“I don’t know about old.”
“My back’s sore, I’m old.”
“You’ve been working all day.”
“I’m still old,” he jokes.
“You’re still handsome too.”
John’s father holds her close and together they watch the sunset. John stands unmoving. He finally steps up and places his hand against his mother’s shoulder. She doesn’t feel his touch.
“Let’s go inside. You still have to eat,” she whispers.
“I’ll be right there.”
John moves aside as his mother reenters the house. His father watches her leave and sits back in the rocking chair. John pulls up a seat and joins him.
“John,” his father says, eyes set ahead.
“Pa?”
“Don’t miss us.”
“It’s hard not to.”
His father chuckles. He stares out across the land, taking in its beauty.
“Course it is,” he says, “losing your mother was too. But she’s with us now and we’re happy, don’t you worry.”
“She still loves you?”
“Course she does. Mind you, there’s a lot of good-looking men here, but she loves me.”
“And Rose?"
“Why do you even ask?”
John nods. He watches the patched scarecrow that sways among the crops. The wind blows soft against his face, pushing back his hair and cooling his skin.
“John.”
“Yes Pa?”
“He’s an animal, the man you hunt.”
“I know.”
“He won’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
His father shakes his head and leans forward with hands clasped together.
“There’s no need,” he insists. His eyes plead with the stubborn boy.
“He’ll hurt others. It’s not just for you. He can’t be allowed to keep going.”
“You’re going to die, John. He won’t let you take him, not without a struggle, a struggle fit for a war. There are men searching for you now.”
“I’ll find him. He’s no God.”
His father sits back and shuts his eyes. He shakes his head. The wind stops. A stillness passes through the world.
“Every man dies,” he says.
“Yes sir.”
John’s father takes hold of his hand and squeezes it tight. He shakes with the sorrow his boy’s choice brings, yet no tears fall.
“You’re a good man, John, a good man. I don’t want you doing this.”
“But it must be done,” John replies.
The field around them turns to ash. The bodies of his family lie in the dirt. John stares at his father’s corpse and turns back to the figure sitting beside him.
“I miss you,” he says.
“I know. You’ll be with us one day, just not yet.”
Sound returns to the earth. A flock of scavenging birds lifts itself from the crops and races to feed upon the dead. John breathes in the evening air and closes his eyes to the sight.
* * *
John wakes. The fire is dead. A few embers twinkle under the blackened wood. He makes his way to his horse to place the saddle on its back. He checks its shoes and scrapes out clumps of dirt and rock with his knife, stopping to watch the orange sun rise.
“I’m coming,” he whispers. His eyes trace the patch of the burning star.
He mounts the chestnut horse and grips the reins tight. A hawk soars above and calls out to all who listen. John spurs the horse and takes off, a rider in the dust.
* * *
Prince’s steed bursts through the brown grass burning the land in its fury. He breathes John’s scent, his sweat and tears. He hunts him. The smell of dried corn and feed drifts ahead. His horse closes in upon a small store beside the main road. Prince pulls the beast to a stop and dismounts. He draws his canteen from the saddle bag, its metal chain still stained with the blood of the strangled Rider. He ties his horse to the hitching post and enters the shop.
A bald, rounded man sits behind the counter. He plays a shrill, tuneless ballet on a brass fiddle clutched between stubby fingers. The sound rings harsh in Prince’s ears.
“Stop.”
The clerk ceases his torturous tune.
“Sorry?” he asks.
“I just asked you to stop.”
“You ain’t a music man?”
“I wouldn’t call that music.”
The clerk scoffs and sets the fiddle down.
“Ain’t you a feisty son of a bitch.”
Prince rolls his eyes and sets his feed bags on the counter.
“Yes, now can I get some goods?” he asks.
“What’re you looking for, sir?”
“Sir?” Prince remarks, “Good to see manners in people these days.”
“I aims to please,” the clerk replies.
Prince ignores the man’s jokes. His fingers tap against the counter, drumming over and over in harsh rhythm.
“I need feed,” he says.
“What kind?”
“Any.”
The clerk raises his eyebrows and glances out his window at Prince’s black horse.
“Fine animal you have there,” he remarks, pressing a button on the battered cash register that sits atop the counter.
“Yes she is.”
“What you feed her?”
“Whatever you give me.”
A thin smirk slithers across the man’s jaw line. He twists his belt from side to side.
“Say I give you my most expensive brand?”
“I’ll take it, just get the damn food.”
The clerk raises his hands in an exaggerated fashion.
“Sorry, my mistake.”
“Indeed.”
“So where you heading?”
Prince’s eyes narrow to a slit. He ceases his drumming. His hands fall from the counter.
“How’s that your business?” he asks.
“My apologies.”
“Just get the feed.”
The clerk nods and sets about filling the bags. He glances at Prince’s canteen, the remains of the dried blood hidden from his view.
“If you need water—”
“I don’t need water. If I do I’ll find it myself.”
The clerk hesitates before dropping the bags on his scale. He cracks his knuckles nervously as the weight balances out.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing of importance, just get my feed,” Prince replies. The intensity of his voice slowly rises.
“It’s got.”
“How much?”
The clerk rings up the register.
“That’s thirty two cents, sir,” he says.
“Pricey.”
“Best feed here.”
“Then it’s worth it.”
Prince lays a ten on the counter. The clerk scratches his chin and checks the register's contents.
“You got nothing smaller?”
“I don’t need change. The rest is for you.”
“I don’t follow.”
Prince picks up the clerk’s harmonica and stuffs it in his pocket.
“I’m also taking this, but what I’m paying for is your eyes.”
“My eyes? Sir, you sure you’re alright?” the clerk asks.
Prince raises his Stetson and lets the man see the gray, lifeless orbs that rest within his sockets.
“Your eyes. A boy came by here.”
“What kind of boy?”
“Don’t kid with me. You smell of shit and you are not a wealthy man. You remember your customers,” Prince shouts, voice thick with venom.
The clerk has begun to sweat. His eyes drift down to the shelf below as his hands begin their descent.
“Alright. A boy,” the clerk says, screwing up his face as though grasping for something, then adds, “Brown horse.”
“John?” Prince questions.
“He didn’t give a name.”
“He gave you his name. He also told you where he’s going. He’s a trusting man, a foolish man.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
Prince draws his revolver.
“Don’t touch the repeater,” he warns.
“How’d you—?”
“Don’t.”
The clerk places the rifle on the counter. Prince snaps open the breech and draws the two shells from its depths. He drops them to the floor and tosses the rifle across the room.
“You oil your gun too much.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know where John is heading.”
The clerk’s bottom lip trembles. The sound of a trickle rises. He’s pissed himself. The harsh smell meets Prince’s nose and he tries not to gag.
“Stanton,” the clerk whispers.
“Thank you.”
Prince lowers the pistol. He picks up a local newspaper from the stack and sets it on the counter, smoothing out the ruffled pages.
“What’s the year?” he asks.
“The year?”
“The year.”
“1881.”
The Rider smiles.
“Now read me the headline.”
“I—I can’t,” the clerk says. He blubbers as snot and tears spill down his unwashed cheeks.
“You can’t?”
“I can’t read, sir. I just…just know the date.”
Prince sighs, carefully folding the paper and tucking it in his breast pocket.
“Then what good are you?”
He shoots the clerk twice, once through each eye. The man stumbles back and sinks against the counter. Blood spills from his face. He shudders once and lies still.
Prince holsters his weapon, picks up his feed bags, and carries them to his horse leaving the ten on the front counter untouched. He repacks his saddlebags and heads around the back of the store where a well stands. He fills his canteen, careful not to let the dried blood on the chain be washed away. Before returning to his animal he removes the clerk’s harmonica from his pocket and drops it into the well.
Prince mounts his horse and sits still. He listens to the calling of the wind.
“Stanton,” he whispers, then is off.
* * *
John enters the saloon. The front door groans on unoiled hinges and draws the attention of the bar patrons. They pay the newcomer little heed before returning to their drinks. John makes his way past the tables, pulling his hat down over his eyes, and sits at the bar.
A barrel-chested bartender clutches a dirty mug in his massive hands and offers a warm smile. His crooked teeth shine with homely light. He wipes the grime from the glass and sets it down.
“What can I do for you, son?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a man named Barrow. Daniel Barrow. He’s a photographer. Got a business proposition for him.”
“What kind of proposition?”
John shakes his head. He places his hands on the counter and slides his fingers across the chipped wood.
“The important kind. I know he’s got a farm here, I just need to know where. It’s a large area to cover."
“Fraid I can’t help you," the barkeep replies and returns to his mug.
John continues to stare, heedless of the man’s rebuttal. He removes the Stetson from his head and lays it on his lap.
“Look at me,” he says.
“I’m looking.”
“No, look at me.”
The bartender sighs and sets the glass back under the bar.
“Please,” John says. His hands begin to shake. He returns them to his pockets, hiding the pain from the bartender’s view.
“What?”
“I’m not a violent man but I need to know. I know you know where he is. If he’s anything like the man I met then I doubt anyone will miss him.”
The bartender glances down at the pistols that hang from John’s belt. He takes a single step back and drops his hands to his sides. The rag that washed his mug sinks to the floor.
“You’re a Rider, ain’t you?”
John shakes his head.
“My father was a Rider. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’ve known far too many of your kind to believe that.”
He pulls his rifle up from under the counter and steadies it beneath John’s throat. John doesn’t move. The bar patrons rise from their stools clearing a path for an approaching blast. The bartender’s lips seal shut. Heavy breathes pass through flaring nostrils as he waits for the stranger to draw. To speak. Anything. He lowers the weapon.
“If I was a Rider, you’d already be dead,” John says.
The bartender leans the weapon against the side of the counter and takes in the boy’s form.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Nineteen.”
“Too young for revenge, kid.”
“Revenge has no age.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”
John smiles as he returns his Stetson to its rightful place.
“We all die eventually,” he says.
The bartender fills a cup and places it before the stranger.
“His house is in the middle of the prairie about eight miles east of the main road. He’s got some hired hands but they aren’t fighters,” he says, and nods to the drink, “have one.”
John raises his glass.
* * *
Barrow’s house stands alone amidst an endless field of cotton. Specks of white drift up from the crops, dancing on streams of air. John makes his way up the road. His horse etches tracks in the loose sand below. A slave exits the field with a massive sack of cotton slung over his back, shoulders hunched from toil, malnourished legs shaking with every tortured step. Shredded overalls hang loose on his thin form leaving his body exposed to the wrath of the harsh wind. He spots John and sets the bag down atop the porch steps, pausing but a moment to sit and rest.
“Ma masta’s gone, suh’,” he calls, voice strained and accent thick.
“When will he be back?”
“Aroun’ dusk, suh’.”
John shakes his head in disgust.
“Stop.”
“Stop what, suh?” the slave asks.
John sits beside the slave. His spurs clang against the earth. He faces the man and rubs his palm along his knee.
“You’re a smart man, I can tell.”
“No, suh—”
“Stop.”
The slave lowers his head, humbled. He picks at a scab atop his elbow as he waits for John to continue. Finally he speaks.
“It pleases the boss.”
“The boss?” John asks.
“Barrow.”
“I thought slavery was outlawed.”
“Out here there is no law, sir,” the slave replies, his demeanor still stiff, his head still bowed.
“You don’t need to call me 'sir'.”
“Then what do I call you?”
John hands the man his canteen. The slave takes it cautiously. He grasps the canteen to his chest and shakes it, listening to the contents slosh inside. He removes the cap and sets it aside, staring down into the container, then glances back at John as though waiting for permission.
“Call me John.”
“My name is Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel drinks deeply from the canteen, careful not to let any of the precious drink spill. He swallows the cool liquid, savoring the taste. He stops and recaps the canteen, pausing a moment before handing it back to John as though reluctant to part.
“There’s a well out back,” Ezekiel says.
“Why don’t you carry water?”
“Water’s precious here and Barrow is not a generous man.”
“Why do you stay then?”
“What?”
“Why do you stay?”
Ezekiel bites his lip. He scans the field like he fears his master may return at any moment.
“Barrow. He knows where my children are.”
“You’re a father?” John asks.
“Yes,” Ezekiel replies, “he had them sold at the slave auctions but he keeps in touch with his assets. He promised to let me walk free after ten years. I’ve been here nine.”
John stands and makes his way back to his horse where he returns the canteen to his saddlebags. He calls back to the wounded man.
“Do you really think he’ll let you walk?”
“I can only hope,” Ezekiel replies.
“And when you die never seeing them, will you still have hope?”
Tears in Ezekiel’s clothing reveal the tale. Long scars of past whippings slope down his frame.
“I’m too old to fight him.”
Ezekiel rises from the porch and approaches the Rider. He reaches into a makeshift pocket sewn into the side of his overalls and draws something clasped tight between his bony fingers. He opens his hand to reveal a brass key which he places in John’s palm.
“When he gets here you run and hide, you understand?” John says.
The slave nods and watches the young man approach Barrow’s home. He calls out to his savior.
“Why are you here, John?”
John answers as he unlocks the front door.
“I’m here to kill your master, nothing more.”
* * *
Dust bucks up beneath Prince’s steady stride as he steps into the saloon. A sandstorm rages around the small establishment. Dust slips in through the cracked entryway and spills across the floor. The windows of the dank building shake and rumble against the crashing of the wind. Prince approaches the bar, removing his Stetson and shaking the dirt from his hair. The barkeep stands to the back lost in conversation with a young girl beside the bar. Her clothes are simple but enticing. Prince smells her perfume, the overwhelming stench of it. He takes his seat, trying not to inhale any more than he has to. The two pay him no heed.
“Can I get some service?” Prince asks.
The bartender turns, shaken out of his trance, ready to service his patron.
“Sorry, mister, what can I get you?” he asks, offering the Rider a warm smile.
“Whiskey.”
“What kind?”
“Any kind. Whiskey is whiskey.”
The bartender shrugs and sets a chipped mug down which he fills to the brim with a clear, yellow liquid. Prince sips at the glass and grimaces. The drink is strong. He stares into blackness, dead eyes focused on the cup. He runs his finger along the edge.
“You don’t have a cleaner glass?”
“That there’s the cleanest I got,” the bartender replies, ruffled by the customer’s unexpected stinginess.
Prince turns his head and listens to the sounds of the empty saloon. The scuffle of rodents emanates from the walls, scratching and sniffing as they scurry on the other side.
“Must be hard to clean these mugs, what with the booming business this little establishment is fetching.”
“Water’s scarce here.”
“That explains the smell,” Prince replies.
He raises the glass but the bartender slaps it down. The mug clinks against the counter but no whiskey spills.
“Look sir, we don’t appreciate harsh words round here.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” Prince says with a grin.
“What are you here for?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Lots of folks been doing that lately.”
Prince nods. The perfumed girl reaches under the counter. Her hand makes its way towards the hidden rifle.
“So you know of whom I speak.”
“No one came by here,” the man snaps back.
Prince stands and pushes himself from the bar. His black hair dances with his movements. He sways back, absorbing the sounds of the world around him.
“That’s too bad,” he says, his hands drifting from side to side like the flow of the sea, “I’d hoped we could do this like gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen died out a long time ago. Get out of my bar.”
“How much I owe you?”
“No charge. Just leave.”
“I have to pay you something—” Prince says. He draws his weapon and trains it on the girl.
Prince steadies his revolver, raising his second and pointing it at the bartender.
“Drop the gun, missy.”
“Pa?” the girl cries. Her hands shake.
“Drop it, Evelyn,” the bartender warns.
The girl lets the Winchester fall. Prince approaches her. She backs away, hands drawn up in pitiful defense. Prince licks his lips.
“Evelyn?” he says, “Such a pretty name.”
Prince darts forward and seizes hold of the girl, pulling her to him. The perfume overwhelms him. The bartender’s face drains of all color, cheeks bleached white. He shakes with quiet rage. Prince holds Evelyn close and whispers in her ear, revolver trained on the source of the bartender’s heartbeat.
“Can I tell you a secret? I hate women who wear perfume, no matter how much. It makes you stink. Makes you smell like a whore. My mother was a whore and I remember her perfume. I even remember the men she brought home. The drunks, the savages, the crazies. I can’t remember their names, don’t think I ever learned them. Except Ben, I remember Ben. I remember because he tried to cut out my eyes. And though I could not see I remember being guided to him by the smell of the liquor on his breath and my mother’s perfume on his skin. I remember slitting his throat in the middle of the night. A child’s eyes are precious, Evelyn, you are precious, don’t dress yourself up as a whore.”
Prince stares down at the girl. Black splotches of wet makeup smudge her eyes. Her tears stain his sleeves.
“You understand, Evelyn?”
“Let her go,” the bartender says.
“Silence, old man! You are the one at the mercy of my gun. Silence!”
Prince shivers and steadies his hand. Beads of sweat stand upon his skin. He repeats his words.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the girl sobs.
“Good.”
The Rider releases Evelyn who rushes to the safety of her father’s arms. He looks to the bartender.
“Where did he go?”
“Barrow’s house.”
“Barrow.”
Prince kicks the Winchester that the girl dropped across the floor. It spins round, scraping against the wood, finally coming to a stop several feet away.
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard. I just need one more thing.”
Prince holsters the revolver in his right hand, keeping the second weapon up, and reaches into his front pocket. From it he draws the dirty newspaper he took from the feed store and sets it down on the counter.
“Read me the headline.”
“What?” the barkeep asks.
“Read it.”
The bartender leans forward and scans the page.
“Country honors anniversary of President Lincoln’s death.”
Prince smiles, folding the paper back up and placing it in his pocket. He holsters his revolver and picks up the whiskey bottle the bartender poured from.
“Thank you. Now how much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen cents.”
“I’ll hear you if you go for the rifle,” Prince says as he digs through his pockets.
The bartender nods. Prince sets a handful of coins on the counter and turns, leaving the two in close embrace. He falters and glances back. A snide smile breaks out.
“Almost forgot,” he says, “you have rats, thought you’d like to know.”
Prince exits through the tavern doors. The bartender watches him leave, whispering comforts to his daughter until their tormentor vanishes in the billowing dust.
* * *
Daniel Barrow enters his home. In his left hand he carries a stack of unprocessed photos. Under his arm is the very camera that captured John’s pain.
“Boy, I thought I told you to stay out of the house. Where are you?" he says, calling vainly for his servant.
Darkness swallows the room spilling out towards the vile man. Barrow gropes blindly through the empty air. His hands close around a hanging chain. With a yank the bulbs blaze to life and light floods the hallway. From the kitchen John emerges, his revolver already drawn.
“Hello, Daniel.”
Barrow drops his camera and reaches for his gun. John fires into his left knee. He hits the ground screaming. In seconds John is upon him, drawing Barrow’s pistol and sticking it in his own belt.
“You must have known this was coming, even bought yourself a little gun,” John whispers in Barrow’s ear. He buries his fist into the man’s throat.
Barrow lies twisted in a puddle of blood and grasps his ruined knee. He moans, rocking back and forth and babbling nonsense. John continues his taunts. He slaps Barrow across the face again and again.
“You’ll never walk again. Think of it. You’ll never dance, never run. You’re a cripple, Daniel. You’re ruined.”
“Please! Please stop.”
John laughs. His shrill voice pierces the air and echoes through the halls of the empty house.
“Stop? What have I done? You’ve just begun to suffer.”
“Please,” Barrow says, reaching up and grabbing hold of John’s pants.
“Get off me.”
John kicks Barrow away and stomps his hand into the wood. Barrow shrieks as the spurred boot cuts strips into the space between his knuckles.
“I’ve been to your darkroom, Daniel. I’ve been through your bedroom. You have pictures of them, hanging in frames, pictures of the dead. People whose lives you stole!”
John reaches down and grabs the man by the throat. Tears form in his eyes. His face burns red, flushed with fury. His nails dig into the pathetic rat’s skin.
“You have her picture sitting in your room right beside your bed. You have my Rose framed. You’ve stolen her.”
He shakes Barrow ruthlessly, his grip tightening further. A dark shade rises on Barrow’s face. He gasps for breath.
“You’ve stolen her!”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Barrow croaks. His eyes bulge in their sockets.
“You’re not sorry.”
“Yes—”
“No. You’re lying. You enjoy it, the pain of others, you love it.”
John releases Barrow who crumples to the floor, moaning. Pitiful sounds rumble in his throat. John kneels and grabs the camera. He begins to set it up.
“What are you doing?” the photographer asks.
“Taking your picture.”
“No. No! No, please!”
John ignores the pleas. He snaps a single shot and lets it flutter to the floor. He stoops down and snatches up the sheet, stuffing the discolored picture into Barrow’s hands. Barrow flings it from himself, screaming hysterically. John’s heartbeat roars like thunder in his ears. He speaks over the photographer’s pathetic sounds, voice rising higher with each beat.
“Your own pain is realized. You know, some African tribes believe a picture steals your soul. I heard this during a sermon. It’s quite interesting. They believe that if a picture captures your image then your soul is forever trapped in the shot. I do not hold such a belief but for the sake of my love and the sake of all you’ve hurt I’ve burned all your photos. All except this one. You’re trapped, Barrow.”
“What do you want?” the pitiful man moans.
John lowers his weapon. He places the barrel beneath Barrow’s chin and cocks the hammer.
“I want to know where he is.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Barrow’s eyes dart in his skull, searching for some way out, some last minute rescue, but there is none. No one is coming for him. He isn’t important enough.
“He’s leaving by train in three days. Fairfield line.”
“What train?”
“The Number Eight Black Rail, ten o’clock.”
“He’s moving in the day?”
“It’s important. Big bounty.”
“What bounty?”
“I don’t know, I swear!” the photographer shrieks as John raises his hand.
John steps over Barrow and retrieves the photos he brought. He strikes a match and drops it in the pile. Flames catch. The pictures blacken and char, twisting inward under the heat and scattering pieces of ash along the bloodstained floor. John turns to leave. Barrow calls after him, voice tainted with fear.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you. I’m leaving you here, perhaps Ezekiel will have mercy on you.”
“Ezekiel?”
John smiles.
“You never even learned his name,” he says, then exits.
Ezekiel stands waiting in the dirt path. John approaches. The two stand side by side, neither man speaking, and watch as Barrow drags himself out the front door. He sits upon the porch steps, bleeding out onto the polished wood, his hands pressed against his wounds. His eyes lock upon Ezekiel.
“You helped him, boy. I should kill you. Help me up.”
Ezekiel remains still, his head held up, and watches his former master. Barrow shakes, his skin the color of paste.
“I said help me up!”
John places his hand upon Ezekiel’s shoulder. He nods, reaching down and drawing Barrow’s revolver from his belt. He places it in Ezekiel’s hand and closes his fingers around the steel handle.
“Time to earn your freedom, my friend,” he says, “Find your family. He’ll know where they are.”
“Thank you.”
Ezekiel approaches Barrow with pistol raised. John leaves the two behind. He trudges his way up hill to where his horse waits. By the time the gunshot rises, he’s already gone.
