John stands alongside his steed and watches the dying sun spill over the hills. Dustbowls thrash around his form. Ahead lays Fairfield, its foundries built upon the dry earth. A silver rail line extends from the middle of town tracing the train’s path in the sand towards the darkened horizon. Tomorrow the train will arrive and he’ll have found The Tall Man.
John shields his face against the blowing sand and clutches his chest. The fear returns. He sees Rose. His body rocks and he snaps straight, fleeing from the memory.
The wind picks up and chills John’s skin. He glances up at the rocking town sign, the name upon it spelled in fading, gold paint, squeaking on rusted hinges. A chunk of wood has left its side. John’s horse stamps the ground and John rests his hand on the animal’s mane.
“I’ve found him, Paul.”
John unhooks the straps that hold the saddle to the animal’s back. He sets his bags aside and lets the saddle fall. The horse shakes its head and nuzzles his hand. John brushes the its hair back and smiles.
“You are all that is left of the Riders. You rode with Paul, perhaps not in battle, but you have carried him nonetheless. You shall be the last. Join your brothers on the plains.”
The steed watches as John stoops to pick up the supplies and passes under the sign that bids him welcome. The creature waits some time before it turns and trots away towards the falling sun.
***
“When will the train start boarding?”
“About five minutes before departure.”
“Why so short a time?”
The man behind the ticket counter smiles. His wrinkled, sunburned skin clashes with the baby-blue outfit he dons. Several sizes too small, the uniform cuts into his wrists and neckline. He sets his pencil down and clasps his hands together as though John requires every possible bit of his concentration.
“You ain’t from around here, are you?” he asks.
“No,” John replies.
“Thought so. See, people don’t ride this train. Not the Black Rail. Not unless you have business.”
“I have business.”
The ticket salesman scratches his chin and studies the boy. He draws a handkerchief from his back pocket and uses it to clear a film of dust away from his glasses.
“You’re young,” the salesman remarks.
“I’ve been told.”
“It’s a dangerous world, son.”
“I’m prepared.”
“For anything?”
“Anything.”
“Even death?”
John hesitates but a moment before regaining his composure.
“Even death,” he says.
“Then that’ll be two dollars.”
John removes two wrinkled bills from his satchel and places them on the other side of the metal bars. The salesman retrieves the money, stashing it under the desk, and tosses a single blank ticket down. John slides the ticket across the counter and sticks it in his pocket without another word.
“Where’s the nearest inn?”
“Above the tavern straight down the main road, can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He turns to leave. The old man calls out.
“I know who you hunt. He’s a bad man, a sinner.”
“We all sin,” John replies.
“But not all are damned, son.”
“Not all, but some.”
***
Prince licks his dry lips. His horse gallops across the desert plain, hooves pounding and mashing the earth beneath its hoof, racing the fall of the sun. The light holds no boundaries upon him, the generals of The Tall Man’s band travel freely.
John is near. Prince can taste him. The wind blows fierce against his face. Sand splashes his dead eyes. He laughs, feeling nothing, lost in the thrill of the hunt. A gust tears the Stetson from his head. His hair spills across his shoulders. Ahead lays a prairie dog’s den. Prince realizes too late his mistake.
His horse stumbles upon the hole, crying out as it tumbles to the earth. Prince finds himself thrown from the saddle and into the dust filled air. He lands hard in the sand. Jolts of pain race down his shoulder. He cries out into the empty landscape. His horse lies shrieking and thrashing, kicking out violently.
Prince rises to his knees and crawls to his steed. He smells the blood even before he lays his hands upon the wound. Above the horse’s ankle a thick piece of white bone protrudes. Blood pours from split skin. Prince stands. He trembles against the wind.
“No.”
The horse cannot stand. Tears form randomly along the scars in Prince’s eyes and drip down. He pounds his fists into the damp dirt. He strokes the creature gently, whispering comforts to the beast.
Prince draws his pistol and places the barrel against the animal’s head, comforting it still in the final moments. The beast’s black eyes turn upwards toward its master. They shimmer with pain and fear. Prince cocks the hammer and fires once into the creature. Its thrashing ceases. Prince lets the gun fall. He pulls his bloodstained hands to his chest and weeps.
“Damn you. You take everything from me. Father, I damn you. Let me live or die, but do not take from me all that I love! You have taken everything, you cruel God…”
Prince cries into the sand till his shoulders shudder with exhaustion. He finally stands and gathers his goods, holstering his pistol, the weakness passed.
***
John makes his way across the barren town. An old woman sits rocking in a misshapen chair, eyes shut against the sun. Two men lean against a crooked support beam and whisper amongst each other as he passes the local bank, nodding in the newcomer’s direction. The tavern nears. It stands two stories tall, freshly painted despite the wear around it. A clean sign hangs above the front entrance. A child wrapped in rags approaches from the alleyway that borders the building, tan hands stretched out in hope of charity.
“Please sir, can you spare some change?” he asks.
John stoops before the boy and sets his bags aside.
“Where’s your family?”
“Don’t have one.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re dead,” the boy replies, not lowering his hand.
John shakes his head. He rubs his eyes, trying to think of what to say.
“So can you spare anything?”
“What happened to them?” John persists.
The boy’s face distorts briefly into a grimace of fear. He rubs his arm nervously and turns his head away from John.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Try.”
“He’ll come back if I do.”
John drops his bag. He places his hand upon the child’s shoulder.
“Who?” he asks.
“The man who burns the corn.”
“The Tall Man?”
The boy shakes. He lowers his arms.
“You’ve seen him too?”
John nods. The child continues. He bows his head, not wishing to meet John’s eyes as he recounts his sad tale. His voice rises barely above a whisper.
“He killed my pa. My ma. My brother Daniel. He burned the fields and left me. I don’t know why but he left me. I’m scared.”
“He’ll pay,” John says.
The boy glances up with dirty, freckle-spotted face.
“Do you believe that?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Then you are lost as well.”
The boy turns to leave but John grabs his bony arm. He stuffs a handful of bills into the child’s hand, closing his fingers around them.
“Take this. Take my food and find a place to stay. I will come back for you.”
The child smiles.
“My brother said the same words.”
“I will try to find a way.”
“Then try.”
John stands, his knees cracking softly, leaving his supplies untouched. The boy nods his thanks.
“My name is John."
“Do not dwell on me, John. I will wait. I do not expect you to return, but I will wait.”
John watches as the boy turns and makes his way down the road, dragging the saddle bags in the dirt behind him.
***
The tavern is larger than it looks. John enters through the sturdy oak doors that bar the entrance. Patrons turn on his entry, eyeing him a moment before returning to their drinks, ready to resume the drowning of their sorrows. John makes his way through the crowd of customers, whispering pardons to each man he passes. A few stuff their faces with burnt meat and deal short card games at two-man roundtables. The remainder rest against the bar drinking in stupors and staring into their shot glasses, eyes glazed over and faces shining.
A woman approaches, dressed in fancy cloth and a short skirt. Secondhand garters strap against her thin legs. She leans against the bar and strikes a less than subtle pose.
“Care for some company, sir?” she asks. Her voice squeaks at the end of every word.
“No thank you, ma’am.”
John slips around the woman and moves to the front desk. A man in dirty overalls sits behind the counter flipping through the local newspaper. John rings the rusted bell before him. The man glances up, eyebrows raised, and sets the print aside.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“You the owner?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you need.”
John glances back. The patrons manage to keep their focus torn from their drinks to rest on him. The squeaky-voiced coquette watches with exaggerated interest. He returns to the owner.
“I just need a room.”
“Company?” the owner asks, shooting a glance at the girl beyond.
“No company.”
The owner pushes himself up from his leather seat. He makes his way to the front and drags a faded rag down across the bar counter. “You got cash?” he asks.
“Would I be here if I didn’t?”
The owner shrugs off the comment and continues as though John had never spoken.
“You see, you’re a new face, mister. I never seen you before.”
“I get that a lot,” John replies.
“Indeed.”
He stands, struggling to keep himself on his feet, apparently unaccustomed to standing for long periods of time.
“Round here, strange faces mean strange business.”
“My business is not with you, I’m leaving on the Black Rail tomorrow.”
“No one rides that train.”
“I have business with a passenger on it.”
The owner glances down at the pistols that hang from John’s waist.
“Those guns…you a Rider?”
“I’m hunting a Rider.”
“It’s Anton, ain’t it?” the man asks.
John freezes. His throat is dry. He struggles with the next words that spill from his lips.
“You know him?”
“I know his old name. He used to stay here when I was your age with his partners.”
“Paul and Charlie,” John replies.
“And Hank,” the owner adds, “You remind me of him. He was a good man.”
“He was my father.”
The owner sighs. He rubs his hand across the bar top. Stale cracker crumbs spill down as he wipes it clean, repeating the motion for some time.
“I should have known. He’s dead, ain’t he?”
“He’s dead,” John replies.
The owner pulls a rusty key from the chain at his side and places it on the desk.
“Your room is number seven.”
John tucks the key in his front pocket and turns, ascending the stairs that lead to the quarters above. The owner calls up to him.
“Mister—”
John glances back, but the man has no words to say.
***
The room is cramped but cozy. A ruffled featherbed pushes against a chipped bed stand. John sets his pack down and removes his hat and weapons. He sits on the soft bed and listens to the music and laughter that comes from below. The muffled sounds fill the room, free and content, reminding John of happier days. He rubs his hands through his hair, across his face, feeling the stubble upon his chin. He rises and enters the bathroom.
A small barber’s knife lies upon the sink alongside a dish of shaving cream. John spreads the cream across his face with a brush and picks up the razor. His skin is tanned and rough, his hands calloused. He’s thin, thinner than he can ever remember. Deep shadows form beneath his eyes.
“How long have I been awake?” John asks his reflection.
The being in the mirror remains silent, mocking his movements. John switches hands and begins to shave his right side. Water drips from the spout and patters against the metal basin. He draws back a hiss of breath as the blade nicks his skin and stops. A trickle of blood makes its way down his throat. He continues shaving, mixing blood with foam until he’s finished.
The water in the basin stains a shallow red. John turns the taps and lets the cool water run across his face. He leans back, water dripping down his shirt, and stares into the mirror.
“Who are you?” he asks.
His reflection does not reply. John lets out a hallow laugh. He rubs his hand along his neck and smears a streak of blood in its wake. His jaw pulls back with the grit of teeth.
“Who are you?”
Tears spills down John’s cheeks. The stranger in the mirror cries too. The glass shines in the light of the dusty bulb above. John shakes with desperate rage.
“Who are you?” he screams, slamming his fist into the mirror and smashing it, “Answer me!”
The shattered glass lies quiet. The reflection remains, broken into a thousand pieces. John turns and makes his way to the bedroom. He sits alone, shivering despite the heat, then lies back and stares through the open window as the sun begins to die.
***
John stands in an empty room. Four bare walls surround him. Darkness hovers overhead. A single bulb in a rusted socket extends from the black, sputtering in its last minutes of life. A chain dangles from the socket and swings to unknown rhythm.
John wears the suit Rose gave him for his birthday, the same white suit that he had proposed to her in. He was to be married in these clothes.
A figure approaches from the farthest wall. A shawl of black cloth drapes from its shoulders and swallows its form.
“Who are you?” John asks, squinting to make out the figure’s blurred features.
The figure remains silent. It raises a finger to its lips. The face comes into focus. John steps away. His reflection stares back. Soft light spills across its outstretched hands.
“I am you,” the reflection replies.
“You are shattered.”
“As are you.”
The reflection approaches. Its body stands jagged and broken, held together like an unfinished puzzle on sagging, unfinished legs. John’s hand closes around the handle of his revolver.
“You can’t kill me, John.”
“I can try.”
“I am a part of you.”
“No.”
John draws the weapon and fires. His reflection remains untouched.
“You fight in vain,” it says, marching slowly forward.
“No fight is useless.”
“This fight cannot be won. Do you really think killing him will bring Rose back?”
“No I don’t,” John says, “I no longer fight for myself. I fight for my family. I fight for the boy in rags. I fight for men like Ezekiel and all who have suffered at The Tall Man’s hands.”
The reflection smiles. Shards of glass trickle from its lips.
“Then your fight is just.”
The figure reaches up and takes hold of the hanging chain that connects to the dying bulb above.
“I will always be here. I will be here to fight with you.”
“Always?” John asks.
The reflection nods.
“Now wake.”
The reflection pulls the cord and the light fades. The room vanishes with the dark.
***
John opens his eyes. Long has he slept, through the night and into the early morning hours. From beyond the window comes the roaring whistle of the Number Eight Black Rail.
John gathers his clothes. He places his Stetson upon his head, pushing down to secure it. The silver pistols lie upon his pillow. His fingers dance as he checks the chambers and cleans the weapons. From outside the train whistle sounds again, closer but not yet at the station. John leaves the room.
John makes his way down the stairs and out the front, stopping only to lay the bent room key down upon an empty table. The tavern owner sits behind the desk and watches him as he exits into the first light.
***
Prince sprints through the sand. Far away he can hear the trumpeting call of The Tall Man’s locomotive. He doubles his pace. His prey must not be allowed to reach his master.
As Prince runs through the scorched land a vulture circles above. Its cry pierces the stillness. Prince stops and stares up at the bird, seeing only blackness but smelling its stench. The smells of a thousand putrid corpses emanate from the creature’s skin.
“I shall not die by your ways. I shall die by the hand of man, not the fate of God.”
Prince laugh and starts again, his black hair fluttering behind as he races against his own fate, destined to change that of another.
***
John stands behind a broken shed and watches as the Black Rail rolls into view. The shining black locomotive screeches to a slow stop, its heavy gears grinding with strain. Plumes of gray smoke spew from the stacks atop the engine car. Men holding rifles guard both ends of the train. No number dots its side. The vehicle, like the Rider it carries, remains anonymous, and yet any who dare glance upon its form know who commands passage. It shines in the desert light, a hulking beast of infinite power.
A lone figure approaches the front passenger car dressed in robes with a collar of white. Blazing red hair compliments his pale skin. He carries a black leather case in his right hand and clutches a book bearing the sign of the cross in the left. John watches as the man hands his ticket to the guard. He punches the paper and steps aside, allowing passage.
The young beggar child approaches from down the road. He wears new clothes, face clean, the dirt and grime washed from his skin. He holds a bible with both hands.
“Where are you going?” John asks.
“To church. And you?”
“I’m catching this train.”
The boy’s sight drifts across the massive machine. “This is the train he rides,” he says.
John nods. The boy looks up at him.
“I will pray for you.”
“Thank you.”
The child turns and makes his way down the road. John watches him until he enters the church then heads to the train, a few compartments behind the priest. John pulls his Stetson down over his eyes, keeping face hidden from the armed men that stand guard on either end of the platform. Another ticket checker waits stationed outside the car. He thrusts his hand out, palm waiting to be filled.
“Ticket, sir?”
John hands him the blank stub. The man draws a pair of silver scissors from his pocket and cuts the sheet in half.
“Have a nice ride.”
The ticket salesman stands beside his booth and watches the foolish boy board the train. He crosses his heart. The whistle sounds again. The guards step back on the locomotive and close the car doors behind him. With a lurch, the Black Rail begins to move.
***
Prince enters Fairfield. The earth rumbles beneath his feet as the Black Rail chugs along spewing black smoke forth, moving down the track and leaving him in its wake. He curses his slowness and makes his way to the supply store where a black horse stands hitched to the post outside.
A young man exits the store and stands beside the animal. He dips his hand into the saddle bags as he works.
“Going on a trip?” Prince asks.
The man turns to address the stranger. A smile forms across his lips.
“Heading into the next town,” he says, mounting the horse, “Can’t afford the train.”
“What a coincidence, I just missed my ride.”
The two share a polite chuckle. Prince reaches up and takes hold of the steed’s reins. A look of confusion, then concern, replaces the man’s smile. Prince draws his revolver.
“Get off the horse.”
***
John sits in the passenger car for some time, willing himself to rise. He turns Paul’s pistol over in his hands feeling the weight of the weapon. A squeal of laughter comes from across the cab. John holsters the gun.
An infant lies bundled in its mother’s arms, chubby face bright as he laughs at the faces she makes. He grasps his mother’s flowing hair in his tiny fists. The woman looks up and catches John’s gaze.
“Sorry if we bothered you,” she says.
John waves his hand.
“Don’t be. Your child’s quite beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are you heading?”
“We’re going to meet my husband in the next town. We had to stay behind until he called on us. He’s working a steady job now.”
“Looks like things are going well for you.”
She stares at John with bright green eyes that scan his form. The child coos and claps its hands together, jealous of the divided attention.
“Do you have children?”
John taps his fingers together, lost in thought.
“I would have, but the woman I loved passed on.”
“I’m so sorry. How did she—”
“Childbirth,” John lies.
The mother nods. She glances down at her child and strokes its thin hair. She stands and moves to the seat beside John, taking his hand in hers.
“You will persevere.”
John looks down at the hand in his, so much like Rose’s. He rises from his seat. Now is his time.
“I have business with someone in the next compartment.”
“Very well.”
John turns to leave but the woman grabs his arm.
“I want you to have this.”
The woman sets her baby in the next seat and reaches into her purse. From it she pulls a silver chain with an elegant cross attached at the end. She places the necklace in John’s hands. John loops it around his neck and tucks it under his shirt, cross resting against his skin.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Don’t let the bad memories haunt you.”
John answers as he slides open the door to the next car.
“I’ll try.”
***
John makes his way through the second passenger car. No one sits alongside the aisle. He draws his revolver and opens the door. A thin walkway crosses over the clasps that hold the two compartments together. Furious wind threatens to tear him from the train. The metal beneath his feet rumbles as he steadies himself. He clasps the door handle and flies forward as a gust slams him into the side rail. He lets out a groan and forces the door open.
A veil of black cloth separates the back entrance from the rest of the car. Beyond it John can hear The Tall Man’s voice. He pushes the curtain back but an inch and peeks in. The priest sits across from The Tall Man, legs crossed and hands resting in his lap. A Rider stands guard at the other end.
“What is it you need, Anton?” the priest asks.
The Tall Man grimaces.
“You know I hate that name.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’m curious as to what you’re doing in Fairfield, Peter, is your flock not in Garrison?”
“My flock is composed of all who believe. I was giving a sermon at the church.”
“Spreading the faith, I see.”
“Yes sir,” the priest replies, “and where is Prince?”
“I’d hoped he’d be present but he’s currently dealing with another matter.”
The Tall Man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled envelope. He turns it over in his hands, listening to the contents shift inside.
“There is a man,” he says, “a runaway, coming into your town.”
“A runaway?”
“A fight broke out between him and his commanding officer when he refused to execute the prisoners their band had taken. The officer was killed.”
“And the prisoners?”
The Tall Man chuckles.
“He couldn’t save them.”
“And now he’s hiding.”
“Yes.”
“And what does my current profession have to do with this?”
“You’re still a Rider, Peter. Your other jobs are meaningless. Always remember that,” The Tall Man says. His eyes shine dark.
The priest nods. He twirls the cross that hangs from his neck between two fingers. The Tall Man continues.
“He is a believer and he and his son have been blessed in every town they pass through.”
“Blessed how?”
“Baptism.”
“So he’s worried about his soul,” the priest says.
“He believes he can be saved,” The Tall Man remarks, “Foolish.”
John cocks the hammers on his pistols. The Tall Man turns towards the curtain. John bursts through the shades, weapons drawn. He trains one revolver on the Rider’s head, the other he keeps steady on the priest. The guard raises his weapon, unsure how to react.
“John, my boy, what a surprise, I don’t believe you and Peter have had the honor,” The Tall Man says. He waves to both men.
“Shut up," John growls.
“You’ve grown.”
“Shut up.”
“Did Paul train you well?”
“I said shut up!”
John strikes him across the face. The Tall Man laughs again and clutches his bruised cheek. Blood pours from his lips. He continues, voice rising with each word.
“I like this side of you; the hunter side, not the prisoner you once were.”
“I’ve come to kill you,” John spits.
The priest reaches for his bag. John fires above his head.
“Keep your hands up!”
“Drop the weapon!” the guard shouts.
“That’s good, son, keep your gun on him,” The Tall Man says, “He has as many guts as the bastard father who raised him.”
John fires into The Tall Man’s arm. The Rider grasps his shoulder and shrieks with laughter.
“Good, John! Good. I love your anger. Tell me, how’s your Rose?”
“You shut up.”
“Is she still lying dead in the fields, rotting while the birds and bugs pick at her, just like in Barrow’s picture?”
“Barrow’s dead.”
“Pity.”
“You’re an animal.”
The Rider licks his lips and smiles. Blood pools beneath his fingers.
“That I am, John, that I am,” he replies.
“Do you have any last words?”
The Tall Man chuckles, raising his hand to cover his mouth.
“Last words? How honorable of you. I have a few, but first let me ask, what car did you enter from?”
“Enough of this,” John says. His finger tightens around the trigger.
“Because I’m sure you met the young mother in the middle compartment.”
John stops. The Tall Man continues, lifting his hand and waving it through the air. Blood spills freely down his arm.
“Oh yes, I know about her. She’s starting a new life. A believer in God as well, isn’t that right, Peter?”
“She was at my sermon.”
“Good. Now I’m sure you came expecting to kill me and go down in a blaze of glory. It would be a good death, that is true, but if you kill me my man back there will kill you. And it won’t stop there. Peter and him will go back and murder that woman and her child, won’t you?”
The guard nods. The skin on his clammy hands sticks to the metal of the revolver. He grips his weapon tight, focused on the man who threatens his master.
“Yes sir.”
The Tall Man turns back to John. He speaks casually as he raises his hand up to his wound and digs his fingers into the open flesh, gritting his teeth yet speaking no differently than if he were addressing a guest.
“And it won’t be quick. They will rape her. Then they will make her watch while they use her infant for target practice. Oh, she will cry, how she will cry when she sees what they do to her child. And after they cut her throat they will find her husband in the next town. If you kill me you will destroy another family.”
From the hole The Tall Man pulls the bent bullet, stained red with blood, and drops it to the floor. John glances back. The entrance door stands a few feet away. Dunes of sand rush by outside.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“Indeed it isn’t.”
“I’ll come back for you when you have no one to hide behind.”
“It’s a long walk to the next town,” the tall man remarks, the corners of his mouth forming a thin grin.
John fires up into the ceiling, causing the guard to shield his face in fear, and turns towards the exit. He presses his weight against the door and forces it open. The guard lets off a single shot as John leaps from the train, blast blowing away a chunk of the doorframe. Splinters fly.
John lands hard in the desert sand and sits up, revolver trained upon the train. The Tall Man stands in the open doorway with his own pistol drawn. The two stare each other down, their fingers resting on their triggers. The Rider holsters his weapon. John does the same.
The Tall Man watches John’s silhouette grow smaller and smaller until it’s gone. He takes his seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes. Blood drips from his fingertips as he removes his shirt and prepares to clean his wound.
“Sir?” the guard asks.
“What is it?”
“Do you still want the woman dead?”
The Tall Man smiles.
“Don't be ridiculous—”
He draws his revolver and shoots the guard twice in the gut. The man drops to his knees. His eyes roll back. Blood paints his form. The Tall Man places his hand on the man’s shoulder to steady him. He raises his gun and shoots him again through the forehead, splattering the floor with the remains of his skull. The guard twitches once and lies still.
“After all, I’m not a monster.”
Together The Tall Man and the priest laugh while they watch the puddle grow beneath the corpse. Beyond the compartment window the barren earth rushes by, harkening to their voices.
