John’s horse gallops through the prairie. He squints past the sun and off into the land beyond. From ahead a large structure emerges, its darkened form standing out against the desert’s endless light. A wooden monstrosity shoots forth from the soft dirt. Shaped like a skinny pyramid, the oil well stands high above his head. John slows his horse to a trot as he makes his way through the expansive establishment. Built from hundreds of small tents, the area lays blanketed with makeshift homes.
Workers mutter in broken English mixed with their own as he passes. Most of them have come from the East. They stare up at John with blackened faces and pitiful eyes. Crude drenches their clothes. They hold pails that slosh with the black substance.
John pulls his horse to the side of the camp and dismounts. From the barracks a stout, portly man emerges. A thick black mustache and beard obscures most of his face. He carries an oak cane with a large, sphere-shaped hilt and breaks out a warm smile. John studies the man’s approach. He walks in a jutting, wild fashion, exaggeratedly swinging his arms from side to side. He stops in front of John and stretches out an oil-covered hand. John glances down at it, tilting his head.
“Oh, pardon me,” the man says.
He removes a silk handkerchief from his jacket and wipes the crude away. John grasps his hand tight. The man shakes rapidly but lingers a moment before breaking his grip.
“Welcome to my worksite, the finest pumping station in the entire southwest.”
“It sure looks that way,” John remarks. He stares up at the structure.
The man tips his cap. “My name is Orson Caldwell, how do you do?”
“John. I’m sorry to intrude but—” John begins but the man waves his apology aside.
“Oh my boy, no harm. You must be starving! Please, follow me, let us retire to a more hospitable location.”
The man grabs the John by the shoulder and pulls him along. Puddles of oil bubble under their feet, rising to the surface like a thick soup. As John passes the worker pit a young Chinaman rushes forward and grabs him by the waist, his caked fingers staining John’s dusty shirt. His eyes stain red. Angry welts swell from the side of his face mixed with fresh, purple bruises. He speaks cracked English.
“Please, you help us! They no good men! Please!”
Orson strikes the man down with the hilt of his cane. A set of burly men rush up to take hold of the worker and drag him from sight. John watches them leave, unsure of how he should react. Blood pours from the gash in his temple yet he quietly begs to John all the while until the men disappear around the corner. Orson taps his shoulder and continues his march as though the incident had never occurred.
“Our workers are from far away. Sometimes they lose a bit on the trip over, you understand?”
John nods silently. Above him, the oil tower shakes on thin beams. The men continue their work, no longer concerned with the stranger.
***
Prince stands high above the plains staring down at the Comanche tribe and tracking their movements. Warriors patrol on all sides as they await his arrival. The sun is falling. He feels its warmth fade. He’ll have to wait until night. The bed of grass leaves him well covered, the Indians cannot see him beyond the sea of corn that spreads beside the crowd. His horse stands tied to a tree some miles back. He sits and hums a soft melody to himself, a memory from his childhood. The hum turns to song.
“This little light of mine…I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine…I’m gonna let it shine…”
Prince sings softly. He doesn’t hear the crunch of the child’s approaching footsteps but he hears its gasp. A little boy stands in the clearing watching him with wide eyes. He takes a step back.
“No, no, no,” Prince whispers, “I won’t hurt you.”
The child lets out a soft cry. Tears fall from his eyes.
“I won’t hurt you. Do you like that song? My mother sang it to me when I was a boy.”
The child utters a few words in his native language. Prince smiles. He puts his hand behind his back and draws the bowie knife from its sheath. He continues the song, taking slow steps towards the boy, knife hidden from view.
“This little light of mine…I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine…”
The child takes a second step back. Prince stops.
“I’m gonna let it shine.”
Prince reaches out and grabs the child's arm. The boy thrashes against his hold. He pulls the boy to his chest and covers his mouth with his hands, muffling his screams. None of the warriors move. Prince raises the knife above the child's head, whispering the last of the melody to the boy in comfort.
“Let it shine…let it shine…let it shine…”
He strikes.
***
John enters the makeshift tent. Framed photos sit stacked across a fancy desk, each picturing Orson standing beside an equally established-looking man. A tray of fresh fruit lies in the middle of a polished oak table. John glances from Orson to the food and back.
“By all means.”
John removes an apple and places it in his pocket. Orson smiles. He takes his seat in front of John. Two giant men stand on either side of him, their hulking backs wrapped in stained ponchos. They stand at attention, rifles slung across their shoulders, tracking their employer’s guest with beaded eyes.
“You may leave us,” Orson says.
The men nod and exit, one after another, without protest. Orson shifts against his chair as he makes himself comfortable.
“Now what might I ask is a young man such as yourself doing out in this desolate place?”
“Just passing through," John replies.
“Surely you must be going somewhere.”
“I am. I’m meeting someone.”
Orson laughs and scratches his bushy beard. He glances around the room before returning to John.
“Who might that be?” he asks.
“A person of interest.”
Orson eyes flash. His voice rises slightly.
“Who are you meeting, son?”
John falters. Orson stops, noting the tension. He brushes himself off and smiles. His homely demeanor returns.
“Well, you must be tired. Perhaps you need a good night’s sleep?”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I insist,” the entrepreneur says.
Orson’s eyes glaze. He speaks softly, his tongue dancing with each carefully chosen word.
“It’s been sometime since we had a guest.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
“My pleasure, John, is it?” Orson asks with raised brow.
“It is.”
Orson retrieves a kettle from the fire pit behind his desk. He places two cups down upon the table.
“Would you care for some tea, my boy?”
“No thank you, you’ve done far too much.”
He pours his tea. Steam rises from the cups.
“Don’t be so distant,” Orson jokes, “It’s not as if I’m trying to poison you.”
Orson laughs loudly and raises the tea to his lips. John manages a crooked smile. Orson drains the last of the liquid from the cup and stands. An uncomfortable grin spreads across his face and doesn’t seem to fade. He studies John for a moment, eyes traveling over his holstered pistols. He makes no mention of them.
“Well that’s good. Now let us find you a place to sleep for the night.”
Together the two men exit the tent. A young worker boy emerges from a workers shack and approaches John at a brisk stride, not bothering to step aside and avoid collision. The child hits the ground but quickly jumps back to his feet and sprints away. John pauses as he watches the child’s speedy departure. He reaches into his pocket, empty.
“Hey!” John calls out to the kid.
“What’s the problem?”
“Kid stole my billfold.”
Orson reaches into his suit and pulls out a silver whistle which he blows twice. A man standing atop the guard tower with rifle in hand takes aim and fires once. The boy drops into the dust. John gasps. He can feel his heart skip the beat. He glances from the guard to Orson’s smiling face then sprints to where the boy fell.
The child lays twitching in a small puddle of blood, screaming and clutching his left hand where three stumps stand in place of his fingers. John stoops beside the boy and holds him down in a sad attempt to calm him.
“Stop fighting,” he says, keeping hold of the desperate child, “Stop fighting me! I won’t hurt you, just lie still.”
Orson stands behind watching John as he removes his bandana and ties it around the boy's bleeding hand.
“He’ll never work the same again. What a waste.”
John gathers the child up.
“Where is your medical station?”
“Medical station?” Orson asks, his head quizzically cocked.
“Where’s your damn doctor?”
“We have one, but he can’t be troubled for the likes of this.”
John stares into Orson’s grinning eyes.
“You listen to me, just get the medical supplies, I’ll treat him myself.”
“Very well,” Orson replies, “first let me take you to your room.”
John follows the man as he casually makes his way down the camp, stopping on occasion to greet a fellow supervisor, laughing and trading jokes with his men. They stop beside a small tent. John enters after the oil trader. He lays the boy on a sturdy mattress and rubs his hand through the child’s filthy hair.
“The doctor will be around soon,” Orson says as he exits.
John removes the soaked bandana from the boy’s hand and pulls out a set of matches. He strikes the match and holds the boy’s shaking hand over the flame. The bleeding stumps brown under the heat. The boy screams until his consciousness is lost. John finishes and sits alone, holding the child to his chest, whispering words of comfort in his ear.
***
The boy wakes in a fever. Sweat drenches the filthy rags that cover his body. John dips a cloth in a basin filled with water and dabs the child’s face.
“Wh—who are you?” the boy stutters, still shaking from shock.
“My name is John. You mustn’t speak.”
The boy begins to cry. Silent tears slide down his cheeks only to be washed away by John’s comforting hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.”
“I just wanted a way out of here. The guards, you can pay them. They let you go for the right price or favor.”
“Favor?”
“They’re lonely men.”
John grimaces in disgust.
“But I don’t do favors,” the boy says, “I’ll pay my own way out.”
“That’s an honorable thing.”
The child’s body is pale and thin. Ribs stick out from under his chest. He shudders as he glances down at his wrapped hand and slowly curls his two remaining fingers inward. His cheeks flush crimson, splashed with oil and grime. John washes his face. The boy lies quiet for several minutes while John works before finally speaking.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
John shakes his head and stares up at the shadows that dance across the tent’s sides. He smiles.
“Let me tell you a story.”
“A story?”
“That’s right. There was once was a man. He was a happy man. He had all that life had to offer, all he’d ever wanted, but one day what he loved was taken from him and the man was left with nothing but his pain. For many weeks the man toiled in anguish, begging to die. He grew to hate God.”
The boy watches with wide eyes lost in the tale.
“And this man, so full of hate and pain, began to search for some hope of atonement. He began to travel on a quest for vengeance. But something happened. Along his path the man met many people, people who touched him deep within his heart. And the man, the man who had been so enraged and pitiful, started to believe. He began to see that what had happened was not his will, not his fault. He realized that wherever those he had loved had gone he would one day be there too. The man was finally at peace.”
The boy smiles. His shaking stops. He lies against the mattress as John pulls a thin blanket over his body and closes his eyes.
“And did he dream?” he says, letting sleep take over.
John stares down at the child.
“Oh yes, he dreamt.”
“Good.”
***
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
The boy sits across from John. He inspects the cast that nearly swallows the bottom half of his arm and scratches at the dirty bandages in spite of John’s insistence that he not. Outside, night has fallen, enveloping their tent in blackness save for the kerosene lamp that burns in the corner. The boy sits cross-legged atop the creaking cot, covered by thin blankets. John lies on the floor, his sheet spread across the ground in a makeshift bed.
“I was brought here as a baby. My mother died in childbirth and my father was killed in a well collapse. I was never given a name.”
“Your English is excellent,” John remarks.
“You learn to speak it, the boss makes you.”
“So you have no name?”
The child shakes his head.
“No."
“Well then I’ll give you one.”
The child’s lips part in disbelief. He scrambles to the edge of the bed. A nervous smile spreads.
“What?” he asks.
“I’ll give you a name.”
“What name?”
“How about Samuel?”
The boy frowns as though he were deep in thought.
“Samuel…I like it.”
“I thought you would.”
John lies back against the dusty ground.
“Now try and sleep," he says, straightening out against the blanket.
“Okay.”
John blows out the lamp and the tent is plunged into darkness.
***
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“I heard something.”
“Are you sure?”
Two Comanche warriors scan the corn field with sharpened eyes. The field sways in the dark. A crack of brush issues beyond. The two men ready their bows. The first approaches the corn. Prince watches from behind the thick stalks. He draws his knife, its bloodstained blade shining in the moonlight, and leaps out into the clearing.
“What—” the Comanche shouts just before Prince drives the blade up into his throat.
Blood sprays furiously as Prince wrenches the blade out of the guard’s neck. He pushes the choking man forward as the second Comanche lets loose an arrow which pierces the dying guard’s back. Prince lets the man drop and rushes forward, slashing once across the warrior’s gut. The man sinks to his knees grasping his open belly and falls face down into the dirt, entrails spilt.
Prince wipes his bloodied blade and advances upon the quiet camp. From his belt he pulls a bottle of whiskey stuffed with a white rag. He strikes a match and holds it under the cloth before hurling the makeshift explosive into the field. The blaze ignites.
Prince draws his revolvers and fires as warriors scramble from their huts. A Comanche caught by his bullet flies into the burning grass, screaming in agony as flames engulf his form. A rifle shot cracks in the distance, missing Prince by inches. He feels the wind of the bullet rush by. He raises his weapon in the direction of the sound and pulls the trigger. The Comanche drops to the earth.
Ahead lays the sacred fire. The medicine man and chief stand before it. Prince raises his weapon and drops the medicine man with a shot to the head. The chief watches him fall and turns to face the Rider. Prince glances over the chief’s shoulder in the direction of the cries beyond. The women and children huddle against one another, trapped by the burning field.
“I knew you’d come,” the chief says.
“How?”
“John. He had a vision. He saw you approach.”
Prince laughs.
“More of this spiritual trash.”
“This trash is a power far greater than anything you’ve ever seen.”
Prince pulls the chief close and places his revolver against his left breast, pumping out three rounds in quick succession.
“No!”
Sonya breaks from the group and rushes to the body, weeping for her village elder and cradling his lifeless form.
“You bastard!” she shrieks and rises up to strike.
Sonya beats against Prince’s chest but he hurls her away. She lies sobbing in the red dirt, hands raised in hopeless defense.
“Kill me instead,” she begs, “spare the rest. Just take me.”
“I will not kill you,” Prince says.
“What?”
“I am not a monster. I do not slaughter women and children unless I have no choice. You are free, but know this: John will not be so lucky. I know you housed him here. He’s weak.”
“He has strength enough for you,” Sonya replies.
Prince turns. His dead eyes shift in their sockets and stare up at the darkened sky.
“I recognize that voice,” he says, letting a wide smile break forth, “I killed your brother in the desert. He died like a pig on all fours. Weeping.”
“You liar!” Sonya shouts. She shakes with pain and rage and sorrow.
Prince laughs.
“Think what you will of me, curse me and hate me and tell me I am wrong, but you know it to be so. We’re all dead in the end. All that matters is I live on.”
He turns and marches away, leaving Sonya and the survivors of his slaughter alone beside the burning fields.
***
John awakens to the rumble of earth and the screams of unknown men. Samuel stands in the corner, wrapped and hidden beneath his blankets. His eyes shine with fear. John draws one of his revolvers and peaks through the tent flaps. All around workers rush and shout. Sporadic gunfire cracks in reply. Across the field John can see Orson and his guards crowd the oil rig. The monster shakes with fury. Steam bubbles from its pipes.
“Stay here,” John whispers.
“No.”
“I need you to stay.”
Samuel's eyes well. He shakes at the knees. John places his hand upon his shoulder.
“You’re too weak. I’ll come back for you. Trust me.”
“You won’t leave me?” Samuel asks.
“Never.”
Samuel nods. John pushes the flap aside and runs into the fray. The workers twist and pull at the valves beneath the structure. Steam spits from iron pipes and bolts shoot forth. A roar the like of thunder sounds from the metallic beast. John stares down at the unstable ground. Oil leaks to the top. He takes off at a sprint.
“Get away from there! Get away!”
The rig blows. Chunks of wood and metal shower the workers. The twisted frame plummets to the black earth. A gusher of oil bursts from the ground and rushes high. Black gold rains from the sky as John’s clothes stain a muddy hue. A worker shrieks a hopeless plea seconds before the mound of iron crushes him. A spark ignites and the geyser bursts into flame, spraying liquid fire with a monstrous bang. Flames drift upwards to light the night. Thick smoke spreads above the land while fire illuminates the camp. John stoops to grab a worker and drags him out of the pit. He glances across the field where the guards stand.
Orson stares up at the burning structure, the flames reflected in his eyes. His mouth opens wide in a twisted grin. His patched hair sparkles under the black crude. He laughs endlessly. Thick splotches of oil cover his face but his eyes shine bright.
John pulls the man to safety and crosses the field. He pauses before Orson and shouts to be heard over the chaos.
“What do we do?”
“Nothing to do, boy,” Orson replies, “the fire will die out, but my, what a sight.”
“But the workers—”
“We’ll get more.”
“You’re sick.”
Orson cackles. Spittle flies from his lips.
“My, what a sight! This sight makes you believe in all the wrath of God, all the beauty of His destruction. Do you feel the rush? Do you feel it, John?”
“What happened to 'boy'?”
“You’re a man now, a sight like this will make any boy a man.”
The two guards stand on either side, their faces blank. They question nothing.
“These men need doctors,” John says.
“Do you know how much a doctor costs? I’ll make more just letting them die and dumping them somewhere. I can have more shipped. The oil is all that matters.”
John turns and makes his way back to the tent. He lifts the flaps and steps inside.
“Samuel, get the medical bag—”
The tent is vacant, Samuel gone. The bag lies in the middle of the floor, emptied of its contents. Torn sheets stained with blood spill across the mattress. John turns and shouts into the night, calling for the child.
***
John pushes his way through the crowd of workers. Screams of every creed meet his ears. A young man lies with his legs twisted, arms outstretched in pleading agony. John steps over him, focused only on the boy he promised to save.
“Samuel!”
Orson approaches from the rig, broad grin still plastered across his face.
“Give it up, John, the boy is gone, probably crawled off to die with the other lousy pickpockets.”
“Shut up,” John says.
“He’s dead.”
“Shut up!”
John draws his revolver. The two guards tense. Their hands tighten around their rifles. Orson’s grin fades. He watches John. High above them clouds litter the sky. Lightning flashes but no rain falls. The clash illuminates the stained land.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks, his voice lost of its former glee.
John holsters his weapon. He turns on his heel and sprints into the darkness. Men and women push their way past him. Some lie dead in the mud, some shot. One worker struggles with a guard, grabbing for the man’s rifle. Two cracks issue and both men drop. Another gun fires overhead. John turns to the source.
Orson stands with his revolver leveled at his chest.
“That’s enough, the boy’s dead,” he says.
“No.”
“Stop!”
Lightning cracks again. John’s scream rises with the sound of thunder. Samuel lies in a massive ditch. A trail of blood trickles from the bullet wound in his chest. John glances down into the pit. Bodies upon bodies pile in a heap, rotten and bloated.
“This is where you bury them,” he says, turning to the oilman.
Orson smiles.
“It’s all about the profit, my boy.”
“You bastard.”
John slides down the muddy slope and gathers the child in his arms. Samuel opens his eyes. He sputters his words.
“John—”
“Samuel. Samuel, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be, you’re going be okay.”
The child smiles. Blood spills from his lips. He raises his hand to his mouth and coughs, a ragged, choked cough. His hand comes away wet with blood. He lets it fall back.
“Do you dream?” he asks John.
“I do.”
“Then I will be here.”
Samuel breathes out one last time, thin frame shuddering in John’s arms, his bright green eyes dulled.
“Samuel? Samuel!”
John sinks to his knees. He holds the boy’s body to his chest, weeping and shaking with both fury and sadness. Orson cocks the hammer on his revolver.
“You’ve seen enough, time to be heading on.”
“You monster,” John spits.
The other guards are dead or gone. Only Orson and his two men remain. They step up on either side with rifles pointed at John’s head.
John’s hands travel down towards his revolvers. Orson wags a finger through the air.
“You'd best think twice, we both know you won’t reach it in time. Just walk away.”
“I can’t,” John replies, his hands continuing their descent.
“Just walk away, John. Walk away."
A crowd of workers surround them. John scans their blackened, tortured faces. So many broken. So many stories that will never be told. His sight rests upon Samuel’s lifeless body.
“I can’t.”
John sinks to his knees, dropping below the barrel of the guard’s rifles. Their shots sail wide. He draws his revolvers and fires twice, once into each of the guard’s guts. The men sink to the oily earth. John shoots them both a second time. Orson stands with his revolver raised, his eyes wide, unsure of what to do. John swings the guns back and fires again. Two of Orson’s fingers disappear in a thick spray. He drops his gun, face pale from shock. John puts another round in his left knee. He stumbles to the ground, holding himself up with his good hand. John shoots him a third time in the right leg. He drops.
“John! Oh John, what have you done?” Orson howls, rolling across the wet earth.
“I’ve freed these people.”
John watches the pathetic man struggle to sit up. Orson stares at John, his face smeared with crude, body convulsing. He reaches out towards the man.
“Kill me,” he begs.
“No.”
John holsters his weapons and lifts Samuel up. He approaches a young woman at the edge of the crowd and hands her the dead boy.
“Give him a proper burial. Give him the freedom he has earned.”
The woman nods and watches John turn. He makes his way past Orson towards his horse. The crowd parts to let him pass. A voice calls out to him.
“What do we do with boss?”
John answers without turning back.
“Whatever you want.”
***
John pulls his horse to a stop. The sky is dark despite the slow rise of the sun. He makes his way to a large group of trees. A soft voice, a child’s voice, reaches out to him, bringing forth a holy tune.
"Child of mine
I call you in the water
and put my name on you."
He pushes his way through the brush. Ahead lays a small pond. A line of horses stand beside the water unburdened by saddle or rein, their glossy coats shimmering in the filtered light. A group of men and women, cloaked in brilliant shades of pure white, turn to him. Two children, a boy and a girl, stand beside their parents and wave to the stranger. A man with gleaming blonde hair stands in the middle of the pond. The water reaches up to his waist. He beckons John forth.
John makes his way to the pond. The people observe him with faces serene. He steps in, gliding his palm across the surface, and wipes his face with the back of his hand. It comes away dark with oil and blood. His clothes are ragged but the worshippers say nothing. He pushes his way through the water. A trail of black follows him, soon vanishing along the clear surface. He takes his place beside the leader.
The blonde man holds no bible in his hands. No rosary hangs from his neck. He makes the motion of the cross and presses his hand to John’s chest, his other resting behind John’s head.
“Do you accept him?” he asks.
John stares off into the sun and watches as a bluebird flies over the trees. He lets his limbs go loose. He breathes deep.
“I do.”
The man pushes him back. For the briefest of moments, obscured by the ripples of the water, John understands why he pushes on, why the fates of the innocent rest in his hands. The man pulls him back up and he gasps as he sucks in the clear air. The oil and blood slide from his skin. He embraces the blond man.
“Thank you.”
John makes his way towards the shore feeling the first rays of the morning sun warm his skin. He steps into the clearing and glances back briefly to watch the worshippers continue their ceremony. He turns and exits, the voices of the children following him as he goes.
I read this chapter this morning while I was having breakfast x)