Chief Standing Rock would be lost
from the ‘Valley Of The Warriors”. He found himself once again on Could-Dancer
and riding astride of him the young blue-coat he killed over twenty years
before. The unnatural truth of it was he knew every man that set a charger.
They were of all nationalities; the battles that had bound them in life now
would bind them in death as they road on the heels of Hell.
The thoughts of the living are of no interest to
them; conversely, those of the dying or the damned ring-out like thunder. The
same swiftness that found him in this place now had him blazing west across the
bad-lands. There is neither day or night for these riders. They scour the sky
in perpetual twilight. It seems the sun will not shine upon their shame. Nor do
they care about any past transgressions. They only seek the next rider.
___________________________
Day is breaking soft and slow as it does every
morning. The intent of man does not affect the grace or cruelty of nature and
to prove so Bart and Ben Masters are hiding by the Union-Pacific’s
water-station. The train arrives every Tuesday around 7:30 AM, and so they
wait.
Bart places his foot on the rails, and the
vibrations are growing. Like a woman in travail, the tracks begin to cry. The
sun finally sets on the horizon, washing the lavender sky to blue, and before
one songbird can sing a morning tune, his shirt is already soaked.
The brothers climb up the back-side of the
water-tower and watch. The streaming chimney tells them the train is close. The
two have spent the entire morning in silence. They will pull this job and then
as always go their separate ways. That is until one or both are broke again.
The train is slowing, exhaling billows of steam as
water cools the rotation slowing the locomotion. The engineer and the coal
burner were shot without warning. Henry, the guard, dropped this plate of eggs
and ham.
Bart quickly unhooked the last two railroad cars
while Ben set the rest of the train in motion without its engineer. This would
keep any do-gooders out of the way.
Henry closed the north side windows and he, and
his Winchester stood ready.
“Boy, through your gun out and step-lively, and
chances are good that we’ll let you live.” Bart declared flatly. “But son, if I
shed another drop of sweat in this forsaken place, you are surely dead as you
stand.”
Ben climbed the roof-top, and as easy as you
please tossed in a stick of TNT, poor Henry was dead before he got a shot off.
Ben dropped in from the roof as Bart made an entrance from the newly created
opening.
“Howdy, brother,” Ben chirped.
“Howdy,” Bart snarled.
They each filled their saddle-bags as a faint
sound could be heard in the distance. Confusion washed over them. First, it was
too soon for a posse, and second, you cannot hear the thundering of horses upon
the shifting sand, but without fail, they each took to foot, mounted their
horses, and rode. One broke left and the other right.
Bart rode his mare at a gallop for a full twenty
minutes. She was utterly lathered and ready to break when he finally stopped at
the great rock. He busted out in a full robust laugh as he decided a sand-storm
was chasing him. He hobbled his horse grabbed a bottle of Mescal, and hunkered
down to let the west wind pass.
Ben, on the other hand, could not shake the
thundering steeds that raced upon him. Without mercy, they rode, and without
reason, they continued to gain. In their wake, a cloud of dust arose filling
the canyon. They never close enough for a visual, though a fleeting glimpse of
them haunted his thoughts.
Just one horse rode lead, and the sound of his
four hoofs pounded in Ben’s ears. Soon it seemed as if the harsh pounding of
hoof hammered upon his heart. He knew he needed to ease up on his horse, but
this ride only ended in death, and he pressed the stallion all the harder until
they both crashed upon the ground. Stone and his wrist collide, shattering his
gun-hand. Jake, his horse, somersaulted from port to stern in a fury of red he
landed on all-fours and never broke stride. Ben’s head was throbbing with every
surge of the approaching rider. In his right hand, he made ready his blade. It
would not be said that a Masters’ went down easy, but Ben Master’s did anything
but that. The grey steed was now close enough to see, and the face of Death was
bearing down on Ben.
Every sin he ever committed flashed before his
eyes; the burning judgment of the innocent set flame to his flesh and their
cries attached to his memories like stinging hornets. Hades, Death’s steed bite
off his knife wheeling hand. His bones feel to the earth below, white-washed
and still. While in an instant, he sat old Jake once again with purpose of
heart. Hell chased Bart Masters, and Ben followed.
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