A cloud of dirt mushroomed up around the drunk’s head as he collapsed into the earth. This time it hadn’t been too much drink. A silky and steaming red ring started to bleed that truth out. Thick crimson ooze drew its way down the center of his wrinkled, sunburnt forehead. A few more rivulets of blood branched out. Soon his whole face was painted. Every crease of the wrinkled skin filled with his blood. Billy looked over the man, noticing the forever unfinished word on his lips and he felt a rank sickness take its grip on him.
That drunk had been burning Billy’s ear all day at the bar. Spitting vile words about Billy’s handicapped sister and his mother, but the one that really pushed the bullet through the bone was what the drunk said about Billy’s father. Clyde Cash. Billy had the unfortunate fate of being the one to find his father swinging from that willow. Neck broken under his own weight. Blood crying over the thick matted rope tied taut around his daddy’s throat. Hell, the flowers on his daddy’s grave were still vibrant.
That drunk had been messing about with fresh wounds. Mason Angel, that spirit of death that haunted Cash’s province, had killed his daddy not a week earlier. Billy was at the bar to knock back a few glasses of amnesia. Until that drunk got his gums knocking into one another, the escape had been doing its job. Reality felt distant enough for young Cash. But as much as he wanted to keep knocking them back, pushing further into a fog, Mason’s promise lassoed a part of Billy’s inhibitions. Keeping him tied to the looming truth.
He knew not to dismiss or deride Mason’s words. No amount of whiskey could silence them. Even as he stood over the drunk’s body, he heard Mason Angel. He would forever hear that promise. ‘You’ve got three days, young gentleman.’
Looking at the drunk’s face, twisted by death, Billy Cash felt his bowels turn watery. He let the contents of his guts go. Spilling them onto the dusty barren lands with three coughing wretches. Feeling he had gotten everything out, Billy wiped his lips and chin clean with his sleeve.
"You better bury that body," a grumbling voice growled. Billy lifted only his eyes. The bartender stood with one foot on the step to his establishment, the other shifting dust on the dirt road. A white towel hung over his shoulder. He grabbed it, wiped muck from his forehead, and repeated himself.
“I don’ want that creating a whole stench. Bad fer’ business.” He added as he tossed the towel back over his shoulder.
“I will, sir. I’ll take care of it,” Billy said, hands on his knees as he spat into the dirt. Straightening up, he took a few deep breaths and remembered the cheroot in his chest pocket. Patting for it, he felt only the rapid thump of his heart under his hot skin. His eyes caught sight of the cheroot on the ground, just shy of his vomit pile. Lucky break. He scooped it up, wiped it on his shirt, blew off the red dust, and placed it between his lips.
Billy’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as his fingers fumbled through his pocket for a match. His head swam, and his stomach churned with nausea. The bartender's voice cut through the haze, sharp and impatient. "Hurry it up, boy!" he barked.
"M'goin, sir. M'goin." Too rattled to light the match, Billy shoved the cheroot back into his chest pocket with a shaky hand. He stumbled over to where his horse was hitched in front of the bar. Running his hand along the dappled black-and-white fur, he untied the reins and led the horse back to the body. He guided the horse around, positioning it in front of the draining, sallow-skinned corpse.
Billy Cash crouched low and slipped his arms under the drunk's armpits, the heat and stink almost making him gag. The man's boots scraped through the loose dirt as Billy, with all the strength in his wiry frame, heaved. The body sat upright, its hollow eyes staring blankly at him, making Billy's face flush with a mix of effort and unease. He exhaled a held breath, a burst of air under the strain of lifting the lifeless weight. But the stench of death caught him off guard, and he dropped the corpse. It thudded back into the dirt, settling once more into the spreading pool of crimson.
“Dang!” Billy exclaimed. He tried again, mustering every ounce of strength. Yet, the same cycle repeated, and the body crumpled back into the dirt. Billy Cash simply wasn’t strong enough. Frustrated, he kicked up a mini dust storm with his boot, cursing under his breath as he walked back to his horse. From one of his saddle bags, he pulled out a rolled-up lasso. The feel of the rope in his hands brought a fleeting memory of his father, but he blinked it away. Tying the limp legs of the drunk together, he used his shoulder to wipe away the sweat trickling into his eyes.
Billy Cash secured the rope around the saddle of his horse. Looking back at the corpse, his eyes softened. He didn’t want to defile a body this way, and he wished he hadn’t killed the drunk in the first place. He should have let the man ramble on. Someone else, with too much heat in their blood, would have taken care of him eventually. But it was too late now, and there was no pushing back the heavy hand of the clock. It was where it was, and done and gone were his chances at taking a left. He went right, and now all he had was to move forward with it.
Billy mounted his horse, giving it a firm jab with his boot. The beast surged forward, leaving the nightmare behind. Billy spurred on into the tangerine glow of the setting sun. The drunk’s body left a grim trail of red as it dragged through the dirt and rocks. Riders reined in their horses, heads swiveling, while gasps floated from behind the drawn curtains of passing stagecoaches. Billy kept his head low and rode on toward High Wolf.
“Hold up now, hold up,” Billy Cash called, pulling on the reins to slow the horse as he approached the crimson bridge over High Wolf. The lake stretched out like a still mirror, its surface catching the gleam of the evening light. A dark blue glass, rippling with the splash of a tossed rock. A small group of boys were skipping stones, their laughter ringing out with the carefree joy of youth. Not far off, a man stood quietly, a fishing line cast into the water, hoping for a fine dinner.
Billy Cash wiped his brow, cast a final glance at the corpse, and swallowed hard, trying to chase away the dry fear clinging to his throat. The drunk’s face bore a new tapestry of scratches—earthy cuts, some deeper and redder than the others. The crumpled limbs twisted in grotesque angles. Gritting his teeth, Billy turned his gaze toward the group of kids and the solitary fisherman. "Mercy me, Lord," he muttered, looking up at the dusty, blood-orange sky and offering a silent prayer.
With two sharp clicks and a light tap of his boot, the horse eased down the incline, dragging Billy and the corpse into the center of everyone’s attention. Billy Cash kept his eyes fixed on the scene as he saw the first boy’s jaw drop like a rope that’s met a buck knife. The boy’s slack jaw told the story before his voice even managed to whisper an excited warning. He patted the air until his hand caught the next boy’s shirt. The second boy gasped, swore, and yanked his friend back. Their excitement quickly drew in the third kid.
The commotion caught the fisherman’s eye. He lifted his head, his gaze darting from the boys to the source of their excitement. The fisherman’s placid look vanished, replaced by wide-eyed nervousness. The serene lake no longer reflected the calm of his face.Billy tipped his hat at the old man.
“Howdy,” Billy drawled, as easy as a cowhand on a lazy Sunday stroll, just savoring the twilight. It was all he could think to say. The fisherman’s face twitched, struggling to form a smile that looked more like a grimace. He sidestepped slowly, edging away from the dragging corpse. Billy shifted his gaze to the boys, who let out a collective scream and bolted through the sun-scorched crab grass.
The fisherman’s eyes grew wider with mounting horror, his body stiffening as the corpse scraped to a halt at the water’s edge. Billy Cash swung off his horse, forced a grin, and gave the fisherman a nod. The fisherman’s response was to turn and yank his line from the murky water, abandoning his catch. By the time the dripping string was fully out of the lake, he was already halfway up the hill, his head craned back, eyes locked in a horrified stare at the broken body.
Billy struggled with the knot binding the drunk’s legs, his fingers shaking so badly he almost couldn’t untie it. The thought of cutting the rope with a blade crossed his mind, but then he remembered the damned salesman—the swindler who charged a king’s ransom for rope. A breathy, shivering chuckle escaped Billy. Now that he was a cold-blooded killer, he might just have to take it upon himself to deal with the swindler. Maybe that’s how he could settle Mason’s score and clean up his father’s debts.
The thought grew heavier, taking on a grim reality. Feeling the evil burrowing into him, Billy began to pray, filling his mind with desperate pleas to God and disgust for his own dark thoughts. The rope finally gave way, and he grabbed the slack, pulling the lasso over the drunk’s dust-streaked boots. “Oh, forgive me, Lord,” he muttered. Revolted by the fly-covered corpse, Billy grimaced and turned his head away as he gripped the lifeless calves and started to drag the body.
Billy dragged the body to the waterline, gasping as tears welled in his eyes. He stumbled back, recoiling from the corpse, praying with all he had that this nightmare would end. He hoped against hope that the job was done. But the body remained stubbornly in place, the water shifting slightly around it, soaking his clothes but doing nothing more. The current did nothing to erase the grim sight before him.
“Oh, come on now,” Billy Cash muttered, hanging his head and placing a hand on each hip. His hat fell to the ground, but he didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, he kicked it out of the water and onto land. Splashing with every step, he grabbed a fistful of the drunk’s flannel and another handful of his loose pants. “So dang heavy,” he choked out, his voice strained with the effort. The rocks below grumbled as the corpse scraped against them, while Billy’s boots churned the water.
When the water reached knee-high, Billy let the corpse slip from his grasp. As he reached dry land, he snatched up his hat and watched the drunk’s body drift lazily through the shallows of High Wolf. Billy wiped his palms across his chest, drying his hands and staining his shirt a grimy pink.
He saw the corpse become a smaller, blurrier speck in the mid-water, gradually fading from view. But Billy knew the feeling inside him wouldn’t fade so easily. It wasn’t a haunting confined to sight—it was sharper and clearer than a noon sky. The mutilated body grew more grotesque in his mind, turning into a monstrous vision. Again, Billy reached for his cheroot, but a hollow, gnawing sickness turned his stomach away from the thought.
Billy sighed at the sight of the log of tobacco, then whistled for his horse. The animal trotted away from the patch of grass it had been munching, and Billy slipped the cheroot back into his chest pocket. After rolling up the lasso and stowing it in his saddlebag, he crossed the bridge over High Wolf and rode on home.
A black horse was hitched to the fence at the edge of his property, and Billy’s heart lurched. A cold, gripping fear seized him, as if fear itself had grown limbs and clamped down on him. Battling the rising panic, he tried to clear the fog in his mind and make sense of the world before him. Clicking his heels and spurring the horse, he drove it faster, faster yet. Billy leaped off before the horse had even stopped, breaking into a jog toward the front door. His hand hovered over the pearl handle of his revolver, readying himself for whatever was coming.
Billy first spotted his sister at the dinner table. As he pushed the door open wider, he saw his mother there too. Unease flickered in her eyes, her brows arched like a disconnected triangle, a tangle of jagged white lines marking her furrowed brow. Billy Cash drew his gun and shoved the door open further.
Through the iron sights of his revolver, he saw Mason Angel lounging at the table. Mason’s extended black revolver was propped casually on his lap. His legs were draped over the table, ankles crossed, and his tattered hat, adorned with a few bones along the brim, was pushed back, revealing the face of a devil.
A thick, raised scar ran from Mason’s forehead down to the bridge of his nose, and another deep scar, like a trench, stretched from ear to ear, meeting the first scar at the bridge of his nose. They intersected on his grim, sun-darkened face. God, what a mean face he had.
There was a curl to the ends of Mason's lips—a smile devoid of fun or good humor. He cocked the hammer back, the smirk deepening slightly. "I still have until tomorrow night," Billy pleaded.
"There's been a revision to the plan, young gentleman," Mason replied, sliding his feet off the table and planting them firmly on the wooden floorboards, which squealed under his weight.
"Please, sir, I can get you your money. More than what you're asking, even."
Mason heard the tremor of fear in Billy's voice. "You're brave. Your daddy would be proud."
"Don't yo—"
Mason silenced him with a mere readjustment of his stare, tilting his head and hardening his eyes. He let one arm drop back behind him, hanging off the chair. "You've led this family well, son. But unfortunately, my employer has new plans for this settlement over which you've taken dominion. So, money or no money, it doesn't matter now. I've got a piece of lead for you and the girls here."
Billy tried to draw as Mason spoke, but the devil of the dust was quicker, his muscles twitching faster. It rung everyone’s ears when the shot exploded from Mason’s gun. Billy crashed onto his kitchen floor, becoming a draining corpse lying in a puddle of his own blood. The girls screamed, covering their ears and burying their heads.
"Ah, damn shame," Mason muttered as smoke coiled from the revolver in a vaporous dance. The room filled with the invasive presence of gun smoke.
Mason faced the girls. Looking at them impersonally as he clacked off two more rounds. Busting their skin apart before severing their brains with hot led. He drew in a long breath and let it out before standing. His chair scooted over the hardwood with a low creak. His eyes scanned the room. Seeing that not a chest among them raised but his own.
Noticing the cheroot peeking from Billy’s chest pocket, Mason plucked it and placed it between his lips. Patting the boy down, he retrieved a loose match resting at the bottom of Billy’s pocket. Striking it, he coaxed the flame to life. A red bead twinkled with Mason’s steady breaths.
By nightfall, every house in Billy’s town blazed. Smoke billowed through the gloom, homes illuminated by the inferno within. Through the smoke galloped Cade Riker, a doctor who had buried Billy’s father just three houses down. Horror filled his flame-lit eyes as he rode, coughing violently while his horse bucked and cried out in the thickening smoke. The horse threw Riker to the ground, crashing against the cold dirt, enveloped in a blanket of suffocating gray death. His horse bolted toward cleaner air in the blackness.
Cade Riker struggled to his feet, securing a bandanna over his face. Sara and David, he knew, were likely dead. But he was determined to retrieve their bodies before seeking vengeance.
FIN.
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