‘Have to find him, have to kill him.’ That motto continued in his brain, making George Torn mean, his face a permanent grimace of hate. ‘He killed three boys, he’ll deserve to die.’
Memories fermented the God fearing man skull, aging his latest quarry into an act of justice for his own loss. A son he had with a good woman, his only son in a family of six daughters, one day he comes home, and the son was murdered, another man has forced marriage upon his woman, and usurped his fatherhood from his daughters.
It was a Mormon, in a caravan they stole his daughters, married them off and had them bearing children, and defiled his wife. Spending hundreds of dollars worth of bullets he killed everyone, the men, women, and children—even his own, he shot them dead as they pleaded for mercy, but what he did was done by the devil inside of him, it took hold of him like a marionette and all he could do was see what he was doing.
Once the slaying was done and the Mormon camp was in flames, he mournfully buried his wife and children, and left no longer a peaceful man, but a man of gun justice. Selling his services for a hot meal or hundreds of thousands, he was hellbent on all his targets, the innocent or guilty, if they violated his taboo against sons he’d slaughter them, and collect his fee. In this case he would do it for a hot meal to fuel the fire in his guts.
No matter the reason he’d murder the boy killer, and George Torn had the reputation to back up his determination. Fifty dead under his belt, he lived well on his reputation, even more renowned gunslingers would know his name, and a nickname had been going around in those circles.
‘Mirror Eyes.’ cause he bushwhack his bounties from the dark, and often the last thing they would see is there lantern light reflecting off his large, round spectacles, that gleamed as if he were a ghostly phantasm. Riding on his brown mare, he rode through mountain trails through the winters drudgery into the valley trail, where a few cabins were built, the outskirts of a larger community.
Going on rumors he gathered on his trek he heard that his bounty had stopped in the town of Marshal, a quiet town of farm folk and ranchers who toil in the valley in peace. Inside each of the cabins he saw golden lights of fire, heating their homes as families gathered to eat their evening meal.
Envy was an itching scab on his heart, George Torn tried to concentrate on his job, but he couldn’t help but feel the heartache of his loss.
‘Have to find him, have to kill him.’ The motto kept him focused, mouthing it silently as a mantra he rode on till he got the sign of the town’s hotel and bar, the Skinflint. A haven for travelers to spend their time waiting for the trails to clear of snow, or to rest their heads for a short respite. Meals included with room, and the bar is plenty stocked.
Oddly the church was not too far off from the alcohol serving business, a trail led past it, up a hill to the hallowed ground where a modest grave encircled. ‘I’ll bury him there when I’m done with him.’ twice before the man he got sight of but lost, either by his backtracking or losing him in the wilderness.
It was in the mountains he recently passed that he lost him, but he realized he found him again, the five days he lost track of him was not the end of the hunt, for he saw parked outside the motel, a black carriage, the same black carriage that eluded him through rain and snow.
Quietly he tied his horses reins on the post outside, and drawing his revolver looked in through the window. The bartender was polishing glasses as his waitress served drinks to a poker game, a friendly game with no signs of that yellow face he stalked. Checking all blind spots, he opened the heavy wood door, gun drawn, all the eyes looked at him and bracing themselves for trouble.
Putting his finger to his lips, he demanded silence, as the sunset shining through the windows reflected off his glasses.
“Where is he?” he asked quietly, his voice was audible but just barely. “I want the yellow faced man, Sanguine Thomas. Where is he?” He repeated his question only to avoid confusion. Hesitant to answer he cocked his gun, wanting to show enough menace to force out an answer.
It was the waitress who broke the silence, “he’s dead. The yellow faced man is dead.”
“Don’t lie to me.” he brandished his gun in her direction, something the men in the room didn’t want to tolerate but he was quick at pointing the gun. One man at the poker table tried to draw but a quick BANG! And he was lying on the floor, blood pouring out of his stomach.
“Jesus, get the doctor quick!” yelled the bartender.
“Not till I find Sanguine Thomas.” ordered George. “You say he’s dead.” turning his gun back on the waitress, then you show me the body.” he snatched her and pulled her outside, leaving the men scrambling on what to do. Decidedly they split up, two to follow George and his hostage, the rest to the doctor’s place to save a man’s life.
Out in the cold, the waitress’s blouse provided little protection in the cold.
“Where!? Tell me where?” He threatened to pistol whip her, a threat that caused her to panic, but she screamed out.
“In the graveyard, they started digging his grave this morning, I think they are gonna come back tomorrow to finish the job.”
“And he is in there?” the heat of a recently fired pistol barrel was pressed to her face, as he asked the question.
“Yes.” she said between her tears of fear and pain.
“Show me.” George ordered coldly, and together they followed the trail up the hill, to the dark, isolated church. The two men followed behind at a safe distance, not wanting to get into a gunfight unless it hurt the girl.
Following the snow laden trail, they went to the closed gates of the graveyard. Frost had made the handles hard to open, but after smashing the butt of his pistol to loosen them, he opened the way, and shoved his hostage forward.
“You better not be a lying girl.” George saw his wife’s deceptive eyes in her, the way she begged not to kill her Mormon usurper.
‘You were gone so long, we thought you were dead. Please.’ excuses she grew fat on their food, and heavy with another man’s child, as she allowed her son to die at the hands of another man, a man she betrayed him for; angrily he beat the waitress with his hands, smacking her, punching her till her face was reddened and bloodied.
“Show me the grave!” pulling her by the hair, he dragged her into the cemetery.
“It's over there!” she cried, “by the dead tree.” he looked out and saw in the fading daylight the dead tree, in the blue twilight he pulled her to the tree, and looked down the open grave. It was black, and everything was shadows in a backdrop of blue.
“He’s buried here.” she said through her tears. “He died of fever, he is in there, I promise!”
Letting go of the hysterical woman, who went off to cry against a tombstone, she watched as the gunfighter fired into the open grave. The light of his gunfire lit up revealing an empty grave.
“There is nothing in here you lying—” KA-BOOM! George Torn’s chest exploded out in gore and blood, as he lost the ability to stand on his feet, he feeble walked back, but as his eyes rolled up to heaven he fell into the dark grave.
Behind him there looked like a patch of darkness shot at him, but in the flash of the shotgun blast the waitress saw the yellow face of Sanguine Thomas. His sneering smile in glee over slaying his pursuer of many months.
Smoke from his shotgun faded in the night air as utter darkness came to the cemetery, lantern light soon came rushing towards the scene, as the two men who followed cast their lights on the scene.
The waitress, beaten, bloodied, scared, but alive—and the yellow faced hunchback’s bloodied smile made their flesh crawl.
“You had this all planned?” one of the men said, as he went to the grave to see the gunfighter laid out dead in it.
“I had hopes.” Thomas chuckled. “Now I believe I owe you something.” he turned to the waitress and tossed her a purse with gold ore inside. She picked it up, and her crying eyes gleamed with womanly greed, she got her pay for her treachery.
“He deserved to die, the way he treated a lady.” She tried to justify her part in the man’s death.
“Lady?” Sanguine cackled. “The word to describe you is not something I dare say on these hallowed grounds.”
Turning a hateful glare at Sanguine she was comforted enough by the gold she was bribed with, earlier that day, to play part in a man’s execution. All of them returned to the motel, but not before Sanguine Thomas robbed the dead man, stealing his wallet and gun.
“If you're gonna tell the sheriff to do so, I consider these consolation for the inconveniences he put on me.”
They waited at the motel as the doctor came in a rush with the men who went to fetch him, fortunately he arrived in time to save the shot man’s life, who was recovering in one of the rooms upstairs. During this the men who were formerly playing poker spoke amongst themselves, as they watched Sanguine Thomas, who kept to himself, drinking from a body of whisky. They didn’t want him to leave before the sheriff arrived, who received word when they went to get the doctor, and who would be coming down with deputies to evaluate the situation.
The waitress had retired to her room, as the bartender nervously tended bar, not wanting anymore trouble, but feared more might be coming.
Just as the doctor left the injured man’s room, the sheriff arrived. “He’ll live, as long as the wound is cleaned, and infection doesn’t set in. Oh, sheriff you come just as all this brouhaha died down." The wit didn’t even sting the heavy mustached lawman, whose stony glare froze almost every man in the room on the stop, all except Sanguine who continued to drink.
“Now what the hell went on in my town.” The men at the table told the sheriff all that happened, including how George Torn acted, and the trap set for him by Sanguine Thomas and the waitress.
After hearing it all, he waited to hear Thomas confirm or deny what was said, but all he received was a phlegmy belch as an explanation. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes, as if the years of serving the office of law and order was beginning to weigh him down as if the badge was six tons of lead.
“Law says it might be murder…then again common sense says it was self defense…well I say this is a disgrace. I won’t dirty our courthouse in hearing these allegations, so I’ll say this, tomorrow you—” he pointed directly as Sanguine Thomas, “—are gone by tomorrow. Leave funeral expenses for that man, and whatever you took off his body, or by God I’ll see you hanged.”
Sneering at the sheriff’s threat, Sanguine put the wallet and pistol of the dead man on the table, and fifty bucks to pay for burial expenses. “I’ll go tonight.” he tossed a gold nugget to overpay for his drink and unslept in bed. “This town isn’t as Christian as I hoped.” walking past the sheriff he snapped his red teeth near his ear, but the sheriff didn’t flinch.
Everyone was quiet as the yellow faced man left, collected his two black stallions from the staples, and tethered them to his carriage. Taking out his whip he beat on his horses till they galloped down the road, his screaming and the cries of his beasts echoed in the valley till they faded away to the near silent falling of the snow.
The waitress came down hearing the noise, clutching her prize to her breast.
“Is he gone?” she asked with womanly meekness, a front that made the sheriff roll his eyes.
“Yes he is, now come down here Missy, we need to talk.”
Hearing the sternness in his voice like a daughter about to be reprimanded by her old man, went down the stairs, hiding the purse of gold behind her, she was hesitant in coming towards the law man, he remained still, silent, till she was within reach, then he seized her and pulled her close.
Taking the purse from her clawing clutch, he tossed it over to the doctor, she reached out, trying to chase her treacherous pay, but the sheriff held her still.
“What are you doing?! That’s mine!” the sheriff, angered by her petulance and deceit, smacked her hard.
“It’s going to pay for the man who got shot for your sake, playing the teary eyed damsel, leading a man to his death, you reek of treachery.” She was silent, ashamed by the words, but more disheartened by the loss of her prize.
“Doc, take your pay from the gold, and give the rest to that fella for compensation for taking a bully full of lead.”
“Will do sheriff.” the doctor said, as he estimated nearly a couple thousands worth of gold in the purse.
“Jerry.” the sheriff called out to the bartender. “I think it’s about time you get a new waitress.”
She was stunned, her eyes wide, and her mouth agape, she shook her head. “No.” she uttered, but saw the seriousness in his eyes. “No!” she slammed her free fist in his chest.
“I ain’t having no killer in this town, even one with pretty eyes, cause those pretty eyes killed a man, as soon as that gunfighter. Tomorrow if you aren’t on the first stagecoach out of town, I’m gonna see you prosecuted for cooperating with that murderer.” his eyes told her he was serious, and his grip gave him no wiggle room.
No matter her cries of protest, she appealed to the other men in the bar but not one of them intervened, in their eyes the sheriff was right or not wanting to get involved.
“Be on your way come morning, and don’t you go hiding her Jerry, her kind isn’t welcome here.” Jerry nodded his agreement. “Get packing Missy, and get some sleep, you’ll need it.” turning his back to her, the waitress broke out into tears, and cried her way to her room, where she slammed the door.
“You were pretty hard on her.” the bartender said, feeling a soft kind of pity for the woman.
“I’m a hard man, with a hard job, and dealing with harder circumstances.” The sheriff, having done his job, left riding out back home, where he would eat supper with his wife and family. As he ate his stew he watched the shadows dance on his wall, his fireplace was overstocked with wood, and the flames were dancing wildly casting dangerous silhouettes upon the wall.
Nice. I like how the sheriff is the only moral character in this story.