Disclaimer: this is a mature story wih violence, moderately gory details, and adult themes and language interspersed throughout the story. Read at your own discretion.
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Recap
Last week, we learned more about the mysterious man clad in bone, Jean-Baptiste Mbaye, and his followers. They shared information with Gunnar and the Sheriff regarding the doomsday cult known as The Night's Watch. Meanwhile, faces the hangman's noose at the hands of a lynch mob. Miraculously, he is saved by an elderly man shooting him down from the rope. The man seems to command the respect of the crowd as capably as he handles a pistol, and disperses the crowd as repayment for an act of kindness Turner displayed previously. To wrap it all up, y'all were left with a choice for what Gunnar would do next:
A. Return to town with the Sheriff to prepare for the assault.
B. Stay with the group of mysterious figures.
Now we rejoin Gunnar and Wyatt, as the decision is made.
Chapter 12: Justice, and the Profane
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
Eyes darting between Dr. Jean's odd troupe and your new friend, the Sheriff, you ponder your options. In a very short amount of time, Sheriff Billings has earned your respect and even a little admiration. Sure, he is green to the Hunter's Path, but his strength of character and resolve under admittedly wild circumstances have impressed you greatly. A lesser man would've been quaking in his boots, but Wyatt has handled himself with a poise and self-discipline that would turn any politician green with envy. Though you are loathe to part ways with him, your curiosity about this weird group of individuals and their ways gnaws at the back of your mind with an insatiable hunger. I MUST learn more about them. Clapping the Sheriff on the shoulder, you give a permissive grin.
"Seems to me our new friends here might have a thing or two to teach even a seasoned Hunter like myself. Why don't you go on back to town and rally some folks together who are good with firearms? I'll stick around with Dr. Jean and his followers to see what more I can learn about this 'Night's Watch' or whoever the hell they are."
The good Sheriff's misgivings are briefly apparent on his face, but his trust in your instincts quickly takes over. "If you believe this to be the best way forward, I'll follow your lead."
"I do. Besides, I'm sure that I'll be able to learn something about the way they move that'll improve my odds of survivin' a hunt."
"Okay. Judging by the amount of time it's taken us to come here, I reckon we'll not be ready until midday tomorrow."
"Den we attack undah covah of night tomorrow." Dr. Jean chimes in. "It is bettah to strike while da iron is hot, my fadah always tell me."
"Yes, I agree. Where shall we set our gathering place?" inquires Wyatt.
"Let us all meet in da cleaying by da bridge, wheyah we fahst met." He makes a swift jab in the air towards Sheriff Billings. "Paka, please guide owah friend da lawman back to da town. See to it 'e gets back safely."
Without skipping a beat, the woman with the big cat skull head ornament jumps up and motions to Wyatt to follow her back into the gloam and thick underbrush of the cypress forest. After a moment's hesitation and a quick sigh to steel his resolve, the good Sheriff rises to his feet and falls in step with the woman. You watch their retreat for a while until their forms are lost to the muddled details of the thicket and trees. Turning back to Dr. Jean, you rub your hands together in anticipation.
"So, what's our first order of business?"
"Fahst, we must prepayah wit a meal. Dat crackah you ate last night will only fill you foe so long. We must feed yoe body so yoe mind is shahp foe tonight."
"What happens tonight?"
"Tonight, we wahd off da dead and cleah da way for owah attack wit a ritual. Yoe mind must be shahp so dat you will not fall prey to evil spirits."
Aw hell… what have I gotten myself into?
The old man leads Turner to the stoop of an abode nearby the saloon. Blood still stains the wooden steps as well as the ground around them. The man averts his gaze upwards once his feet find the first step, tears welling up in his eyes at the sight. The screams cut short by ripping and tearing float in and out of Turner's memory like a haunting whisper, tickling the nape of his neck and causing his shoulders to shudder slightly. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Turner ascends the steps shortly after the old man opens the door and beckons him to enter.
The inside of the dwelling is modest, little more than a small table with a few chairs set in the kitchen area with easy access to a wood-burning oven and stove top with a chimney stretching through a sealed hole in the roof above, a washbasin and towel on what appears to be a repurposed stump, and a keepsafe - presumably for storing various ingredients and spices. On the opposite wall there lies a bed with a nightstand beside it, bearing an oil lamp for light. Not far from the bed is a simple chest of drawers positioned neatly underneath a wood-and-twine ladder leading to a small loft above. As Turner takes it all in, his eyes meet the steely grey eyes of the old man standing in the middle of the one-room house.
"Daisy would sleep on a cot up in the loft." he says, answering Turner's unspoken question. The perceptive old codger reads Turner's inquisitive expressions like an open book. "She stayed here to care for me when the missus was taken by scarlet fever two winters back. Not that I needed the help, but I was grateful for her company." This last statement is shortly followed by flattened lips and averted eyes.
Shit… the old man's lost his whole family… This thought strikes a particular chord in Turner's spirit as bittersweet memories of his family flood his mind, causing his eyes to lightly mist over. For a moment, the two stand in silence, joined in the silent communion of shared grief for loved ones lost.
"So…" the old man states suddenly, clearing his throat. "I took the liberty of converting one of Daisy's old blankets into a similar kind of getup you had covered her with… seeing's how we buried her with your old one. I figured it would be a fair trade… she won't need it anymore, and perhaps it could serve you as yours served her…" he trailed off, the sentiment of the gesture beginning to overcome him.
"Thank ya kindly, sir. I'll wear it with pride." Turner replies with a reverence that feels almost foreign… but right. Rescued from the rush of sentiment by Turner's response, the man rushes to the bed and produces a simple woven blanket - surprisingly similar in color to his old poncho - cut down to size with a hole in the middle.
"I hope it fits okay… had to guess at the correct size."
"It's perfect." Turner assures him. "This'll serve me purty good!"
"Perfect. Oh, goodness me, where are my manners? The name's Earl Whitman. I suppose you have a right to know how to name the man who's hosting you."
"Whitman? Like, the fastest gun in the southern states kinda Whitman?!" Turner exclaims, flabbergasted.
"Those days are far behind me, son."
"Well, 'pparently not far 'nuff, the way you was shootin' to cut me down from that rope!"
At this, Earl gives a slight smile as he unclasps his gun belt and drapes it across the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "True. I guess some things are never really forgotten, even in old age." He shakes his head a little, "You drink coffee, boy? I don't have any fresh cream, but my pappie always told me drinkin' it black would put hair on my chest."
"My family never had the money fer fancy stuff like that, but I s'ppose I can try some!"
The old man grins. "Excellent. Here, have a seat. Tell me about yourself while I brew it."
Turner obliges the request, pulling a chair back from the small table with a light scrape against the wooden floor. Taking a seat, he leans his elbows on the table and begins to share his story with the old gunslinger.
You sit on a log, quietly cleaning grime from your rifle and pistol with a soft rag from your field kit. Try as you might to keep them clean, they always seem to collect dust and mud while trudging about the swamplands. The growing shadows creeping across the ground in front of you signal the waning of the day as the blue sky begins to morph into hues of bright yellow and orange, punctuated by light purple clouds. You sit for a moment, soaking in Nature's masterful painting upon the heavens - beautiful beyond words, even in the midst of the darkness marring Earth's face down below. A twig snaps in the forest behind you, causing you to whip your pistol around instinctually, hammer cocked and finger on the trigger.
"It is jahst us, Gunnah." Dr. Jean's voice comes floating through the brush, followed shortly by the bleating of a goat. You uncock the hammer of your pistol and shove it back into the holster at your hip as the man and his weird lieutenant - named Mwonaji if memory serves you well - break through the foliage. He ties the goat to a tree branch to graze and turns to retrieve a chicken from the grasp of the woman. Now relieved of her burden, she collects some small sticks and branches from around the area and creates a small cone on the ground with them, shoving dry leaf litter and moss into the space underneath them. Sparks fly from her flintstone and knife, catching on the tinder; with a few gentle breaths, these small embers become a consuming flame licking at the sticks and branches above. After adding a few larger branches to the fire teepee she retreats, allowing Dr. Jean to take his place next to the dancing flames.
His form is once again eerily phantomlike - especially now in the flickering light cast by the fire, contrasting with the dying daylight. The shifting shadows cast on his skin and face by the light striking the bones he wears give it the appearance of a shadowy translucence: present, but not present… real, yet unreal at the same time. His deep voice floats out from underneath the bone-mask, uttering phrases and incantations in a language unintelligible to your ears. As he speaks, he quickly snaps the neck of the chicken in his hands - a swift and painless death met with little struggle. Placing the fowl's corpse on a stump, he proceeds to carve the feet from it. Once finished, he sets the corpse aside, stowing the chicken feet in a pouch at his belt.
You look on in dread fascination as the doctor stretches out his hand and Mwonaji places the guide rope for the goat in it, quivering and shuddering more than what you assume to be normal for her. More incantations, deep and low, drift from underneath the mask - which now appears in the firelight to be floating on its own, denied eternal rest by spectral tethers binding it to this world. As Dr. Jean speaks, the knife gripped in his right hand slices through the air and bites through the flesh of the goat's neck. The woman bends forward with a wooden bowl to catch the crimson flow, holding the goat's head still with her free hand. As it ceases to struggle against Death's irresistable invitation, Mwonaji allows it to gently rest against the ground - almost with a loving care - and hands the bowl to her superior.
A deep unease begins to set in the pit of your stomach. The ritualistic behaviors of these strange people pluck against a deep-seated superstitious chord within the very fiber of your being in spite of your aversion to superstition. It's at this moment of uncertainty that the floating half-skull slowly turns its chilling gaze to you. The sinking feeling in your gut drops suddenly, seeming to crash against the ground at your feet, and you stand transfixed in the hollow gaze of the skull's deep black eyes. It reaches up, hand outstretched palm-up over the flame, as if to say…
"Now you."
Turner briefly glances out the window in the midst of conversation. The Sun has begun his descent into the horizon, casting long-reaching shadows acoss the street divided only by the gaps of light where he still peeks through the alleyways and house windows.
Damn, the day really got away from us, didn't it? Old coot makes fer good company, I s'ppose!
He does, in truth. The genuine interest he takes in Turner's stories of childhood, loss, and revenge is one that few have given him, and fewer yet have actually lived to appreciate. In exchange, he spins tales of duels of honor in the streets across the West, impossible shootouts with bands of desperados, and posse hunts for some of the meanest criminals in the Western world - including Billy the Kid. The humor of the connection between that criminal and the young man sitting across the table became a source of mirth at that point in the conversation. Now, the truth is evident in Benjamin Franklin's words: you may delay, but Time does not.
A loud grumble from Turner's stomach interrupts the flow of conversation.
"Ha! Old fool that I am, never occurred to me that you might be famished from spending the evening in the jail and nearly claimed by the rope! Lord knows when you had your last meal!"
Turner considers this for a moment. It's true that he hasn't eaten for a while. Quite possibly the last morsel of food to have passed his lips was the biscuits and gravy he shared with Gunnar and the Sheriff! "I reckon I could go fer some vittles, sure!"
"Wonderful! I hope you like salted pork and baked beans. Got some fresh from the butcher yesterday. Was gonna cook the rest of it up for me and Daisy today but…" he trails off solemnly.
"Pork 'n' beans sounds great, mister."
"Please, call me Earl."
"Okay… thank you, Earl."
With a smile, the old man sets about the kitchen opening some canned beans and pouring them into a skillet. Throwing a few of the sticks and finely chopped logs into the wood-burning stove and lighting them with a match, he leaves the skillet on the stovetop to simmer as he throws a few spices and brown sugar into the mix. "Go and fetch me the salted pork from the cupboard there, would ya?"
Jumping up from his seated position on the chair, Turner crosses the room to swing open the cupboard. Stored within are several herbs and spices, cutlery, platterware, and other various and asundry kitchen items. On the bottom shelf is a small brown parcel held together by twine, with a white label on top which reads: "Salted Cured Pork".
As Turner bends down to retrieve it, there is a sharp rapping on the font door. Wiping his hands on his pants, Earl leaves his station at the stovetop to greet the knock at the front door. Turner instinctively ducks down beneath the table and chairs, obscuring line of sight just enough to remain hidden from outside observers. As Earl opens the door, an arm shoots in and yanks him outside, followed immediately by angry yelling voices.
"Where is the boy, ya old codger!"
"Lester, you're making a mista- ah!" the sound of a blow landing cuts him short.
"Where is he, Earl! What you done did was interrupt the justice of the law, and I ain't 'bout to let that boy get away with what he done!"
"You listen here, there wasn't anything lawful about what you were doin'. Just leave it be- ah!" Another blow lands, followed by the thud of a body crumpling to the ground.
That's it… Turner thinks, withdrawing Earl's gun from the holster slung over the back of the chair. He cocks the firing hammer back and stomps across the room to the door and is greeted by the sight of Lester and the two brawny men standing over Earl's procumbent body in the street. "Hey!" He shouts. "Lookin' fer me?" Without any hesitation, he brings the gold-inlaid pistol's sights down until they rest neatly on the ugly man's face. His finger tenses against the trigger…
"ENOUGH!" A voice booms out from down the street. A lone man dressed in a brown leather hat and jacket, carrying a rifle and sporting a shiny Sheriff's star on his left breast lapel is rushing up the street. Turner immediately uncocks the pistol and raises it back up next to his head while his free hand mimics the movement on the other side. The other three men step back a little, giving Earl enough space to pick himself up out of the dirt and dust himself off. "What the hell is happening here?!"
Lester opens his mouth to speak, but is quickly cut off by Sheriff Billings. "Not a word of out you, Lester. Earl, are you okay?"
Earl spits some blood into the dirt next to Lester's feet. "I've dealt with worse, Sheriff."
"What happened here?"
"Well, the way I seen it, Lester and his goons here went and tried to play lawman while you were away. Just about lynched my new friend, here!" He proclaims, gesturing back to Turner.
"I see…" Wyatt muses. Lester opens his mouth to object once more.
Turner whips the pistol back down at the weasely man, cocking the hammer back in a swift, effortless motion. "You try 'n' say one more word, and I swear you'll catch a bullet in that ugly mouth o' yers…" The icy tone in the Kid's voice and the deadly eye of the gun barrel compel Lester to clamp his mouth shut, eyes wide with fear.
"Stand down, Turner." Wyatt calmly requests, low but firm. "You've done enough, I can take it from here."
Turner strains against the urge to pull the trigger and watch the ugly little man's face explode in a rain of flesh, bone, and blood. That's when a wrinkled hand gently rests on the pistol, encouraging it to slowly descend. The calming energy of that touch flows through Turner's entire body, the adrenaline and killing intent leaves his chest and limbs with a shudder. He turns his head, and his eyes lock once again with those cool grey eyes.
"It's okay son. Let the Sheriff do his job. We're safe now."
Turner nods and retreats back through the doorway of Earl's humble home, remembering the pork and beans that await their consumption. Meanwhile, Sheriff Billings escorts Lester and his goons to their cells in the jail.
"You boys have got some explaining to do…"
The firelight dances across the suspended ribcage peeking through the cloak of bear fur, Dr. Jean's ebony skin giving the illusion of empty darkness. His outstretched hand still hovers over the flame, the white markings tracing his fingers and arms appearing even more skeletal now. In this moment, transfixed in supersititous horror, you wrestle with the impulse to turn tail and run… but also a compelling urge to step forward and take the hand of this strange man. Conflicted, you are faced with a choice:
A. Take his hand.
B. Decline and continue to observe.
C. Get the hell out.
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As always, take care of yourselves and each other, and stay thoughtful!
Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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