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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"Oh my God..."
The trailing remark from the Sheriff draws your attention to the patch of ground at his feet upon which his eyes are fixed. The trail of footprints ends at several shallow, continuous indentations - each pair approximately four feet apart from one another - with hoofprints punctuating the space in between.
"Holy shit..." Turner murmurs beneath his breath, "they were brung here by someone?"
[...
"I'm thinkin' if we give 'em too much time to regroup, we'll lose our window of opportunity. They might be coverin' their tracks as we speak. I suggest that one of us return to town to prepare, the other two follow these here wagon tracks to investigate where these bastards came from."
Turner speaks up at this point. "Who's goin' where? Seems like no matter what, we're all up shit creek here."
You take a moment to consider his query. Your brain is reeling with all the variables it's suddenly been presented with: the attack, this unknown group of what you can only assume to be fanatics, what it'll take to protect the town, protect the woman, and attempt to keep yourself alive and breathing - all swirling together in your mind like a noxious soup.
"Gunnar?"
You snap out of your thoughts and look up at Wyatt, the tall man's countenance is stony and resolute.
"I trust your judgment in the matter, I have my own thoughts, but I'd like to hear yours."
You breathe out a sigh with a low whistle. Looking back to the wagon wheel furrows in the ground, you weigh your choices:
(A) Send Wyatt back to town
(B) Send Turner back to town
(C) Return to town yourself
Chapter 9: The Investigation
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
The two men look to you expectantly, awaiting your decision. It strikes you for a brief instant that, in so short a time, they've grown a generous portion of trust in you. I ain't one for being beholden to anyone, but I also ain't one for betrayin' trust given freely... no matter how undeserved or unwarranted it may be. Desperate times call for either extreme trust or extreme mistrust, it seems... You take a deep breath and meet their gaze.
"I think the boy should return to town. The townfolks saw him fighting the horde last night, and the Miss that we left in town will likely feel more at ease with him around than a room full of complete strangers. At least she's seen his face and knows that he ain't a threat."
Wyatt's face betrays a fleeting look of uncertainty, but quickly resets back into its prior stony resolution. "Agreed. I have to say, I have my doubts, but I also saw the boy wielding those guns of his. Likely wouldn't be standing here now if it weren't for him." He turns and fixes his eyes upon Turner's with a deep gravity in his face. "I'm trusting you to take care of my town, boy, can you handle it?"
Turner smirks then hocks a loogie, spitting it to the ground. "I reckon so. Done my fair share'n killin' these sonsabitches. I'll make sure yer town is ready"
"Dear God, I hope so..." the Sheriff mutters under his breath as Turner takes off in the direction from which you came. "You sure he's up to it?" he inquires incredulously.
"I've seen surprisin' capability from the boy before, and even more surprisin' virtues lately. There's more to him than meets the eye, I think."
"Alright, fair enough. Let's get to the business at hand. These wagon tracks seem to come from that direction," he gestures loosely in a Southerly direction, following the approach of the group of twin indentations. "I'd say that's a good place to start."
You follow the impressions of hooves and wagon wheels in the mud for about 10 minutes before coming to another clearing. The tracks become more erratic and disorganized, leading several different directions and overlapping one another. Well, that rules out dealin' with a bunch of imbeciles... smart enough to cover their tracks with a mess of 'em here...
"Goddammit, the sons of bitches were clever enough to foil the trail..." he mutters, echoing your thoughts.
"If I had to guess, Sheriff, these tracks split up at several points along the clearing. If they were smart enough to create this mess, it's the next sensible thing to do to make the trail nigh on impossible to follow directly..."
"So where does that leave us?"
"Here's my thought: we know they came from the swamps to the South. Where else would they gather grunts like that? There are only so many paths a wagon can take through the swamp, so these tracks are bound to meet somewhere on the way-"
"So we take a Southerly heading until we find where the tracks converge," the Sheriff's words cut in, completing your thought perfectly - albeit more eloquently. "It's a good thought and about as good a plan as we're bound to have at this point. I know of only a few points where wagons can ford the swampland safely. If we don't pick up the trail at one, we'll certainly find it at the other."
He's well-spoken for a lawman in these parts, must've received formal education somewhere. Though he's a little green to Hunting, the sharpness of his mind may prove useful later. "Alright, Mr. Billings, lead on!"
Abandoning the beaten trail, you follow the good sheriff into the dense flora to the South of the clearing. It's eerie how, even in the broad daylight, the forest of cypress trees with their bald knobs rising defiantly from the ground around them coupled with the black willows and their Spanish moss-covered branches hold such a gloomy, foreboding appearance - harboring the looming darkness of ever-present danger that threatens to consume all who enter. You feel right at home in it, however; the eeriness more of a barely notable minutia of your day-to-day.
Things are just more... simple... out here where society and civilization have crumbled, paving the way for the lawless, the anarchist, and the profane to thrive. And though you have a code of honor by which you choose to live your life, you are freed from the cloying expectations and niceties that often accompany "civilized society" when you set out to the Proving Grounds.
"Civilized" indeed... it's just savagery and barbarism there too, but better masked. A cynical perspective, absolutely, but is it wrong? After all, I'd bet money that any of the rich pigs in Jackson would gun you down if it meant protecting their assets. At least out here, folks have the common decency of shooting you in the front instead of the back.
Ahead of you, Sheriff Billings continues to press on through the light undergrowth and foliage of the cypress forest, his tall frame slightly hunched over to avoid collision with the low-hanging branches. He's silent as a stone, save for the occasional twig snapping or rustling leaf under his boot.
Pretty light on his feet for a big feller. Wonder what's on his mind? Family back home? A woman? "Why the fuck am I out here?" You have a light little laugh to yourself at the idea of the Sheriff using any of the more crass profanities - it just didn't fit him. Humor is oftentimes vital to surviving out here - it keeps the inconvenience of paralyzing fear in check. He doesn't seem to notice your moment of humor, too caught up in assessing his surroundings and maintaining his dogged advance into forest - the ground and foliage growing more and more swamp-like as time passes.
Your surroundings are perfectly still, apart from the occasional bird calling out in song. It's a beautiful sound that seems so out of place in this broken world of hellish plague and lurking evil, but it's a welcome sound. Not because of the hope that it brings or the reminder of "what it is that you're fighting for"... no, it's welcome because it wouldn't be there if there was peril afoot. Birds don't sing when Hell arrives on the East Wind... This was another one of your father's cryptic words of advice. Grim as they may be, they have served you well in the past, and you expect them to continue doing so for as long as you're allowed to walk this terrestrial plane.
A quick assessment of the big man ahead of you reveals an ignorance to the safety the bird calls communicate - his hands gripping his rifle firmly, eyes darting back and forth to espy phantom adversaries hidden here and there in the brush. You decide to risk a word.
"So where did you go to school?"
At this, Wyatt gives a start, his upper body tensing up as if shocked. To his credit, his finger wasn't on the trigger, so the gun doesn't go off in his hands. He takes a slow breath that seems to expel the tension in his shoulders as it leaves his body. "Centenary College, in Shreveport. I don't go around talking about it openly, but I suppose it's difficult to conceal it. It carries through in my speech, I'm certain."
"You ain't wrong, that's how I knew. Never had a formal education myself, but my mother and father did right by me. Mother taught me how to read and write, and Father taught me about the world."
"Their training has reaped its rewards thrice over, it seems - should we be conversing out loud like this?"
"You can relax, the birds told me that it's safe."
"The bird--alright, then." He stammers, obviously confused but happy to take your word for it. "We're only a short distance away now, should be seeing signs of passage at any moment. I wonder how your friend fares?"
"I'm sure he's fine. The kid knows how to handle himself."
Rounding the corner of the town jail, Turner makes a straight line for the saloon. He's met with the questioning glances of a handful of townsfolk littered about the street - bandanas pulled up over their mouths and noses - still toiling away and transporting the rotting bodies and limbs out of town to a burn pile on the outskirts of town that is currently sending a pitch black plume of smoke into the sky. Shit, I sure hope Gunnar and Wyatt don't see that and think the town's all lit up...
At this point in his progression, Turner has garnered the attention everyone working in the street; a few of them throw glances over his shoulder to see if his friend or the Sheriff are trailing behind him. Turner notes these glances from the corner of his eye. Might have a sitchiation on my hands if'n I don't play this right... He keeps his head forward and his arms loose, but ready to whip his pistols out at a second's notice if the need arose. The moment his boot hit the stoop of the saloon, he heard a voice call out from behind him.
"Hey, you! What happened ta the others? The Sheriff ain't with ya?"
Fuck. Turning around slowly in order to avoid startling anyone into any untowards, he faces the small crowd that has gathered up behind him. Even though their faces are mostly concealed by the bandanas covering them, the fear and borderline panic is clearly evident in their eyes. Turner has seen that look many times before: pure, unadulturated desperation. Double fuck.
"I 'spose y'all have a right t'know. My friend, Gunnar, and yer Sheriff are out there chasin' down some tracks that might tell 'em where them dead fuckers from last night came from. They sent me back t'help with preparin' the town's defense and check in with the Doc about our friend. They didn't tell me when they was comin' back, just to be ready fer anythin'." They can't know this was an attack, they're a powderkeg with a mighty short fuckin' fuse right now...
"How do we know you didn't just shoot 'em and leave 'em to die out there?!" the voice in the crowd replied, garnering murmurs and nods from many of the others. In spite of his youthfulness and hot-headedness, Turner realizes the quickly growing gravity of the situation and opts for a gentler response than his usual devil-may-care style allows for.
"Think 'bout it, folks. One, did any of you's hear any gunshots since last night?" Scattered glances and slight shakes of the head greet this inquiry. "Also, if I had done what yer thinkin' I did, why would I be back here?"
"I dunno, I was hopin' you could tell us yerself!" It's then that a man steps forward, his eyes wide as saucers over his bandana. He's nothing much to look at physically, average build and seemingly scrawny save for the beer gut poking through the buttons of his dirty burgundy-colored shirt. "Sounds like somethin' a guilty man'd say in 'is defense ta me!"
With that, the crowd becomes more agitated and the murmurs become louder. Then, a few of them press forward, seemingly to apprehend Turner. Oh, fuck me! His hands fly down to the guns at his hips, but before he has a chance to grasp them, he receives a blow to the back of his head. As the world fades to black, Turner manages to catch a glimpse of the ringleader standing over his body saying,
"Throw 'im in jail, we'll deal with 'im soon 'nough. Hey, John! Ya better git yer rope ready!"
"Here we are." Wyatt points to a small bridge, big enough to allow a small wagon to pass safely over the deep, murky water separating the swamplands proper from the mainland.
"Alright, let's get to checkin' around. If they passed this way recently, we'll know. Stay alert, though, no tellin' if they have watchmen posted." This last caution is likely unnecessary since the wildlife of the area hasn't given you indication of anything out of place, but - as your father always used to say - it is better to err on the side of caution than it is to stumble headlong into folly.
You split up and begin to silently creep around the perimeter of this new clearing, sticking to the trees for cover while examining the ground for any telltale signs of recent disturbance. The light is waning as the sun begins to dip further down below the horizon, making the job of scrutinizing ground details simultaneously easier and more difficult. Though the shadows cast by indentations are now more noticeable, the shadows cast by other objects are also vastly more numerous than before.
Your crouched movement is silent and fluid, almost feline in the way you prowl through the trees and brush soundlessly. Years of training and practice avail themselves in moments like these, regardless of whether you're stalking a deer or a hostile Hunter. But for all your prowess in navigating the brush with lethal expertise, you are unable to find any evidence of horse-drawn wagons passing through the area.
You are just about to give up the chase and circle back around to Wayne when you hear a quick, sharp whistle come from his general direction. Silently retracing your steps, you return to the side of the good sheriff, who is currently kneeling down examining the ground. You let out a soft stsk to alert him of your approach.
"I found something, Gunnar, but it's not what we expected. See? Fresh hoofprints. Fresh enough that water hasn't had a chance to collect inside them. But, no wheel tracks." He meets your eyes with a puzzled look on his face. "The timing of the prints are right, but where are the wagons?"
"Hm... may be a different party entirely?"
"Not that I can think of, no carriages or posse's scheduled to be going down there from the HC... They typically alert us via telegraph so we can have our stores stocked and ready for them when they roll through."
"Okay, so it's possible they ditched the wagons somewhere along the way to make gettin' in and out easier..."
"I was thinking the same thing."
"Okay, so we investigate these prints come first light." You peer back at the horizon to watch the Sun bid farewell and sink into his slumber; already being replaced by the Moon, eager to shed her pale light upon the mortal realm. "It's already late, too late and too dark to find our way back to town. I suggest we strike camp somewhere off the path."
Wyatt nods his head in assent, and falls in behind you as you delve deeper into the cypress woods, relying on the failing light of the Sun and the growing shimmer of the Moon to guide your footfalls. When you've ventured far enough in that you deem it safe to strike camp without being easily noticed, you gesture about you as if to say "pick a spot."
"Should we light a fire?" he asks. "I've heard that fire serves to drive away wild animals."
You consider his query for a moment. On the one hand, it would serve as a deterrent for wild animals and it would provide a source of warmth in the cool of the night. On the other hand, it would only attract the attention of those with whom they wanted to remain anonymous. The cypress forest is thick, but is it thick enough to hide the flickering light of a fire? What peril are you likely to face without a fire? You ponder these questions as you consider your options:
A. Light the fire.
B. Stick to the dark.
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~Thinkr
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