The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 11

The room clung with the stink of cordite, the walls continuing to resound with the blasts from the many discharged firearms. Elisabeth crouched behind an ancient piano, an instrument that would never again ring out its plaintive tones. Two bullets had ripped through its sides, shattering hammers, destroying ivory. The girl huddled herself into the corner, trembling, wondering what would happen next.

From where she sat, she could see the body of the old man, lying spread-eagled across the floor, his eyes wide open, the back of his head nothing more than a gaping, black hole. The sadness threatened to overwhelm her. She didn"t know the old man, but something about him reminded her of her father, and she imagined General Randall in a similar position, the life seeping out from the wounds in his shattered body. They should never have come to this hostile land, with its many dangers and uncertainties. Father had convinced her a new life, full of promise, awaited them in the unchartered plains of the Territories. They"d set off, so full of optimism, but as soon as they left Missouri and crossed the endless expanse of nothing, their hearts sank as the realization of their situation struck home. This was no land flowing with milk and honey; it was hard and harsh, unremitting and unforgiving. She sobbed when she remembered their life back in Chicago, their house, neighbors and friends, the normality of it all. And now this, sheltering from a maniac whose only thoughts were of death, the killing of innocents, the taking of possessions. Mason. She hated him with every fiber of her being and longed to see him dead.

She recalled the dreadful moment everything changed. The day of the bank robbery, they dragged her around the corner, shooting their guns, and she left her father on the boardwalk, dying. She fought, kicking, scratching, but to no avail. The larger of the two men, whose name she soon discovered was Mason, struck her across the mouth and the resistance left her. Half-dazed, she recalled little of the next few moments, save for the constant bucking and jostling of the wagon, the constant gunfire, the screams of indignation, fear, sorrow.

When at last they stopped, Mason took advantage of her, his rough hands all over her body, his stinking breath close to her ear, the pounding of his loins. Afterwards, she vomited, self-loathing overcoming her. He seemed not to care. He visited her constantly, his member a brutal, rigid club, forever ramming, no gentleness, never any thought for her. She screamed those first dozen times, unable to accommodate him without experiencing the most awful splitting sensation. Walking proved difficult, so she took to lying in the tent, shivering n***d under the blankets until he would come to her again, pull the covers away, and drive into her without a pause until he was spent. She learned if she moaned rather than screamed, he would become more gentle; if she caressed his shoulders, ran her hand through his hair, he would raise himself up, his thrusts less violent, and if she cooed and moaned, "Yes, like that, just like that", it may take longer but it was so much less painful. Sometimes she would lie beside him and run her hands over him and he would cry out like a baby and she understood the power she had, the control. After numerous couplings, she allowed him to kiss her, and he was gentle, giving, more in tune with her needs. She scolded herself the night her own fire swept across her loins, recalling how his tongue sought out her most private places. She curled up next to him, ashamed and all the angrier for it. She did not show then, before or since, the hatred, which dwelled inside. She decided to enjoy what she could, to be selfish, and wait. Wait for the moment when he became so infatuated, so convinced she was his, that his guard would drop and she would strike. For she hated him and whenever he went off to scan the horizon, she would vomit in the dirt. And when he returned, she would smile, throw back the blanket and gesture for him to enter her once again.

Huddling there behind the broken piano, trembling with fear and self-loathing, the truth surfaced.

The hatred she bore for herself was greater than what she felt for him.

And now, here she was, so close to seeing him die. But he hadn"t died. The man was blessed, in some perverse way. He stood in the doorway, his bulk silhouetted against the sunlight, six-g*n smoking in his hand, contemptuous of danger, dismissive of death.

The two young men sheltered behind upturned pieces of furniture. One desperately reloaded his musket whilst the second covered him with his own six-g*n, rising every so often to fire two or three shots towards the door. Not one bullet struck home and Mason laughed. “You better run, you fuckers, for I"m gonna skin you when this is done. You hear me, skin you alive!”

Elisabeth knew it to be so. On the journey over, they came across a couple, the axle of their wagon broken. The woman, plump, grim-faced, swathed in a padded, dark blue dress, busied herself setting up a lean to, draping a tarpaulin over the top as a sort of makeshift roof. Newhart pulled up their horse and leaned forward.

“You folks in trouble?”

“Bust an axle on this rocky ground,” said the man. “You"d best be wary yourself, friend. The ground is like iron, no moisture in it.”

Newhart nodded, looking around. “You come across any riders?”

“Indians, you mean?”

“No. Just riders.”

“Desperadoes?” bleated the woman, standing motionless, playing with the hem of her dress. “Oh sweet Jesus, are they killers, robbers?”

“Just about everything bad you can put a label to roams across this prairie, ma"am.”

“Oh, my sweet Jesus,” she said and ran up to her man, throwing her arms around his waist. “Can we not join you?”

“Four is better than two,” said the man. “We had to kill our horse, but we still have some of the meat. We have grain, too, flour, beans. Water.”

“Ah,” smiled Newhart. “Water is like gold around these parts.”

“We have some gold too,” said the woman and her man shot her a terrified look.

Too late for life to continue.

Mason came around the back of the wagon and shot the man through the throat. The woman screamed and he cuffed her across the face with his g*n. She fell down, nose and mouth smashed, the blood leaking from broken teeth and bone. He straddled her. Elisabeth, watching from her place next to Newhart, screamed in disgust and Mason jerked his head around. “I"m not violating her, sweet darlin", so have no fear of that.” He slipped out the heavy-bladed Bowie from inside his coat and sliced off her nose. She writhed, her blood-curdling cries shrieking across the plains. Mason stood, studied the man on the ground, clutching at his throat, thrashing his legs, desperate to stop his life draining through his fingers. “Poor bastard,” said Mason and went over to the broken wagon and sifted through their belongings. Anything of use he took. He grinned at Newhart, who laughed. Mason clambered into the back and fell asleep, snoring like a mule. They continued, rattling across the stony ground and Elisabeth craned her neck to look back at the couple; the woman, blood cascading down her destroyed face, cradling her dead man"s body, wailing. Already the buzzards were circling overhead. Elizabeth said a silent prayer, but knew it would do no good. This land was cursed.

Much later, when Elisabeth dared to ask him why he had left the woman so disfigured, Mason shrugged. “People need to learn lessons.”

“Lessons? What the hell do you mean by that, Mason?”

Lessons“People come out here believing it to be some sort of tea-party, that all they have to do is load up their wagon and spend a few days travelling forever west and salvation, peace and glory awaits. Well, it ain"t so. Look at you, a father dead, your future nothing like what you planned. This is a hard land, darlin", and I am its prophet of doom.”

“So you disfigured her so that others might see the error of their ways?”

“I did indeed. I am a man of simple beliefs, darlin", and one who knows his place on this good Earth. My duty is to save all those who would dare come into this land without full understanding of its cruelties.”

“You truly are a savior,” she said, snuggling into him, her arm snaking around his waist, her other dropping to his groin. “I think I love you, Mason.”

“I know you do, darlin",” he said, smoothing her hair, “I know you do.”

If he knew the truth, he would have killed her there and then.

From behind the piano, she saw the maid, slumped in the corner, her chest barely moving. A bullet had smashed her left shoulder, but she was tough. Her head came up and their eyes locked. A thin snarl of a smile. With a grimace, she managed to reach behind her, pulling out a revolver. She nodded and Elisabeth returned the gesture. The maid pushed it across the floor with all of her remaining strength before Mason shot her in the head.

Elisabeth bit back a mixed cry of frustration and horror. These people lived out a good, clean existence, never intending any harm to man nor beast. Newhart and Mason changed all of that. Damn their eyes. She saw the g*n, lying there within five paces, so tempting. Perhaps she could make a grab for it, perhaps she might succeed. Perhaps. But far more certainly, Mason would shoot her before she got within an arm"s length. Despite all of his amorous intentions, he would not falter when it came to killing her. The man was a demon. Life, and its continuance, was not something he considered important. Not the lives of others, that is. He believed himself blessed, never more so in how arrogantly he stood in the doorway, dismissive of danger, waiting.

“Come on out Elisabeth,” he growled. “Don"t you worry none, darlin", I won"t hurt you. Not too much any ways. What I"ll do first is, I"ll make love to you all night long, and you know there is nothing finer in this world than how I make you feel. Then, when you are spent, I might just tickle that fine rump of yours with my belt for you know you need a good scolding. So come on out, sweet darlin" and join your loving daddy.”

She caught the bewildered look of one of the young men, who having completed the reloading of his musket, was mouthing something to her. But she could not catch any of it, so she shrugged, shook her head, and pointed to the g*n, miming the firing of the musket. Perhaps he understood, perhaps not. So she mimed it all again, jerking her thumb towards her chest, firing the pistol with her fingers, urging him with her wide, bright eyes to shoot with his own weapon.

She blew out her breath and sank back against the wall. It was hopeless, he didn"t understand. Soon Mason would come striding closer and he"d kill them all. She gave up a silent prayer and closed her eyes.

The main door blasted open and Newhart came in, coat tails wrapping around his legs. A sudden squall accompanied his dramatic entrance, sending everyone into a whirlwind of confusion, including Mason who swung around towards his friend. Elisabeth took her chance and went for the g*n. She needed to calculate who to shoot. Given all that had happened, a casual observer might have reasoned she would choose Mason. After all, he was the one who abused her, relentlessly. But something stopped Elisabeth from this course, something she could never fully understand. Perhaps it was the man"s almost mystical invincibility, perhaps she simply did not have the strength or courage to kill. Whatever the reason, she turned the g*n on Newhart and shot him in the thigh. He yelped and staggered backwards, stumbling over the steps.

Mason let out a long wail and raced towards his stricken friend. Meanwhile, the two young men were on their knees, aiming down the lengths of their muskets. They discharged their firearms at the same time, but not one shot hit their assailant and the last Elisabeth saw of Mason was that demonic look in his eyes as he glared back at her. In that lingering glance she saw replayed all that had passed between them over the previous endless, relentless days. If ever he harbored any feelings for her from those times, nothing registered in his face. He turned away, lifted Newhart in his great arms with ease and carried him towards their waiting wagon. Elisabeth dragged herself to her feet and loosed off five shots at his retreating frame. Every one missed, but at least the fusillade quickened his flight and he broke into a tottering run. She followed him and stood in the doorway, watching him place Newhart in the back, climb up onto the buckboard seat and flick the reins. She watched him rumble off into the distance and she didn"t stop watching until he was nothing but a smudge on the horizon. A strange calmness settled over her, overwhelming relief and gladness at his departure. And happiness too, for the next she would learn of him would be news of his death. She smiled at the thought.