A Man Dead

1Reining in his horse, Bart Stenton gazed out across the prairie before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He loved this land. He loved the loneliness of it, the wild, unsullied beauty, the endless rolling plain, the distant hills shrouded in light purple mist. Once, not so very long ago, countless savages roamed this place, hearts filled with hatred, minds set on violence. But years of determined killing had removed the threat. Now, all was peaceful, apart from the occasional war band, groups of stinking, starving, godless warriors, all of whom he enjoyed hunting and butchering. He knew that soon, no such pleasurable pursuits would punctuate his life. The tribes were gradually being pushed away from populated areas and forced into reservations. With this containment, the sport of killing would end. He knew it would happen, but not yet. He hoped, not yet. He was an Indian-fighter, adept at killing, be it close-up and face-to-face or from a distance. He didn't mind which, so long as another red-skinned sonofabitch lay b****y and dead on the ground. It was all the same to Bart Stenton. Following the course of the river, he led his horse to one of the locations he knew well, where the grass grew lush and succulent. He jumped down from the saddle and stretched out his back, allowing his horse to chomp noisily and fill its belly with nature's goodness. Drifting down to the river bank, he got down on his knees, splashed water over his face and reached for his canteen to refill it. He stopped, senses alert, as he heard something. The sound, faint but distinct, of a human being. A stifled moan of someone in pain. Careful now, Stenton settled his canteen down on the ground and eased his Remington revolver from its holster. He waited, listening for another sound, anxious to get his bearings. It came. Prolonged. The definite groan of a man in agony. Moving stealthily along the grassy banks, he headed in the direction of the sound. His moccasin-clad feet barely broke the blades of grass he walked on. With each step, the sound grew louder. Unmistakable. Rhythmical. Constant. Crouching down, he carefully parted the tall grass and took in the scene before him. For a moment, he stared, confused and speechless. He couldn't quite believe what he saw, so he pressed finger and thumb into his eyes, shook his head vigorously and looked again. There was no mistaking what he was witnessing. A n***d savage, his sweat-soaked body rippling with passion and muscle, had a poor, helpless white boy pinned to the ground. This boy, also n***d, arms held down high above his head, writhed in agony underneath the vile redskin, who ploughed his large manhood repeatedly into the f*******n nether regions of the young man's body. Such a scene belonged in the very bowels of hell itself. Disgusted, his stomach gripped with the urge to vomit, Stenton rose to his feet and, all caution pushed aside, strode out into open view. The savage saw him and ceased his thrusting. Something flickered across his face. Alarm. Terror. Total bewilderment. He pulled back and the young man cried out as the redskin's still erect manhood slipped free of his despoiled body. The redskin's hands came up, his mouth opened, the first words of protest and surrender formed on his lips. But no sound came out. Stenton shot him, the heavy caliber slug slamming into the Indian's chest, sending him reeling backwards. He squawked in pain and fear, tried to lever himself back up, and Stenton shot him again, the bullet striking him in the right collarbone. Stenton advanced and, with each step, he put another slug into the filthy savage's body, perforating his loathsome flesh with lead. Six shots spent, Stenton, standing over the barely breathing savage, cracked open the cylinder and spilled the cartridges into the ground. He fed in six more bullets, and emptied the revolver into the savage with evenly spaced shots. Only then did he stop, lower the smoking hand g*n and, eyes closed, utter a silent prayer skywards. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” came a small voice from behind him. Stenton whirled to see the young man trembling before him, hands clasped over his groin to hide the shame of his nakedness, his body lily-white in the glare of the morning sun. “It's all right, son,” said Stenton. Dropping the g*n into its holster, he put a fatherly arm protectively around the young man's shoulders. “It's all over now.” Breaking down, the young man pressed himself into Stenton's chest, his sobs loud and strong. Stenton, basking in the righteousness of his actions, patted the young man's head and smiled. This was already a good day and it had barely begun.