Blood Rise

OneOn the banks of the Colorado River, where it flows so fast and so wide the far bank might as well be a thousand miles away, a man stooped and cupped his hands, preparing to plunge them into the crystal clear water. From the rear he appeared a solid-looking man, shoulders bunched with muscle. But from the front, it was clear this man was suffering. His shirt, spattered with crimson, hung from torn trousers, his hair fell lank across his pain-ingrained face and his hands, as they brought the cool water to his broken lips, trembled. Dried blood covered him like a second skin, the largest patch of which spread across his inner thigh. And he was swathed in bandages. He drank, more water slipping from between his fingers than into his mouth, forcing him to repeat the action, gasping every time. Missing from his right hand were several digits, nothing more than b****y stumps. A movement from the thick sagebrush caused him to swing around awkwardly. Wincing, for a moment he almost buckled over onto the ground before he used one hand, palm flat against the hard earth, to stop himself . His other squeezed against his thigh. “You be careful of them stitches, fella,” came the voice of an older, gnarled individual, stomping from the brush, a muzzle loading musket draped over his shoulder, two large buck-rabbits in his fist. “I told you to rest.” “I was thirsty,” said the man, his voice creaking like a worn, dried-up piece of leather. “Wait for me next time,” said the old man, dropping everything onto the ground. He leaned backwards and stretched out his arms from either side. Bones cracked and he cackled, “Dear God, I am too old for all of this.” “I'll do my share when I can.” “Well, that won't be for best part of a week, fella.” He hobbled forward, bow-legged, rocking side to side like a pendulum. “We have a good enough camp here. When you're feeling up to it, we can go down to Twin Buttes and…” He stopped, noting the black cloud settling over the man's face at the mention of the town's name. “Jeez, what the hell is up with you?” “I'm not going back there,” he said, falling down on his backside, staring at the river. He nonchalantly picked up several stones and threw them into the depths one by one. “Care to tell me why.” “It's a long story.” “Can't be as long as mine.” The man turned to the older one, arching a single eyebrow. “You never did tell me why you saved me.” “Fella, I ain't in the business of detailed explanations. I saw you bleeding to death back at my camp, so I helped you out. Simple as, fella.” “Your camp?” “You heard me. Figured I'd patch you up then, when you is able, you can tell me what in the hell happened back there. And,” his hand moved behind his back and when it returned, it was filled with a revolver, “you can explain to me why my daughter was sitting in my shack, dead.” “So you're Dan Stoakes.” “That be me. Who are you?” “My name's Dixon. I'm a US Marshal out of Fort Bridger. You can check if you like, back at Twin Buttes – but I ain't going there. Not yet.” “A US Marshal…” He rubbed his grizzled chin. “Here's my proposal, fella. I'll make us coffee. Then you tell me your story and I'll tell you mine.” “Sounds like a good enough trade.” “Uh-huh, it is. But you make one move against me, or tell me any lies, and I'll blow your damned head off. You get me?” “I get you.” Grunting, Dan put the revolver into his waistband and went over to where the fire spat and hissed. With the blaze virtually out, Dan got down on his haunches and revived it, adding more sticks and bracken before dropping lower and blowing at the embers. Once the flames took hold, he set to loading up an old, blackened pot with coffee beans and water and placed it amongst the gathering flames. He sat back. “I need to know how she died.” “She had fever. We'd met and I was accompanying her to your place. To find you, Dan.” “Me?” “You sent her a telegram, so she told me, of your silver-find. She was on her way when a bunch of cutthroat Indians kidnapped her. But I saved her from them, Dan, helped her with the rest of her journey. Unfortunately, she contracted fever.” He turned his eyes towards Dixon, wide, wet eyes, the anguish clear. “Is that how she died? From fever?” “I wish to God it was, Dan, but no.” Dan's voice grew close to breaking. He raked in a deep breath. “Tell me.” “I had come across a mighty mean and contentious individual whilst at Bridger. A man I would not wish to turn my back on. He followed us, without my knowledge, and when we reached the camp, he shot me. That was how you found me.” “And my baby girl?” Dixon lowered his eyes. “He drew down on me, shot away my gun.” He held up his shattered hand. “This is the result. He then told me I had to sign over Sarah's claim. When I refused, he smothered her.” “He did what?” “She was so weak she could not resist. He kept his g*n on me and put his hand over her mouth and—” “Stop!” Dan held up his hand, pressing the fingers of his other into his eyes. “Stop, no more. Holy Mother of God … he murdered her.” “That he did. Then he shot me to pieces.” “How – how could a human being be so vile?” “That is him, I fathom. A vile and detestable sonofabitch. When I see again, I'll kill him.” “No. No you won't. That will be me who does the killing. I'll go into Twin Buttes and shoot that bastard dead.” “He ain't in Twin Buttes any longer, I reckon. He'll be in Glory. He's Sheriff there.” “Is he, by God? Well, I'll set out for Glory and kill him right there. Sheriff – pah!” He leaned over, hawked and spat into the dirt. “Murdering bastard. What did you say his name is?” “I didn't,” said Dixon, “but he is well known around these parts as a cruel and callous killer. No one dares cross him.” “Well I dare, damn your hide. What is his goddamned name?” “Simms,” said Dixon and hurled the last of his pebbles far out into the churning water of the Colorado River.