Blood Rise

Two

TwoThey killed them with a knife. The man and the woman, their aged mother and a child, barely 6 months old. Moving out from between the rocks in the early hours, they struck them hard and fast. Curly was the one with the knife, the other two holding down the woman, who kicked and screamed so much Curly was forced to put the blade into her throat.

“Ah, s**t, Curly, why do you do that?”

“Shut your face, Brewster,” spat Curly, stepping back, watching the woman going into spasm, clutching her throat, dying right there before their eyes.

The sun was barely up over the horizon when they chopped up the woman and put her limbs in a big old pot over the fire.

The third man, a huge hulking brute named Arthur, strangled the old man in the back of the wagon, the baby wailing like a banshee beside him. He smothered the infant with a pillow. It took no more than a few moments. Now he sat stirring the pot, breathing in the aroma. He'd added onions and a carrot that he found in the wagon to the stew. “This is gonna be a feast.”

“We ain't eaten nothing but dust for the past six days,” said Curly, sitting cross-legged, holding the b****y knife in both hands, “so even if that was horse s**t it would taste like it's come from a New York eating house.”

“Well it ain't horse s**t,” said Arthur, “this young lady is nothing but good, lean meat.”

“We can make good steaks from her prime, young butt-ocks,” said Brewster. “Pity you had to kill her, Curly.”

“Shut up, you heathen sap! Killin' is enough for me, it should be for you. I ain't no goddamned f*****g rapist.”

Brewster remained silent, sinking into himself, staring at the ground.

“And you,” said Curly, pointing the blade towards Arthur, “you cook and shut the f**k up.”

Arthur touched the brim of his hat and did as Curly bid. He knew better than to argue with Curly 'Lonesome' Price.

“When we broke out,” said Brewster when he finally felt able, “you told us there'd be rich pickings for us. You said the same after helping you with that damned stage robbery.”

Curly blew out his cheeks. “And there will be rich pickings, Brewster. Now we have this here carbine,” he hefted it in his hand, taken from inside the wagon, “life is going to be easier.”

“What we gonna do?” asked Arthur, chewing on a piece of flesh.

“There's a town not so very far. It's called Twin Buttes. We can hole up there.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safe as anywhere. I know the sheriff there, man name of Silas. We goes back a long ways.”

“And how will that help us?”

“He'll give us fresh clothes and horses, and we head deeper into the Territory. There are many towns, most dead, a few dying. Some have banks. We hit 'em hard and we hit 'em fast.”

“If they is dead or dying,” said Arthur, chewing furiously, “then we ain't likely to find no banks nor no rich pickings, now are we?”

“What are you, Arthur, a goddamned philosopher or somesuch?”

“Stands to reason, Curly. I is just sayin', is all.”

“Well don't say nothin'. You have not one clue what awaits us out there in the Territory. Not one.”

“I hear there is Indians,” interjected Brewster, tossing away a gnawed piece of bone. “I hear they is mighty mean too.”

“Hell, there is always Indians. Once we are at Twin Buttes, we will stock up with firearms and enough powder to start a war. We will be fine. Besides, I've fought Indians before, and they are not much to be afraid of, I can tell you that. They carry their reputation with 'em like some sort of suit of armour from those old knights in England. They ain't worth shit.”

“How you know about those – what was it, knights? What the hell is they?”

“You is ignorant, Brewster.”

“I is alive.”

“Well, that's a topic for discussion right there.” Curly hawked and spat. “You have a choice. You can stay out here and fry to death, or you can come with me to Twin Buttes and prosper. I couldn't give a damn either way.”

He lay back with his head against a small outcrop of rock and tipped his hat over his eyes. “You just let me know.”

Brewster and Arthur exchanged a look. “Ah hell, Curly,” said Arthur, “you know we have no choice in the matter.”

“Then get some rest. We will cross the prairie at night and keep ourselves out of this heat. I will rise you when it is time to leave.”

He wriggled around in the dirt, trying to get comfortable.

Arthur sighed, nodding towards the wagon. “I'm gonna put my head down in there, Brewster.”

“Fine, well I will—”

“You will take first watch,” said Curly without stirring. “As you say, there is Indians hereabouts.”

“Goddamn you both!” spat Brewster, kicking at the ground as Curly rolled over and Arthur wandered across to the wagon. “This ain't fair. Why am I first?”

But there was no reply and he slumped down on a large boulder and munched on the remaining piece of meat from the young girl's arm.