Blood Rise

Four

FourAfter Dixon told the old man his abbreviated and heavily altered story, he slumped back against a boulder, blowing out a long, meaningful sigh. “If I could have saved her, Dan, I would have.”

The old man sat some way opposite, the big old musket across his lap, chewing at a piece of dried-up grass, running through the Marshal's words, not giving anything away by his expression, allowing the seconds to tick idly by. Dixon shifted and was about to speak again when the old man held up his hand, cutting him off. “My daughter was a courageous girl. Strong, intelligent. She'd made something of herself over in Kansas City before that feather-brained bastard of a husband left her when she fell pregnant. Bradford Milligan his name was. A waster, a shirker, a spineless bastard. As soon as he done the deed, off he shot like a prairie turkey running from a fox.” He leaned to his right and spat. “If I find him, I'll kill him.”

“But your daughter made good – you said so yourself.”

“Yes she did. And I am mighty proud of her.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, a sudden thought striking him. He swallowed hard. “Was mighty proud of her. Now she has gone. And this varmint, this – what did you say his name was again?”

“Simms. Sheriff over in Glory.”

“I ain't ever been to Glory, but I have a mind to now. Why would he kill her?”

Dixon shrugged. “To claim the silver, I shouldn't wonder.”

“Well, I'll check on that. Mister, you appear genuine, but I have lived a long time and been through some scrapes …” He patted his side to give emphasis to his words. “Those two bushwhackers thought they'd killed me when they came into my camp and took over. Shot me. Fortunately, I fell into the river and it carried me off downstream. I didn't trust them and I don't trust you.”

“Well, I don't see why not, because I—”

“Because of this.” He pulled out a soiled and torn piece of paper. He waved it in his hand. “This here is a claim on my silver mine, which I found in your jacket. It says you is the rightful owner of said claim, counter-signed by the assayer office down in Twin Buttes. At the bottom,” he tapped the paper, “are three more signatures – those of the claimants. I can just make out your name here. Dixon. And beside it, that of my daughter and that of the witness.” He swung the musket around. “You is one lying sonofabitch and now you're gonna die.”

Cracking his hip on large, jagged pieces of rock, Dixon rolled across the broken ground as quickly as he could. He felt several of his wounds opening up, but he had no time for such trivialities. Not now, as the musket boomed, sending a piece of hot lead screeching inches from his head.

Old Dan worked frantically at the ramrod, knowing time was against him.

Time he simply did not have. He looked up frantic and went for the revolver in his belt.

As Dixon put his boot under the old man's chin and rocketed him onto his back, Dan knew the end had come.

This time there would be no river to enable escape. To save his life.

Dixon wrenched the musket from Dan's feeble grip and put the stock into the old man's face half a dozen times, smashing it to pieces, not stopping until the brains mingled with the many pieces of bone fragments, facial features broken and unrecognisable.

Stepping away, breathing hard, Dixon flung the musket away, bent double and vomited into the dirt.

Then came the pain and he checked his wounds and groaned. Blood oozed between the stitches Dan had so expertly applied. The patched-up areas where Simms's bullets had penetrated, the final one in his inner thigh, designed to let him bleed out. Checking this one, Dixon sighed in relief. It remained closed.

Stumbling across to Dan Stoakes's meagre belongings, he scooped up the canteen and drained it, drinking without pause, gasping when at last he stopped.

Above him the buzzards circled already, preparing to settle on old Dan. Dixon went to the body and, turning away from the ruined head, found the paper and knocked away the bits of brain matter clinging to the edge. He folded it carefully and put it inside his vest. He took the revolver and checked it. One chamber loaded, but with no percussion cap. As good as useless, he flung it away in despair.

After filling up the canteen from the river, he realised there was nothing else to do now but try and find a way back to Twin Buttes. He didn't wish to go, but the choices he may once have had now lay dead along with the old man. Dan's mule stood some distance away, forlorn, shrunken, the bones of its ribs sticking out from the thin flesh. Dixon sighed. It was the best he had.

He took the musket and loaded it with shot from the tiny bag at Dan's hip. Four more pieces of lead and a small quantity of powder remained. He took the bag and went to the mule, stroking its neck before hauling himself up over its back. Never having ridden a mule before, he had little idea what it might be like. No saddle, a thread-bare rope bridle and rein, with no stirrups. Slow and easy would be the order of the day.

If he ever got the damned thing moving.

He kicked, cajoled, swore and cooed. Nothing worked. The mule remained sullen, silent and still. Cursing, after a final kick, Dixon slid from the animals back. “You rangy bastard,” he drawled. The mule merely looked.

Settling the musket across his back by the strap, he set off towards the tree line. With little idea what direction he was taking he didn't give much for his chances, but he tramped on nevertheless, doing his best to ignore the leaking wounds and the throbbing bruises. He may well be dead before nightfall.

And to give credence to his thoughts, a quick glance back to the makeshift camp told him how fragile the line between life and death was, as the buzzards settled upon old Dan and feasted on his flesh. He shuddered, hunched up his shoulders and pushed into the depths of the forest, leaving the charnel house scene far behind.