Unbury Carol(53)

Moxie fed the mare. He looked up to the sky. The sun was not visible, though something of it showed. A thin purple beam washed across the landscape, the treetops, the ashes of the fire, the extra boot prints still present in the dirt.

“Are you good now, old girl?” He patted the mare on the muzzle and put the feed away.

He remembered Carol telling the second doctor she was conscious of what was going on while inside the coma, but that voices were strange: familiar but changed. This meant she was most likely somewhat conscious now.

Moxie mounted the mare.

Again, he imagined Carol plucking one breath after another from a jar.

At some point she’d run out.

The outlaw looked down to the ashes of the fire.

I am Rot.

A wave of steady rage flowed through him.

He closed his eyes, and the purple morning passed over the stoic features of his face.

“Let’s go, old girl.”

On the Trail again, the very top of the sun showing now, the mare, rested, moved with strength, and with the will and haste of her master…



* * *



—

…Smoke brought a hand to his nose as he limped through the lobby. The place smelled like pig-shit. Whiskey, beef, beer, and sex. Men snored on worn couches, their heads on the armrests, their mouths slack, open like torn water pouches. The smell of the morning ghosts of the tramps assaulted him; a dozen stale perfumes jostling for air; the scents left behind of the beasts who wore them.

Smoke limped.

Beneath his boots he saw the carpet was stained, fresh blots of spilled drinks and piss. The place was a kennel, all pissing hog’s hell for territory and mounting each other for sport.

By the front door, on the floor, he spotted a half-eaten waterlogged piece of bread. He pinched it between his fingers, limped back to one of the sleeping men, and dropped it into his open mouth. Then he grabbed a stool from the bar and limped out of the cathouse.

Outside, Smoke counted three horses tied to posts beside his own. He untied the strongest and set the stool beside it. Gripping his thigh, he swung his right leg over its back and pulled himself up by the mane. Some oil spilled out between the rags and spotted the chestnut back of the animal. The beast felt strong beneath his weak and warped legs.

Goodbye to the castrated gelding. This horse was a stallion.

“Wherever you were headed before,” Smoke told the animal, “we’re going north now.”

He pulled the reins and the horse responded. Pulling away from the post, Smoke looked to the dirt and saw a set of fast fresh tracks crossing town. Someone in a hurry this morning. Before Smoke woke.

Smoke studied the tracks. It wasn’t the outlaw—Moxie was ahead of him, of this Smoke was sure. So who?

“A lot of pig-shit travels the Trail,” he half sang. “From hell’s heaven to heaven’s hell.”

He smacked the stallion on the side of its strong body. He dismissed the fresh tracks and focused instead on an impossible legend: a man duel-triumphant without drawing his gun.

“Oh, he’s an outlaw!” Smoke sang in full, his voice growing stronger under the purple band of dawn. “And he knows how to hide!” The horse crossed the town’s northern border. “Oh…he’s an outlaw!” Smoke bellowed to the empty Trail ahead. “But today’s his last ride! Oh, today’s his last ride!” The horse neighed. “You like that, horse-fella? Oh, but you do! You must! Today’s his last ride!”…



* * *



—

…Dwight took hold of the gun beneath his pillow and sat up in bed. There was a man in his bedroom.

“Wake,” the stranger said.

Dwight fired once into the corner. But the shape remained.

Dwight fired again. A hole exploded in the plaster and the shape remained.

“Did the outlaw kill me last night?” Dwight cried.

The stranger moved, slightly, and Dwight saw one face morph into another.

“Who are you?” Dwight asked.

“You need to hide your lady.”

His voice was skin peeling, his voice was breaking bones.

“What do you know about my lady? My lady is dead.”

The stranger’s face spread wide on the bones of its face before dissolving into the shadows behind it.

“You need to hide your lady now.”

When Dwight responded, his voice shook along with his hands.

“You need to leave my business to me. My lady is dead. Leave now, whoever you are, or I’ll shoot again!”

The stranger stepped away from the wall, closer to the bed.

Was this James Moxie, then? Was this the end?

“People are coming for you,” the stranger said. A new face. A new mouth. “They’ve already set out for your home.”

“People? What people? I’ve nothing to hide! My lady is—”

The shape came closer. Dwight recoiled, blinked, and when he opened his eyes again the form was sliding along the contours of the wall, changing with the shape of the vanity as it passed into the unlit hall beyond.

Dwight leapt from bed. He shouted to the open door.

“I will not hide anything! I will not hide her! You know nothing of my lady! You know nothing of me!”

But he was fearful the stranger did.

Unsure what to do first, where to go, who to trust, Dwight stood motionless in the center of the bedroom. Then he rushed to the window.