The latest entry in the ranchers’ story. It’s going to be darker than the last two, methinks, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
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Blood for Blood
It had taken about three weeks for him to get through it.
Mack had come back to the ranch complaining of headaches and shivers, and by the end of the day he was bed-ridden and feverish, racked with wild delirium. He ranted and screamed about a woman named ‘Kate,’ babbling incoherently about things that made no sense to the ranchers. They didn’t know anything about drugs like cocaine, or the effects that they could have over a lifetime of usage, or what would happen after their use was suddenly cut off.
So the put him in an empty stall in the stable, away from the house. They could still hear the screams.
Then after three weeks, the gunslinger came out of the stable. He wobbled and staggered a good bit, but his eyes and his mind were clear. That began his recovery. The ranchers tended to him, ensuring his safe recuperation.
It was months later that Mack and Hawke came riding back to the ranch. He was one of them now; he knew how to herd, ride, survive, scout, track, work a bullwhip, use a knife, and shoot the ranchers’ long rifles. They’d taken him in, no questions asked. They were strong people, good people. Mack had helped them in the bar, and now they helped him get back on his feet. He still helped them by working on the ranch, really. Life had been quiet; no real repercussions from Mack’s escapade in the town, no echoes of Opeck mischief, no issues with the family, or the herds, or the ranch. Life was good.
“‘sat you?”
It was Reuben’s young, cheerful voice that hailed the two riders. He sat on the porch, building a cigarette in the late afternoon heat. The setting sun threw an orange glare into his face, painting everything under its gaze in molten copper light.
“Well what y’think, Roob?”
“I think you two look like a pair of mangy fleabit tumbler weeds.”
“Y’always talk so sweet.”
“You look worse’n he does, cricket.”
The moniker was accurate. Mack had come out of his withdrawals feeling twitchy, and he’d become prone to little jerking motions and spasms. So they’d taken to calling him ‘cricket.’ The gunslinger grinned and swung down from his horse, cheerfully accepting the remark without rebuttal. Within an hour, the three men were seated with the rest of the family inside at the dinner table. It was a special dinner; since it was the end of the week, they some sweet jellies and biscuits in addition to their usual fare of coarse bread and meaty stew. The night came on, warm and soft, the kind that’s easy to sleep in. Everything was quiet; only a soothing buzz of bug-speak providing accompaniment as the last rays of sunlight surrendered and withdrew their glory, ceding the sky to velvet night. The whole house slept, and calm embraced the ranch.
What woke Cain wasn’t any particular noise or sensation – rather, the absence of it was what disturbed his rest. The usual racket and clamor of insects in the scrub-brush surrounding the ranch was silenced. The only reason why that would be was that they had left altogether, and that only happened when something bigger than they entered their vicinity and frightened them.
The long rifle and cartridge belt next to his bed were instantly donned, and he slipped into his boots. His wife muttered in her sleep, unconsciously unsettled by her husband’s movements. Cain stepped into the hall, where he met Mack. The gunslinger was already belting on his profusion of pistols.
“Somethin’s up,” was all he had to say.
Cain simply nodded. Unsurprisingly, the next few seconds during the walk to the front room saw the arrival of Hawke, Reuben, Nal, Ben, Zach, and Matthew. Each man; the seven brothers and the gunslinger; carried their long rifles and cartridge belts. They stepped towards the windows. They all knew the signs of warning; even Mack, comparatively unused to prairie life, had been informed and alarmed by the change his environment. It wasn’t the first time he’d been warned by an absence of sound rather than its presence.
Six men stepped to the windows while Mack and Cain stepped to the door and edged it open. Instantly, from the surrounding brush, there was a volley of gunfire and war-whoops. The ranchers threw themselves to the floor as the walls and windows exploded in splinters and glass shards. Everything was immediate chaos – the families awoke as Cain began to thunder commands for retaliation; the ranchers returned fire at the attackers. For the next hour, everything was a blur – at some point a fire broke out in the house and in the stable, sending Nal, Zach and Matthew to recover the horses while the others tried to get the families outside. As soon as they did, they were under fire from their unknown attackers. Mack was in his element, standing in the wide-open and blazing gunfire from either hand. A shadowy figure rushed him; he drew a knife, stabbed the man a few times, then let the body drop at his feet. It lay there for the rest of the night. It was a long, hard night.
When morning broke, everything was burned. The horses had scattered to the prairie, and Nal had gone off with Reuben to try and track them down. Ben, Zach and Matthew were dead. Grandma Herst was dead – scalped. The women had either been scalped or beaten to death. Cain sat in the wreckage of his part of the house, cradling Mose’s lifeless body. The boy had run out to defend his family, and he’d been shot through the throat. Hawke and Mack stood nearby, wordless. What was there to say? They’d all lost everything. Nal and Reuben managed to bring back some of the horses, but there was no way to feel happy about this small grace. The ranchers’ livelihood was gone. Everything they’d worked to build was destroyed. They were alone.
It was mid-afternoon when Mack finally roused himself. The well was still there, and he walked over, drew a pail and splashed himself until he was reasonably clean. Then he put on his shirt and belted his guns on. The gunslinger walked to certain place on the side of the house and went down into the cellar. From there, he dragged a big chest back into the sunlight. The ranchers watched dully as he opened it and began to unload box after box of cartridges for his pistols and the ranchers’ rifles, loading his weapons with meticulous precision. Then he saddled a horse.
“What are you doing?” Hawke finally droned. He sat next to the body of his toddler daughter. He’d not moved since morning.
“I’m going out for a ride. Figure I’m gonna kill as many Opeck as I can.”
“Opeck?”
“These was Opeck, Hawke. Look at the body.”
Sure enough, the body of the man Mack had knifed still lay in the yard. It was the leathery, copper-colored skin of an Opeck, marked with blood and smeared war-paint… but carrying a new lever-action rifle.
“Somebody gave ‘em the guns, and I’ll get to them, but for now, I’m gonna go hunt some redskins.”
Mired in his sorrow, all Hawke could think to say was: “Why?”
“That’s how I work, Hawke. Hit me, I hit you. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blood for blood. Now I’m gonna go draw some blood, and I don’t rightly know why y’all ain’t saddling’ up with me right now.”
“…me neither.”
For the first time since that night, Cain spoke and stood up. There was a terrible set to his face and a light in his eye.
“Blood for blood.”
The other brothers roused themselves at their brother’s words. Within an hour, all five men were armed, loaded, saddled, and riding west.
That night they caught up with their attackers. They left the dirt stained with blood and the corpses to rot in the sun, and kept riding. They kept riding.
