What the hell. ;)
"Going Home"
B.D. Flory
In the old days, my home was the range, and I made it with a rough breed
of men. I walked with killers, thieves, and cutthroats, and I walked in a
very dark place, where a man could live by hunting other men. I did live,
and quite well. I always believed they could not touch me, that a man is
what he makes himself, not what others make him. I was wrong.
They made me like them, and all it took was time. I became a hard, ugly
man, to whom the term "Dead or Alive" too often meant dead. It didn't take
me long to stop counting the men I'd killed.
I don't know what she saw in the man I was then, but a wise, wonderful
woman saved me from that life. She made me care, and made me believe that
"Dead or Alive" really was a choice. She is my reality now, along with our
daughter, and the home we've made here in the foot hills of the Rocky
Mountains.
But every night, when I dream, that reality slips away.
My quarry was a mile off, and sleeping. I was alone; for a bounty this
small, I could ill afford to split it with a partner. Not any normal
partner, anyway.
I dismounted, and drew my rifle from its saddle boot. A Whitworth, it had
excellent accuracy at long range - but not even a Whitworth would help me
kill a man from a mile away. Good thing I knew someone who could.
I led my horse down the trail a ways, and returned to my perch. I didn't
want to spook the animal. I drew in a long breath, closed my eyes, and
concentrated.
The voice was always first. "How do you want it?"
"Like always," I answered, and opened my eyes.
The manitou grinned at the routine - perhaps ritual is a better word - and
stepped out into the dusty street, facing me. "Good, because that's how
it's going to be. The stake?"
"I want to be accurate," I answered. "If I lose, you get my soul. Same
deal as always."
"I know," it answered, "but I need to hear you say it, just the same."
It was over in a heartbeat, the manitou lying in the dusty street. Calmly,
it sat up, dusted itself off, and climbed to its feet. For it, this was
just another test. "You win again, gunslinger. You've got what you came
for." It touched the brim of its hat in farewell, "I'll see you when I see
you."
The snarl and buck of my rifle snapped me back to reality. The bullet flew
straight and true, as promised. It took me almost half an hour to climb
down from my perch and make my way to the man's corpse. The crows beat me
to him. As I got closer, I fired off another round to scare the birds off.
One of them cocked its head at me obstinately, plucked out an eye for the
road, and flew off.
His face was already a mess, with bits of flesh stripped off in irregular
patches. His nose was stripped to bone and cartilage, and a crow had just
flown off with his left eye. Nonetheless, he was recognizable. The maimed
face of the manitou twisted into an ugly grin.
And I woke up, cold and sweating, sunlight stabbing through my window. I
smelled steak and eggs frying - after the dream, it was enough to make my
stomach churn. Nausea and hunger battled for control, but briefly. Hunger
won out. Grudgingly, I dragged myself out of bed. I had to go into town for
supplies. Winter was coming on fast, and I had a wife and daughter to look
out for.
My wife was humming contentedly at the stove, the cheerful sizzle and pop
of hot grease punctuating the tune. She smiled at me as I emerged from the
bedroom. "How do you want it?"
"Like always," I answered, automatically.
Her answer scared me, worse than any dream: "Good, because that's how it's
going to be. The steak?"
I looked at her sharply, but she had already turned back to the stove. I
turned my gaze to the place where my six guns hung over the mantle, but
they were gone. Frantically, I scanned the room for them, and found them
sitting on the table. "My guns-"
"I thought you might need them," she answered. "It's a long way to town,
and the good Lord only knows who you're going to run into." She lifted the
skillet off the stove, and carried it carefully to the table. "You didn't
answer, so the steak's well done."
I sat down slowly, and set my hand on my guns. They still had the familiar
warmth they always did, even in cold weather. I nodded my thanks as my wife
scooped the eggs and steak onto my plate, then her own. I ate quickly.
When I finished, I stood and strapped on my six guns. "I'll be back in a
couple of days," I explained, even though she already knew.
She stood up and gently kissed my cheek. "I love you."
I nodded. "Me too."
She smiled, and wrapped her arms around my waste. "I know," she said
warmly, "but I need to hear you say it, just the same."
I jerked back, and her arms fell from around my waste. I let my hand drift
to my six gun, but she didn't notice.
She gave me a long and silent look, worry written on her face. "What's
wrong?"
Nothing. Nothing was wrong. It was just my imagination. "I don't know.
Just...memories, I guess." I smiled, and her worry seemed to ease. "I love
you," I told her. It was the truest thing I've ever said. "I've got to
leave, if I want to be back before the snow comes."
She nodded. "Don't forget warm clothes for the baby."
I donned my duster, and drew it tight around myself. The first snow was
still a few days off, but the cold had already come. "I won't."
I stepped outside, and I almost missed her last words. "I'll see you when
I see you."
Just another test.
I drew my guns for the first time in years. It was just like coming home.
"Doctor," the assistant complained, for the third time today. "This
case...I don't like it."
"What's to like?" the doctor replied. "This is a sanitarium. If you liked
any of the cases we took in, I'd have to consider making you a patient."
The doctor shrugged.
"I know," the assistant sighed. "But..." He hesitated - he didn't even
want to think about the case, really. "This man, he killed his wife. A town
nearby sent someone up to check on the family after the spring thaw. They
were expecting him to come in for supplies, like he had for the last few
years, every spring and fall." The assistant shuddered as he described what
the man had found: the woman had been shot through the heart, and was five
months rotting. The baby - barely eight months old - had died of exposure
and starvation.
When the messenger found their new patient, he was sitting quietly in a
chair. He'd said only a few words, and hasn't spoken since: "Just another
test."
"I know the story," the doctor replied. "But we have to take him in. This
sort of case is exactly why this place exists. Maybe we can help him."
"I hope so, Doctor." The assistant shivered again as they opened the door
to the man's cell.
"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you
in."
-Robert Frost
B. D. Flory
Freelance Writer/Editor
"No good opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are
feeling sensible."
-W.H. Auden