Jack Marston sat staring into the hearth of his ranch house living room fireplace, wondering if the events that had just transpired had been real, or if it was all just a dream, or even if it was some sort of story he'd read in a book as a boy that had somehow come true. He sat on a leather chair with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting heavily atop his clasped hands. He ran a hand through his beard and mustache, grinning briefly with the satisfaction that it had grown in so thick and full, just like his father's had been. His grin quickly disappeared; it had only been several hours ago that he shot and killed Edgar Ross. The retired government man was his first murder committed. His father was now avenged.
Jack didn't feel the complete, peaceful satisfaction he was expecting. A great disappointment ebbed into his bones, and he felt it deep in his gut that he'd let his parents down. Shock still gripped the nineteen-year-old. In hindsight, Jack realized he could have walked his horse home; he could have camped out under the sky when night had fallen. Instead, he spurred his horse into a sprint at dusk. He felt sick with fear—he panicked whenever he saw a horse and rider, causing him to spur his horse even faster. What he had done elated and shocked him. After all the long years of itching and yearning for revenge, it had finally happened so fast.
The black mustang's body was slick with sweat and his sides and mouth were coated with foam by the time Jack returned to Beecher's Hope. It was almost dark when he dismounted; his legs gave out and he fell to his knees almost underneath his mount. With difficulty, Jack rose to his feet and led the horse into his stall. He took his time unsaddling and brushing out the mustang in the barn. He fed and watered the horse afterwards, and as his mount ate and drank his fill, he stood beside him and stroked his neck. The time spent taking care of the black beauty calmed him—there was something about the sound of the horse chewing on hay and the brush sliding across his silky coat that relaxed Jack.
"Well, it's finally done," he said softly, patting the horse's neck. Tears threatened to spill over his eyes and down his cheeks as he breathed, "It's finally done."
The horse brushed his velveteen muzzle over Jack's hands and whickered softly. The animal had been his only companion after his mother's death the other day but felt like a lifetime ago. With a heavy sigh, Jack left the barn, quietly closing the double doors on his way out.
Outside, he looked around the empty ranch stead, and his heart bled. Now, he was truly alone. And now that he'd gotten his revenge, what was there to do? Despite his best efforts, the ranch slowly ran into debt and decay and he was forced to sell the livestock not long after he buried his father, so there was nothing to take care of besides his father's horse.
A thought occurred to Jack as he climbed the hill behind the barn—he could have been killed by Ross. If he would've pulled his gun a half-second later, he would've been shot down just like his father. Jack felt a tremble wrack his body.
He counted his steps as he ascended the steep hill to his parent's graves. He'd memorized every nook and indention; the well-beaten path he'd made over the years was his own making. His feet knew the way, and they led him to stand before John and Abigail's graves. He glanced at Uncle's grave, acknowledging it with a nod. His legs quivered as he knelt before his parents' final resting place. He took off his father's hat and held it to his chest as he glossed over the inscriptions he'd carved into the wooden crosses. He'd read them countless times.
"I finally did it. It's done after so many years."
He took a refreshing breath as he stood. He turned, descended the hill, and retired to the house, where he sat down heavily in the arm chair that he now sat in. He had lost all track of time as he sat contemplating.
A sudden pop and crackle in the fireplace stirred him back to the present. He blinked, letting his memories fade into the deepest recesses of his mind. He ran a hand over his face and sat up in his seat. His legs creaked and popped as he stood up and shuffled to the back door. His boots thudded and his spurs tinked as he walked out onto the wrap-around porch. He took several deep breaths as he looked out at the surrounding wilderness, catching a glimpse of several wild horses galloping across the property―now his property―their hooves thundering across the grassland and kicking up dust. An owl hooted nearby; a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled together somewhere off in the night several miles out; thousands of crickets chirped their night melodies.
Jack checked his pocket watch. It was four in the morning. He took his sweet time laying out a line of tobacco on a small strip of paper before rolling it and sealing the cigarette with a quick lick of his parched tongue. He took out a match from his pants pocket, struck it across the porch railing, and lit the cigarette. He took several savory drags before letting the smoke roll out of his mouth. He watched the world go on from the view of his back porch; life seemed so damn simple for Mother Nature, and he wished he were an animal, perhaps a wolf or a horse loping around freely across the land.
His thoughts began to wander as he took drag after drag, letting the smoke float out of his mouth. He thought of his father, of his tumultuous lifestyle before leaving Dutch's gang and starting up a better life for his family. If only we would've had more time, he thought with a sad sigh. He frowned as he continued, If only that son of a bitch hadn't have double-crossed my father. He shook his head and took a big drag, releasing the smoke in an angry exhale. That son of a bitch!
Jack hung his head and leaned his elbows on the back porch railing, suddenly becoming overcome in a wave of emotion. Tears built up in his eyes; several managed to slip from his control and fall onto the wooden porch. Manning up, he sniffed and wiped his eyes with his hand. He straightened up, took a long drag of his cigarette, and exhaled deeply to resume control of his emotions. There was absolutely nothing he could do about anything now. All he could do now was live in the present and attempt to give a damn about the future.
He finished his cigarette in a rush, extinguished it on the railing, and flicked it off the porch. Still wide awake, he stood leaning against a column. He was still too caught up in his thoughts. His frown lessened as he spotted a fox prowling around his property. Without thinking, Jack drew his pistol and shot at it, not caring that he missed by a couple inches and disappeared in the night. He grinned as the fox took off in a blur of red fur and retreated to the woods that flanked the ranch.
The night seemed eerily quiet after the gunshot. He didn't dare go back to the barn: his horse desperately needed rest, though he was sure the gunshot would've startled him awake. He took his hat off and let it rest on the railing beside his arm as he combed his fingers through his greasy, long hair.
"A shot or two of whiskey would be nice right about now," he murmured to himself. He flinched at the sound of his voice stabbing through the silence. Sighing, he straightened back up, retrieved his hat, and tugged it back snugly on his head. He went back into the house and went straight to his room, where he stripped off all his clothes except his long johns and collapsed on his bed. Sleep was waiting kindly for him, and he let himself be taken within seconds.
Jack awoke with a violent start. His dreams had been wrought with blood, screaming, gunshots, and the thundering of hoof falls. He remembered riding fast away from somebody on a black mustang with scars and a piebald face. He remembered being shot at, and several bullets found their mark in his back and shoulders, but he somehow remained rooted in the saddle. Blood stained his clothes, gunshots pursued him and his horse, but he was able to escape...then he was at last gunned off his horse. Before he struck the ground beneath his horse's hooves, he jerked awake and sat up in bed, panting and looking around his room. He still expected his horse to trample him and his pursuers to catch up to him and finish him off.
Trying to catch his breath, he ran his hands across his face and lay back down. His body shook from the realistic quality of the dream. "Goddamn it," he croaked, his voice strange to his ears. "What the hell?" His mind still in the fog of his dreams, he lay there panting and trying to make sense of where he was and his bearings.
In a sudden blinding flash, the events of the previous day, and of the past three years, came back to him and came crashing down on his mind and soul with painful force. He lay prone as he began to think of what to do next. He supposed he could start up Beecher's Hope again, maybe purchase about twenty or thirty head of cattle, lasso some mustangs and bring them back to the ranch to break them, maybe hire a couple ranch hands to help with the livestock...
The fleeting idea of him becoming a bounty hunter crossed his mind, and he grinned at the thought. Though it wasn't entirely an honest man's work, it would still suffice for his need of cash and his unquenchable, unexplainable appetite for adventure. And now that he had killed his first man, he supposed killing others wouldn't bother him, especially if they gave him probable cause. Turning in criminals would prove rather difficult, as he would have to report to a lawman or a government man. A deep scowl darkened his face, and the idea was dismissed even quicker than the previous.
His scowl softened as he pondered on. Perhaps he would become a writer, pick up his boyhood dream and write about his experiences or even think of some fantastic story. Maybe so, but he seemed too changed to pursue a childhood yearning. Still, the calling—no, the seduction—of writing a novel seemed tempting all the same, but to sit in his room and try to write in an empty shell of a house that once held so much love and promise in such a brief span of time was unacceptable to him. No, he couldn't live like that, in that painful shadow of the past.
This isn't my home anymore, he thought. His eyes widened at the power of his revelation. There's nothing for me here...But if I leave, where will I go? What will I do? He inhaled sharply and ran his hands over his face, overcome with the multitude of questions about to erupt in his brain. His mind was in a swirl of nauseating questions that he felt he might never know the answers to.
I can't stay here.
He flung back the covers and got dressed, feeling pressed for time as he grabbed his meager wad of money, his bolt-action rifle, and his Carcano rifle. He donned his father's hat and tugged it down snugly on his head before heading out the door.
He went to the barn, saddled his father's horse, and mounted up. He reined the black mustang right and rode at a fast trot into Tall Trees. He rode through the woodland, through the clearings and rocky ledges, in search of...well, he wasn't quite sure. He rode in silence, a slight frown upon his lips and his brow furrowed in lost contemplation. To him, his purpose in life seemed already complete—he was only nineteen and yet it seemed there was nothing else to do.
For hours, he rode, and the same questions plagued him. He had absolutely no answers for anything his mind conjured up, and it frustrated him at how much of a blind, bleak trail his life had led him down. There was no plan, no right course he could see that made any sense to him now. It all seemed pointless for him to try and sort things out.
He was jolted from his thoughts when his father's horse suddenly jinked to the right and whinnied in terror. Grabbing the saddle horn, Jack looked about as he tried to rein his mount into control. He gasped when he saw a giant paw come swiping down at him.
"Shit!" he exclaimed and reined his horse to the side, trying to avoid the bear's deadly blow. His horse shrieked as the paw fell upon his hindquarters, the claws slicing deep into the hide and throwing him off balance. Horse and rider tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs and leather. Jack struggled to get up out from under the horse, but his leg was caught in the stirrup and pinned underneath the horse's side. The bear ripped open his horse's neck. With a gurgling scream, the mustang's life was ended.
With a bellow of determination and rage, Jack pulled his leg free. He barely had time to straighten his senses and regain his balance before the bear was after him. He bolted away, amazed at how everything had gone to hell in such a short time. He grabbed his pistol from its holster, looked over his shoulder, and cursed when he saw the bear was loping right at his heels. He sprinted thirty feet before he stopped, turned around, and, in one swift motion, threw up his arm and aimed at the bear's forehead. He shot off three rounds into its thick skull with a wail of revenge. The bear roared in pain and surprise as the bullets tore into its brain, and it fell dead in mid-stride. Its body slid to a stop at Jack's feet before falling to its left side, where it lay bleeding out of its obliterated skull. Jack stared wide-eyed down at the dead bear, his body shaking and his chest heaving.
He kept his gun in his hand as he walked back to what was left of his poor horse. Tears welled in his eyes as he inspected the mustang's body: the neck was completely torn apart, and there was a deep tear in his flank. Blood stained his once beautiful, shimmering coat; an expanding pool of red covered the ground around the body. Jack was at a loss for words. In shock, he untied the saddle bags and slung them over his shoulder. He debated whether to salvage the tack: on one hand, he would be recovering his father's saddle and bridle; on the other, it would slow him down if he were to be attacked by another bear or a pack of wolves. With a heavy heart, he decided it best to leave it, dead horse and all. With a heavy sigh, he turned and headed to Manzanita Post.
His gun was at the ready the entire time as he jogged back to civilization. Twice, he had to save himself from the dangerous animals of Tall Trees: four wolves surrounded him, one nearly tackling him to the ground and ripping out his throat if it weren't for his powerful pistol shooting it in the chest. The remaining wolves attempted to avenge their fallen comrade, but Jack quickly disposed of them with a bullet for each.
An hour later, he reached his destination. His body ached from the tension he'd held, and when he shuffled past the people camped beside the general store bloodied up and panting, several people stared at him. A man asked if he was well, to which he replied haughtily, "Well, do I look like it? My horse got killed by a bear, I almost got killed by wolves, and you're askin' if I'm all right? Well, you can go to hell, mister!" He looked at the others who were still gawking and demanded, "The hell you all lookin' at?!" Immediately, they went back to minding their own business. Irritated, Jack walked onto the porch of the general store and sat down on one of the wooden benches.
As he packed and rolled up a cigarette, he looked about at the hitched horses. There they stood, mostly silent and looking rather bored or sleepy, in a beautiful array of breeds and colors. He glanced over a brown and white paint mare, but she seemed rather tiny for his liking. A bay gelding grasped his interest, but he frowned when he noticed the horse's legs were a bit stocky and beat-up-looking: the horse was most likely an aged cow pony. Further down the line, a spunky-looking buckskin trumpeted a high-pitched whinny: Jack could tell the colt was barely four or five years old and had too much energy and was presumably not experienced and therefore would easily spook. Several more caught his eye, but they really weren't what he was looking for. He wanted a sleek, fast horse, one that was pure muscle, hardy, and built for speed.
A loud, angry neigh caught his attention, and he turned his head toward the direction of the sound. His cigarette fell out of his mouth as his jaw dropped in bewilderment. The horse he looked at pulled and yanked at his tether, rearing up halfway and flailing his hooves at the hitching post. The gelding's coat was jet black, as was his mane and tail, but he had a piebald face and white socks on his hind legs. The horse also looked like he had been to hell and back, for as Jack strode toward him to take a closer look, he was taken aback by the scabs and scars that littered his body. He stopped abruptly and gasped when he discovered that the horse's eyes were red. He had never seen such a horse, and for some strange reason, he felt compelled to take a closer look. This horse felt right for him...
The horse was tethered away from the other horses to the only hitching post by the train station, presumably because of his aggression, and as Jack approached him, the horse squealed with anger and reared up, his hooves slicing through the air. Recklessly, he strode up to the scarred steed and stood right in front of him, staring deep into his red eyes. The horse stared back, simultaneously pawing at the ground and swishing his tail. He tossed and bobbed his head from side to side when Jack extended his hand towards his white muzzle; he pinned his ears flat against his head and snorted as his hand came closer and closer. Just when he thought the horse was going to bite him or rear up and kill him with his front hooves, the horse calmed as his hand came to rest on his muzzle. He slid his hand up the horse's face and let it rest underneath his forelock. Jack and the horse stared at each other, and it all fell into place. Both were beaten up, scarred, angry, and itching for some sort of rebellion. A perfect match.
Before he even cared to look about to see if the owner was around, Jack untied the horse's reins and crisscrossed them atop his withers. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he mounted up. A wild smile burst across his lips as he turned the horse southwards and set spurs to his sides. The horse launched himself forward at a hell-bent, furious gallop. Jack's surroundings became a green and brown blur, and he cackled in triumph at his new mount, the Dark Horse. Jack grinned devilishly; he liked the name he'd come up for his new mount.
"HYAH!" he roared and spurred the Dark Horse faster, galloping him underneath the railroad bridge and out of Tall Trees. He kicked and kicked, coaxing the horse to go as fast as he could. He wanted to see what the Dark Horse was made of. He urged him on through the dark, dreary swamplands of Thieves' Landing, across the plains of Hennigan's Stead, through MacFarlane's ranch, around Pike's Basin, and down the road to the lower lands of Cholla Springs.
"Work, ya damn nag!" Jack commanded, spurring the horse again. The Dark Horse tossed his head. Jack was getting frustrated—his new mount wasn't as fast as his previous, nor was his stamina as good, but he proved to be tough and he didn't seem to slow as he cut across the land. Fed up with working his horse to his limits, Jack leaned back in the saddle and pulled back on the reins.
"Easy, now. Great," he said as he eased his exhausted, foaming mount to a walk. He let him walk at his own pace on the road across the desert plains of Cholla Springs. Jack patted the Dark Horse's sweaty neck and relaxed in the saddle.
The two rebels entered Armadillo several minutes later. Jack momentarily took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow; he needed a drink to soothe his parched throat and give his horse a well-needed rest. He let the Dark Horse amble up to the watering trough in front of the saloon and drink his fill before he dismounted and hitched him.
Jack strolled through the swinging bat doors. Through the cloud of smoke and the overpowering stench of alcohol, sweat, and perfume, he observed the cowboys and prostitutes that populated the room. Over by the staircase, the pianist sat playing his honky-tonk music. Multitudinous conversations flooded Jack's ears, but he paid no heed to any of it as he side-stepped and shuffled through the crowd over to the bar. He caught the bartender's attention and started off with a shot of whiskey to waste away the afternoon. The rest of the day went by in a hazy, drunken blur. Very quickly, Jack grew short on money, and at around five o'clock, he drank his last shot and waited for his mind to clear.
His slow descend to sobriety was quickened when he had to stumble outside and throw up over the side of the railing. Several people gave cries of disgust; others broke out in pearls of laughter. Somewhere behind him, a man guffawed, "Whoo-ee! That boy can't hold his liquor! What a yellow-belly!"
Jack grew annoyed when a concerned cowpoke came to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You okay, son? You shouldn't be drinkin' yourself to oblivion like that!"
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jack snapped back, "Why not? I've got nothin' else to live for!" Shaking off the stranger's arm, he turned and stumbled back into the saloon and sat down on one of the couches against the walls. He rested his head against the wall, not caring when his hat fell off and landed on his lap. His drunken, tired gaze drifted around the saloon, pausing on the prostitutes. Despite his distaste in them and Uncle's forewarnings, he gazed at them now with longing. He knew it was just the liquor making his lust rise to an unexpected level, but when they saw he was too drunk for their business, they turned their attention to less inebriated customers.
For another hour or so, he sat waiting to think clearly. By the time dusk began to settle over Armadillo, he felt he was sober enough to get up.
Maybe I should continue riding tomorrow…when I'm sober…but where? He slowly got up from his seat. After paying for a room, Jack stumbled up the stairs and shuffled down the hall to the last door on the left. He didn't care to take off anything except his guns, boots, and hat, which he tossed aside on a chair before collapsing on the bed. His mind was numbed by the alcohol, and the room began to spin as he lay there. Groaning, he pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes, letting the drink-induced sleep take him to a dreamless reverie.