Disclaimer: I don't own these characters – they were created by John
Fusco, and are owned by others far more illustrious than myself. But I am
hoping to be allowed to play with them for a little while, as a tribute to
their makers. I will certainly return them if asked.
The smoke from his fire blew horizontally away into the shadowy land, flowing with a strong wind. It was too cold to be out. He should be in the warm somewhere. But in three weeks, he hadn't been into any settlement for more than an hour or so, just enough time to pick up a few supplies, before he headed out into the wilds again.
He took another pull at the bottle. Already half-empty, its promise of warmth or forgetfulness was dying in the whirling darkness. He settled back against his saddle and tried to sleep, but the full moon shone, and the grey smoke swirled, and all around him his people died, shouting, screaming then silent, already cooling in the snow. It had been bright, sunny, before the snow. Then the world had become dark.
Hidalgo had heard before he had. His little brother had turned, and bucked, and refused to go on. Then they had run, Hidalgo digging in, driving forward urgently. By the time they got back to the camp, it was already too late.
Maybe some coffee. Or some more fuel on the too-small fire. Or maybe he could just let himself freeze there, out in the grasslands, with the wind flooding through him, chilling him. Perhaps that was the answer. It went against all his instinct for survival, the tough, unrelenting hardiness he had been born to, that was second nature to him. But it was an answer, of sorts. He threw off the blanket and stood, resisting the temptations which haunted him, temptations to drink himself stupid, to weep, to wish for death.
Hidalgo nickered softly. He was ground tied, willingly staying put, waiting out the night and the cold and a full moon. But he was unhappy, and jinked away from the swirling wind, turning his back into it then grumbling quietly to himself. Frank went over to him.
"Cold, huh? Gonna be colder, too, 'fore mornin'."
Hidalgo nuzzled his hand, hinting for a treat. None was forthcoming, and he tossed his head and shifted again as the wind veered.
"Maybe we should go back to that last place, called itself a town. Be warm, at least. I'm gettin' too old to be out here."
Yet it was beautiful out in the rolling grasslands, in their cold immensity. And he was free here, free of the constraints of civilization, which would drive him away if it knew his true heritage. Half breed. Blue eyed redskin. He could go on keeping that quiet but it was doing something to him, inside.
He sighed, kicked out the fire, poured the coffee over the last cinders then waited for a minute or two to see it didn't catch again. When he was satisfied it was out, he threw the blanket over Hidalgo's back, smoothed it carefully, saddled his mustang and tied on his bedroll and saddlebags. He was glad they were a short way from the road and that the moon was full. He could see the tiny lights of the settlement not half a mile from where he had camped. Maybe something in him had wanted to go back there all along.
He would go to find Buffalo Bill. Maybe there, in the show, he'd find the noise that would drive away his nightmares. He could kick the whiskey, ride around, proud and dignified, showing off Hidalgo, listening to the crowds.
Yeah. That's what he would do. He mounted and eased Hidalgo into a trot, beginning to imagine the shouts of the good citizens as he showed them what his little paint could do. It would be all right. No more of this foolishness.
He would be fine.
TBC?
The smoke from his fire blew horizontally away into the shadowy land, flowing with a strong wind. It was too cold to be out. He should be in the warm somewhere. But in three weeks, he hadn't been into any settlement for more than an hour or so, just enough time to pick up a few supplies, before he headed out into the wilds again.
He took another pull at the bottle. Already half-empty, its promise of warmth or forgetfulness was dying in the whirling darkness. He settled back against his saddle and tried to sleep, but the full moon shone, and the grey smoke swirled, and all around him his people died, shouting, screaming then silent, already cooling in the snow. It had been bright, sunny, before the snow. Then the world had become dark.
Hidalgo had heard before he had. His little brother had turned, and bucked, and refused to go on. Then they had run, Hidalgo digging in, driving forward urgently. By the time they got back to the camp, it was already too late.
Maybe some coffee. Or some more fuel on the too-small fire. Or maybe he could just let himself freeze there, out in the grasslands, with the wind flooding through him, chilling him. Perhaps that was the answer. It went against all his instinct for survival, the tough, unrelenting hardiness he had been born to, that was second nature to him. But it was an answer, of sorts. He threw off the blanket and stood, resisting the temptations which haunted him, temptations to drink himself stupid, to weep, to wish for death.
Hidalgo nickered softly. He was ground tied, willingly staying put, waiting out the night and the cold and a full moon. But he was unhappy, and jinked away from the swirling wind, turning his back into it then grumbling quietly to himself. Frank went over to him.
"Cold, huh? Gonna be colder, too, 'fore mornin'."
Hidalgo nuzzled his hand, hinting for a treat. None was forthcoming, and he tossed his head and shifted again as the wind veered.
"Maybe we should go back to that last place, called itself a town. Be warm, at least. I'm gettin' too old to be out here."
Yet it was beautiful out in the rolling grasslands, in their cold immensity. And he was free here, free of the constraints of civilization, which would drive him away if it knew his true heritage. Half breed. Blue eyed redskin. He could go on keeping that quiet but it was doing something to him, inside.
He sighed, kicked out the fire, poured the coffee over the last cinders then waited for a minute or two to see it didn't catch again. When he was satisfied it was out, he threw the blanket over Hidalgo's back, smoothed it carefully, saddled his mustang and tied on his bedroll and saddlebags. He was glad they were a short way from the road and that the moon was full. He could see the tiny lights of the settlement not half a mile from where he had camped. Maybe something in him had wanted to go back there all along.
He would go to find Buffalo Bill. Maybe there, in the show, he'd find the noise that would drive away his nightmares. He could kick the whiskey, ride around, proud and dignified, showing off Hidalgo, listening to the crowds.
Yeah. That's what he would do. He mounted and eased Hidalgo into a trot, beginning to imagine the shouts of the good citizens as he showed them what his little paint could do. It would be all right. No more of this foolishness.
He would be fine.
TBC?