Gemma Brazil

When the Dust Settles

I had been riding all night when the little shack had risen up out of the darkness like a snake, eerie in the first washes of dawn. It was once painted, now peeling and peppered with bullet holes.

           I pulled my horse to a halt, hooves skidding in the dirt and glanced back behind me. There was nothing, only the dust I’d churned up slowly settling back to earth. The moonlight was weaker now, and I was suddenly unadjusted to the lack of it.

           I waited a few moments more. To be safe. Still nothing.

Gingerly, I edged the horse forward, toward the shack. It could prove a perfect hideout, a shelter for a few hours of much needed rest. I hadn’t wanted to stop; except the few times it became necessary for the horse. It bucked and thrashed against me when I tried to push it onward, and so I’d had to stop to keep going, I couldn’t risk the danger of losing it. That would be the death toll for me.

I had seen what the horse hadn’t.

Three figures. Riding ever closer. My husband’s men.

I scanned the horizon once more.

Nothing. There was no sign of them.

There was silence from the shack. The front windows were uncovered, like two eyes watching the night. The front porch was bowed, the bottom steps largely missing from it. The land surrounding it was barren.

I dismounted, my heart thumping behind my shirt. The rustle of my skirt felt too loud in the stillness. My hand went automatically to my belt, and my fingers found the cool comfort of my knife hilt. I tightened my grip, unsheathed the blade halfway and felt steadier. I approached, slow.

Upon setting my foot on the porch, the wood emitted a loud creak that sent me skittering back a few feet.

The horse was watching me, debating whether or not it should take off. If it’d had its breath back, then it well might have.

I waited a few moments, minutes perhaps, to see if there was any movement from inside, although I knew, or rather felt, that there was nothing living in the place.

Fears pulled back in check, I remounted the porch. The front door was slashed across the middle, almost cracked in half from the bullet holes spreading across it. It groaned open, swinging forward to reveal the pitch-dark interior. A slant of moonlight fell across the doorway, though it lit only the rotten floorboards and an oil lamp, long smashed on the ground, glass glittering in the pale silvery glow.

I returned to my saddle and collected my matches and a single candle, which I lit promptly before returning to the shack. With one hand guarding the little flame, I entered the place.

Boxes, crates, and wicker baskets littered the floor. Steamer trunks, their leather beginning to sag with age, were piled haphazardly against a table where a bottle of some liquor had broken and left a stain all over the tabletop. My eyes lingered on the mattress splayed out on the floor, a bundle of rags atop it. Someone had been here. Not at all recently, in fact from the state of the place I judged it had been several months, almost a year since anybody had been by. There was sand and dust on every surface, thick and untouched except for the tracks of mice across the floorboards.

I drew my attention to the bullet holes in the wooden walls. They spread only across the front of the place, though they were also a little on the left side in the corner, reaching out across to the adjoining wall. My hands tracked the holes, my fingers sliding in and across every bump and dent, searching.

I found what I’d been looking for.

Blood. Dried blood. Pooled in the corner, and with it – no sign of a body. I sighed in relief. Blood I could handle, but bodies were different. Bodies got me to remembering.

I scrounged the area, moving more crates, revealing smells that make me choke, and a mouse that scampered over my boot. Satisfied with my findings, or lack of, I went back outside into the beginnings of the dawn.

I searched for a water pump outside the place. With it being so far out and away from any town I assumed that there must be one.

There was. It was rusty and it screamed something hellish when I tried the handle but poured cold water into a bucket I found well enough. I stopped quick, because noise carried like the wind out there, and even though I’d lost them they might still have heard it miles away.

The water smelt icy fresh and was cold to the touch, soothing after the blistering heat I’d been riding through all day. I plunged my hands into it, letting them sit in the water until numbness sunk in. I splashed my face, rubbed my neck with it and rinsed out my dry mouth.

I offered the bucket to the horse, who had found my discovery and been headbutting me persistently whilst I washed. I left it to its fill whilst I collected my water skin and filled it from the pump.

The sun was on the rise now, chasing the last of the inky sky. The stars were almost all hidden, only a few twinkling in the great hunter’s belt were visible. I searched out the bear, then its smaller companion before I drew the line with my finger. North was back the way I’d come. I was now heading due east. If I weren’t careful, I would maroon myself in the deserted plains. It was lucky I’d found the shack, a last post before the endless flat expanse stretching outward.

If I headed out west, I would be able to hit the forests, then the high grounds of the mountains where there might be fresh snow I could melt for water, or caves to hide out from storms.

But the west also was a place of danger. My husband kept his own hoards up in the mountains, far from the prying eyes of Sheriffs and the odd Texas Ranger who ventured northward to find him with the hope of trying him and hanging him for his crimes.

I shivered at the thought.

The fug in my head that had settled in mid-way through the night was now taking over. Sleep tugged at me. I needed to rest. So did the horse. Neither of us would get far in our states. Without a second thought, other than to draw more water for the horse and tie it to the porch railings, I headed inside the shack. I had acquainted myself with the layout during my first foray inside the place, so I had no trouble finding the little mattress and the pile of rags. I knelt upon it, pulling myself free of my wool skirt and dirty shirtsleeves. I tugged my boots off, fumbling on my laces. My fingers were swollen and aching, and I struggled for a single moment, scrabbling at my back, before my patience to undo my stays left me.

My foot bumped on a crate close by and there came an audible clink from inside of it. Nestled in the straw was a dark bottle, still corked. I squinted at the front of it, feeling for any hint of what it could be. I uncorked the top, smelt the contents— a familiar pungent whiff of spirits, rum to be precise— before I threw half of it down my throat.

Then I laid down my head on the bundle of rags, attention fixed on the broken door, one hand on my knife.

   ***

A steady drumming woke me. A rhythmic beat pounding in the distance. Like hoofbeats.

I sat up sharp. That horse!

I shot outside, not caring about my lack of dress, leaving my knife behind me in the bid to get the beast back.

But it was still tied to the porch railing where I’d left it. It had knocked the bucket of water over, leaving a patch of mud.

I scratched my head. I’d heard something, I was sure of it.

Perhaps the sun had messed with my mind. I cursed myself. No hat. The boxes inside might offer me a solution.

I was turning to go back inside when movement caught my attention. I put my hand above my eyes so I might squint better.

Three specs, no larger than dust balls blurring about far away. As I watched they grew larger, changing from shapeless masses to horses and riders. I didn’t need them to get any closer to know who they would be.

Not those who owned the shack, seeking to claim the loot they’d left behind.

It was worse than that.

I tore back inside, searching for my knife, my skirt and my water skin. I found none of them. I cursed, loud, not bothering to keep quiet now that they were so close by. Foolish to stop! Foolish to believe that I could outrun them! Damn it all!

Think think think–

I could run outside and ride off on the horse, then double back later. But they might torch the place, and I would lose the knife and whatever other treasures might be found within. It would be foolish to set off into the desert, with no plan, no equipment. 

Staying inside would result in my capture. I would be surrounded. They might well torch the place to smoke me out.

My dithering cost me valuable time.

The cries of my hunters were distinct now, their horses a thunder as they drew closer.

A glint of silver caught my eye as I searched for a way out. My knife, hilt embedded in the rag bundle. I dived for it, snatching it up and leaping out of the entrance way as the three riders dismounted their horses outside.

The sun was low in the sky, a beast leaning close to a watering hole. It offered me no help in finding my way through the maze of paraphilia in the shack, with its rays of gold only just brightening the east. Wooden walls dividing the space acted as markers for where rooms once were. An iron bedstead in a corner was leaning against the wall, a single picture frame above it depicted a river rushing through mountains. Mountains. My blood ran cold at the word as it appeared in my mind, at all I associated with it.

But I kept on toward the picture, seeking to hide under the bed. In my haste I knocked over a stack of baskets, sending their contents careening across the floor– metallic, heavy objects that bounced and clunked with unnatural volume.

I ducked as a face appeared in the doorway.

“Are you sure she’s in there?” a voice from beyond the walls asked.

“Oh, I know she is,” came the reply.

The voice was soft, with a long drawl on the ‘o’s. I could hear the cigar in his mouth almost, could hear the way he said my name with disgust. I knew the face that went with it; a permanent sneer, piercing blue eyes and a chin covered in sprawling red-gold hair.

I clutched the knife, knuckles bone-white on the handle.

A crash echoed outside, a dull ringing of metal. “There’s water here.”

A soft chuckle answered, “Knew she’d stop somewhere.” Then he continued, his voice raised for my benefit, “Didn’t think you’d be that stupid!”

I hadn’t assumed I would be either. I crouched low and scuttled to the other side of the room, hiding behind a fallen chifforobe.

He was making his way towards me, tossing things aside. Smashing sounded, thuds, crashes. He moved on, his feet now slow, spurs clicking as he went. “Come out. Let’s make this easy for each other, shall we?”

I almost laughed.

“There’s no good in hiding from me, girl. I know you’re here. I ain’t leaving without you this time.”

“Nowhere to run neither.”

I whirled, trying to keep my breathing quiet and steady. A second figure had come through a back doorway, pistol extended from his grip.

A head jerk, and the pair of them moved toward a block of crates piled in a pyramid, where they assumed I must be hiding.

I wriggled from my spot, stepping silent across the floor, still bent low, out of sight. I edged around the new pool of light illuminating the floorboards, seeking refuge in the shadows. I passed behind another jumbled heap and crouched. I waited. Waited for sounds that would assure me they had moved on, that they were searching elsewhere.

I heard shuffling, men trying to be silent in heavy boots. The floorboards creaked and groaned. A hand holding a pistol emerged from behind a wall of wicker baskets.

If I was quick, I might make it, I could take the horse and ride away. Damn everything else!

As I rose from my position, a scuff of a step set alarm bells peeling in my head. I had lost sight of them and with that my advantage.

A boot was mere inches from my outstretched hand keeping me balanced on the floor. The semi-darkness was keeping me hidden, making it more difficult for them to pinpoint me. I blew out a little breath, steadying myself. I waited for the boot to leave my side. A moment passed, then another.

“Gotcha!”

I shrieked, diving out the way as something whistled past me. I hit the ground hard, my elbow splitting open on the floor, flinging my knife across the room and out of my vision.

Hands, rough and fast struck at me, disarming me and setting my teeth rattling. A blow to my face knocked me into the wall, sending my head spinning wildly.

I cried out, scratching and kicking against them.

I was struck again and as I cried out this time – “Red, you rat bastard! Let go o’ me!” – I was hauled onto my back, rolled over and pinioned to the floor. My wrists were bound, and a knee was forced deep into my back.

My husband’s brother, and arguably more violent counterpart, Red pulled me up, his fingers clawing at my scalp. “Got you now, sister.”

I roared, trying to break free and was dealt a blow to my gut. I curled at the pain.

“Find that knife,” Red said, still holding me. He put his lips close to my ear. “I’ll have that back, you little thief.”

“If I remember,” I said, still winded, “you gave it to me as a wedding present.”

“Well it ain’t a gift no more,” he said. He dragged me to my feet, shoving me roughly outside. I tripped on the uneven floorboards and over the strewn debris. I stumbled to the floor, my eyes watering. I forced myself to remain dead weight – if Red paused for a moment I could surprise him and leap free. He just dragged me along, hitting my knees hard on the floor.

I tried a different tack. I had twisted him around my fingers once, maybe I could do it again. “Red, please!”

He knelt beside me, eyes questioning but not at all concerned. Then he grunted, breaking out into a laugh, “You can’t fool me. I know all your tricks.”

I struggled as he hauled me up again, driving me outside. My toes curled at the dust on the porch, and I came to a standstill.

“You’re trying my patience now.”

“And you’ve been trying mine for the last five years, now let go of me!” I snapped.

We tussled, me trying to break his grip and him trying to knock me forward. I spat at him, sending him leaping back.

Red’s companions were already mounted on their horses, my own in tow.

“Can’t you keep her under control?” one of them asked as I kicked at Red again.

“Shut your mouth, Carmen!” Red shouted. “Come here and get off that damn horse! Bind her up!”

Red seized me again, hauling me over his shoulder. I bucked against him until I almost toppled us over.

“Get off of me you good for nothing—” a squeeze to my stomach cut me off, causing my ribs to crack and I yelped.

Carmen was watching the scene with interest, chuckling. On the horse beside him was the third rider, who was incredibly short and wearing a ridiculously large hat. Red swore at Carmen, and finally he dismounted. He seized hold of my feet, crushing my ankles together.

I spat at him, still fighting and screeching at Red. “Get offa me, you son of a bitch! Let go of me!” Together the pair of them slung me belly down onto Red’s horse. The saddle cut into my chest. I flailed. “You bastards!”

Red slapped me hard.

I cried out, more in anger than pain. I felt my cheeks heating as they laughed at me. “You wait! You wait, you bastards; I’ll see you hang!” I hollered, struggling hard.

Red slapped me again. Then once more for good measure. “It’ll be a long ride for you if you don’t close your mouth now.”

“I will not!” I yelled, furious. “I will not!”

I gave the horse beneath me a sharp kick to illustrate my point, and it half reared. Red steadied it, cursing. “I’m warning you now, girl,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “I will whip you if I have to.”

I glared at him, “If you think I’ve spent all this time running just for you to drag me back there—”

“Yes, you’ve done well wasting everyone’s time,” Red interrupted. “Now be quiet, damn it!”

“Let’s move!” Carmen said and the horses heeded his command, riding back the way they’d come, back towards the mountains.

***

I had been outrunning more things than men. There were secrets, parts of me that should never see the light of day, that had been waiting to catch up with me. That was only the beginning of them.

At the age of sixteen I married an outlaw by the name of Dallas Lancaster – a thief, a murderer, a general low-life rat. I had a debt to pay off and no valuable possessions to bargain or entice with.

Dallas was rather taken with me, which was surprising. I had expected to be indentured to him, although I knew I’d never truly pay my way to freedom. But marriage was a different game, a different type of binding.

He took me to another town, one where no one knew either of us. Dallas was not notorious, he was small-scale in those days, but cautious all the same. The town seemed more cheerful than where I’d grown up; the children wore smart white clothes, the women fancy brooches and the men bowler hats. It was clean too, there were no horse droppings in the streets, the shutters were painted bright colours that shimmered in the blistering heat of the sun.

There was a little white wooden church in the middle of the town, with a tinny bell and a giant cross nailed to the front of it. It was filled with rows of empty pews and raindrops of light from a single stained-glass window.

The pastor sweated a lot. All the layers of robes he wore were drenched by the time Dallas had me at the top of the aisle.

“Pastor. I wish to marry this here lady.”

“Well, I’m sure we can arrange that.”

“Be good if you arranged it now.”

The ceremony was quick, hurried by the sweaty pastor and Dallas who had graciously left his pistols outside. He didn’t stoop so low as to bring them in, but he kept a fierce grip on the long hunting knife strapped to his thigh.

I stumbled at the “I dos”. Dallas said it with reverence, holding both my hands in his dirty left paw. “I Dallas Lancaster take thee to be my wife.”

The pastor turned to me. “Repeat after me, I—” here he gestured for me to insert my own name.

My face grew red under Dallas’s glare. “I, Madigan Conners…”

“Take thee—”

“Take thee—”

“To be my wedded husband.”

They both looked at me expectantly, like crows scavenging for meat.

Dallas cleared his throat, squeezing my hands hard. It was not an option to say no. Not unless I wanted to die.

“Take thee to be – er – husband,” I stammered.

And so, my fate was sealed.

From the moment the pastor said, “You may now kiss your bride,” and I had balked at Dallas’s attempt to do so, and when he struck me hard in the face for that, I knew that I was going to be miserable until the end of my days.

My wedding night was spent alone in the top of a bar, where the walls rattled from working women and fights roared from downstairs.

I had found a Bible in the drawer of the nightstand. I flicked through the pages, not focusing on any of the words. I thought about God watching over me, I thought about anyone, someone who might spare a thought for me sitting in that room in the dark, waiting for a husband— who was too cheap to leave me matches— to return.

I did not think of God after that day. Though after all I had done, how could I expect his Grace?

Life became about survival, no thought for much except getting through each new day. Those days were long as the desert was wide.

Then Dallas took me on a raid with him. I knew he stole and lied and cheated, he killed men when he was bored or angry or amused. But whilst I sat waiting for them all on the wagon, I’d watched him shoot a man dead whilst his wife was begging for his life.

I couldn’t imagine loving someone that much.

Or being loved that much.

It broke my heart.

That frightened me, that heartbreak. I, who had for so long forgotten that being alive meant feeling and having emotions. It was a pain that I could not bear. That pain twisted in my stomach, twisted itself into another feeling that I had not felt in such a long time – the ugly beast of hatred.

When Dallas’s back was turned, I took his horse and rode into the sunset. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t go back.

He took great offence to my flight, resolving that he would hunt me down. He’d become attached to me, having been “married” to him for a little over two years, and despite the fact that I hated him, he felt something for me, even if it was nothing other than possessive. I was his belonging, and I would do as I was told. Dallas was a proud man and would kill anyone who disrespected him. Except me. He knew that there were worse things than death that he could do to me.

Back and forth across the west I went, through the mountains and rivers and scrubby forests, over the plains and so high northward that it started to snow in August. The frontier was lawless, and I could blend in; I could avoid making myself noticeable.

            But after my long years on the road, I’d gotten tired of running. Of fearing for myself at every corner. Of being barred from things I wanted because of that sham marriage.

I concluded that the only way for me to effectively end my marriage to that lying, rotten, no good, son-of-a-bitch was for Death in some form or another to come on swift wings and carry him straight into the jaws of hell.

           Since I did not plan on dying, and since Dallas was still seemingly gripping life by its throat, I planned, at my earliest convenience, to kill my husband.

Rest assured, Death will do us part.