Always Free Fiction: There Are Specters On My Tail, And I’m All Out Of Bullets, Ep 2
"As long as I'm still alive, that is."
Howdy, folks!
You ready for part two of this fine tale? I bet you are.
I’ll probably pull one more story from the latest collection for the next two weeks’ worth of episodes. After that, there should be a third collection story available! Crazy!
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Now, on with the Always Free Fiction!
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There Are Specters On My Tail, And I’m All Out Of Bullets
Episode 2:
I have no idea when the Rankins took up the chase. From how fast they’s moving, I’d say it can’t be more than two days. Might even be less if they came in by train car first before setting off after me.
Two groups, which means I have a choice to make. Which one to concentrate on?
I’ll admit, the specters have me plum terrified. I don’t know a person alive who wouldn’t be scared by a mob of dead folk coming for them. But the specters are slower. And truth be told, the few shots I have taken at them didn’t seem to do much good. I blew the kneecaps off the preacher from Halo, and that dropped him, but even the bullet I put between his eyes didn’t seem to quiet him. He just grabbed fistfuls of sand and dirt and pulled himself after the mob.
I wonder…
I lift my spyglass and survey the land behind the specters. It takes me a couple of minutes, minutes I shouldn’t be wasting, but I find him. Maybe a mile or two behind the rest. The preacher is still clawing hand over hand this way.
A far-off shout reaches my ear, and I turn my glass to the Rankins. Most of them are pointing right at me. Dammit! They must have spotted the reflection off my spyglass. That was just stupid of me! What was I thinking?
A puff of dust kicks up about twenty feet to my left. Then a crack rings out.
I adjust my view and find the shooter. A tall man riding in the back of the Rankin pack. He’s got what looks to be a Winchester like mine, except he has a spyglass tied to the top of it. Well, ain’t that something.
I see his muzzle blaze, and I duck down. Sparks and shards of stone explode from a large rock to my right that’s about ten feet off. That son of a bitch is dialing in on my position with that damn spyglass.
Okay, two can play this game.
I ain’t got no fancy rig, and I ain’t about to try to tie my spyglass to my rifle, but what I do have is one hell of a keen eye.
Slowly, so I don’t kick up no dust for that tall man to zero in on, I slide my way to the very edge of the butte and slip between two sage bushes. With some good cover, I settle the butt of my rifle against my shoulder, lean my cheek to the stock, and line up the sights on that tall man. He’s only a small dot down there, but I can see him. And if his rounds are making it up to me, then my rounds can make it down to him.
I slow my breathing like I was taught by Johnny Feathers, a half-breed I met in Tucson. We rode together for a few months, stealing from ranchers along the border. Poor Johnny took a chestful of buckshot when he tried to steal some milk from the wrong ranch. To think a guy that strong and wild lost his life over a jug of milk. That’s the crazy world we live in.
With the tall man in my sights, I squeeze the trigger. Before I even know what the first round has done, I squeeze off two more to either side of the first one. The tall man dodges left, so it’s the third round that gets him. I smile as he falls from his horse. More shouts reach me, and I hear pistol fire follow right behind. But the Rankins is too far for those pistol rounds to hit me. The idiots is just wasting ammunition.
I study them again with the spyglass and don’t see any more men with rifles. That means I can just pick my targets at random. Which is exactly what I do.
I’m down to four rounds when I’m done shooting. I hit four and missed one. Add in the three rounds used up on the tall man, and I’m almost out. I set the Winchester aside and grab up my Colt. I don’t have the range with the Colt that I do with the Winchester, but that don’t mean I can’t cause a little chaos.
I send six shots down at the Rankins, putting each shot in front of their posse. My intention is to hit some of them big rocks down there and spook the horses. Or maybe get lucky and take out one of them Rankins with a ricochet.
The horses don’t get spooked none. They’s probably used to gunshots kicking up dirt in front of them. But I hear someone cry out, and I smile at a lucky ricochet.
“Always playing the angles,” a voice says from behind me just after I reload my Colt.
I roll over and fire twice. When the smoke and dust clear I see him standing there, his hands on his hips. He hasn’t even drawn on me.
The sun is high enough that I can see his features easily, and my blood goes cold.
“Johnny?” I ask. “What in tarnation?”
“Hey there, Tommy,” Johnny Feathers says. “Been a while.”
“But you’s dead,” I say. “I saw that rancher put two barrels of buckshot in ya.”
“And then you hightailed it out of there before you saw me die,” he says. “Left me in the dirt, soaking my own blood and spilt milk.”
“Sorry?” I reply, not quite sure what to say. I mean, what do you say when a friend you thought was dead is standing a dozen feet away, looking like he ain’t dead at all.
Then those specters creep into my mind, and I squint up at Johnny.
“You the same as them down there?” I ask and hook a thumb over my shoulder as I slowly get to my feet.
“Nah, I’m living and breathing just like you,” he replies. “Not that you’ll be doing either for much longer.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask. “What’d I do to you, Johnny? We was friends. Close friends.”
“We was, yeah,” Johnny says. His hands are still on his hips which puts them close to the two pistols he’s got holstered, one on each side. “Or I thought.”
“What in Judas’s hangin’ tree does that mean?” I ask. “You ain’t making sense, Johnny.”
“Close friends don’t leave their friends to die,” Johnny says. “They especially don’t leave their friends to be tortured by ranchers that don’t have much love for my kind.”
“I thought you was dead!” I snap.
“I weren’t,” he responds.
“Well, I can see that now,” I say. “But even if I saw it then, I wasn’t going to be able to get to ya. Every hand on that ranch came running out of that bunkhouse with iron cocked.”
Johnny shrugs. I keep my eyes on his hands. He ain’t as fast as me, but he’s fast. I can take him since I have my pistol in my hand already, but I ain’t gonna be cocky about it. I seen more than a few good shooters go down because they thought they had the advantage when they didn’t.
“You’re probably wondering what’s going on,” Johnny says. He nods at my bedroll. “Take a seat, Tommy. I’ll tell you a story.”
I risk a quick glance back over my shoulder at the Rankins. They’re almost to the base of the butte. I whip my head back around, fearing I’ll see the black holes of Johnny’s barrels. He’s just grinning at me, his hands still on his hips.
“Sit, Tommy,” he says.
“I prefer to stay standing if you don’t mind,” I say.
He shrugs again. “Suit yourself.”
“Did you send those specters after me?” I ask.
“Hold on, now,” he says with a laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“You did, didn’t ya?” I say and shake my head. “What a rotten thing to do to a fella, Johnny. How’d you do it? You go find yerself some shaman to raise the dead?”
“Nah, Tommy, the shaman found me,” Johnny says. “I was bleeding to death and could barely breathe, but I was still alive when those ranchers were done with me. They dragged me ten miles or so out into the middle of nowhere and strung me up just like what was done to their Jesus.”
“They crucified you?” I ask. “Damn, that ain’t right.”
Johnny laughs and laughs. “Like you know shit about what’s right, Tommy.” He points past me. “Them folks? I believe you told me those murders were all justified.”
“They was!” I shout. “Every damn one of them!”
“Then why are they following you, Tommy?” he asks and raises his eyebrows so high his hat tilts back on his head.
“How the hell should I know?” I shout. “You’re the one messing with shamans and raising the goddamn dead, so you tell me!”
“I will if you’d shut up,” he says, and his smile slides from his face. He ain’t laughing no more now. “Can you do that, Tommy? Can you shut up for three seconds?”
“I ain’t making no promises,” I say.
“That’s probably as good as a yes as I’ll get out of you,” Johnny says.
He scratches the stubble on his cheeks and chin, then looks up into the sky. I could take him. I could. A couple shots to the gut and one to the chest should do the trick. Except I know Johnny. He’s waiting for me to make a move.
“I think I was dead when the shaman found me,” Johnny says, still looking up into the sky. “But I suppose I had just enough life left in me for that shaman to know I wasn’t gone yet. He cut me down and took me back to a cave only a mile or so away. He was on a quest, and he saw my being strung up as part of his quest. That man spent three weeks nursing me back to health.”
“That was nice of him,” I say.
“It was,” Johnny replies. “What wasn’t nice was when he said his quest was over and he was going back to his tribe. Without me.”
Johnny finally looked away from the sky and fixed his gaze on me.
“You see, Tommy, I ain’t fit for your world and I ain’t fit for their world,” he says. “I got two halves to me, but neither of those halves think I’m worth a shit.”
“I thought you was worth a shit,” I say and smile. “Maybe even two shits.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke.
“Well, Johnny, that’s a good story and all,” I say. “But it still don’t tell me why there’s dead folk on my ass.”
“Because I sent them, Tommy,” Johnny replies. “When that shaman was about to leave, I told him I needed a favor. I don’t know how much you know about shamans, but they don’t look too kindly on favors. Everything has a price.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say.
“I asked him to help me find you,” Johnny continues. “And he did.”
Johnny laughs and angles his chin toward the pack of specters.
“He told me to follow the dead,” Johny says. “That they’d lead me right to you.”
“Well, here I am,” I say. “Now what?”
“Now I watch you squirm,” he says and plops right down on his ass. He takes a pack of tobacco out of his boot, rolls himself a cigarette, lights it with a match struck off the heel of his boot, takes a long inhale, lets it out, then smiles at me. “Good luck, Tommy.”
Johnny always was a melodramatic son of bitch.
“Promise not to shoot me in the back?” I ask.
“Cross my heart and hope you die,” he says.
“You ain’t funny,” I say. “Do you promise or don’t ya?”
“You got nothing to worry about from me, Tommy,” he says and waves his cigarette toward the Rankins. “I think you got your hands full already.”
He ain’t kidding.
But I cain’t worry about Johnny right now. I got some Rankins and specters to put down.
I survey my situation carefully.
Just in the short amount of time it took me to have that pointless conversation with Johnny, the Rankins managed to get to the base of the butte. I see them tying up their horses and preparing to come for me. Well, they can prepare all they want.
I count eight. Not a bad number.
I shift my focus to the specters.
They ain’t quite to the base of the butte. And it ain’t like they’re gunning for me. Maybe in that figurative sense, I suppose they is. But the Rankins have iron, the specters don’t.
So the Rankins is first up.
I find me a place close to the big rock that their shooter pinged earlier. Makes for good cover while still giving me a nice view of the Rankins. My Colt is loaded, and I have the extra rounds in my pockets. Someone shouts from below, and a shot rings out. It misses wide by a good couple yards. That helps me immensely.
Taking wind, the distance, and the downward angle into consideration, I aim my Colt at a big son of a bitch that’s busy giving orders to the others. He’s waving his arms around and pointing up at me. It’s like he’s asking to get shot.
I squeeze once, twice, three times. The big son of a bitch drops hard. The rest of the Rankins shout and scurry. They’s panicked now.
I see the flashes and smoke right before I hear the shots. Two rounds chip stone just above my head. I duck down, reload, and wait them out. As soon as the shooting stops, I take my turn. I send all six rounds down there, and I must have grace on my side because six Rankins is in the dirt bleeding when I’m done.
The five left open fire, and I dive back to the rock. Shards is raining down on me as I cover my head and wait them out again.
“Not bad,” Johnny says from his safe spot behind me. “I forgot how good you are with that piece.”
“I’ve had practice,” I say while I reload.
“That you have,” Johnny says. “That you have.”
The second the Rankins stop firing, I’m up and giving it to them. Except they was waiting for me. I barely hit the ground in time before lead is flying over me. The last five ain’t gonna make it easy on me.
So I ain’t gonna make it easy on them.
I belly crawl over the edge and slide down a few feet to a clump of sage. I get scratched up to hell as I wriggle myself inside that clump. I wince as my hurt hand gets a twig shoved right in that cut. Damn Rankins, making me act like a snake in the brush.
I can hear them shouting to each other as they make plans. Sounds like they’s coming to get me. Not the best idea, in my opinion. I guess I killed the brains of the outfit already. But if they want to make things easier on me, then who am I to stop them?
Everything gets real quiet. The minutes tick by. Then I hear a boot scrape gravel. They’s close.
Another few minutes tick by before I see the first one coming up a tricky route. I let him get closer and closer. Then once I see another, I open fire.
The first one loses most of his head. The second one takes a round to the shoulder, which spins him around. The next round hits him right in the spine. He falls, but from all the screaming and crying, I can tell he ain’t dead yet.
I reload as the other three try to take cover, but they ain’t fast enough. Not a one is looking at the clump of sage I’m hidden in. So when I stand and fire, they’s all looking this way and that instead of at me.
I get two of them, but the last one scrambles behind cover. It’s not a very big rock he ducks behind, so I could just wait him out. He’s liable to make a mistake sooner or later.
Except I hear footfalls to my left.
I spin about, and halfway down the side of the butte are the specters. It ain’t all of them, but it’s enough to make me nervous. I gotta get this over with.
“Throw out yer gun, and I promise not to hurt ya!” I yell to the last Rankin.
“Bullshit!” he yells back.
It don’t really matter what he says. I’m lying through my teeth. All I needed was for him to think I was still in my same spot. But I ain’t. Not no more. I’m almost to that small rock when the Rankin decides to make his play.
He gets a round between the eyes for his stupidity.
I scramble quickly to the bodies and relieve them of as much ammunition as I can stuff in my pockets. Then I scramble my ass back up to the top of the butte.
Johnny is waiting for me, a fresh rolled cigarette between his fingers.
I find my canteen and take a couple of swigs, making sure to leave a little in there. I still gotta make it to that mesa.
“It sure is fun watching you work, Tommy,” Johnny says. “Lucky for you, you’re good at what you do.”
“It ain’t luck, it’s skill,” I say and reload.
I dump my pockets out onto my bedroll and count the rounds. Sixteen. Not as much as I’d hoped. The Rankins probably have an armory down on those horses but I ain’t got time to go down there. Not with the specters about to be on me.
“What do I gotta do to make this right with you, Johnny?” I ask.
“We’re way past that, Tommy,” Johnny replies. “All you can do now is run.”
“That’s it? There ain’t no resolution to this?” I ask. “Come on, Johnny. There’s gotta be something you want.”
“To watch you suffer like I suffered,” he said. “And you’re doing a mighty fine job of it.”
“Then call off the hex or the curse or whatever that goddamn shaman did!” I shout.
“I can’t, Tommy,” he says. “That’s the price. It ain’t never gonna end.”
Gravel crunches, and I spin on my heels and fire.
I put two rounds in the forehead of Halo’s saloon keeper. He falls backward and tumbles down the side of the butte.
Greeves is next, and I put two in his forehead. He falls backward, too, and is lost from sight.
Then the rest is up over the edge and on the top of the butte with me.
I fire and fire. I reload and move positions. I fire and fire. I reload and move positions.
But they won’t die. I guess because they’s already dead. Makes sense in a hellish way.
“You’re about outta ammo,” Johnny says. The specters don’t even glance at him.
“Plenty more down there,” I say and point at where the dead Rankins lay.
“I’m sure there is,” he says. “How about you go down and get you some?”
I do not like the tone in Johnny’s voice. I sidestep away from the specters and go to my cover rock. I lean around and look down the other side of the butte.
And I see Rankins getting to their feet.
“God dammit, Johnny!” I shout and spin around, taking aim. “How the hell are they still alive?”
“They ain’t, you idiot,” Johnny says.
I drop a couple more specters before taking a second look at the Rankins.
Well…shit. He’s right. They’re getting up and climbing my way, but they sure as shit ain’t alive.
More specters.
I take a couple of deep breaths, then get back to work.
No more headshots.
No, sir. I aim for the legs and knees. I may not be able to kill them, but I can slow them all down.
Well, most of them.
I run out of ammunition in a matter of minutes, and I still got specters coming for me.
Before they reach me, I get my bedroll, my Winchester, and hurry past Johnny.
“Where ya going, Tommy?” he calls after me as I shove through the brush to the far side of the butte.
It’s a long way down and a hell of a lot more treacherous than the side I climbed up. But I ain’t got much choice.
Johnny is laughing as he follows me. Dammit. I should have saved a round for him.
“Keep running, Tommy,” Johnny calls after me as I slip and slide my way down to the bottom of the butte.
I’m bleeding and even more bruised than before by the time I get down. Then I turn and look up. Johnny is standing way up there with specters, pushing past him so they can keep on tailing me. The damn things just fall their way down the side.
“Fuck you, Johnny!” I yell up at him.
“Be seeing you, Tommy!” he shouts down at me. “Have fun running for the rest of your damn life!”
Son of a bitch.
I finish off what’s left of my water and head toward that mesa. I ain’t quite sure what I’ll do when I reach it, but I’ll worry about that when I get there.
So I set off with the sun blazing above me. I’m out of water, and I feel all beat to hell. Quite a situation I’m in.
Makes me wonder if maybe not all them killings I done were properly justified.
I’ll think on it while I run from the damn specters. I’ll have plenty of time for thinking, that’s for sure.
As long as I’m still alive, that is.
You know, the story may be over, but this doesn’t have to be the end. See them buttons below? Yeah. Push one. Live a little.