Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood (2 page)

“Father…
” Itza-chu murmured. But Essa-queta didn’t answer. Itza-chu sat down next to the fire across from his father and waited for him to finish. Essa-queta was a man of great faith and continued his prayer without pause. Itza-chu grew annoyed and shifted around on his haunches, and stared at his father unblinking.

When Essa-queta had finished
, he opened his eyes and calmly looked at his son, who was glaring back at him from across the fire. He was a stern man, with a long face and dark eyes. His long hair was loose and draped across his shoulders, as it always was when he prayed to the gods.

“You seem troubled,” he presumed.

“Yes,” he answered, finally getting his chance to speak. “The white men who dig at the mine have uncovered a grave site.”

“I see.”

“A grave of our ancestors,” Itza-chu said, becoming more agitated.

Essa-queta
sat in silence and collected his thoughts about the situation. He possessed great wisdom and never took any decision lightly. His son, on the other hand, was still young and quick to take action, often without thinking of the consequences.

“
They disgrace their remains!” Itza-chu yelled, having grown more impatient with his father’s silence. “Their lust for gold has offended us! Offended our ancestors!”

“
Calm yourself,” Essa-queta demanded. He reached for a dry log from a stack beside him and placed it into the burning fire. Fresh flames licked the raw fuel and turned the dry bark into black fingers of burnt wood that curled around themselves, and slowly turned into new orange coals at the bottom of the pit. Golden embers spiraled up from the growing fire and disappeared through the hole in the roof. The fire grew hot and the radiant energy drew beads of sweat from Itza-chu's forehead.

“
I will not live forever my son. And someday--, you will take my place.”

Essa-queta turned and pulled a bundle of sage from a hand-woven basket
from behind him. He threw it onto the fire and wafted the pungent smoke with his hands, inhaling deeply.

“
If you are to lead our people, you must find peace with these white men,” he instructed as he continued to waft the smoke through the hut.

“
But--,” Itza-chu started as Essa-queta held up his hand and silenced him.

“
You will go to them. You must speak with them and make things right. It is your duty to your people,” he commanded.

He
threw wild herbs onto the fire and closed his eyes, beginning to pray again as his son threw back the leather door and left the hut. Itza-chu walked back through the village and found the two warriors waiting for his command. He mounted his horse and the three of them rode off out of the village. They climbed back up the trail and disappeared over the hill, fueled with the passion that only young men can have. Itza-chu was determined to make things right, and needed to prove to his father that he was a born leader, with the will to take action to protect his people.

•  •  •

The sun moved high above a hardpan alkaline desert, scorched from centuries of burning heat. An expansive sea of cactus and dead grass extended for miles in either direction, with no end in sight. The landscape was uninhabited, except for a few desert scorpions that hid deep underground, where the soil was still cool and clung to the frost that had gathered during the cold nights. A figure on horseback moved in the distance, silhouetted by the yellow horizon. He had traveled a long way to get this far west and had left his former life, and dead wife buried behind him. He guided the horse, Larken, toward some unknown destination and steered her through the wasteland that few would cross during the hot summer, and even less would make it through alive.

His clothes were heavily weathered and his hat was caked in dirt. A worn handkerchief hung loosely around his neck, ragged and torn from the sun and wind. The two Colt revolvers hung at his side and rested firmly in custom fit holsters that had been measured perfectly to grab them at any moment. A Winchester rifle was secured in a holster at Larken’s side, the
top of which had rubbed against his saddle, and wore the leather thin at that spot.

He urged Larken onward
and pushed her forward in the midday heat. His head hung low from the long miserable journey. He had spent weeks in the wilderness surviving on scrawny animals and small pools of salted water, many of which had completely evaporated. It had been years since he traveled through this country and he remembered it well, but the ground seemed harder when he slept, and his back ached in the mornings. The time he had spent sleeping on a soft mattress had taken its toll, and he wasn’t that young man anymore, the one who had spent countless nights under the stars and dreamed of what may come.

A jackrabbit bounded in the distance before stopping briefly to inspect a dead shrub. Its skinny legs pushed again and it
sprung forward to another patch of dry vegetation, eagerly looking for a meal. The man looked up at the distinctive sound the jackrabbit made as it skipped across the salted earth. His eyes were blue and deeply piercing. He pulled out his rifle and placed it firmly to his shoulder, and cocked it as he took aim. A single shot rang out across the desert and echoed through the low hills. It was the only sound that could be heard for miles and signaled a night he wouldn’t spend hungry.

Later that evening
, the Gunman sat next to a roughly built fire that was surrounded by small stones he had found nearby. He watched as the skinned jackrabbit roasted on a stick, skewered length-wise. Larken grazed nearby on small stunted shrubs that barely clung to life in the arid soil. It was a pitiful meal, even for a horse that had survived this land for so many years already. But at least it was something.

As the
hare cooked on the open fire and dripped brown grease into the flames, the Gunman leaned back against his saddle and gazed at the brilliant stars overhead. Billions of small blue specks hung tightly against a deadly black sky. The night was going to get cold and he knew that a warm meal and a well-fed fire would keep the cold from creeping into his bones and taking hold of his spirit. He leaned forward and stirred the golden embers as the fire cracked and spit fresh flames into the air. He grabbed the roasted hare and poked its side with his finger, then slid it off the stick and sunk his teeth deep into its thigh. Warm juice ran down his chin as he consumed the lean stringy meat and filled his belly for the first time in three days. After the meal he laid his head against a blanket roll and slipped off into a deep dream.

The next morning
, the Gunman rode hard across the sterile country and wove around cracked rocks and large Socorro cacti, a silent army that surrounded him in the bright sun. He left the patch of mute warriors and continued steadily toward the west, relentless in his pursuit of starting a new life. For three days he rode Larken through the harsh land and found only one small pool of water that was almost too salty to drink.

The nights in the desert were brutally cold
and the Gunman was ready to sleep in a soft bed again. Every night he dreamt of the woman he loved, dancing in the kitchen of their home and moving gracefully among the pillars of sunlight that fell through the windows. It seemed that the farther he travelled west, the more he thought of her. He often rode for hours with no other thoughts but her long golden hair. But sometimes these dreams would turn into nightmares, visions of his dead wife rising from the ground, ugly and torn from decay. He awoke from these dreams in a cold sweat, and hated himself for it. He wondered how a man, who had loved her so much, could dream of the unthinkable.

T
he ground began to slope upward as they neared the end of the alkaline desert and passed among boulders that jutted out from the ground in all directions. The surrounding shrubs were green from a recent rain, but it was still a wasteland that he wanted to soon forget. A place he hoped that he would never have to travel through again. He climbed a hill covered with Buffalo Grass and Yucca, and halted Larken near the top, where he overlooked a shallow bowl on the other side. Far below sat a small town nestled firmly at the base, with several roads that brought supplies and fresh men to work in the mines. He sat there for a moment surveying the energetic town and watched as men and women went about their business as usual. He spurred the mare forward and descended down the long hillside toward the outskirts.

After reaching the bottom of the hill, h
e trotted down a dirt road cut deep with wagon wheel ruts formed after the last rain, and passed by a freshly painted sign that read:
Virginia City, Nevada. Population 510.
It was the last stop he would make before heading into California and making his way to the coast.

At the edge of town,
the Gunman dismounted in front of the local stable, the Silver Shoe Hitching Post. He led Larken over to a trough of dirty water and she began to drink deeply as he dipped his hand into the water, and rubbed the back of his salted neck. Cool beads ran down his back as he watched a feral dog hunting for scraps of food in a nearby alley.

An old man stepped out of
an open barn door and walked with a vicious limp. He approached Larken and held out a bright red apple. She flicked her tail at the many flies that had begun to surround her and obliged the man by eating half of the apple with one bite. The old man patted her neck and scratched her nose as she finished the rest.

“Howdy. Name’s Jay,” he said as he stepped forward to shake the Gunman’s hand.

The Gunman stood and firmly shook Jay’s hand, who had a surprisingly strong grip for his age.

“
What can I do ya’ for?” he asked.

“I need a place for my horse. We’ve traveled a long way and need to bed-down for the night.”

“Well…I’m sorry to say we're full up at the moment.”

“
I’ll pay silver.”

Jay’s eyes brightened at the word
silver
. He was a nice man, but a businessman nonetheless.

“
I’m sure I’ve still got some room. No problem. No problem at all.”

Jay pulled
out a foil pouch from his back pocket. He opened it and fingered a large wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, then cheeked it with his tongue as he spoke. “How long you stayin' for?”

“As long as I need
.”

“I see. Okay. Well…
let’s get your horse settled inside then.”

Jay grabbed
Larken's reins as he spit brown sludge in the dirt, turning to lead her to the barn. Larken was a keen horse with a remarkable ability to sense someone’s true nature. She must have trusted the old man. She had never spent more than a night or two inside of a barn and had lived her entire life on the open prairie.

The barn was
dark and crammed full of horses busily munching hay and doing whatever it was that horses did when they were relegated to a life inside a wooden stall. Jay left her for a moment as he pulled another horse outside, and then returned to take her into the open stall. He began to unbuckle the saddlebags that weighed her down, but as soon as his hand touched the
heavy satchel
, the Gunman stopped him.

“I got it,
” he said.

“Oh no
, sir. Untacking em’ is part of my service.”

“I said I got this one,” he insisted, and grabbed hold of the satchel.

Jay nodded, took his hands off, and moved toward another bag. The Gunman unbuckled the heavy satchel and threw it over his shoulder as Jay continued to unburden Larken. The Gunman grabbed his rifle and a few other items from one of the other bags, and then pulled out a solid piece of silver and flipped it to Jay, who looked down at it in disbelief.

“Thank you. Thank you
, sir!” Jay quickly slipped the silver into his front pocket.

The Gunman knew that his
horse would eat well tonight, something that she deserved after carrying him across the desert.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about tonight. Nothin’ at all.
Your horse can stay for as long as you like.”

The
Gunman unbuckled the last saddlebag and hoisted it over his shoulder, patting Larken on the neck as he left through the barn doors. He turned around the side of the barn and headed toward the center of town. The streets teemed with people buying goods and haggling with salesmen. He stepped onto a storefront boardwalk and maneuvered around a Chinese miner trying to barter for a bag of flower. The salesman was having a tough time understanding him, but even so wanted nothing more than to sell his goods. After moving passed the two men he continued on in search of a place to stay for the night. He needed a soft bed to sleep in and perhaps a drink to warm his belly. An old man drove a wagon full of mining supplies down the middle of the street, pulled by two underfed mules, with a filthy dog sitting next to him. He saw the Gunman and stared with curiosity from underneath his wide-brim hat, and then spat in the dirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. The Gunman was a stranger in this small town, but hoped that he would go unnoticed.

He
ignored the old man and kept walking down the boardwalk, and adjusted the heavy leather satchel on his shoulder, trying to keep the strap from digging into his shoulder blade. After the wagon passed the Gunman crossed the street and stepped onto the opposite boardwalk. Rebecca Forred, the town doctor’s wife, had swiftly exited the general store carrying a box full of supplies. She wasn’t paying attention and nearly collided with him, coming face-to-face, an awkward moment for both of them. He quickly stepped aside and tipped his hat, but she said nothing and only scowled as she moved passed him down the boardwalk. After watching her for only a moment longer he turned and continued looking for a place to stay.