December, 2014

Issue #63

Desert Justice
by Ben Winter

Miniature dust clouds swirl around the little-traveled desert trail, further encrusting the two sweat-stained intruders exposed to nature's unforgiving measure of man and beast.

"Trouble with you, Millie, you're jest too dang slow," grizzled Hank Cantwell complains to his accompanying pack-animal. "Reckon if'n hell's fire was alickin' your heels, you'd manage only a flop from your big long ears."

Hank squints against the burning sun and guesses the time about noon. Soon, he figures to rest at the mesa's shaded spring-waters. Due to Millie's habitually slow gait and his equally sluggish zeal to press for greater economy of time, the oppressive heat has taken its toll. They should have been out of the hot sun by now. He mops a sweat-streaked brow and surveys the sweltering slope descending to desert flora below.

The inhospitable panorama reflects endlessly repeated vistas of shifting sand, thorn-covered flora, and an occasional mesa distantly outlined. Two black specks wheel on the winds high aloft. At Hank's feet, a lizard shuffles from flora shade to rock slab refuge. Other than these benign beings, no visual inhabitants stir except Hank and the placid Millie.

Quenching an ever-present thirst from the canteen removed from Millie's pack-yoke, Hank pours a generous portion into his hat crown for the eager burro. Replacing the canteen, he stiffens with foreboding at a distant reflection; his eyes sharp despite 60-odd years, he catches a repeated glimmer through the shrub covered terrain. Unappreciatively, he laments: "Millie, reckon we got company sooner or later."

Clucking to the complacent Millie, Hank tugs the lead shank and continues, "Try to get away from people for a while and ever dad-blamed rock seems to crawl with 'em."

Cautiously picking his way to the desert floor, Hank keeps watch on the party now obviously intended to intercept his line of progress. Apprehensive, Hank alters course to abet an inevitable meeting and to divert attention from his former beeline toward the waterhole. It didn't pay to be too friendly with strangers out here.

Occasionally, Hank glances to his right, measuring the three men's bisecting angle to intercept his line of progress. The trio advance, within easy shouting distance, and voice no salutation. Although Indian days were past, a man still had to be on the alert: lest he fall victim to an ailment commonly called lead poison. Wasteland obscurity still attracts desperate men living outside the law.

The sun still beams high overhead when Hank corrects his course to almost a right angle from the destined waterhole.

"Might be hi-jackers, Millie," Hank mutters. "Things are all-fired peculiar."

Scarcely had Hank cautioned his plodding burro, when the old prospector is surprised by a plume of sand and dust rising from the sandy promontory just ahead; simultaneously, he knows what the glint seen earlier had represented. The rifle discharge resounds flat across the unfriendly expanse—and disturbingly near.

"Fat's in the fire now, Millie," Hank advises. "If'n that feller took pains, reckon he could pick off either one of us. We hafta go on in."

Hank measures each of the trio as they emerge from a mesquite screen and stumble toward his restraining hold on Millie's halter rope. The one with the rifle is tall, a tough looking hombre in good condition. He is in better shape than the other two: the fat man and the kid. The tall man's dark complexion severely contrasts with the fat man's freckled countenance and the skinny kid's sallow color.

A sweet looking crowd, Hank decides: the tall one's a gunman; fat man's a strong-arm type; and a knife looks to be the kid's speed. Hank almost immediately recognizes the three, from a newspaper likeness and the cold-blooded crime reported three days earlier in Salt Fork—bank robbery murder of the girl cashier and two men besides, even drilling an officer of the law in their successful getaway—last seen near this very Arizona desert. It was this callowness of offense and the ineffectiveness of law and order prompting his immediate flight to clean desert air and solitude away from the failings of civilization.

Nearest road is forty miles away and used only occasionally. Forty miles is a long way, afoot in the desert, and without water. A long and waterless haul could account for their beat and impoverished condition.

Treating the old prospector as least of threats, the tall man approaches Hank, loosely brandishing the rifle in one hand. "We need water, bad, old-timer," he demands.

"You got a right unhealthy way of askin' Mister," Hank growls. "Mind the time I'd have answered you jest as unhealthy."

A heavy silence covers the dusty group: Hank belligerent but a little uneasy. The trio exude desperation, determined to have water.

"No use getting all worked up grandpa," the tall man threatens. "If necessary, we'll just take it."

"Reckon you've another think acoming if'n ye got a brain," resists Hank. Spry for all his years, he whips a knife from its sheath and slashes the canvas water-bag secured to Millie's pack yoke. Bag contents gush forth and instantly disappear into the thirsty sands.

The trio force Hank to the ground, in their rush to save the remaining dribbles. Hank leans back on an elbow, where he has fallen, still grasping Millie's halter rope and restraining the fractious burro. Incited by the bickering and shuffling, Millie emits a hoarse bray and begins to lash out with hard-rimmed hoofs: kicking, whirling, and pawing all at the same time. In short order, she routs the trio and sends them scurrying to a respectable distance.

The tall man levels his rifle and would have downed the enraged beast had it not been for Hank's taut, urgent voice: "Shoot that critter and you'll all die right here in the desert. It's a right fur piece to the nearest water! Without me and Millie, you'll never make it."

Slowly, the tall man lowers his rifle. "All right grandpa! We need water. We'll let the jack-ass live but no tricks. Understand?" He lashes out with a heavy shoe and Hank sprawls backward. Edifyingly, he kicks the prostrate old man. "That'll teach you to get fresh, grandpa," he snarls. "You're getting off way too easy. Get us to water or it's too bad for you and your flea-bitten jack-ass."

Hank painfully gains his feet and a welcomed breath. He and Millie appear safe for awhile. Evidently, the desperate gang are unaware of his secret water source not too far distant.

"Reckon there's one thing you ain't had experience in Mister—and that's deserts," Hank suggests. "Jest you keep in mind: if'n you kill me, you kill your chances for water. There's a water hole not far from here. But I'm tellin' you now: 'fore this day is done, you fellers will be draggin' your own tracks out; tomorrow it'll be worse if you can last that long."

"All right, okay! You've said your speech," responds the tall man. "I've got the rifle, and before I go I'll insure you go with me. Now, get hold of that jackass and lead us to water."

Hank tugs at Millie's halter and heads toward a distant landmark. The well-used bandana again wipes sweat, dust, and blood from the old prospector's face as he contemplates the time and resources necessary for a reprieve and perhaps an upper-hand over his dangerous captors. He cannot understand their neglect to search Millie's pack. His old .45 rests there along with the spare canteen. He smiles inwardly and vows to outwit his heat-affected foes.

Hiding his resentment until he can gain an advantage, Hank leads the way with reluctant Millie. The tall man comes next, the fat man follows, and the kid trails at the rear. Hank carefully evades the secret waterhole, though the terrain forces a traverse closer than intended. Millie's gait perceptibly quickens at the fresh water scent, but Hank jerks the halter shank and diverts her away from the tantalizing odor.

"I'll teach them jaspers," Hank mutters to the resigned Millie. "I'll make 'em wish they never heard of Hank Cantwell."

In lowered tones, on the heels of Hank's currycomb impoverished burro, the trio converse in subdued voices. Hank tries to eavesdrop, but noisy footwear scuffs the rough ground and Millie's measured cadence sounds a mournful dirge, prohibiting voice interception in the life-suppressing heat. Above, the two black shadows of death constantly monitor the party's progress—sifting the wind—waiting.

"Think we'll make it, Duke?"

"Sure, Kid," whispers the tall man. "That old geezer knows these rocks and sand like the palm of his hand. What do you think, Abe?"

"I'm not so sure about his intent," wheezes the fat man, laboriously trying to keep pace. "How can we know? I heard once: if you turn a horse loose it will head for water. It ought to work equally well with the burro. Let's drop the old man."

"Yeah, Duke," intoned the kid. "That's a great idea. He probably knows we have all this dough. He might be trying to lose us so he can have all the loot."

"Dumb idea, Kid," snarls Duke. "We're already lost! Besides, you couldn't drag that old desert rat's evil-tempered beast away with a block and tackle."

"Sorry, Duke. Just an idea!"

"That's enough talking, Kid," Duke snaps. "You and Abe sound better in pure silence. I can hardly think with you two yapping all the time."

The kid clams up; only Abe's wheeze violates Duke's dictatorial call for silence.

Later, the kid falls a few paces behind the formidable Duke. Not one to miss a golden opportunity, Abe hastens to gain the kid's ear. "Listen, Kid," he speaks in lowered tone: "We don't have to take Duke's bullying any more, do we? What's to keep us from bumping Duke and taking over? Remember how you used to brag on that knife of yours? Tonight would be a good time to show your stuff."

His oily face aglow with perspiration, Abe drops back and watches the Kid for effect. He knows the suggestion planted will take root and grow until it finally blossoms and bears fruit. The remaining daylight should allow time enough for the fruit to ripen—before nightfall requires a halt for badly needed rest. By tomorrow, Abe figures to be much richer and free of Duke's ill temper. Reminded of Duke's temper surges, Abe experiences a sudden panic; his body screams for relief, for water's soothing hydration. In desert disdain for panic or urgency, time ticks a critical requiem.

The strange entourage wearily struggles toward Hank's uncharted destination; relentlessly, the sun-baked desert saps their very last vestige of energy. Solar intensity grows with afternoon lethargy, and the passing hours affect not only physical performance but mental capacity as well.

Hank notes the trio's survival ineptness, imbued from possibly sheltered environs. Hatless, with baked scalps and skins burned a deep red, the trio struggle against the hostile habitat. Without water for thirty hours or more, the three fugitives suffer from the abnormal elements heavily weighed on mental and physical resources.

Abe was right, reasons the kid; why take Duke's bullying any longer? Just one quick slash, like the old man did to the water bag. Why not Abe too—then the old man? He'd be easy. As the heat increases, the kid's idea grows. He could turn the burro loose and follow him to water. But he foresees the need to be careful—Duke first and get the rifle—then, it'd be simple.

Engrossed in his nefarious plan, the kid stumbles close upon Duke's heels. "Watch where you're going, Kid," Duke snarls, his arm menacing the lesser stature.

"Okay, Duke, okay," the kid repeats, defensively. His eyes glisten with anger as he returns to the strangely ordered queue. He clenches his fists, resisting the silent rage surging through his weakened body. Tonight!

Not unmindful of the odyssey transpired ahead, Abe imperceptibly nods in agreement. Things were working out; however, the hot sun sends a tremor racing through his dehydrated body. Swollen lips demand relief, and he carefully runs a thirst-starved tongue over their cracked and peeling exterior.

Abe mumbles, half of fear and of pain: "Boys, I'm totally dried out. My lips are cracked and skin's on fire! We got to have water soon."

Duke responds with a stumble and almost falls. "It looks like we're all about done."

The old prospector forges stolidly ahead as Abe conducts a rambling discourse: "Even Duke—Duke the tough guy—thought maybe he staggered again. Can't see so good!"

The illogically composed and ill-fated party pushes onward across the burning desolation, skirting outcrops of rocks, cacti, and widely grown mesquite clumps, stumbling over the inhospitable residue of deceased flora, and anxiously seeking a date with the life giving water. Relentlessly, the solar nemesis cuts its routine swath across uncluttered skies, burning an exit toward western pathways.

As the sun dips over the horizon, Hank sees the diamond-marked critter slide off a rock slab and slither out of sight. He memorizes the terrain and carefully marks the spot.

Advancing purple shadows stretch long, before Hank brings Millie to a stop and begins to unhitch the packsaddle.

Purple hues merge into darkness, interrupted by a full moon partially dispersing the reluctant shadows. Then, Hank addresses his weary entourage. "A water hole's jest the other side that heavy brush, yonder, down in that swale. Careful y'all don't founder."

With wild abandon, the trio rush through entangling brush to the slight depression; they pull up just short of the expected water source. Where once cool water seeped into welcoming wetness, only a residue of cracked and peeling mud remained. A rank odor around the blackened spring advertises javelina bones strewn beyond the sink edge, bleached white by the relentless sun. Dispirited and silent, the trio returns to yet another dry camp.

Hank busily prepares for the deceptive dry camp; he raises his reserve canteen, and drinks, deeply. He quickly returns the life-saver to its hiding place, not daring to risk water for the gaunt burro. He chuckles to himself at the sound of disturbed brush as the bandit trio return from nature's dried-up waterhole. Reaching into Millie's pack once more, Hank retrieves the .45 and slips it into his waistband. "Jest let that big string-bean slam me one more time," he mutters to the shadows. "Best he don't get too rambunctious."

The old prospector reassuringly pats the concealed hog-leg. He has half a mind to shoot it out and be done with it, but he remembers the reclusive rattler a couple hundred feet back down the trail.

Duke decries Hank's dried-up spring. "You said the spring had water—and I'm reminding you who has the rifle."

"Been a severe drought," Hank responds. "But another waterhole exists not too far distant. Maybe we'll have better luck there."

"There's one guarantee," Duke waves the rifle. "No more dried-up waterholes."

Before the night fully cools, Hank checks Millie's tether; then, he slips down the trail, to the rock marked earlier. The trio camped ahead of Hank have fallen in their tracks, dejected over the recent and most fruitless quest for water.

The rock slab looms ahead. Hank carefully positions himself and obtains a firm grip on the slab's edge. He flips it over, and the rattler defensively coils. He draws the .45 and slowly weaves it before the reptiles pitted face. Mesmerized, the snake focuses on the hollow gun barrel. In Hank's other hand, a handy mesquite stick serves to pinion the serpent's venomous head.

Snake rattles buzz, and sweat beads accumulate on Hank's brow as he continues the dangerous game. With a swift motion, he grasps the diamondback's dangerously pivoted section just behind venom sacs on both sides its triangular head. With the angry animal's lengthy portions crawling and lashing about his arm, he firmly consolidates his advantage. Breathing heavily, he wastes little time retracing his steps to camp. His arm tires; yet, he grits his teeth and holds to the task.

Millie snorts displeasure when Hank approaches with the foul-smelling rattler. With an oath, he tumbles onto his tarp-spread bed, rattler and all.

"What's going on over there," Duke yells from a few yards away. "Don't try running out on us, grandpa. Another thing, I'm a pretty light sleeper."

"Don't be worryin' about me, Duke," Hank advises, as his hand numbs from its unrelieved grasp on the serpent's body. "I plan on being around a spell yet. Best you boys get some rest—long time 'til daylight."

Hank reposes for what seems an eternity before camp sounds die in the desert-insulated stillness. Satisfied with the ripeness of time, he stealthily crawls toward the three figures sprawled amongst their brushy domain. He positions himself, the heavy .45 in one hand, and a maddened five-foot rattler in the other. Duke lies close, with the kid a few yards further on, and the fat man fitfully snores a short distance to the right.

Placing the hog-leg for quick retrieval, Hank rolls to one side and uncoils the resisting rattler from his arm. A deft motion with both hands tosses the snake over intervening bushes to land amongst the sleeping trio. He grabs the Colt .45 for any emergency.

Evidently, the long desert trek had so fatigued the bandit trio, as to make them insensitive to the slight thump in their midst. Even Duke, boastful of light sleep, fails to stir. A moment later, the rattler slowly inches toward Duke's sleeping form, the tall man attractive as a warm spot in the cool desert air.

Hank returns to his blanket and lies back with a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, an uneasy sleep claims his awareness.

Far out on the expanse, a coyote wails his mournful song, joined by another, and still another, until the night comes alive with their familial chorus. Another group, further distant, answers their nightly serenade.

Duke stirs, restlessly. The kid, on a villainous mission, drops to his belly and lies still; he purposefully clutches the gleaming, steel blade.

Across the way, Abe awakens with a start. Raising his head, he suspects the kid's errand. The kid, on hands and knees, resumes his crawl toward the resting Duke.

Despite cracked lips, the fat man smiles. One more share, and one less Duke. The kid has nerve, he thinks. But when I rid myself of him, I'll own the whole bankroll. Abe lies back and begins to figure angles on bumping the kid: Kid or Duke, which ever happens to survive the night. Lying back and feigning sleep, he watches through anxious eyes as the kid moves ever closer to the sleeping tall man.

The kid, resting on his knees a scant two feet from Duke, raises the knife to plunge it home into the tall man's neck. Against Duke's warm body, the rattler's heat-sensors register motion within their infrared receptors. Natural to instinct, the rusty gray bundle of death leaps out and sinks hollow-curved fangs deep into the kid's moving forearm. The knife drops of its own accord as the kid screams and tumbles backward.

Duke rolls to his feet, clutching the rifle and ready for a quick shot. His sleep-numbed senses take a moment to focus on the frantic scene. Suddenly, he realizes the kid's betrayal; instinctively, first, he fires point-blank at the dangerous diamondback. The rattler writhes and twists in its death throes as Duke turns to the kid and prepares to even the score.

Duke raises the rifle to his shoulder. The kid's eyes bulge with the strain of incredulity, begging Duke for mercy as a violence prone finger moves to the trigger. "I'm snake bit, Duke. Don't shoot! Please, I  . . . "

A shrill scream follows the rifle's flat retort. Then, the kid sighs resignation as crimson froths his mouth; he straightens and lies unmoving.

Hank awakens, jumps to his feet, and hurries to the sound of activity. He arrives in time to intercept Abe's admonition.

"You're a hard man, Duke. The snake-bite would have killed him soon enough."

Duke counters: "He was trying to kill me, wasn't he? If I was real smart, Abe, I'd put one in you, too."

Hank turns away from the exchange and walks back to his camp site. He is sorry for the kid—but that's the desert way—survival of the fittest. One down and two to go! He hears the tall man and his fat compatriot rehashing the night's turn of events as he stows the pistol away in Millie's pack. The blanket again accepts his weary body, a body uncertain of the coming dawn.

Following daybreak and even before the pack tightens secure on Millie's reluctant back, the relentless sun beats back night coolness and reestablishes its oven-hot dominance. With few words, Hank leads Millie out, single file; the dehydrated bandit duo follow Millie under the sky's radiantly intolerable burden.

Hank glances back from time to time, at the exhausted emblems of life plodding and struggling to cope even with Millie's slow pace. As Hank pushes onward, careful to distance the secret waterhole but insuring easy access, his thoughts drift over a past life without real direction: beating about the empty desert, and always just another day's journey to a lucky strike, riches, and rest for his bone-weary body. But the lucky strike was always out front somewhere, over the next dune, around the next mesa—like the desert's elusive mirage of water dancing on shimmering heat waves and ever in the distance, always just ahead, retreating until sentience loses all perspective.

Getting old, Hank realizes. Old and tired! He breathes a deep breath and resolves to see justice done. "Me'n the desert will see it done," he growls to the empty habitat.

Hank chooses the roughest terrain in efforts to tire the two bandits further. He knows it's their second full day without water, maybe longer. The fat man is almost finished, evidenced by his staggered gait and occasional fall; Duke reels erratically, also. It is just a matter of time until the hostile climate extracts its final toll.

Hank hears a hoarse shout from Abe and stops. He ties Millie to a thorny manzanita and proceeds to the distraught sound. The fat man sprawls on his back, in a shallow ravine. Duke stands over him; roughly, he holds a thorn-scarred boot against Abe's chest. "Abe—you're not worth a bullet; I'm leaving you for the buzzards."

Hank feels no compassion as he observes the cringing hulk with sun-reddened eyes begging consideration. He accuses: "You fellers are your own worse enemy. Jest a mite further is all the water y'all could ever want."

A chubby fist offers a wad of greenbacks. "Take this," Abe hoarsely whispers. "It'll make you rich back in town. Just get me some water." The fat man's body quivers with his intense pleading.

"No! No," Duke rasps! "The money's mine if it's anybody's." He grabs for the money. Weakened by the grueling march, he sprawls beside the obese body given so little regard.

Abe pushes against Duke's offending presence. "No, I  . . . "

Hank turns a deaf ear on the contemptible scene: Abe desperate to hang on to his meager fortune, and Duke eager to relieve him of the envied portion.

With a quick tug on Millie's halter shank, Hank pulls the resistant burro forward, still pursuing a false trail. The water would have to wait. "Human buzzards," he growls, urging Millie forward.

Peripherally, Hank notes Duke's efforts to strip the fat man's pockets; then, Duke staggers onward. Abe's desperate cry only minimally disturbs the empty expanse.

A short while later, Hank looks back, through the shimmering heat waves, to see Abe stagger to his feet and lurch up the trail. A moment later, he checks again and sees the fat man no more. The desert has claimed another to keep company with the myriad of others gone before.

Despite his lively confrontation with Abe, Duke fast exhibits a body desperate from dehydration. Abe's cries and curses have ceased some time before; now, the only sounds escape from labored breath, rasp of shoe leather, and the thorny clutch of desert flora.

"Looks like there's jest us two left, Duke," Hank wheezes. "Your pards have run out on ya."

"Good enough for them," Duke disdains. "Now, let's get to the water. Remember this—before I go, I'll make sure to take you with me."

"You ain't shootin' nobody, Duke. Your tongue is dryer 'n burnt cork and you're afraid to die. Me an' Millie are your only chance to reach the spring."

The blazing orb overhead completes its torturous route and poises on a hazy horizon. As the golden globe slips further west, Duke utters a guttural sigh and drops to his knees almost on Millie's heels. For once, the cantankerous Millie is too weary to kick.

Hank waits a moment, waiting for the tall man to recover; instead, Duke remains still. Hank squats beside the almost lifeless bandit and savagely jerks the rifle from Duke's weakened grasp. Securing the deadly weapon to Millie's pack, he returns to the prostrate gang leader.

Hank's scarred boot prods the inert body. "There's a cold spring of water scarce two miles from here. A stout feller like you ought to could make it. That water is cold and clear as a crystal."

With Hank's help, Duke raises to his knees and sways there, unoriented.

Hank points to obvious landmarks. "See that big chimney rock sticking up yonder, against that rocky mesa. Right there's the coldest drink of water this side of Salt Fork and Shorty's beer parlor. Recognize them rocks?"

"You double-crossing old geezer," Duke snarls through swollen lips. We're right back where we started. We've been wandering around, going no place at all." He lunges, with his last ounce of strength but Hank easily avoids the attempt and responds with a leather soled boot. He catches the tall man full in the face. Spent, Duke lies on his back, gasping.

"That's for kicking the tar outen me," Hank grumbles. "Never could stand someone slammin' me in the face." He lashes out again, with the boot and an emphatic snarl: "And that's for hittin' me with the rifle. Reckon if ye can make it to that mesa, I'll let you live. Even if you do, the law will probable catch up to you—if'n you don't, the buzzards will. Ain't nothing lower than a woman killer, but I reckon buzzards don't care."

Seeing the futility of protest, now the sycophant, Duke abdicates his former status and pleads in mere whispers. "Help me to the spring, and you can have all the money—enough to make you rich."

Hank takes the proffered money. Carefully, he stores the several packets in Millie's growing pack. "Figure I'm more entitled to it than you, Duke. Revenge is pretty sweet."

Duke cries out, hoarsely, as Hank sets his jaw and leads Millie toward the distant monument carved by time, sand, and the desert winds. He never looks back. He knows Duke will try to follow but not far on his hands and knees. Unconditioned to the hostile environment and too emaciated for survival, Duke will gain the end so richly deserved.

In a short eternity lasting into the towering formation's welcoming shade, abundant water, and his first cold drink, Hank surveys his back trail. Nothing stirs, and the two black objects unceasingly aloft over the past days are now ominously absent.

Hank in his usual address to apathetic and unresponsive Millie, remarks: "Ye know Millie, seein' as how there ain't no law out here, I guess we could—well, kinda call it desert justice—'course, we helped out a bit."

Carefully, Hank removes a faded photograph from his breast pocket and rubs the photo as if to erase memories of what had been. A lump swells in his throat, as residue wipes away to reveal the faded image. To Millie and the unresponsive emptiness, he intones: "My Billie was just like her mama, Sallie. And Sallie was the purtiest wife a man could hope for. Billie was her spittin' image."

"Billie," he recalls, softly, "I allus wanted the best for you—that's why I sent you to the city—after yer mama crossed over the divide—figured bank employment would set ye on a goodly path. Reckon I'll have to live with yore misfortune, but I took care of them that mocked my good intentions."

Hours later, in the night coolness, Hank leads Millie across the moon-swept desert, toward Salt Fork and civilization. "Reckon we won't be comin' this way no more, Millie," he advises the complacent burro. "I've aged a plenty on this trip and finally hit that lucky strike; now, I sorta favor the city for a spell."

Impatiently, Hank tugs the lead rope, reminding the slow-moving burro: "Trouble with you Millie, you're jest too dang slow."