June, 2010

Issue #9

Vengeance Is Mine
by Matthew Pizzolato

Kenneth Walker's heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in tearing gasps. Blood poured from the wound in his side, and he put a hand to it to quell the bleeding.

Huge raindrops pounded against his skull. Holding his hand up in front of his face, realized that he couldn't see it. Utter blackness had descended upon the land.

Kenneth sat up and moaned. Razor sharp pain racked his short, stocky frame as he sucked deep breaths of air. In his fevered state, his brain worked slowly. What had happened to him?

Ken attempted to focus his thoughts, but the pain was too intense. Why couldn't he think? A faint memory finally forced its way into his intoxicated mind. The crackling sound of his cabin burning brought it all back, and he heard his wife's screams all over again.

His wife! Where was she? All thought of pain was erased instantly. Struggling to his feet, he took two steps and the pain roared back like a runaway locomotive.

He stopped, nearly overcome by it and put both hands over the wound. Blood seeped though his fingers and down his pant leg.

If only this damn rain would stop so he could tell how badly he was bleeding. The flow of blood must be stopped, or he was a dead man and useless to his wife.

Taking his knife, he cut off a section of his shirt and wrung rainwater out of it out as best he could before he pressed it against his wound. The bullet must have glanced off his hipbone, leaving about a five-inch gash in his side. It was only a flesh wound, but it bled profusely. His eyes peered into the darkness, but he didn't know where he was or how he managed to escape the riders.

Kenneth and his wife filed legal claim and settled on a water hole that was under the control of a large cow outfit, the Rafter 99. Rafter riders had attacked them the night before and set his cabin on fire while he and his pregnant wife, Molly, were eating supper. As soon as he stepped outside the bullet hit him. When he staggered backward, something struck him over the head. The screams of his wife were the last thing he remembered.

As if on cue, his head began to throb. Reaching up to feel of it caused him to hiss in pain. A large knot protruded from under his thick mane of brown hair, just above his right ear.

Moaning in agony, he curled up on the ground with both hands firmly pressed against his side. Raindrops pelted him and his eyes closed.

When he opened them again, it was daylight. The rain no longer stung his skin. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, he blinked and gazed around the rain-soaked prairie. A thin column of smoke rose against the tree-covered mountains in the distance.

That would be his cabin or what was left of it. Seeing no immediate threat, he struggled to his feet and inhaled sharply against the sudden pain.

Ken took a step forward and doubled over. The pain was so intense that he nearly retched. Dying would be a relief. But he couldn't, he had to find his wife.

His mind wandered and drifted back to the last meal they shared. She had cooked his favorite desert, pecan pie. His mouth watered at the thought.

The country he walked across was open prairie. His enemies would make quick work of him if they spotted him now. Oh well, there was nothing he could do about it.

Every step was agony, but he ignored the pain. An hour later, he approached the remnants of his cabin and observed that parts of it still remained. The storm last night must have put the fire out. Some sections still smoldered, and he observed that there were no people in sight.

"Molly!" His voice echoed back at him off the distant mountains.

Striding around to the door, he stuck his head inside. Nothing. His wife was gone. A partially burned tintype of them on their wedding day stared up at him from the floor. Tears filled his eyes and after wiping them away, he shoved the tintype into his pocket.

Everything else was burned beyond use. The weapons he owned were missing. Had they taken everything?

The town was a good two days ride from here, but he had no horse and he had no gun. Nothing was left for him here, so he started along the trail.

The little bit of money deposited in his account at the bank would have to be used to purchase a weapon. Suddenly, he stopped flat-footed. A stark figure lay ahead of him in the trail. His heart skipped a beat and then pounded in his chest with slow heavy beats as he recognized the dress that his wife wore the last time he'd seen her.

"No!" His voiced echoed back at him off the mountains three distinct times as he ran toward her. It was a slow, shuffling, limping run but it got him there. Swallowing hard, he gazed upon his wife's lifeless body. Her eyes were wide open to the sun. A blue bullet hole stared at him from her forehead.

He stood there, his mouth hanging open, shocked. What kind of no good, worthless scum would kill a pregnant woman?

Ken knew that he should feel sorrow. But he didn't. He knew that he should feel pain and loss. Instead, he experienced a completely new emotion. For the first time in his life, he knew what hatred was.

A white-hot rage washed over him so intently that his whole body shook. Goose bumps raised his flesh and he shivered. His eyes burned with such intensity that they watered. His fists clenched of their own accord and he ground his teeth.

After a few moments, the rage passed. Falling to his knees beside her body, he tried to cry but couldn't. Scenes of their wedding day flashed before him. He remembered the happiness she experienced and smiled in spite of himself. Time slowed and seemed to stand still, but at last Ken swallowed hard and stood.

Picking her up, he carried her back to the cabin. The pain in his side became acute, and blood trickled down his side. He lay her body gently on the ground and found a shovel.

Fashioning a cross from two charred pieces of timber, he placed it at the head of her grave. As he looked down the mound of fresh earth, he took a deep, ragged breath. His reasons for living were gone. There was but one purpose left for him. Kill those men responsible for this atrocity or perish in the attempt.

He took a match from his pocket and struck it, watching as the flame grew. Just before the fire reached his fingers, he flung it inside his cabin. The match landed in the remnants of their bed. The mattress ignited and flame licked the walls.

Kenneth turned and walked away from his former life. Black smoke billowed into the sky behind him.

Four days later, at noon, he strode into town. The doctor treated his wound but refused payment. Then Ken went to the bank and closed out his account. Shoving the money into his pocket, he stepped back out onto the boardwalk, avoiding the mud filled street.

His boot heels clanged loudly on the wood planks as he made his way to the mercantile. The clothing section drew his attention first, and he tried on several different hats before he found one that fit. Then he went to the counter. "I need to buy a pistol..." He paused a moment, considering. "And a shotgun."

Dave Griswold, the owner of the mercantile, nodded his head. "Sure thing."

Several rifles and shotguns leaned against a rack on the wall. The counter before Ken was a glass case in which the pistols were encased.

"Let me see that one." Ken wiped his nose and pointed at the case.

Dave unlocked the case and removed the gun Kenneth indicated, a beautifully engraved silver .45 Colt Cattleman with an ivory handled grip.

Ken turned and pointed the gun at the far wall, sighting down the barrel. It felt balanced in his hand, as if it were an extension. Drawing the gun in close, he spun the cylinder, listening to it click and admiring the engravings. Whoever had created it was truly an artist. "I'll take it."

"You'll need a gunbelt," Dave said. He went down to the end of the counter and came back with one. "See if that fits."

Kenneth slung it around his waist and buckled it, dropped the pistol into the holster. "That'll work."

Dave took a shotgun from the rack and handed it to him. "That's the best one I've got."

Kenneth took the gun from him and looked it over. It was a double-barreled side-by-side 12 gauge. Nodding and scratching his bushy beard, he glanced at the rack. "You might as well give me that '66 Henry," he said. "And shells for all of 'em."

Ken took his ammunition and packed it all into a pair of saddlebags he bought. He didn't have a horse yet, but that was his next stop. Counting out his payment, he cradled the long guns under his arm and turned to leave.

Dave leaned over the counter and whispered. "I know who you are and I'm sorry about what happened. You didn't hear this from me, but there are some Rafter 99 riders in the saloon right now. They've been talking it up about what they did to you."

"Thanks. I own you one," Ken said and pushed open the door, stopping just outside. A bench in front of the mercantile beckoned to him, so he sat to load his weapons.

The rifle, he slung over his left shoulder. The shells for the Colt made little clicking sounds as in dropped them into the cylinder one at a time, and then shoved the gun into his holster. Dropping two shells into the shotgun, he snapped it shut and stood.

His lips turned upward in a grim smile as he stared down the street. The saloon was at the far end so he stepped out into the mud. Six horses were tied out to the rail in front of the saloon. All of them wore the Rafter 99 brand.

Ken marched down the street, his feet making squishing sounds in the mud. Death awaited him, his death and the death of those men in the saloon. But he was not afraid. His only hope was that he could get all of them before they killed him. The thought of dying disturbed him not at all.

He stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon and slammed the batwings open with the shotgun pointed at the floor.

An old man sat in front of a piano and banged on the keys. His head swiveled around, and he stopped playing abruptly when he saw Kenneth. Several poker games were going full tilt, and six men stood at the bar. All eyes focused on Ken. The men at the bar turned to face him.

"You all riding for the Rafter 99?" Ken recognized one as the man that shot him, and smiled when he saw the man's eyes flare.

"That's right," a scrawny looking redhead said. "What's it to you?"

The bartender took a quick glance at Ken, and then dove to the floor behind the bar.

Ken smiled and raised the shotgun. "See you all in hell!" he said, and squeezed both triggers.

The other men in the saloon scrambled for cover, and a saloon girl screamed shrilly. The roar of gunfire drowned out all other sounds. Cards and poker chips scattered as tables were flipped over, and whiskey bottles shattered on the floor. The piano player yanked the piano away from the wall and jumped behind it.

Ken dropped the shotgun and raised the rifle from its sling over his shoulder, and unconsciously worked the lever action until the gun was empty.

The hammer clicked a few times, startling him. Gun smoke obscured his vision, but he managed to see that all six men were down. Ken dropped the rifle and drew his pistol as he approached them.

The unexpectedness of his attack must have caught them off guard. Three men were dead from the double-barreled shotgun blast.

Two of the men were still alive. Blood leaked from the corner of one's mouth. Ken aimed the pistol at the man's head.

"Please, don't Mister," the man said.

"Why not? You didn't give my wife much of a chance," Ken said.

The man coughed and spat up blood. "I didn't have no part of that. I don't hold with killing women."

"Who killed her?"

The man coughed and swallowed hard. "It was Bobby... the... the redhead. You... got him with the first shot." He coughed and gagged as his head lolled to the side, and blood gushed from his mouth.

Ken focused his attention on the other wounded man. His wounds were slight, and he could recover.

Ken's mind flashed back to when he discovered his wife. Her lifeless eyes stared into his. A ragged breath left his lungs as he once again saw the bullet hole in her forehead.

Reverting to the present, he aimed the gun at the man's head. The man didn't speak, only pleaded with his eyes.

White-hot rage washed over Kenneth until he shook and he ground his teeth together. Meeting the man's eyes and smiling at him, Ken cocked the pistol with his thumb. The sound was loud in the stillness of the saloon. Ken's finger took up the slack in the trigger.

A voice inside his mind stopped him. It was his wife. Closing his eyes, he realized that he could see her again. She turned away from the book she was reading and smiled at him. Ken saw that it was the Scripture. "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." She put her Bible down and turned to look at him. "Don't do this thing," she said, and then vanished as if she never existed.

Ken exhaled heavily and opened his eyes. The man on the floor stared up at him. What should he do? The slightest bit of pressure on the trigger, and the gun would fire. Seconds turned into eternity, and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

Ken dropped the pistol to his side and exhaled heavily. He holstered the gun and shuffled aimlessly from the saloon.

Tears filled his eyes and he sobbed. His wife was gone, and he was stuck in this world alone. Killing those men hadn't brought her back. Kenneth Walker wandered out into the prairie toward the setting sun.

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