CHAPTER I | II | III | IV | V | IV

CHAPTER I

            He awoke with a start, almost ripping apart his sleeping bag as he did.  He couldn't say for sure that he had been screaming before he woke up, but he probably had been.  He usually did, at least he had been ever since.  Ever since her.

            He looked at his camp.  The fire that he set earlier in the evening had nearly burned itself out.  His hat was behind him, and he reached up and put it on his head.  “Time to get going, I guess,” he muttered to himself.  “Long way to go.”

            Dillon Harker got out of bed, rolled up his sleeping bag, and packed it on his horse.  He pulled himself on his horse and looked at his surroundings.  He saw the sun creeping up from the bottom of the world, its rays reaching across the remnants of a once darkened sky.  Streaks of purple moved along with the rays, the advance scout for the orange ball that would soon dominate the world.  He turned his head west and saw the darkness in full retreat, sighed, and headed south ready to find his prey.

CHAPTER II

            The last leg to Junction brought him no relief from his thoughts.  They were full of her, her presence constant, shattering every other thing he tried to think of.  Here and there, he had a moment or two free of her, but it wasn't long before she returned, barreling through his mind and leaving a trace of herself in every trace of him.  He worried about that at times, his constant thoughts of her.  How much of his memory of her was correct, accurate?  Did his memory of her changed when he remembered?  Could she change with remembering?  Could he be losing her, the true her?  “No,” he muttered to himself, “that can't be it.  She's there, she's there.  Her.  The real her.  My memories are from the real her.  My memories, they can't be wrong.  She's real, she's there.”  He wished he could say that he didn't do this often, but he did.  He couldn't forget her, couldn't not think of her, and couldn't do much else but think about his thoughts of her. 

            Except during sessions.

            After her, after what happened to her, he got a weapon, an eight-round pistol made by Carbine.  An older weapon, yes, but a good one in a fight.  He had to pay more than he wanted to to get it, but it was worth it knowing it wouldn't jam on him and that it would hit his target so long as he didn't panic.  A lot of the lawmen used the brand before they stopped making them.  He didn't know why they stopped making these, but it happened.  Like so many things out here, he thought to himself, it just happened.  That seemed to be the way of the world, especially this part of it.  Harker stopped wondering about the world and why things happened the way they did after her, and decided instead to take control of what he could. 

            And that's when he saw a Scavenger roaming the plains.

            “Time for a session, Dillon.”

            Harker pulled on the reins of his horse and came to a stop in the high grass.  He dismounted and hid in a patch of the grass to the left of the horse.  He pulled his binoculars out from underneath his light brown jacket and watched the Scavenger.  Scavengers weren't much in the way of people.  They lived on the outskirts of towns, stealing what they needed to survive.  They usually followed hunting parties and people moving west, stealing food and whatever kills they could get to first.  People hated the Scavengers for it, which meant that no one would mind if someone like Dillon used them for target practice.  Scavengers died all the time, and more times than not, no one wasted the time investigating, especially in the parts that Dillon had been traveling through, traveling and looking for him.  Him who killed her. 

            “Bastard,” he practically spit.

            Dillon would meet him eventually, and he had to be ready.  That's why he used Scavengers.  At first, he shot at targets he painted on trees.  Every morning and evening as he traveled to Junction he would fire a few rounds.  Terrible at first, always hitting wide of the target when he managed to hit.  He didn't admit it, but he missed because of fear, fear of actually putting a bullet in a man and killing him.  Watching a man die wasn't something he knew if he could stomach.  And, as much as he wanted revenge for her, he wasn't sure he could actually kill a man to bring it about.  Not that he admitted it to himself.  His excuse was nerves, always nerves.  Just excited, he would say to himself, just excited thinking about finally getting him.  Then he'd tell himself that he couldn't focus thinking about finally getting the bastard. 
           
            After hearing that, he believed that was why he missed his target, and he felt better about it.  That deception allowed him to keep shooting, to keep practicing.  And he needed that practice.  The man he hunted had been in more than a few gunfights and wasn't the kind of fellow to take lightly.  “That's why I miss, I know I'll only get the one chance.”  He said that to himself every time he started a session, and he probably believed it.  He certainly  believed it enough to explain away his misses, but part of him knew the truth. 

            As the trip wore on and his aim improved, he realized that a tree wasn't much of a substitute for a man.  Harker didn't know what to do about it, though.  He never went looking for trouble in his life, and he certainly wasn't the kind to kill people.  His problem resolved itself when a Scavenger stumbled on his camp late one night.  Harker had never seen a Scavenger before, but he'd heard stories, plenty of them.  Scavengers were dark skinned, almost black as night.  They had blood spattered all over their bodies, blood from the animal meat they ate raw.  He'd heard they were cannibals, too, but he never saw evidence of that.  They were nothing more than foragers, living off of people, real people.  He'd put them somewhere just above animals and just below humans.  An odd combination, he often thought when he saw them.  He'd a few times that people came from Scavengers, a theory that most people dismissed.  Harker had when he first heard it, but he was less than sure now.

            Of course, he knew none of that when he encountered his first Scavenger.  He hesitated only a moment before firing his weapon.  The Scavenger screamed when Dillon fired and fell dead in mid scream.  Scared and unsure of himself, Dillon sat in his bag for what felt like an eternity before getting control of himself.  He got up and walked to the dead Scavenger.  When he got to it, he nudged it with his foot.  It didn't respond. 

            It was dead.

            Still unsure of himself, he decided to leave his camp.  He packed up as fast as he could, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from the dead body as possible.  He'd heard that Scavengers traveled in packs, and while he'd bested one, he doubted that he'd last long against a herd of them.  He didn't ride on the horse, though, it would be too noisy.  He walked beside the horse, trying his best to stay quiet.  He focused his mind on putting one step in front of the other without making noise.  He did that for a bit, but then she rammed her way back into his mind and he threw up.  He threw up again and again and again.  He threw up until he dry heaved.  And he did that more times than he could remember.

            Was that what it was like for her?  Did she scream?  Was she scared?  Did she see him reach for his gun?  Did she die slow?  Fast?  Did she hurt?  Was it intense?  Did she die confused, desperately trying to make sense of it all?  The questions tore his mind apart and he couldn't do anything but heave and heave and heave.  He didn't know what else to do.

            When it happened to her, did she?

            Those thoughts started to creep back into his mind as he planned the session with the Scavenger, but he quickly gave up on it.  The Scavenger looked around, saw the horse, and suspicion got the better of him.  He ran off, heading west.  As much as Harker knew he needed a session before reaching Junction, he couldn't waste time hunting a Scavenger.  “Time to get going, Dillon,” he said to himself.  Harker got up from the grass, got back on his horse, and continued south across the plains.  As he started, he heard thunder cracking across the land, and turning his head north, saw the rain trailing behind him.  “Best get to some cover,” he said while patting his horse, “don't want to get caught in all that.”

            He stumbled on an abandoned home near a creek.  He normally avoided such things, but the weather forced his hand.  The rain fell hard, fast, and in drops about as large as grapefruits.  He got the feel that hail wouldn't be far behind, and he wanted nothing to do with that.  He tied his horse outside the door, thankful that the person who built the place was smart enough to add a long overhang.  With a mix of caution and fear, he went inside the home.  The air inside wasn't stale, which concerned him.  He pulled out his Carbine and looked for signs of life.  He didn't notice any, but that didn't mean that someone wasn't around.  Someone had to be.  Why else wasn't the air stale.  The shack only had the one window, and the wooden slats covering it were closed.  “Someone's here,” he said to himself, “But where?”  He looked around the room he found himself in.  Small, very small.  He saw a bed in the far corner, but no one underneath.  He saw a a fireplace in the other corner, but no fire.

            “Someone's here.  I know it.  I just gotta find where.”

            He moved a few steps about the house and then he saw it, the uneven dust around the rug.  He pulled up the rug, stomped on the floor, and pointed the Carbine at the trap door.  “Come on out and I won't kill you.  At least not unless you try something.  Now, like I said, come on out.  Slow.”  He waited a few moments before repeating his command to come out.  After that, he heard some movement below the trap door and heard someone coming up old steps on what was either a ladder or a stairway.  Then the door started moving up very slowly.  Harker had stepped behind the trapdoor out of his usual abundance of caution.  As fast as he could imagine without making noise, he whipped around to the front and jerked the person out of the trapdoor.  The person he pulled out wasn't what he expected to find in this dirty, dusty, brown home made of sod.  No, it was certainly not what he expected.  Instead of an old, worn down, beaten by the elements prospector, it was her.

            Her.

            She was back.  Somehow, she was back.  And he was with her.  Once again, he was with her.  In this abandoned prospector's home, they were together.

            And that's when he realized it was a dream.

            Once again, he jumped awake.  He looked around and found himself in the same sod house.  It was still brown, dusty, and the air was a little stale.  He looked around and found his horse nearby.  He looked about the house and saw that everything was the same as when he first looked.  The place had been abandoned some time ago, and no one had returned or attempted to return while he slept.  “To hell with it,” he muttered angrily to himself before closing his eyes and falling back asleep.

            Falling asleep to dream of her.

            The dreams were peaceful this time, soothing.  But he was on edge while he slept.  He could sense that his dreams were dreams and not real.  He knew as he watched her eat breakfast or clean their home that he wasn't watching her, but his memories of her.  He tried not to think about it much, but his thoughts of her in his dreams were the same as in his moments awake.  Parts of her weren't quite right.  Her arms seemed too long, and her face was a bit too narrow and a bit too long.  And then he started to wonder if that was how she looked when she had been . . . But he never finished the thoughts.  When those thoughts appeared, he found himself in a new dream and the process started again.

            When he woke up in the morning, he noticed the rain continued to fall, but in a light mist, not the pounding from the night before.  “Time to get moving,” he said while yawning.  He packed up his belongings, checked his weapon to make sure it was fully loaded, and led his horse out the door and back onto the plains.  “Soon,” he said. 

            He rode the rest of the way in silence.

CHAPTER III

            He was about a mile outside of town when he stopped his approach.  “What's the best way in?” he asked himself.  Junction was the strangest of towns.  No one wanted to be there, but most everyone traveling in any direction passed through it.  People went south running from what was in the north, and people came from the south hoping to get to the north.  People came from the east hoping to get to the west to make their fortune prospecting.  And people came from the west running away from the failure they left there.  “I don't want to be seen.  I can't alert him.  He can't know, not until it's too late.”  Since most people came into Junction from the south, he decided to circle around and make his way in from there.  With so many coming that way, he would be another face that no one would pay attention to.  “I hope it works,” he muttered as he started the approach. 

            Before night fall, he reached the southeastern section of the outskirts of town.  He thought about going in directly and looking for him, getting it over with.  But he'd attract notice coming in at this time.  People would be out in bars, the main street would be alive, and the law would be alert for trouble.  Best to go in come morning when the town was wakening up and not alert to goings on.  With his decision made, the problem of where to camp remained.  Junction was in the center of an intersection of plains and desert.  It had a small river run through it that grew and grew as it flowed north into the plains, but that wasn't the case here.  His section was made of desert with bits of grass here and there and no place to sleep.

            After traveling farther than he intended to, he came across a small hill and found cover.  He made camp and tried to sleep, but he couldn't stop thinking of him.  He fell asleep cursing his name.

            He awoke before the sun appeared to reclaim the morning sky.  He quickly packed and headed into town, ready to meet him and get his revenge for what he had done to her.  He hoped that his plan would work.  If not, he'd improvise.  “It's got me this far,” he hissed.

            He came to the town from the south, arriving just as the sun cracked into the sky.  No one was at the checkpoint, which made his work all the easier.  He rode quickly down the main strip until he found a stable.  He found a man he assumed was the owner already busy at work feeding, cleaning, and taking care of the horses and the mules.  Harker left his horse with the man, paid for the day, and asked where to go to find that which most people would avoid. 

            “Anything in particular you looking for?” the business man asked.

            “If I were a dangerous man, where would I go?”

            “Are you asking me if you're a dangerous man?” he replied.

            “No, I'm asking where I'd go.”

            The man thought about it for a moment, weighing what this man might do against his ultimate responsibility for it.  His momentary confusion dissipated when Dillon tossed him a coin. 

            “Go to the Oasis.  It's at the end of the main strip.  You'll find what you're looking for there.”

            “Thanks,” Harker replied and walked off.

            “Whatever that is,” the man said quietly as he turned back to his work.

            Harker made it to the Oasis and went inside.  He found a man at the bar.  He asked for and received a room.  He went upstairs, found his room, and wasted went to sleep.  He dreamed of her.  It was a peaceful dream, though, and he didn't find himself full of doubts, jumping from dream to dream.  It was her, only her.  She didn't do anything, and he didn't interact with her.  She was just there.  Just her.  No one and nothing else but her. 

            He woke up just before noon.  He probably should have eaten something, but his mind focused on him, finding him, and getting his revenge.  He refused to wast time thinking about something so simple as food.  He walked over to his window and started his vigil.  He remained in his room that day, watching people come and go.  He didn't eat, his only sustenance the water he carried in his canteen.  He didn't see him, though.  The minutes turned to hours, but he didn't see him.  He started to lose patience and considered the possibility that he'd been misled.  He started work on a new plan to find him when he saw him walking through up to the Oasis as the sun started to set. 

            “It's time, it's finally time.”

CHAPTER IV

            Upon entering the Oasis, he signaled to two men, on in the right corner, and one in the left.  Each pointed upstairs.  He responded by raising on finger on his right hand and each nodded, mouthing the word alone.  He indicated to the man in the right corner, ordering him to go to the back.  The man did so, and quickly returned with two more men, each wearing the tin star of the law.  The man nodded when the three returned.  He then pointed to the man in the left corner, indicating that he go to the front.  The man in the corner did so and returned, like the other man, with two men wearing the mark of the law.  The six men looked at him, waiting for his man command.  He, too, wore the mark of the law, the tin star.  This mark made those who wore it different from those who did not.  That wasn't true for him, though.  He was different despite the star.  He didn't need it to make him different, and the others knew it.  That natural difference made him an obvious candidate for the tin star.  He didn't want it at first, fully aware that he had no need for it.  But the town needed him, and he was a man who couldn't say no to the responsibilities of the community.  And so, he reluctantly agreed, spending his time with the tin star hating it.  But he couldn't say no, it wasn't in him. 

            The man reached to his belt and touched his Carbine, a seven-shooter, feeling the reassurance flow through him.    He scratched the stubble on his chin, debating how to handle it.  He elected to sit all of his six foot frame at the center table.  He got up and walked to the table, his brown coat caught a gust of wind from the opening, and motioned to the people sitting there.  They scrambled away, and the man tossed his brown hat to the table, letting everyone know he had claimed it.  Not that he had to concern himself with that.  The Oasis was largely empty; the drunks, still sleeping off their hangovers, had yet to appear to start it over again.  Those who were present scattered to the corners of the Oasis when he came in, afraid of the trouble he might bring.  Of course, while they were afraid, they were not afraid enough to leave the comfort of the alcohol.  Fear can only drive a man so far from his comfort.

            The man took his seat, pulling his booted feet straight against the legs of the chair.  He indicated to the men who entered from the back of the Oasis.  That man, the man without the tin star, started up the stairs.  He moved quickly, but with control, desperate not to appear nervous before him.  He got up the stairs and out of the sight of him when he gave in, albeit briefly, to his nerves.  He was, after all, a young man, barely seventeen.  He knew hard work and didn't fear it, but he knew nothing about killing men, and feared it.  He also knew nothing about the man he was to meet and lead into a trap, nothing other than the rumors.  And, as such, he feared him.  He took a deep breath, dry heaved ever so slightly, and regained his control. 

            He started down the hallway, looking for the right room.  He came across it, and knocked, slightly.  Dillon heard the knock, and did not know how to respond.  He feared that the man had come for him and would now get the upper hand.  This was not the way he had planned it, or the way that he wanted it to go.  He wanted his confrontation, he wanted his revenge, and he wanted others to see it.  He'd be damned if this would be taken from him.  He heard another knock, pulled his weapon, and walked to the door.  He stepped to the side that the door wouldn't open to and said, “Yes?”

            “The man,” he started, “the man you've come for.  He's waiting for you.”

            “He is?”

            “Yes.  In the center table.  He's waiting.”

            Dillon's excitement overcame his rational thought.  He should have thought that no one in Junction would know him, much less what had brought him to the Oasis.  He should have recognized the trap that was being set for him.  But he had spent too much time tracking him down, too much seeking revenge to think clearly.  All he knew was that he had a chance for that which he had waited so long for, and he refused to wait any longer for it.  And this did make sense in its own way.  He ran it through his mind and yes, it did have a logic to it.  The man's guilt had likely overwhelmed him, so much in fact that he needed to confess what happened.  He needed to face his tormentor, face him and beg for forgiveness.  Forgiveness that he would not get.

            He turned from his hiding spot, pulled himself up to his full height, and holstered his Carbine.  Then he opened the door and went for his revenge.

CHAPTER V

            And he got his revenge.  He walked downstairs, saw the man he had hunted for all this time, and that man confessed his sin.  Confessed what he had done to her.  He confessed and begged forgiveness.  He pleaded, in total desperation to be allowed to keep that which was most precious, life.  The man came to his knees in fear, realizing that his life was no longer in his control, that he must ask someone else, someone with much more power than himself, to keep it.  And, in a perfect act of mercy, Harker let him keep it.  But not without a price.  He took his knife and cut the man's face.  “A reminder,”  Harker explained, “a reminder of what you did, what you did to her.”  The man did not object, and while it hurt the man, he did his best not to cry out in pain.  He did cry, yes, but the cry was that of  a man relieved, a man happy to have been granted what should naturally have been his, life.  And with that, the man ran away.  His work done, Harker collapsed to the floor in relief and exhaustion, and the men in the Oasis rushed to him, hoping that he was okay.

            “I did it,” he called out to her, “I've done what you wanted.”

            But she did not answer.  He called and called again, but she was not there, nor would she appear.  In terror and fear, he screamed her name.  But, again, she did not answer.  He opened his eyes, desperately searching for her.  He saw red about his heart and before he could make sense of how it managed to spread so quickly all about him,

CHAPTER VI

            “Get the body out of here,” the man said calmly, hiding a mix of anger and disgust.  The man pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his face, trying to stop the bleeding from Harker's knife.  The other men looked at each other, unsure of who had the responsibility for the dead body.  “Now!” the man yelled.  The hesitation ended and all six rushed over to carry the man away.  They picked him, nearly dropping him, and the man lost his patience.

            “One of you get the damned undertaker!”  Before one of the men could rush to the undertaker, the man grabbed the deputy nearest the door and pushed him roughly through it.  The man walked over to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from below the bar.  The tender knew better than to say anything for the man as he always paid.  The man grabbed a glass, too, and poured a drink.  He finished it in one gulp, and poured another, doing his best to keep his handkerchief pressed against his face.  He took that the second drink in three sips.  He poured another, but he did not drink it.  He held it in his left hand with his right hand pressed against his face.  He didn't notice when the undertaker arrived and took Dillon away.  By the time the undertaker left, the normal night crowd arrived, undeterred by the murder that had taken place; problems and bad memories did not drink themselves away.  No, that took work, effort.

            After the undertaker finished his work, one of the deputies walked up to the man.  “Sheriff, I'm, uh, well, is that cut okay?”

            “It's all right, Nate,” the man said calmly, “I've had worse.”

            “I'm sorry it happened this way, Sheriff, but you didn't have much of a choice.”

            “That don't make it easier, though.  That man used to be family.”

            “I know, Sheriff.”  The conversation ended as the two men went silent.  The Sheriff pulled away his handkerchief and found that the bleeding had more or less stopped.  He put his handkerchief away, let out a sigh and downed his last drink.  He pulled a few coins out of his right jacket pocket and placed them on the bar.  The tender nodded and the Sheriff and the deputy walked out of the bar.  As he left the bar, he saw a spot of blood that the undertaker missed.  Dillon occupied the Sheriff's mind.  “I'm sorry,” he said to her.

            “What's that, Sheriff?”

            “Nothing, Nate,” he answered, “Go on to the rest now.”  Nate walked off, thinking only of the Sheriff.  As Nate walked off, he thought of his ex-wife.  He thought of how she'd gone mad with fever and how he'd had to put an end to her.  He thought of the madness that consumed her, the madness that made her try to kill their livestock, kill their neighbors, and even him.  “I'm sorry,” he said again to her.  But she didn't listen.  She was mad at him, and she wouldn't answer.  And he couldn't blame her.  He'd killed her years ago out of mercy, and he'd killed her twin brother now because he'd had no damned choice.

            The Sheriff realized that he was standing in the middle of main street looking at the dirt in the road.  He looked up and saw the stars shining down him and the people of Junction.  A drop of blood fell from his face and landed in the dirt.  “You just give and give,” he said.