DISCLAIMER: I did not create these characters. I was inspired by the film "The Quick and the Dead," whose writers, producers, or whoever, own Cort and Herod. I've taken some liberties with them, but I do not intend to use them in any malicious way.
"The Reckoning"
by Allie
Chapter 1
Cort squinted up into the noon-day sun. High noon, he thought ruefully. How many times had he faced another man at that time of day... But no, that part of his life was behind him. Around him he could hear the children singing, their angelic voices mercifully turning his thoughts away from the past to the present. It was Good Friday, a day for penance and atonement. Fasting was easy when food was always scarce anyway, Cort thought, and almost smiled. He seldom ate much, preferring to save what little food there was for the children. They were growing, after all, and needed nourishment. Cort cared little about his own deprivation, preferred it, in fact. He knew that he did not deserve material comfort. For he was a sinner, a sinner of the worst caliber. His crime haunted him day and night, despite all of the good he tried to do. For Cort, every day was a day for penance, but his soul never gained any peace from it. Nor did he deserve to, he thought. Even with the children -- the sweet, innocent children who looked upon him with their simple love and devotion -- even as he surveyed all of the good he had accomplished, especially then, he could never forget all of the evil that had come before. And he could never rid his head of the voice that plagued him during the day and haunted him at night. Even now, a dozen children's lilting melodies were not enough to erase that harsh, gravelly voice from his mind, counting down to Cort's damnation. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.
Chapter 2 One.
Cort's finger squeezed the trigger of the sleek, shiny Colt revolver. Milliseconds later his eyes registered an explosion of red before the man's lifeless body fell to the ground. It was Cort's first murder, and he felt surprisingly little remorse.
"Nice shot, kid," came the voice from somewhere behind him.
Cort turned to see the grinning visage of John Herod.
"I knew you had it in you, Cort."
Herod was pleased, and Cort felt a wave of pride wash over him. This was, after all, *the* John Herod, one of the most feared men in the territory -- hell, in the country for that matter. Cort knew that Herod had taken a shine to him, ever since that first day in San Clemente. Was it only a week ago? Cort felt as if it had been twenty years since he had wiped the dust of that shit-kicker little border town off his feet, and he would be damned if he would ever go back. Unless it was as a great man, rubbing his wealth into the faces of those bootlicking assholes. Riding into town on the finest stallion ever seen in those parts, like the roan that Herod rode now. He wouldn't even stop, just ride his horse through the central street looking down imperiously at the people who had made his life miserable ever since his father had died and Cort had had to go to work in the saloon. Well, he'd come back and buy that fucking saloon, then burn it to the ground. See how Salazar would like that, the prick. Thinking his daughter Maria was too good for Cort. She was a Mexican, for Christ sake! Let her marry Randall. Cort would ride up to their house and see her chasing after the twelve half-breed brats she'd had, see her once beautiful face gone haggard with constant worry and fatigue, and he'd look down on her and say, "This is the life you've chosen, Maria. You could have come with me when I asked you to. I would have shared everything with you. I would have made you a wealthy woman. I would have killed anybody who called you a Mexican whore like your husband does. But you chose this life instead. I hope you're happy." Then he would ride away without giving her the chance to beg him to take her with him.
"Ready to go, kid?"
Cort nodded. "Yes, Mr. Herod."
He got on his horse and decided to put Maria and San Clemente out of his mind. He was getting quite good at purging his thoughts of unpleasant memories. He rode past the dead man, the one he had just killed, and realized that he had already forgotten the man's name. He wondered if he had ever known it.
Chapter 3 "Padre, yo tengo mucho hambre." Cort looked down at the young boy tugging on his cloak, and could not hide his smile.
"I know that you're hungry, Juan, but we're fasting."
"Why?" the boy pressed.
Cort lifted the boy into his arms and said softly, "Because it pleases God. This is the day that His son was killed. To remember his suffering we go without food, in sympathy. Do you understand?" Juan nodded slowly.
Cort placed him gently back onto the ground. The boy began to walk away, then turned and said quickly, "But we eat tomorrow?"
Cort laughed, a sound the children seldom heard from their pastor. "Yes, we eat tomorrow Juan. And the day after that we'll have an Easter feast."
The boy skipped off happily to rejoin his fellow fasters, eager to tell them that he had made the padre laugh. As Cort watched him go he felt the familiar mixture of emotions he now believed would never leave him: happiness and shame; warmth and guilt. The more he grew to love the children the more unworthy he felt of receiving their love in return. And the more he feared that they would be taken away from him in retribution. For even as he told the children that God was loving and forgiving, he could not quite bring himself to believe it. Not for him. Not after what he'd done.
Cort's thoughts were disrupted as he perceived a pair of riders approaching the mission in the distance. That was odd, he thought. He had built his mission in Hermicillo, in the middle of nowhere. They seldom had many visitors. An old feeling returned to Cort, the prickle of apprehension in the base of his neck. The feeling that told him that trouble was coming. Cort shook his head, trying to clear it, told himself he was being paranoid. Old habits were hard to break. These men could be in need of shelter, or food, or medical attention. Either way, it was his duty to provide them with what he could. He wondered if they would want to eat. He doubted that they were religious men, but it was Good Friday. He decided that, if they asked, he would explain about the religious fast, but tell them that they were welcome to eat if they pleased. He nodded to himself. Yes, that was the best course of action. Still, something seemed amiss. Cort could not completely dismiss the feeling of foreboding that threatened to overcome him. Two solitary riders, heading directly for his mission. Two riders...Cort suddenly realized why he felt so anxious; the situation was eerily familiar, the start of a nightmare from which he still had not awoken.
Chapter 4 "How bad is it, John?"
Herod let out a bitter laugh. "Pretty bad. Lucky those federal marshals are such piss-poor shots or we'd both be dead."
"We have to find somewhere to hide out. If we ride much longer we will be dead."
"Always the practical thinker, aren't you, Cort?" Herod smiled over at his companion through teeth gritted against the pain. His once white shirt was now stained a dark crimson. Fuck, he thought, I paid $25 for this shirt in San Antonio. The price had originally been $50, but he had found that the merchant was quite open to persuasion. Herod's kind of persuasion, that is. He liked to have the finest of everything, but it pained Herod to the core to ever pay full price for anything.
He looked over at Cort. He liked to think of Cort as his protege, and would never admit to himself that, if it came down to it, Cort might just be faster than he was. No, Herod was the master and Cort the student, though a damn good one. If it had been anyone else but Cort with him today, Herod knew he'd be dead. Even if he'd had three other men, he still might be dead. Cort was the best gunfighter he'd ever ridden with, and besides that, he'd actually grown to like the man. Yes, Herod had plans for Cort, plans that did not include bleeding to death in the middle of Dogfuck, Texas.
"John, look." Cort gestured ahead. "I think it's a mission. Maybe we can hole up there for a while."
"I don't think we have any other choice." And neither will the padre who runs it, Herod added to himself silently. He knew Cort was capable of cold-blooded murder, but doubted if he was completely beyond the pale yet. Well, you will be after this, my boy, Herod thought. One way or another.
Chapter 5 Cort opened his eyes and saw the padre holding a pitcher of water. He gave the kind man a smile.
"Buenos dias, padre."
The padre smiled back. "Buenos dias. And how do you feel today?"
"Better. Stronger." He replied. The padre smiled and nodded. "How's John?" Cort asked. Herod was taking longer to recover than Cort. Herod's wounds had been far worse than his, plus Cort had youth on his side.
"He is getting well. He should be able to leave in a few days' time." The padre paused. "And you will leave with him?"
"Of course." Cort said. "Why wouldn't I?" The padre looked at Cort, hard. Cort, who had stared into the eyes of hell without a flinch, found that he could not meet the man's gaze.
"Cort," the padre began, softly but firmly, "You have been here ten days. You and your friend. You have been honest with me about your past, your deeds, your life. You seem to me a different sort of man than Herod. Yet this is the life you choose?"
"This is the life I've chosen." Cort replied, defensively. The padre smiled sadly and shook his head.
"You think that's how it works? You choose once and it's over, unchangeable? Cort, every day is a gift from God. Every day he gives you another chance to change your mind, to mend your ways, to choose His way. Listen to me Cort, this is something I believe to the core of my soul - there is always forgiveness if you ask for it. There is always another chance to be saved, each morning when the sun rises anew."
"That's just beautiful, padre. Sheer poetry. Don't you agree, Cort?" Neither Cort nor the padre had noticed Herod standing in the doorway. He was smiling, but Cort knew him better than that - Herod was angry, and when Herod got angry people usually died. Cort suddenly felt very apprehensive. He felt the familiar prickle at the base of his neck. He knew that something very bad was going to happen, and desperately hoped for some way to avoid it.
He forced a chuckle out of his mouth and tried to sound nonchalant as he said, "Padre here's tellin' me all about salvation. I think he gets time off in Purgatory for every soul he saves." Cort swallowed hard. "Course, I think he picked the wrong man to preach at this time, eh John?" Herod's gaze never left Cort's face. Cort thought he could feel those eyes penetrating his brain, reading his thoughts, uncovering his lies. As always, his hand was poised to reach for his gun at a split second's notice. He only wished that he wouldn't have to shed blood in the mission, in front of the padre. Christ, what's happening to me?, he thought. He suddenly realized something rather surprising; he had begun to care again. Right now he cared about the padre, wanted to protect him from Herod. Christ, was he really willing to kill Herod -- the man who had practically raised him, who had taught him everything about gunfighting, who had saved him from a miserably ordinary life and given him excitement, danger, and money - was he really going to kill Herod to save this padre that he had met ten days ago?
Even though Cort's brain was still debating, his hand told him that the answer was yes. If Herod moved, Cort's hand was going to grab his gun and kill him.
Herod's face suddenly changed as he smiled good-naturedly. It was as if he had never appeared any other way.
"I guess the padre's just doing his job. Wouldn't be a very good man of God if he didn't try to save the sinners, would he Cort?"
Cort relaxed. "No, I guess not." He smiled back at John, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling of imminent catastrophe. Something bad was going to happen, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Chapter 6 "Please, at least let me see to the children..." Cort pleaded, but he was cut off when Foy's right hand connected with his jaw. Cort was knocked down into the dirt, which covered his cloak. He wiped at his face, and saw that blood mingled with the dirt on his hand, creating a dark sludge.
Cort knew that these were Herod's men, as cold and unfeeling as he himself used to be. They cared nothing for the welfare of the children; they only cared about pleasing Herod. Foy leaned down until his face was inches from Cort's.
"Sorry, Reverend" he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "I guess you of all people know how Mr. Herod is."
Squatting in front of him, Cort realized that Foy had left his holstered gun open to him. All Cort had to do was reach over a snatch it. Then he could kill these men who were threatening his life and his children's. It would be easy, child's play to a man as skilled as Cort. Cort's hand itched to move, to hold a gun again, feel its smoothness, the power of the weapon right before his target was annihilated. His finger wanted to squeeze a trigger once again, to put the otherwise functionless piece of metal to its proper, its only use. A gun was meant to be shot, and if Cort ever held a gun again, he knew that he would fire it. He knew it in a part of himself that he didn't want to admit still existed; a part that he had tried to bury; a part that had once committed an unspeakable sin; a part that had damned Cort's soul; a part that wanted to kill again. Cort's hand moved, but instead of reaching for the gun, Cort crossed himself.
"Father, please have mercy on my soul, forgive a penitent sinner. Have mercy on the children You entrusted to such an unworthy man. And have mercy on the men who are about to sin against You. Amen."
Foy and Ratsy laughed. Cort wanted to hurt them, but he had sworn that he wouldn't. He had promised God and himself that he would never sin again, and he hadn't. Not since the day he had damned his soul to hell...
Chapter 7 As Cort fixed the last strap on his horse's saddle, he felt something resembling relief for the first time in days. He and Herod were leaving the mission, and whatever terrible event he feared had not come to pass.
He had been a bundle of raw nerves recently, and he knew that Herod had noticed. He noticed everything, from a nickel missing from the day's "earnings" to the potential of an very angry young man in San Clemente, itching for some kind of action. Well, Cort had gotten his action, hadn't he? Even now he was longing to go, to be out of this place and on the fastest road away from the mission. It wasn't that he didn't like it here; in fact, there was a part of him that almost wanted to stay. The truth was, the padre had spoken to a place in him that Cort had been very close to forgetting about. The padre had reminded him of his soul. He didn't know what that meant for his future with Herod, or if he would even have one. Maybe some day he could come back here and talk to the padre, just the two of them, without having to worry about Herod's erratic impulses. But he had no time to dwell on what lay ahead. He tried to focus all of his energy on getting through the next ten minutes. His always practical brain told him that he had to get Herod as far away from the padre as possible. The closer that thought came to achieving reality, the happier Cort would be.
Chapter 8 "I think that's everything," Cort said as he turned to Herod.
"Not quite. There's one last item of business that needs to be seen to." Herod's eyes were cold and sharp, like jagged pieces of steel. "It's back inside."
Cort felt his neck prickle and his stomach drop, but he followed Herod back toward the mission. He felt as if he were a pallbearer at his own funeral. As they walked through the doorway, Herod turned to him and said, "I think you know what you have to do." He motioned his head toward the padre.
"I don't have to do anything, John. I have a choice, and I won't do it. I won't kill him." Cort could tell from his eyes that Herod was enraged, but the rest of his face showed no emotion.
He slowly, deliberately, drew his gun and pointed it at Cort's head. In a voice that sounded for all the world like Satan himself, Herod said, "That's fine Cort. You do have a right to choose. And I know you'll choose life over death. If you don't shoot him by the time I count down from ten, I'll blow your free-to-fucking-choose brains out." He began to count. "Ten. Nine. Eight."
Cort felt a wave of panic engulf his body and his mind. He turned to the padre, expecting to see him pleading with Cort for his life. Instead, the padre was kneeling, eyes heavenward, murmuring the Our Father and seemingly oblivious to the drama that was playing out in his kitchen.
"Seven. Six. Five."
Cort's mind raced. He knew that sick fuck Herod would kill him, then kill the padre for good measure. There had to be a way out of this. Over and over his mind repeated, a way, a way, a way.
"Four. Three. Two." Cort's thoughts stopped. There was only one way.
Acting purely on instinct and adrenaline, Cort drew his gun and fired a round into the head of the kneeling priest. His eyes went from the body of the priest to the gun in his hand, his mind failing to make the connection. Back and forth, back and forth, priest to gun, gun to priest. The roiling confusion did not cease until he heard a sound that brought the entire episode into crystal clear focus: John Herod was laughing.
Chapter 9 Cort watched impotently as flames engulfed the mission he had worked so hard to build. He realized that it was finally time to pay for his sins. He had cheated God, and now God, the ultimate bookkeeper, had come collecting.
"Where are we going?" he asked wearily of his captors. He didn't really expect an answer.
"Redemption." Foy grunted.
Redemption, Cort thought. He didn't think that was possible.
THE END
Return
to Illuminated Fan Fiction
Return
to Crowe Illumination
Return
to Crowe Illumination