FORTITUDE
By: Heather F.
One more step...one more. Then perhaps another one...just one more...almost home....
Small clouds of dust briefly hung in the stagnant air marking the deliberate, halting movement.
The sun beat down; baking the earth into slightly curled plates of clay. Sage dotted the surrounding area, offering just enough ground cover to tangle shuffling feet. Shimmering waves of heat radiated off the desert floor for as far as the eye could see.
These eyes no longer gazed upward. The burned scalp of brown hair never raised itself to stare accusingly at the white sun that beat the earth with merciless intensity. The blood shot, swollen eyes never strayed from the few inches directly in front of the laced up boots. Boots that were two sizes too big. Boots that had creased toes and worn thin soles. Soles so thin that the radiating heat scorched the raw feet within the foot wear.
Not once did the walking man notice the discomfort of his blistering feet. He no longer felt the sun burn and blister his exposed neck. The skin had long ago formed huge water blisters that had leaked and shed their moisture. The sand and dust cut and scratched red irritated skin.
Tissue -- dried and cracked -- refused to bleed.
No hat protected the scalp. Nothing protected the fragile skin just under the flat, gritty, brown hair. The heat seemed to beat his head almost as if it could boil his brain in its own juices.
He had ceased to acknowledge the sand that lined his mouth. His tongue was swollen and thick within dry, arid cheeks. Sand worked its way in between teeth and under the wool-like tongue. His nostrils had dried out long ago. The air passages seemed constricted, fighting to draw in enough air. Dizziness and a pounding headache kept eyes from focusing clearly. Nausea persisted with vehemence.
The oversized homespun cotton shirt protected him from the relentless summer rays. But the damage had already been done. The large rough seams carved their mark in purplish burned shoulders. Water blisters had popped reformed and leaked again. Sand scratched its way into the raw flesh debriding sensitive tissue with every faltering step.
With no longer conscious thought, the feet skimmed and scuffed the ground.
The curled cracked clay gave way to a sandy gravel road. A road with ruts. A road that had been traversed frequently.
The walker never registered the change in environment. Tired, dry eyes saw nothing that seemed real.
The sage gave way to long wisps of bending prairie grasses. A few trees dotted the surrounding area in rebellion to their environment. Their promise of shade went unheeded by the dying traveler.
A town stood in the distance. A gateway. It stood like an oasis out here in the middle of this vast emptiness. The road led in a careless meandering manner over small knolls and down slight inclines. In an unrushed manner, the rutted road led toward this clap board shock of civilization.
Without gazing upward...without once raising an impossibly heavy chin off a scorched chest. The man trudged onward.
One more step...just one more...
Nathan wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Josiah leaned back in his saloon chair and nursed a sip of lukewarm beer. Sweat rolled in twin trails down the side of Larabee's face. Dust settled heavily in the area. No breeze stirred.
Flies seemed to spawn despite the summer day. They buzzed persistently in the background. They crawled across the backs of hands and tables. They clung to the rims of mugs and trailed over heated shoulders and arms. No one seemed to have the effort to shoo them away...not that it would have worked. Their constant hum no longer registered with those stewing in the heat wave.
Larabee shook his head in a short economical motion dislodging a fly trying to scavenge a spot on his cheek. The fly persisted to hum around his ear. The gunslinger seriously considered shooting the son of a bitch but figured it would be overkill. Damn, the flies' constant chatter and irritation could be worse than JD and Standish.
Perhaps Josiah was wrong . . . that damn gambler wasn't raised by wolves but by flies. Distracting as hell, always jawing and their usefulness hidden under layers of irritating movements.
Sanchez released a soft chuckle raising his glass to Chris as if reading his mind.
The simple passing of feet or shifting of position raised small plumes of fine particles. It clung greedily to any moist surface. It seemed as if man and beast alike found itself coated in a fine sheen of dust and dirt.
The building groaned in fatigue.
Jackson stared across the empty room toward the boardwalk. Long shadows stretched across unoccupied chairs and tables. The sun shone so brilliantly outside, that it made one squint just to gaze out the window. Dead flies dotted the sill. The gloomy confines of the saloon brought a welcomed relief to the relentlessly beating heat.
"They'll be fine, brother." Josiah's voice rolled like dry thunder across the scarred table.
Chris rubbed at his face, feeling the stubble of two day's growth and the grit of the ever-present sand.
"Just can't help think...." Nathan started to speak but tapered off, lost in his own thoughts. Sweat and energy seemed to evaporate together.
"Buck and Vin won't push in this heat -- he'll be fine." Larabee leaned back in his chair. His whiskey glass sat half finished on the table. The very act of moving toward it seemed monumental. The sticky oppression of his clinging clothes forced him to keep his distance from those around him. He felt trapped, claustrophobic...irritable. 'Was this how Vin felt when he had been in town too long?'
"I know Chris...I know...jist that he was so sick." Again Jackson's voice faded quickly in the dry heat. He kept gazing out the window.
Inez wiped glasses from behind the bar. Occasionally, she swiped at her brow and blew stray bangs out of her face. She heard the conversation and offered a silent prayer. The four regulators out on the trail needed extra guidance and care. No one foresaw such heat when they had left a few days ago.
"It's been a week, brother. He needed to git out of town just as much as Vin and Buck." Josiah placed his mug heavily on the table. The palms of his hands made the thick glass slick.
Ever since Ezra had opened his eyes that first morning after his fever broke, the conman had been uneasy. Crowded. Almost as if he were embarrassed or humiliated that he had fallen ill and worse yet had fallen under the necessary care of his six fellow lawmen. Josiah figured if Ezra had fallen due to an injury incurred by his peacekeeping profession then it would have been ok...excusable. But to just fall ill for no reason, it then fell under the auspices of unacceptable. Least ways for Ezra. Josiah could not completely follow the twisted logic but it made some sense.
Ezra had needed space away from prying eyes and well-intentioned inquiries. Like Vin, he just had to catch his breath and smooth his outward appearance before facing the town and its citizens again. As a result, Vin, Buck, JD and Ezra left for Clear Water for a little fun and relaxation.
Then the heat wave hit.
"If anything, JD will keep an eye on him." Larabee almost smiled at the thought. As with the sweat, the smile disappeared before it had a chance to settle. JD had been terrified by the hallucinations. He had all but run from the room when Standish had started shouting about bounty hunters, wrestling with Buck for a gun.
Jackson nodded, not in agreement but acknowledging that he had heard. But a week would not be enough to get over that type of fever. One needed more than a week to rebuild their strength, endurance would still suffer. This kind of heat could kill a healthy man. What about one still recovering from the throws of a debilitating sickness? One potent enough to cause hallucinations. Damn, he should have kept Ezra in town.
Inez stepped into the back room. She checked her stock. The heat wave would keep most close to their homes or in swimming holes. Not many would venture out today or the next. Dust pooled around her feet in small clouds thwarting her dusting efforts. She continued to wipe down the shelves anyhow. She flicked her cloth occasionally at the flies that landed on her stock. Senors Tanner and Wilmington would keep their friend safe. They would keep him from tiring himself out, protect him from this heat. By now, they would be in Clear Water probably enjoying the saloon there. Yes, perhaps that's what they were doing now....
JD curled in a ball trying vainly to protect his battered midsection. Another kick landed painfully in the back of his thigh. A twisted whimper escaped dry cracked lips. He squeezed his eyes closed and curled tighter into himself. Another kick landed, this time grazing the lower back. White-hot spears of pain shot up and down his spine. A stifled scream hallmarked his fear and pain.
"Leave'im alone you bastards," Buck's words were lisped over torn swollen lips. Molars had long ago gouged out large chunks of soft cheek tissue. His bottom teeth had erupted painfully through his bottom lip. With shackled feet he swung wildly at the monster that battered JD. The knife wound that had gouged out a section of lower thigh started bleeding freely. The dark stain that ran the lateral length of the pant leg began to spread.
Wilmington's furious cursing and frustrated twisting finally diverted the attention of the devil that was harassing JD. With a malicious smile, the captor gave one last parting kick to the 'kid' and stalked off laughing.
JD squeezed his eyes closed. He fought the tears that threatened to roll down blood splattered cheeks. Breath caught and choked in his tightening throat. He would not cry. He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt him, terrified him.
He would not shame Buck or Vin.
Dunne ignored Buck's pleas to roll over. He tucked himself further inward, steeling himself to gain control. Panic and helplessness flashed across his body and psyche like lightening on the open prairie. He bit his lip, chewed on his tongue and tried to recapture control of his breathing.
Tanner watched the group just a few yards from them. He tested his bonds again and again found himself trapped. Anger fired into fury. He closed his eyes for a brief second. Garnering control of his frustration, Vin promised revenge for all the wrong doings done today.
Wilmington kept his eyes on the kid. The world continued to gyrate out of control. His stomach knotted and rolled with sickening intensity. Sharp pains shot through his midsection preventing him from straightening his legs. Buck once again pleaded with JD to roll over. 'Just once, kid. Just once let me look at your face. Let me see you open your eyes.'
Wilmington ignored the empty spot next to him. He scrubbed out any sign that the gambler had once been trussed up next to him.
They had made an example of Standish. Walked him off into the desert and simply let him go. They had led him into the Salt Flats and left him. No hat, no canteen. They had left him to die under the brutal punishment of the sun.
The bastards.
Buck, Vin, and JD's fury had been cut short when JD had fallen victim to the brutality of one of the captors. Standish had gazed over his shoulder just in time to see Dunne crumble under the horrific assault of one of their guards.
The three lawmen had struggled to come to the aid of their youngest. The man leading Standish into the desert had merely urged his mount into a fast trot, dragging the gambler behind him.
Buck had prayed Standish had regained his feet.
Vin and Buck had struggled and fought to protect JD. In the end, it had worked but not without a taxing price.
Tanner had sat dazed with a gash that circumvented his forehead. Flies now worried at the wound, festering it. The bounty hunter paid no heed. Blood had streamed from both nostrils. He spat blood and tooth from his mouth.
Tanner never returned Wilmington's gaze.
Wilmington had watched with morbid fascination at the slow transformation of Tanner into something frightfully feral.
Buck had rolled and slid JD closer to himself with his legs.
The sun continued to bake the captives. They had sat tied hand and foot leaning against wagon wheels. The covered wagon offered them no protection from the sapping rays of the summer sun.
JD had kept his chin up in the beginning. Though his eyes had swollen shut, the young sheriff could not stifle his air of aggressive defiance. He would be tougher than those who were stalking him.
Buck had sat beside his friend marveling at Dunne's strength but hoped that someday JD would learn when to hide his fight. When would he learn to bluff?
Buck shook his memories of yesterday clear. He stared at JD's back and watched the kid fight for control. Wilmington swung his gaze toward the tracker.
At the front wheel, bleeding and quiet, Tanner stewed.
For the first time since meeting the quiet bounty Hunter, Buck Wilmington saw the raw fighter under the quiet compliance.
If they should fall today or tomorrow or even the next day, Vin Tanner would take some of them with him.
Buck recognized the lack of expression in the blue eyes. He had seen it a time a two himself in the mirror.
Tanner stared out toward the Salt Flats. Standish had a slim chance at survival. The gambler, however, had better odds than their captors.
The coarse rutted road gave way to a wide flat trail well traveled and well maintained. Feet slipped and shuffled unimpeded by old, caked ruts. The first buildings slipped by without notice. The black pinstripe legs continued to bend at the knee, the hip continued to work the leg forward, and the feet continued to land and arch.
The sun finally slid from the sky. The incessant broiling of tissue diminished. The light of day waned only slightly. This was lost on the weaving form faltering its way down the main street.
The booted feet hit a wood step. Forward momentum propelled a burnt shoulder into a worn post. With muscle memory all their own, the legs worked to lift the body up the step and onto the wood planks.
The scraping of heavy feet on the boardwalk drew no attention.
The citizens of Four Corners had taken refuge from the punishing sun in their homes.
With instincts all his own, the walker scuffed and tripped his way down uneven boards. Dirt and sand scraped and screeched under the abusive gait.
A shoulder leaned against a wall offering some support to weakening knees.
The wall disappeared.
The body fell sideways through swinging doors. Feet limped to recapture lost balance. Shaky legs long since over worked, flexed and strained muscles no longer able to give any more failed.
For a brief moment the burned dust covered body regained its lost balance. It wavered in the darkened entrance of the saloon.
No more steps.... didn't need another blasted, unforgiving step....
Muscles squeezed of their last drop of energy relaxed. Joints folded. The body simply slipped to the ground in a swirl of dust.
"Ezra!" Jackson flew from his chair knocking the seat over. He brushed past Josiah, pushing off the man's massive shoulders to garner more momentum.
Larabee pushed the brim of his hat off his eyes and gazed up just in time to see an oversized, white shirt collapse to the floor. The gunslinger leaped to his feet with Josiah a step ahead of him.
Nathan straightened the semi-conscious man on the floor. Dry heat radiated off Standish like a fever. Haunting images of weeks prior, sprang unbidden, to Jackson's mind.
"My God, brother, what happened?" Josiah knelt at the head of the gambler. He wiped clinging sand from the young man's cracked face.
Rope still clung desperately to the unbound wrists of the Southerner.
"We got to cool him down." Jackson tried to gather the smaller man in his arms. Larabee simply grabbed his legs and Sanchez shuffled under the heated shoulders. Together, they shimmied their burden outside. Peering over his shoulder, Sanchez skirted around the hitch rail off the boardwalk and stopped next to the trough.
Larabee followed, shuffling awkwardly, trying to match the frantic pace. They gently placed the gambler in the trough.
Nathan immediately knelt beside them and started scooping water over the burned scalped. "He's got a mouth full of sand," his whispered observations made Larabee swear.
Standish had thought he had found a water hole. Had for a brief moment thought he drank fresh cold water. The sparkling clear waters that only a delirious mind would see. Instead he had taken in mouthfuls of sand. How many before he realized he choked on dirt and grit?
Chris took note of the man half-dead in the trough. A fine hand covered in grayish dust hung over the side of the rough wooded trough. The shirt and boots did not belong to the southerner. Ropes had dug and furrowed into the skin of his wrists. The ropes had been cut. A knotted piece still clung to the torn flesh of the wrist.
Josiah lifted the limp hand by the shirtsleeve, intending to drop it into the trough. Chris laid a hand on Sanchez's shoulder halting the movement.
Larabee peeled the thick braid from the gambler's skin. The tissue tented and pulled upward. Blood and serum seeped into the area. The gunslinger held it in his hand. He turned, facing down the main street and stared out at the open prairies that surrounded the town. He ignored the bustle of Josiah and Nathan, drowned out their worried observations and exclamations.
Sweat rolled down Chris' face as he fingered the blood-dried rope.
Where were the others?
