The Seer And The Stetson

Come to the River

Rain fell in thick sheets obscuring his sight further, in the black of a starless night. Drenched clothing clung to his frigid skin, chilling him to the bone.  A dense layer of mud made the road beneath him an impassible boggy mass.

The mare sunk with each step, struggling to pull free and take the next. Her pace slowed considerably from exhaustion. River pulled at the reins, giving a quick kick to her flanks. Urging the horse onward, she pushed through the mud on shaky legs. They'd been riding for days without food nor water. He and ole Betty had been together for a coon's age. It hurt him to know what he'd have to eventually do to his old friend.

The wind picked up, forcing River to clutch at his wet coat but the sudden move sparked a jolt of searing pain. A wound festered for days on his side. He couldn't stop to tend it. His only choices were to ride on or wind up stone cold dead. He'd done Clyde Puckett, leader of the Utter gang, an ill turn, and took a bullet to his side for all his trouble. Now, the devil himself was hot on his heels. If he didn't find somewhere to hunker down soon, his fat would be in the fire.

A faint light flickered in the distance, drawing his notice. As River drew nearer he could see a wagon hitched to a tree. A fire was lit in a cave in the mountainside, a few paces off the trail. Glancing over at the wagon, it was unlikely they were Natives. He just hoped and prayed they were the goos Christian sort who would help a man in need.

A shadow stepped out into the rain. The light danced around the figure casting an alluring silhouette. River smiled. He was like a dog in heat when it came to women. His charm could disarm even the toughest of old schoolmarms. 

"Evening, ma'am, I's wonderin' if I could get a bit of help? I'm in a bad way." He uttered, gripping his side. The pain was unbearable. A chill shot down his spine. A fever would soon set in. He didn't have much time left.

The shadow woman raised hands, bracing a rifle on her shoulder. "I'll only tell you this one time. Turn and go back the way you came."

River's eyes squinted in the dark barely making out the framing of a shoulder-length afro, big, bold, and beautiful. The closer he got the darker that hair seemed. As if it drew in the darkness around it. It poured down her shoulders as black as ink on parchment.

He was finally close enough to see her face. She was negro and very pretty indeed. A straight nose with a blunted tip and wide nostrils sat between two high cheekbones. With her face pressed against the side of the rifle, lush full lips pouted at him. Sharp brown eyes narrowed on him as she drew back the hammer of the Winchester.

 "I mean you no harm Ma'am-Miss," He corrected. Given her looks she couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen years. 

"Humph," She sounded with an air of contempt, "Mister, I seen you coming a mile off. Imma tell you this last time, hear. Turn that horse around and get." She seethed. 

Being on the business end of a woman's rifle was not a place River wanted to be. Usually, when he found himself there, he knew what he'd done to deserve it. He felt the warm liquid squeeze between the clenched fingers around his coat. There was no time left. 

"Please, Miss. I need your help." He pleaded. His mare took a single step forward. A sudden deafening noise cracked past his ear, there was a burst of red in the darkness as River was swallowed by a sea of unconsciousness.