Hart Grissom and Wyoming Slim
September 29th, 1859
Northern Texas, United States of America
It had been little over a week since their encounter with the gypsies and their witch, neither of them had spoken to the other about it. Instead, they treated it like a dream that they had had the misfortune of sharing. Though Wyoming found clarity from the encounter and carried on as if he was filled with new purpose and brought a whole new life. Hart only bore an even heavier dread about him since resuming their trek. Wyoming tried not to mind but he was curious by nature with little regard for social walls or boundaries.
"What's got you so down partner?" Wyoming asks.
"Nothing," Hart responds quietly.
"Come on, you haven't been your usual self since we found those people in the canyon. Was it something she said to you?"
"No."
"Was it something she did?"
"Leave it," Hart replies, a snarl now engrossing his face.
"Was it something I did?"
"I said leave it."
Wyoming sits back on his saddle and ponders for a moment before resorting back to silence. A majority of the night carried on this way as they made camp, had dinner and prepared to rest for yet another long day of riding ahead. And just as Wyoming began to grow tired he heard Hart mutter something under his breath, just barely audible but loud enough to hear it.
He said one word, "God."
"God?" Wyoming asks.
"That woman spoke as if she knew things, spoke as if she knew me... told me I need to believe." Hart trails off as he stares into the fire.
"Believe in what?" Wyoming asks.
Hart remains fixated on the flames flickering above the burning wood, he sits muttering lowly to himself for several minutes before responding, "I think she means I need to believe in God again... I was a preacher, in a small town in Texas called Pocane, I had own my chapel and everything."
"So that's why you wear the..." Wyoming asks pointing to Hart's clerical collar.
Hart nods and then continues, "There was a young woman, Mary Wright, she had a sick brother that was nearing death." Hart pauses to clear his throat as he lingers on the memory of her face, "... There was... a degenerate in town, Ned. Always causing trouble for everyone there, loudmouthed, constantly beat his wife and children. He broke into her home, killed her brother and beat her next to his still bleeding body."
"Jesus..." Wyoming mutters.
"Now I only have faith in one thing. That men can and will do evil. It's up to us to avenge it because we're the only ones who will." Hart responds he then rolls into his bedding and goes to sleep.
Wyoming stays up a while watching the sparks dance off into the air from the fire pit. For the first time, he felt some sense of common ground between him and Hart. He awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting his direction.
"Morning. I made ya some." Hart says reaching forward and setting a plate near Wyoming.
It was somewhat of an oddity as Hart had not even offered to cook for the two of them once on their journey. He typically ate cold beans directly from the can or other assortments in a similar fashion. But it was one that Wyoming did not care to question, he was too tired and too hungry to pursue it. They ate their breakfast and packed their camp in silence. Their mares slightly paced back and forth under them as they peered into the horizon before them.
"How far do you reckon to Arkansas?" Asks Wyoming.
"Not far, week, maybe two. We just head northeast."
With that, they were off. The dust clouded around them as their spurs dug into their horse's sides. The sun was scorching, even with the chill in the air, there was little one could do to combat its intensity other than find shade under the brim of a hat. No clouds in the sky and nothing around to help cast a shadow, barely anything but the open desert plains around them. But their eyes are firm on the horizon and they press on through the challenge the desert provided. The winds grew colder as they made their way north, the land changed as well. It became surrounded by large spires and canyons of red clay. They stood so tall that you could not see the horizon without staying close and following the tops of the ridgelines. To the west, a large mountain range took shape against the sky as it stretched far into the distance.
"See that?" Hart says with the sun in his eyes as he motions to the mountain range.
"What about it?" Wyoming responds.
"Means we're almost out of Texas."
Wyoming gazes back to the mountains with relief, finally some sign of their journey's progress. They continued following the trails northeast as they made their way to Arkansas. There was very little on this side of the world other than sky and earth. It was rare to run into anything but the occasional passing lizard or roaming varmint, or the birds floating above. Nothing but desert as far round as the eye could see. The air dry and clouded in dust, it left the lips parched, cracked and bleeding. On their seventh day of riding they come to a mired swampland that encompasses everything to the northern valley ahead. An unusual sight in their journey so far, and a sign they were leaving the desert.
"What is that?" Wyoming asks with a nervous tone.
"I've heard tell of this place. The Long Marsh they call it, it's said to be haunted." Hart replies.
"Haunted?"
"I've also heard that it's Indian territory," Hart says as his horse kicks up the dirt beneath him.
"That'd be worse wouldn't it?"
"It is... but it's also the fastest way to Arkansas."
"So we risk it then?"
"If you want to find the Hetleys." Hart says lingering a stare to Wyoming.
Wyoming responds with a nod and they ride forth into the fog, they keep a light pace being careful to lead their horses around the sumps and pits of mud. The air was thick with moisture and the fog so dense they could barely make out even ten feet around them. Something was unsettling about traversing through this wetland. It felt strange, whereas through the desert it felt empty and lonesome, here it felt as though they were being watched. Once they entered the fog that was the end of their sense of direction. They continued straight the best they could while trying to make out any landmarks around them to no avail. There was little they could do even to see from where they came, they were lost to the marsh.
"You see a goddamned thing in this?" Hart hollers holding his arm out in front of him.
"No," Wyoming replies.
Hart's horse dips catching a hoof in a hole.
"You good?" Wyoming asks as he rides up next to him.
"Yeah, think so." Hart says back as he pats his horse's neck, "Lucky she kept her footing."
The two of them regain their direction and continue before hearing a loud hooting echoing out from the distance. Their nerves stiffen as they stare around them feeling the crushing hopelessness of seeing anything but the fog. Hart kicks his heels into his horse and Wyoming follows as they gallop through the swamps. Eventually, the fog scatters just enough for them to catch glimpse of a wall formed out of the earth. They follow it in hopes of it leading to an exit from this quagmire.
"How could anyone survive out here?" Wyoming asks Hart staring at their surroundings.
"Maybe they've adapted somehow," Hart says.
Suddenly a large black blur whirls out of the fog with incredible speed. It flies and slices into Hart's shoulder. They can both see a large and shiny black stone chipped and carved away to form a blade fastened to a thick wooden stick with leather. Hart yanks the makeshift ax out of his shoulder and quickens his horse's pace. Out of nowhere they are pelted with arrows, some miss and bounce off the dirt wall behind them. Three hang off of Wyoming's horse with several more in his arm and leg. Hart and his horse have even more sticking from their flesh.
The hooting and howling start again, now echoing from seemingly everywhere, louder and closer, disembodied voices hiding in the mists. The earth wall to their right breaks off and disappears into the murk. Again they are left in the open with no inclination to their direction. Their hearts beat like drums, cold sweat drips down their neck and fear fills every inch of them. The growing presence of death surrounding them, they could feel it closing in. Wyoming rides on Hart's tail keeping up with him as best he can without losing him to the smog and mists.
"Hang tight, we gotta be gettin' clos...," Hart yells out before a dark figure appears and abruptly jumps into him, knocking him down from his horse.
Wyoming rides off vanishing from Hart's sight, his horse rode off as well, he was left stranded in the fog. He stands to his feet seeing the man before him, an Indian covered with black tar smeared roughly over his body. It was hardened and cracked and spread unevenly from his head to his toe. He nearly jumped to his feet and within seconds was again charging at Hart. As the man approaches Hart draws his steel knife. The man throws a small stone blade into Hart's shoulder, just inches from the wound he already sustained. The man lunges at Hart sending them both rolling into the mud. They lock arms holding back each other's attacks as Hart pushes his knife closer to the man's ribs. The Indian shoves his knee into Hart's side causing him to falter and at that moment he digs his teeth into the base of Hart's neck. As the man gnaws and tears at Hart's skin he finds his knife in the dirt and thrusts it into the man's ribcage stabbing him repeatedly until his bite loosens and he rolls over limp. Suddenly the hooting and hollering stop, only the bubbling of the muddy waters and the croaking of frogs remain. He could feel them watching him, though they were nowhere to be seen.
Hart manages to stumble to his feet as he tries to catch his breath in the thick and hot smog that cloaks him. He lets out several hacks of phlegm as he tries to battle the feeling of suffocation from the heat and moisture. Every rasping breath felt hoarse and scratchy. Each step plummets his feet into the muck and nearly swallows him whole in the murky puddles of mud and bog water. He is careful to avoid the sumps as he looks for any sign of direction at all. Like a phantom another tar-covered Indian appears and lunges at Hart, knocking him to the ground again, before vanishing back into the mists. His heart racing, he attempts to prepare himself, he readies his knife in his right hand and his revolver in the other. Each step is placed yet even more cautiously now. His pace slows, he watches for even the slightest movements in the wisps of mist and smoke. But it is of little worth. It was damn near impossible to gather even the faintest idea of their movements. Their footsteps were silent, no yells when they attacked... nothing, just the air gliding off their stone blades as they fly out from the shroud around him.
Again another Indian jumps out from the haze, a woman this time, though there was little to discern that as her body is also covered in the hardened black tar. She shoves a blade into Hart's leg and he lets out a yelp while he fights the woman off him.
"Get off me you goddamn barber's cat!" Hart yells, pushing the woman off of him and then tackling her to the ground.
The two lock on the sludge as Hart attempts to drive his knife into her neck. He pushes the knife down with all his force and it hits a patch of the hardened tar, the blade barely pierces it before it slips off to the right and into the muck. They both grunt and groan in the blackish-brown sludge before the woman kicks Hart in the groin and gets his knife. She stands and as she goes to leap at him Hart brings up his revolver and blows her back in a splatter of mud and blood. Hart retrieves his knife and begins to wipe the grime from his face before two more of the Indians appear and pounce on him, knocking his gun out of his hand and into the mud.
They beat on him relentlessly, their kicks felt like bricks slamming into his ribcage. They force him down, clenching his arms back and shoving him into the mud. His vision turns to black as his face is pressed into the mix of bog water and sludge, the grimy mud fills his nostrils and he does everything he can just to hold his breath. The other moves off of Hart's back releasing him from the clasp of the mud, he takes several exasperated breaths trying to spit and shake the grunge from his face. One of the tar men approaches holding his dark stone dagger in the air.
Just as the Indian begins to strike, two shots ring out from the fog around them and he falls over dead. Another few shots echo out and the other Indian flies into the sludge. Hart gets to his feet and recovers his gun before Wyoming rides out of the mist.
"Get on! I found the way out!" Wyoming yells as he holds his hand out to Hart.
Hart climbs onto his steed and they ride off through the bog. The hooting and shrieks fill the air again, this time in greater number. A barrage of arrows flies at them in a flurry from all directions as they ride as fast as they can out of the mire. A dull pain radiates through Hart's ribs as he recovers from their kicks, they were stronger than they seemed, almost frighteningly so.
"How far out?" Hart asks managing little more than a whisper through the pain.
"What?" Wyoming yells back.
Hart musters all his strength and yells, "How far?"
"Just ahead," Wyoming responds.
They ride around a large bend in the sidewall to their right and from nowhere another of the tar-men leap out of the fog at the two and their horse. Wyoming draws his revolver with lightning speed and unloads two more slugs, sending the man falling to the ground. Wyoming holsters his gun and retakes the reigns and leads them out of the swamps.
It was another mile or two before they truly made it out of the fog, the echoes of the Indian's shrieking howls urged caution to make it another ten before setting up camp. Little was said that night, they both recoiled at the thought of what they had bore witness to. Barbaric is a word, but not savage enough. They were more animal than human, to seep hot tar onto another's body. Was it a ritual? Protection? Neither of them knew for certain. They woke early the next morn, before sun up. That is to say that they slept at all. They awoke to near every bellowing wind and snapping twig that made a sound in the night. They were low on supplies, with Hart's horse running off, and unsure of even where they were. They packed camp in exhaustion and hunger and got back to the ride. Everything was a blur once they left the fog, the landscape blended around them as they went further on trying to find their way. It was near three days before Hart made more than a grunt or groan. They were dehydrated and hungry with little else than a few bits of bread and no water left in the canteen. It was morning when they entered down into a cool valley that was tucked away behind several rolling hills that formed a basin covered in green grass and high trees. They struggle to keep their balance as they sway with the motion of the horse's trot. Hart pats Wyoming's shoulder,
"Stop, let me down." He says in a gruff and dry voice.
"You gotta piss?" Wyoming asks.
"Just let me down."
Wyoming pulls the reigns and his horse stops in its tracks, Hart slides down off the large brown mare and drops to his knees as he scrounges through the dirt.
"What'ya doin' down there?" Wyoming asks from atop his horse.
"Devil's Glow..." Hart mutters as he picks and holds a small flower from the dirt and holds it up to Wyoming. Its stalk is covered in tiny prickly thorns and its pedals a brilliant mixture of orange, red and yellow, "It's native to Arkansas, looks like we've crossed the border... assuming we didn't get too far off course, we should be nearing Montrose soon, or at least somewhere close to it."
"How do you know so much about the land?" Wyoming asks as he helps Hart back onto the horse.
"Spent enough time out here I reckon."
"Hm." Wyoming murmurs while staring into the sunset.
Some six miles later, as the day shifted into its twilight hours just before dusk, they came across something on the road. Three Indians covered in ragged clothes on their knees surrounded by several men. They held their hands out cupped with desperation in their eyes. The men taunt and yell taunts and threats at them.
"What's that?" Wyoming asks as they approach.
"Nothing good," Hart responds almost to himself.
As they ride up one of them notices them and turns to attention with a half hazard look and shakily draws his rifle on them. The other men soon follow in suit and the shaky one begins to speak,
"Stop right there!" He shouts, "State your business!"
"We're just passing through," Wyoming responds.
The man cocks his rifle and angrily shouts again, "Shut your goddamn mouth boy! State your business or be shot, why is this one leading you along?"
"I'm sick! Dehydrated, we're just looking for a town." Hart says from behind Wyoming.
At that the men lower their weapons, the little one with a wispy beard then speaks, "Then move on through, the town's about two miles that direction."
The men then kick the youngest Indian down into the dirt. They resume yelling and threatening them waving the barrels of their guns in their faces. As they pass by Hart draws his revolver and fires on the three men. They each collapse around the three Indians, a woman and two children, a young boy and a younger girl. Hart slides off the back of the horse and approaches them. The woman holds her arms around her children protecting them from the strangers. He slowly holsters his revolver and holds his hands up. He then walks over to the men and removes their coats. He struggles as he takes their clothes and money and gives them to the Indians. The woman hesitantly helps him and takes them and then wraps her children in the clothes. She turns back to Hart with a gracious look in her eyes and then goes to walk away.
"Wait," Hart says remembering something.
She stops and turns back with wary curiosity. Hart walks back to their horse and removes what food is left in their saddlebags. A can of beans and two pieces of bread, he walks back over to the woman and gives her the food. Her eyes fill with tears, though her face dons a stern expression, and she nods to Hart. She then returns to her children and walks away.
Hart climbs back up onto the horse and Wyoming presses his feet lightly her, she begins to trot down the road.
"That was the last food we had," Wyoming says.
"We'll get more in town."
They arrived in Montrose in the dead of the night. It was a small logging town, somewhat established. As they rode up to the main road they could see a light gleaming out from the tavern onto the street. Within they could hear the bustling joy and laughter that comes from drink and merriment, a welcome sight indeed.
Wyoming hitches his horse outside the tavern and helps Hart down off of her. With one arm around Wyoming's shoulder, Hart and Wyoming hobble into the saloon. The men and women all fall silent at the sight of the two men covered in grime, blood, and sludge. They stumble to the nearest seats as the eyes of the crowd remained fixed on them.
"Two glasses of Adam's Ale and a whiskey, straight." Wyoming orders looking to the bartender.
Hart holds two fingers up to Wyoming, "Make that two whiskeys." Wyoming adds before the bartender walks away. The bartender returns with a large glass of brownish water and a whiskey glass filled nearly to the brim. He sets them down in front of Hart and takes Wyoming's money from the counter.
"Excuse me... my water." Wyoming says looking to the man.
"Don't serve your kind." The bartender says under his breath.
"What was that?" Wyoming asks.
"I said we don't serve your kind here, boy, we got water outside." The bartender says pointing to the horse's water trough by the hitching post just outside the saloon doors.
Hart slides his glass of water to Wyoming and downs his whiskey. He then stands and leaves for a breath of fresh air feeling particularly woozy. As he exits the saloon the cool air greets him gracing him some relief. He walks over to a barrel of water and washes his face. He cups a drink in his hands when he overhears two old-timers speaking as they play checkers next to him.
"Just up in Missouri, Little Springs I heard. Two lawmen shot dead in a saloon for no reason. The way I heard it they were making their way back out west, down on into Texas." A man with a long white beard says pausing to look at his pieces before making his move, "They were asking questions and then the man just walked right downstairs and shot them both. Heard he even ate their breakfast afterward."
"What is the world coming to?" The other old man replies as he makes his move.
"Ah, you son of a bitch!" The bearded man blurts out as the other man lets out a wispy laugh and collects his opponent's pieces. It was thin, but something deep down in Hart's guts told him it was the man he was looking for.
Suddenly a young man with blonde hair and pasty white skin runs out through the bar doors and off down the street. Hart's curiosity rises and he steps back into the saloon. There he finds Wyoming being held down by two other men at the bar. Hart draws his revolvers and lifts them at the two men, his aim wavering from sheer exhaustion.
"What's going on here?" Hart snarls.
"You gonna put your neck out for some runaway slave, mister?" One of the men asks, shoving Wyoming's face into the bar.
One of the men amongst the surrounding crowd then yells out, "Yeah, don't be stupid, you don't want to throw your life away mister."
With that, the sheriff arrives and enters the bar behind him, instantly seeing the budding standoff the sheriff draws steel and places one hand on Hart's shoulder, "Holster 'em son. You're not that fast." He says placing the barrel of his revolver into the back of Hart's neck.
Hart slowly holsters his revolvers and awaits the sheriff to do the same. With a hesitant linger, the sheriff does so as well and steps forward and past Hart, leaving his deputy standing nervously at the door.
"What do we have here?" The sheriff asks walking up to Wyoming and the men holding him down.
"Runaway slave sheriff! Look, see!" The man responds showing Wyoming's wrist to reveal a small tattoo at the base of his palm.
"Go on then." The sheriff says.
The two men take Wyoming's revolvers and strip him of his hat and shirt before knocking him unconscious with his gun and dragging him out of the saloon.
"What's going to happen to him?" Hart asks, though there was a deepening realization of his situation and he wondered if he even wanted to know the answer.
"Well, we'll start by seeing if anyone's interested in taking him, if not suppose we'll just hang him. How did he end up in your company?" The sheriff asks with a lingering suspicion glaring in his eyes.
"Saved my life a week back, my horse died and he let me ride with him," Hart responds staring at the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. His eyes then wander upwards and meet the sheriff's leer.
After a moment or two, the sheriff nods to his deputy, who then leaves out through the saloon doors. "Well, you're welcome to his things if you'd like, seems only fair seeing how you brought him in. Good work." He says patting Hart on the shoulder and leaving the bar.
Soon after, the piano man began playing a jaunty tune and the bar filled with life once more. Hart stammers to the bar and orders another drink. He stares himself down in a large mirror resting behind the bottles across from him. Wyoming was a good enough fellow, probably better than most of the men Hart had met in his travels. But if it was George Hetley who killed those lawmen in Little Springs it wouldn't be long before he was gone again, of this Hart was sure. Doing anything in this matter was a risk too great to take. Hart finishes his drink and orders another. Two more whiskeys and a glass of water later, Hart purchases some goods from the bartender and stores them on Wyoming's mare. She kicks slightly back and forth in the dirt as he approaches. Hart runs his hand down her muzzle softly stroking her tough dark brown coat. After a minute the horse calms down and Hart mounts her. As Hart rides down the road he stalls in front of the jailhouse staring at its walls. A twisting feeling takes hold in Hart's stomach, but he knew he had to fix true to his convictions if he was to find resolve. Little Springs was about a sixteen-day ride from Montrose. And it was possible that he had already missed Hetley in the time wasted getting to Arkansas. With steely eyes, Hart drives his spurs into the horse's sides and gallops down the road, riding off into the night.