Road to Anywhere

Understandin's

Story written for "Gloves Up | A Multi-Genre Smackdown Contest", Round 1.2 (July 2022). Genre: Fantasy with a Wild West setting, utilizing three selected picture prompts.

Story word count = 997

The saloon was whoopin' and hollerin' like usual, but went quieter than a graveyard when the Kinutue Tribe Shaman strode in. Buckskin pants, weathered bronze chest, ceremonial feathered spear, stone-faced, and dark-eyed, he looked right at little ol' me.

Some say a Shaman got magic powers. Maybe. We already crossed paths and had an understandin'. I removed miscreants that wandered into tribal land, and he helped me do it.

See, I'm a bounty hunter. Unusual for a gal, but I'm really good at it.

I dressed all suggestive-like in tight leathers with a cute cowgirl hat, 'cause I liked bein' sexy. When the bad guys gawk, I shoot 'em. Proper ladies 'round here didn't much like me, but we got an understandin'. I don't mess with their men and they don't mess with me.

He strode right over to my table like somethin's important. Throwing back a shot of whisky, I nudged Jake. The Shaman plopped down ten gold coins on the table, one at a time, and a hide-drawn sketch. "Apotamkin," he grunted.

The Apotamkin was a blood-suckin' monster in Kinutue tales used to scare children into behavin'. Maybe it wasn't a myth. The sketch showed a twisted demon-like man with long claws. Scary enough, alright.

Jake narrowed his eyes. "Bad magic, Jez. I'd let it be."

But I got bills to pay. And how hard could it be to kill the beast? "I'm doin' it."

"Then I'm going with you," Jake said. "No way I let you wrangle this monster by yourself."

"Why Marshal Jake Barton, you gettin' all sweet on me?" I drawled, seductive-like.

He flashed that big warm smile that melts my innards. "Yes I am, Miss Jezebel."

Tall and handsome, he could make young maidens swoon. I ain't the marryin' kind, even though he asked, but I still got desires. Jake and me got an understandin'. I scratch his itch and he scratch mine.

The Shaman interrupted our scene by setting down a pointed ash spike. "To kill Apotamkin."

Harrumphin', I tucked it in my belt. There ain't a beast I can't take down with my rifle. Not to brag, but I can shoot flies off a dog turd at forty paces.

Just then, a young man burst into the saloon, wide-eyed and breathin' hard. "Marshal! Old man Garner's house burned down. And we found him and his wife outside, gutted and pale as ghosts."

A chill walked my spine.

Jake grunted. "Now we know where to start."

*****

The tracks in the dry ground looked like clawed human footprints, but after two days on horseback, the trail went cold.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

"Bring Apotamkin to us," the Shaman replied. "It not like magic."

On a knoll overlooking a sandy dry riverbed, the Shaman perched himself on a boulder. Chanting in an old language, he raised his spear to the afternoon sun. My mouth gaped as glowin' white threads swirled around him like maypole streamers.

"What's he doin'?" I whispered.

"Becoming bait," Jake whispered back.

The Shaman lowered his spear and sat down cross-legged, gazing across the valley. "Now, wait."