Wild Fire (Book II)

Vengeance Is Mine

     Warning* Mentions of rape

     John kept his eyes on Dutch the whole ride home. The man was quiet, as they rode the coach back to the train. He was completely silent as the rumbling locomotive took them back to Emerald Ranch. And the horse ride home, well, he couldn't think of a descriptive word for the lack of sound that swirled around them as they made their way back into Horseshoe.

     When they arrived, Arthur and Hosea were waiting for them by Dutch's tent. Van der linde walked by them both without a word and pushed past the torn flap of his tent with Emma crushed to his broad chest. Susan departed telling John to please get her if she was needed again, leaving John to Arthur and Hosea who swarmed down on him like hungry vultures.

     "Marston, what the hell is going on?" Arthur was 200+ pounds of raw fury. He still believed whatever had happened to Emma was by Dutch's hand, and it took John placing himself between the canvas entrance and the outlaw to keep him from storming in after Dutch and tearing him back outside to beat to a bloody pulp.

     John held both his hands up against Morgan's chest gently setting him back on his heels. "Arthur, it's not what you think." He shoved John's hands away. "Oh yeah?! And what is it then?" John sighed heavily. He didn't want to be the one to tell them but he knew if he didn't both men were going to storm the castle themselves and find out anyway. "She was raped Arthur." The cowboy's expression softened. Hosea walked up to John now lighting a smoke and studying every word that the man said as he spoke. "How'd ya mean John?" He questioned quietly.

     John looked despondently at the older man. His face etched with a frown. "Bastard raped the girl with a gun Hosea. A goddamn revolver." Hosea's mouth fell open. For once in his wise life, he had nothing to say.

     Arthur shifted on his feet, holding a hand to his hip and looked at the ground. "Are you telling me that someone actually took a pistol and violated that young girl in there?" He looked back up at John for confirmation. John slowly nodded. "Fuck!" Arthur whisper-yelled pulling a hand up to his face and covering his shadowy jaw with a disgusted grimace. "Who the hell does that?!" He finally spewed, the bile in his throat a true and present thing. "O'driscolls" Hosea breathed with a venomous sigh.

     At that moment John's features froze. He stood there staring off at the horses in disbelief. "Clayton. It had to be." He rasped maliciously. "Who?" Arthur hooted. John looked at him, realization masking over his features. "The one who violated Lilah, along with that other bastard. He was truly vile that one. But he's dead. I killed him when he attacked Lilah at the Saloon. Shot em." Arthur cocked his head, shaking it uneasily. "Dutch ain't gonna like that." Hosea tossed the smoke under his boot, crushing it into the grass. "No. He's not. With nowhere to funnel all that anger...." He left the sentence hanging in the air between them. Together they turned, Arthur walking in first, and stepped just inside the door all looking at Dutch as he knelt beside Emma as if praying.

     "What is it?" he said flatly, never turning his eyes from the sleeping girl. Arthur cleared his throat uneasily. "Dutch I.... I'm sorry. I didn't know and well I thought..." Dutch glowered over at Arthur. "Indeed. You. Did. Not. Know." He hissed angrily. Hosea pushed in front now, walking a little closer to the man and removing his hat as he looked down at the sleeping miss. "John told us. It's a horrible thing Dutch." The deflated leader had cast his sad eyes up at Hosea and turned them again to rest on the girl's fitful face. He stroked her knuckle under his thumb absently as he spoke. "Yes. And I intend to find the son-of-bitch that done this and usher him into the ground soon as possible." It was John's turn to walk forward. Every fiber in him was on guard for the blow back that was coming. He looked at Dutch with dark knowing eyes.

     "Dutch. I...He's dead. The man that done this was named Clayton. He was one of Colm's right-hand men. He attacked Lilah when we went to get her stuff at the saloon and..." Dutch lifted to his feet in a flurry, posing an arm outward and swiping all the books he owned to the floor. He turned on John with a growl, teeth bared and feral, eyes black flames of fire. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE IS DEAD?!" John took a step back, holding up both hands instinctively to protect himself. "He's dead Dutch. I killed the bastard. He can't hurt her no more."

     Dutch growled, snatching up his clothes and pulling them on with a jerk. It was late afternoon, and the sun was ebbing again giving over to the cool arms of the night. "Take. ME." he spat fastening his gun belt to his waist. "What?" John echoed mouth open. Dutch turned on him again his nose mere inches from the young outlaw's face. "Take me to where you buried him." He said slowly piercing each word at John like a deadly dagger. John agreed, walking behind him as he replaced the black fedora back on his head. "Stay with her." Van der linde called to Arthur and Hosea who watched the whole thing with speechless awe.

     Dutch soldier marched over to The Count, mounting him and nearly pulling his head completely sideways as he unhitched the horse and lined him up behind John with solemn resolve. John pulled Old Boy a little less roughly around and began the trot towards Valentine.

     As they reach the train tracks just outside the town, John veered left and down the mountain trail towards the dense forest lining the lake that led back up towards the mountains. "This is crazy Dutch." He says as he sidestepped the horse back to match the leader's stride. Dutch said nothing at first, his face a pull string of tight muscles and infuriation.

     "Do you think me mad John? I am well aware of the situation at hand and this man's total demise has been left unfinished. I intend to see that it not stay that way." John didn't say another word. He led the seething man over to the tree upon which he had buried the body. Far away from prying eyes. He slid off the horse, curiously watching Dutch as he removed his jacket and began to dig where John had instructed, he lay. The smell was horrible.

     The moment his borrowed spade hit the soft ground where the ruined outlaw lay, a green stink rose from the grass billowing over the two of them, forcing them a few steps backwards. "Jesus!" John coughed, lighting a cigarette wistfully hoping the thick smoke would staunch the ripe smell from the air. But Dutch paid the scent no mind. He scrapped at the ground like a badger. Ripping and tearing at the earth until the decaying body was revealed and there he stood, his chest heaving in his soiled white shirt looking down on it.

     John watched as the man threw down the spade, unzipped his pants, and pissed directly into the man's rotting face. His mouth hung open as he continued to watch. Dutch took a cigar from his pocket and lit it looking down at the mangled remains of the man who fractured the girl resting shattered back in his tent.

     He walked over to his horse pulling a bottle of whiskey from his pack and turned dousing the remains with it. After a moment of letting the thick smoke circle around his thinking head he threw it down into the foul hole and watched as what remained of the outlaws' clothes caught fire and lit up the man's skull with brilliant orange and red flames.

     They sat there together in silence, he and John, just eyeing the blaze burn away the stink from the air until there was nothing but bone remaining. Once it was done, he reached down in the pit and plucked the man's skull from the spine and walked with it over to the Count, stuffing it into his saddle bag. He left the grave open. The beast deserved no proper burial of ANY kind, and he inwardly prayed the wolves would scatter his cursed bones from one side of the mountain to the other. "Let's go home." Dutch said quietly under his breath, directing John back to his horse and onward to the waiting camp of Horseshoe.

     As they returned no one spoke. They watched as Dutch entered the tent, grabbed a file and chisel type tool, and walked with them over to the poker table. The three of them could only look on as their usually calm leader chiseled the top of the skull into a rounded like bowl and carved several groves around its base, pausing now and again to inspect his work. When he was satisfied, he sauntered back past them, the six sets of eyes just ping ponging after him, and took his chair and a small round table placing it just to the right of his tent.

     He pulled the wooden chair under his legs and sat the skull on the table beside him. A white toothy ashtray for all to see. He looked up at the three of them now, lighting his cigar and resting it in the top of the criminal's bones. "Alright gentleman, you are all excused." And he sat back, took the smoke again in his fingers and ducted the ashes into the tray trailing his eyes off to the peeking stars above as they began to light the camp watching the scene unfold from a million miles away.