the youth (Wild West Story)

The Soldiers 4

The sun sank low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the desolation. The youth, driven by gold's siren call, paid no heed to the girl beside him. She, a spectral presence, wove questions through the silence, each one a fragile thread seeking grip in his guarded soul. He muttered elusive replies, words dissipating like smoke. When she pressed for his name, he remained stoic, fixated solely on the promise of bounty.

From her pocket, the girl drew a weathered parchment, its creases worn by countless journeys. It was her compass, guiding them through the barren wasteland. When the youth dared to ask, she fixed him with an icy stare, scorning his ignorance, and explained the essence of a map. It unfolded realms both near and far, a mosaic of secrets unfurling before her knowing eyes. As he leaned closer, the chaos of lines and symbols resolved into a familiar name: RedRock Town. A shard of memory stirred, etched in the annals of his mind. The town he was in earlier.

Their steed's hooves whispered against the arid earth, a mournful dirge in the desolation. Emerging from the wasteland, a band of men stood, draped in faded peach uniforms, crowned with verdant caps. Rifles slung across their backs, revolvers nestled against their hips, they were an enigmatic phalanx. The girl's mind churned, a tempest gathering in the recesses of her thoughts.

"Hold," her command cut through the gathering gloom, freezing the youth in his tracks.

He regarded her with wary eyes, acquiescing to her will, senses keen to the world around them. They approached the men, faces etched in pallid moonlight. A lone figure, an emblem of weary authority, berated them, his words a whip-crack in the stillness. Irony danced upon the youth's lips, for he deemed them feeble, shackled by their own submission.

The night exhaled a breath of chilling winds, the mournful keening of forgotten souls carried on the breeze. Foreboding hung heavy in the air, shadows coiling like serpents in the tall grass. The moon, a spectral witness, cast an otherworldly pallor upon the tableau.

The girl, a specter of unwavering resolve, stepped forth, her voice steady as the beat of a distant war drum. "What brings you to these forsaken lands?" Her words, honed to a razor's edge, cleaved through the night.

The man, an embodiment of weary authority, turned, his gaze a testament to the weight of countless battles fought and blood spilled. "Who are you to question?" His retort, a thunderous reverberation in the desolate expanse.

The youth, senses honed to a razor's edge, surveyed the tableau. Here, amidst the wasteland, a silent war raged, a battle of wills and hidden agendas. In the crucible of darkness, their fates converged, bound by a thread of destiny yet unseen.

"I am Alice, the scion of a noble line" she said and made a slight bow. "I have come to solicit your aid, valiant soldiers. I require you to accompany me and my companion through the field of war to Arkensas. You will be recompensed generously for your deeds, even if we meet no foes along the way. And you can avail yourselves of him" she indicated the lad with her "as you wish in combating those abhorrent Mexicans."

The captain regarded her with curiosity. He had no fealty to the cause, he only sought coin and a quiet retirement. And as he beheld Alice's comely features, he thought that he and his men could partake of some 'company' after they received their wages, of course. He wetted his lips with his tongue and grinned affably at Alice. "Of course, my lady, we will be glad to escort you through the hazardous field of war. After all..." he surveyed Alice's form "we would not want the scion of a noble line to endure any injury, or worse! be taken by some men with wicked designs." The captain turned to the lad and bawled at him as he did to his underlings. "You may address me as Captain Coyle. I brook no nonsense from anyone and I demand the same from you. Do you know how to wield a gun, boy?"

The youth drew out his revolver and held it in his hands.

"Let me see your aim." the captain commanded. "I want to see how poor you are with it."

The youth aimed at a nearby tree.

"Trash!" The captain seized the lad roughly by the arm and hauled him back to the camp. Before leaving, he glanced back at Alice.

"Alice, why don't you go to the surgeon's tent and have yourself examined?"

He dragged the youth along the dusty ground, kicking and cursing him as he went. He called out for Pigsy, a burly soldier who was in charge of training the recruits.

"Pigsy, come here! We have this useless little runt who can't even shoot straight!" Captain Coyle yelled and threw the lad on the ground.

Pigsy looked at the youth with contempt and spat on him.

"What do you want me to do with him, captain?" Pigsy asked.

"Teach him how to use a gun, or better yet, use him as a target practice." Captain Coyle said and laughed cruelly.

In the cruel twilight of their journey, Coyle's gaze bore into the youth, a festering resentment seething beneath his stoic veneer, the man thought about how the youth had been with the rich curves of Alice for a long amount of time. His own existence, a parched wasteland devoid of affection, ignited a tempest of rage within him.

"A CURSED, WRETCHED SWINE," Coyle's voice thundered, each word a lash, as he delivered brutal blows of kicks to the youth's abdomen, forcing forth a vile expulsion of blood and bile. The youth convulsed, a feeble attempt at self-preservation, but the onslaught was relentless.

Coyle's relentless fury ceased only when he chose to step upon the youth's prone form, grinding his heel into tattered fabric and flesh, extracting anguished cries. With contempt dripping from his lips, he bestowed a scornful spittle upon the battered figure.

"Pigsy, enlighten this wretch in the art of firearm handling," Coyle ordered, his wrath as capricious as the desert wind. With that, he departed, leaving behind a tableau of agony.

Pigsy, a grim specter of violence, seized the youth by the collar, wrenching him to a trembling stand. The youth teetered on the precipice of collapse, but Pigsy's vice-like grip held him firm. In the suffocating silence, their gazes locked, a macabre dance of predator and prey. Pigsy's hand steadied, a revolver pressed cruelly against the youth's temple.

"Like the captain's words. I'll educate ya, or use ya for target practice," Pigsy rasped, a malevolent grin twisting his lips.