The Beautiful Dead

7

Richard and the palomino rode slow and steady for a day, making some solid ground back northwest to the cabin. The snow was still thick and proved troublesome for the horse, but it managed to pull through despite the wound. It started back bleeding once or twice, Richard could see the red trail left behind, but nearly as soon as it would start it would stop again, and the wound would freeze up for a while longer. As for Richard himself, he was verging on the brink of collapse; he couldn't remember the last time he had been so tired, felt it seeping deep into his bones and down to his soul, heavier than any weight he wished to carry. He could even swear he heard Forrester's voice every so often, talking to him in the way he used to all those years ago, almost a dream, almost reality. Sometimes he laughed, a gentle but hearty laugh that would continue until it turned into a cackle, then a deep, frightening rasp more like a growl than a laugh. Richard would shake his head and blink his eyes, try to wake himself up, even turn around once or twice just to look at the corpse behind him, making sure.
   Crazy old man.
The years eventually catch up with everybody, he figured.
He watched his breath come up in small clouds, tried to ignore the fact it felt the mountain had grown even colder since the storm. The frost was permeating, even the trees looked frozen to the point their snow-laden branches might snap like icicles. The worst of it was when the horse trod too far into deep snow and Richard was forced to dismount and lead it along. Each time he could feel the moisture of the snow melting against his legs then freezing back once he'd mounted, making his britches stiff and heavy and so cold they burned against his skin.
He looked up at the steel grey sky, hoping to see the sun breaking through to maybe give some warmth and melt the snow, but there was no such luck.
The palomino huffed and grunted, stumbling occasionally from the weight of Richard and Forrester on his back. He pushed it on, kicking his heels in and giving it a quick gittiup, making it pick up pace for a short distance before lagging again. Every so often it gave a grumbling neigh, to which Richard replied with another kick.
Something began to form in the distance, a shadowy figure among the branches of a tree just on the visible horizon. At first, Richard thought it might be his mind playing tricks again, but as they came closer he realized it wasn't the demon from his dreams, it was a man, a flesh and blood man. He was strung from the thickest branch of the tree, naked, save for a flour sack over his head and a thick, kneaded rope wrapped around his neck in a noose. The branch creaked as the dead man swayed in the breeze. Snow had built up on his shoulders and atop the flour sack, his skin was blue-grey and picked at in places, leaving open, bloody sores which trailed dried crimson streaks down his flesh. Richard covered his face as he approached, but it did little to combat the smell.
   Richard drew his knife and rode close to the hanging man. He smelled rotten, in the way only the dead can, and the stench filled his nose when Richard grabbed him and pulled him in to cut the rope. The branch groaned in complaint and threatened to break. It took a moment, but the rope eventually snapped and the body collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud and what sounded like a few cracking bones. Richard dismounted and reached to remove the sack from over the man's head, he wondered as his hand neared the bag if he might find Pete beneath it, a touch of worry that soon dissipated when the bag was tossed away. It wasn't Pete, in fact Richard didn't know who the man was at all, but he felt his stomach lurch when the man's eyes, wide open, bulging, filled with fear, and a deep, bloody red stared directly into his own eyes. His mouth was agape, hanging loosely to one side, a silent, permanent scream. Richard thought for a moment about how strange it is that the dead can still show some bit of emotion, that even once life is gone the shell left behind can express some vision of how they died. Based on the dead man's expression, Richard hoped he would never find himself at the end of a rope.
   He left the man with the tree, let him lay beside it under a blanket of virgin white snow. He even left a gift, two nickels, out of respect for the dead.
   Mounting yet again, Richard and the palomino rode off. Richard thought about the tree, tried to remember if Pete and he had passed it before, but he didn't think so. He wondered if he might have already passed the cabin somehow in the storm and was now headed out into nowhere. He debated with himself whether or not to continue, if he should turn back and hope to find a settlement within the next few days, or at least before it got any colder and he froze to death, or if he should keep going. He could already feel death's grip slowly tightening around him with every moment he spent out in the cold.
Richard wondered also about who the man was that had been hung from the tree, what he had done to deserve such a fate, if anything at all. He pondered who might have put him there, he doubted it was any lawman, maybe disgruntled townsfolk or westward-bound pilgrims taking revenges, but more than likely it was a group of bandits having some fun after robbing the poor man. If it was bandits, he hoped they were long gone, with any luck it might have been Forrester and the others, because in his condition Richard doubted he could survive a fight.
Night was falling fast, the uniform grey of the sky seemed to turn darker by the minute. They needed another fire, quickly. He found a spot amongst a cluster of trees, a small clearing mostly covered on all sides by thick, green pine branches and tied the palomino to one of the thinner ones. He hoped the branches might provide some protection from the wind. Richard got to work building a fire, it was even slower and more clumsy than before, and he was nearly out of matches. By the time he had gotten a flame started, Richard had broken four matches, leaving only two left in the small carton.
   He nurtured the flame and brought it to a full-fledged campfire. He tried to thaw his hands over it, but no matter how long he held them over the fire they still felt the numb chill. The fingers were plum colored, the fingernails dark blue, Richard wondered if he might get frostbite and lose them. He squeezed his hands open and shut and after a while a tingling pain began to grow in his hands, he kept it up until sensation came back to his fingers then he tried to warm the rest of his body.
   Richard felt his thoughts going back to Pete. He hoped the boy hadn't died, at least not like this, freezing to death is a terrible way to die. As he sat across from the fire, he stared at Forrester's corpse lumped over the palomino's ass. Keep on staring, Dick, take a good look 'cause it's gonna be you soon, Forrester's voice said.
Darkness closed in, as if the wilderness itself wanted nothing more than to crush Richard and the campfire and Forrester and the palomino and make them vanish from the face of the earth. The trees loomed over, giant beasts with spiny branches grabbing for them. The wind was its voice, whistling through the pines, telling sweet nothings of the world beyond, a temptation for the mysteries of death.
Richard felt his mind going hazy, vision blurred and dark. Dimly, and unsure he could believe his senses, he watched Forrester's head raise, his arms pushing him up against the horse's side. Forrester looked directly at Richard.
   It's coming for you, Richard.
A quick gust came and the warmth of the fire was gone just like that. In a beat, Richard glanced down at the smoldering pile of sticks, then back up at Forrester who was lying peacefully dead. Panicked and fumbling, Richard tried to revive the fire, wasting the last two matches. He cursed himself. His mind was swimming in an overflowing river of thoughts and memories and fears, a sort of madness consumed him. Without even realizing it, he was on the horse, riding into the night. The horse's hooves thundered through the snow, spraying the white powder into the air, it's whinnies and cries unheard on Richard's ears. He kicked and yelled and pushed the beast as hard as it would go, everything a blur around him, all the voices coming from the dark a raucous cacophony of unintelligible words in his ears. The horse's wound burst open, blood trailing down its leg and into the snow, Richard took no notice. He forced the horse as far as it could go in the deep white, the beast heaving breaths of freezing air and snorting them out in steamy clouds, legs pumping in mechanical motion. Faces began to appear in the darkness, ghostly pale with dark eyes that followed him as he rode. They came from the ground itself, standing bare atop the snow with no footprints and no shadows. It was their voices that echoed through the trees, pleas and cries from unmoving lips. Terror gripped him and Richard pushed the horse until it could go no more and the palomino collapsed in a snowbank, throwing Forrester from its back and landing on Richard's leg. The horse wheezed and whimpered, each small breath further crushing Richard's leg, until he drew his pistol and shot the animal in the back of the head.
He stared up toward the treetops, watched the snowflakes come down. The trees seemed impossibly tall, like they had no peak. He felt as if he was falling into a bottomless pit, the darkness whizzing by as he fell endlessly into oblivion.
Once he'd caught his breath he got to his feet, brushed off the snow from his coat and trudged forward. He let Forrester's corpse lie, he wasn't strong enough to carry it, and even if he was it would only slow him. He didn't know where he was headed, only knew that if he ever stopped he would surely die. Feet numb and legs aching with cold, lungs burning with frozen air, he walked for eternity. It felt like a dream or a nightmare, some otherworldly sensation where one can find oneself outside their body, looking in as a spectator.
Silver ribbons of moonlight coated the ground, and Richard walked through the smooth, perfect layer of glistening white, the crunch of the ice layer a crackling echo. He held his arms over his chest vainly trying to warm himself and ignored the ice chunks in his beard and over his lip. His entire body was shaking, desperate for warmth, but to no avail. Forrester's cackling laugh came from everywhere, as if the trees themselves were mocking Richard. He reached a plateau overlooking a ravine with a small cottage. Smoke rose from the chimney, and orange light filled the windows. Richard could see two horses tied out front, one of which looked like Pete's horse. He let out a breath of relief. Despite his trepidation toward his own fate, he was glad to know the boy was safe.
Richard's legs collapsed and he fell to his knees on the edge of the plateau, the snow burying him. He could hear the familiar creaking behind him, smell the rot. He knew what was coming and was too exhausted to fight it, he'd spent his whole life fighting, now all he wanted to do was look up at the sky, at the dark, and wait for the icy hand of death to finally catch him.