A Block of Broken Houses

The Search, a Saviour (Part Three)

The man in search of his daughter caught wind of them in Bancroft, a mining town a day's ride east of the one where the idiot kid had carelessly planned to end him with the grenade.

He was lucky enough to find ammunition, unlucky that they were the wrong caliber, but he kept the rounds in case he was to stumble upon a fitting gun down the road. He was sliding the partial box of rounds into his knapsack when he heard a soft, muffled cough. It sounded wet, heavy, and even in the whisper of it he heard the rattling sound it made.

He stood and shouldered his pack, drew his revolver, and worked his way toward the rear of the shop, what once served as a general store. The wind gusted through the broken front window and helped to hide his footfalls. There were two doors. The wind swayed the first door from half-open to near-closed. He peaked in as he passed it and saw nothing of real interest: a turned-over bed; a drawer-less dresser; a rug; family pictures behind shattered glass within broken frames. The second door, closed, he set his hand on, leaned in close to listen. Behind it he heard nothing, silence. And then, after a beat, a soft creek and another muffled cough. He raised his gun, gently turned the knob, and slowly, slowly eased the door open. Within the room, on the floor, he saw a man, bent but not yet broken.

"I'm dying," the man said, and this time he did not muffle his cough. It was a profound bark that caused him to collapse in on himself. On his chin and chest were dried spatters of rusty blood recently overlaid with a fresher, brighter red. "Help me."

"The child; where is she?"

"Help me," the man repeated. "Please."

"If you can help me," he replied, his gun still pointed at the diseased man's chest, "I'll do for you what I can."

The man nodded, exhausted. Discoloured tears slipped down his cheeks. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and both men knew that for him there was little time left.

"The child?" He lowered his gun but did not holster it.

"The sickness took hold of me," he said, and his tongue scraped across his lips in an attempt to wet them. "They left. I begged them to. They didn't want to go. They cried. I told them to leave, pleaded with them. They moved on." He shuddered and brought a trembling hand to his chest.

"Where?"

"I didn't want to know. I knew you would find me. I did not want to know."

"Bullshit."

"No," he uttered, "I swear it. They left me. We said goodbye. I'm dying." And then, after consideration: "I'm dead already."

"Who is she with?"

At this the man's breathing grew heavy and laboured, as panicked as his failing heart would allow. His eyes grew wet, and, hesitantly, he shook his head. The man in the doorway raised his gun to the dying man's chest, pulled back the hammer. The dying man clamped his eyes shut. He was shaking now, cold and angry and helpless. Again his tongue slid across his dry, swollen lips.

At last he said: "Your child came and left with her, a woman. I don't know her name." The gun slid a little closer in the man's direction. "I swear it. She never mentioned her name. They were with my wife. And...my son."

He thought about this and then cautiously lowered his gun. "And you don't know where they've gone?"

The dying man grimaced, his eyes shut, and shook his head. Almost as an afterthought he added: "We were heading east."

The man nodded, and then raised his gun. It was quick. He was certain the man, overrun with the sickness, would have appreciated his mercy.

(CONTINUED IN PART FOUR)