Where The Dusty Trail Ends.

Chapter 3: A Fresh Start

It took them three hours to get back to the prison, and each mile brought dread down in buckets upon the pair. For Griswold, hatred, pure and true, burned bright within him. For Juno, it was fear and worry to what was to come. Ahead of them lay Vixen, somewhere within the walls, waiting. Then again, it had been four years. Was the mare still alive?
Who knows.
But for Griswold , "gold" was on the line. For Juno, her honor was threatened.

Anna stopped suddenly, her nostrils flaring and her eyes rolling back to white. This small rearing motion knocked Juno flat on her ass, sprawled in the gravel and dust.
The world spun for a moment and stood still as she came back to her senses, and when her eyes fully opened, she saw an irritated Griswold above her, scowling.
That stare unnerved her, and she scooted away, using her her hands to shove herself upright again and brush off.
"Er...sorry. But she bucked m-"

"Shut up.  Don't care. Now...you stay here. You'll just get in the damn way... I am going in. And I'll give you the signal when it's clear. You bring me Anna, and you'll get on whatever the hell her name was...and we fuckin' get. You hear? Good."
Juno was left with her mouth wide open, unsure if she was to comment while the man lowered himself to the ground. Just like a shadow, he faded off into the curves and spikes of the stoney prison wall.

One would expect a heavily guarded prison like this would be crawling with guards in every crevice...but that was not the case oddly enough. Men were scattered here and there, but the reason why was unknown. But why should Griswold care? This made his life so much simpler. Gold almost within his grasp.
The leather strapped hand reached into his waistband, and pulled out a hunting knife. His eyes, like a crow soaring through the mist, surveyed these men as simply breathing sacks of flesh. His prey.
They were simply there for him to play with. But...not until he felt like it.
The man glanced over his surroundings, and picked up a small pebble which he rolled to-and-fro between his fingers. When he had gotten a feel for it, his arm whipped it forward like a catapult.
The pebble collided with a soldiers eye, and he made a small noise of alarm and pain. That small sound could signal anyone...and the crow wished to go unseen. A bladder protruded from his mouth, and his eyes blanked of all life. Blood rolled forth tantalizingly from his open jaw, and the tongue,  split in two, wiggled with the last strength of his breath. Griswold yanked back his blade, and with a quiet huff, hauled the body into the grass to avoid suspicion. Now, the path to the stable was cleared.
Up ahead lay the warden's quarters.

Creeping forward as a snake through the tattle tails, Griswold made his approach. The doorway hung half open on a broken hinge, and it was bound to creak. But...his bloodlust. It raged within him like a torrent, clouding his hazel eyes with a burning passion. This hatred he felt was nearly instinctual. This beast of a man called the Warden had caused him a lifetime of scarring and agony. How could one forgive that? He is merely a man after all. 

The door emitted a hollow squeal, and a twitch struck Griswold's left eye. He could not risk getting caught, nor would he allow it. If the world bid it so, he would die in a shootout, here and now, a knife slitting the warden's throat. But he would not die without a struggle. Thankfully, the sleeping body merely stirred, a heavy snore rumbling from the heavy set man upon the cot. He was dead to the world. So, this was the time to strike. Coiled like a cobra, he lay in wait, watching for the perfect moment to spring. 

NOW!

Like a knife through hot butter, the blade smoothly cut through the warden's neck. The man's eyes snapped wide open, bloodshot, but Griswold was quick to clasp a hand over his mouth to silence him. Blood, hot and sticky, ran down the bandit's hands, and the warden's body shivered and shuddered in the claws of death. His breathing, muffled by a gloved hand, was ragged, weakening with each second. Light drained from his eyes and such vengeance filled those eyes. Held like a babe by his murderer, the warden breathed his last and slowly went limp. And with that ghostly exhale, Griswold slowly let down his body in the cot, tucking him in to hide the bloodied neck wound. He had one less target on his list and slipped from the warden's quarters without a trace.

To the left was the stables, and a soldier sat on a stool, rifle across his lap like a loyal dog. A nervous twitch came from his bouncing leg, clammy hands, and darting eyes. This look was like a deer in the wagon's path, frozen in fear and wariness. Such a helpless private, but he could not be left alive. Griswold reached a hand to his waist and slid a throwing knife from the straps that held eight to his belt. Acquiring his aim, the knife flew silently through the air until a dull thud sounded that his target had been struck. A surprised expression was upon the dead rookie's face as blood ran like woodland streams down his face from the knife protruding from his skull. A quick yank and wipe to his pantsleg was all it took to retrieve and clean his weapon. To the smell of blood in dewy grass, a few of the horses let out frightened whinnies. Hearing this alarmed sound, Griswold jogged forward and leapt through a stable window and landed by rolling on his side. Split seconds mattered as he ran amongst the stalls, shushing and soothing the loudest and most rattled horses. 

Where could this damned thing be? There was at least fifty horses here, and yet he had not encountered anything besides Bentons, Standardbreds, Saddlers, and little Morgans. Five anxiety soaked minutes passed, and the outlaw was about to give up hope until he encountered a black Arabian, A Turkoman, and finally a beautifully paint colored horse. The Norfolk Roadster was facing the wall, silent. One eye was brown and the other as blue as a noonday sky, and her nose would flare occasionally with worry. This had to be her. Slowly, he opened the gate and stepped inside, raising a hand to calm the horse and let her sniff as he circled around, trying to get a good glance at her back. Upon her back was a black and red nagadoches saddle, adorned with a few leather cracks and scuffs from many a-journey. The mare sniffed the air and her eyes rolled back slightly. Raising her front legs in a slight rear, she began to whinny loudly. 

Charge! Griswold sprinted forward and swung himself into the saddle, yanking back on the reigns and having her back up a foot. Her haunches touched the stable wall, and she kicked it, panicking. The wood shattered, and a few more anxious kicks broke open their hole to the outside world. Fresh air. Green grass. Open Skies. It was as if he did not even have to tell the horse to go, as she took off with a large lunge. The rhythmic gallop started off at a regular pace, but a few steps later she let loose. Two-toned mane, Tail, and head wavered in the wind, yet stayed streamlined. Griswold held on for dear life. Tossing her head and skidding to a stop by a ledge, Vixen reared and let out a victorious neigh that echoed across the edges of the swampwood. In the distance, the sound of a horse approaching was heard, and Juno could be seen coming in on Anna, her body pressed flat against that mare's neck in a racing stance. 

The woman skid to a stop and quickly dismounted as she jogged over. The woman's eyes softened and the tension in her frame melted as she ran over and quickly hugged her arms around Vixen's neck. The man huffed in annoyance and slid off, patting Anna's neck as he reunited with his own horse.

"You could at least say thank you."

Juno simply pet the mare's head, hushing softly and speaking in a gentle tone. "I'm sorry, Vixen. I am just glad you're okay." Lifting her head, the woman stared eye to eye with the mismatched gaze.

"Never a pen again. The night sky is your roof and the valley grass your bed."

Glancing back at the starry tapestry above, she exhaled and smiled.

"Smell that? The winds changing. That's freedom..."