~ ℝ𝔼𝔻 𝕃𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋ℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ~ 🐴 ~ 𝔸 𝕎𝔼𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝℕ ~ (𝟙𝟞+)

  There are so many stories that come from the West - some are heard on the breath of mothers at bedtime, others are elegantly pulled from the water-damaged pages of books; but many tend to drift around, catching a ride on the wind, and settling wherever they land. They come and go, and are forgotten in an instant. Beautiful moments and memories that are witnessed by so few; and lost to the rest of humanity.
 
  But some stories are recanted throughout time; bringing words of volume and weight to who's lips they fall upon; inspiring troops and instilling courage in the hearts of men; penning the spirit of the West. And this is one of those stories.

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  The sun hung low in the sky, peeking over the horizon, blanketing the Great Plains in a lovely honey glow. The mighty silhouette of an Appaloosa horse blotted out the setting sun. Coming closer, one could witness gears in place muscle and steel plating instead of flesh: a creature forged entirely from metal. Upon its rider’s crown rested a worn leather slouch with a varmint skull; a torn red bandana had been tied tight around the nose bridge falling to cover the jaw and neck.

  The stranger breathed deeply. The bandana had grown heavy with dust and tired breath. Reaching back, dirty palms found purchase on the corner of the bandana. The rider yanked the tail of the knot revealing sunkissed cheekbones and scarred mauve lips.

  Cresting a hill of buffalo grass, the pair observed far-off amber dots as they danced and swayed behind fractured glass. A swell of honking from above startled the stranger: a flock of Canadian geese gliding through a sky of blueberry-stained cotton, its native purples and indigos chilled the honeycomb sun. A frozen hand tore down the stranger’s spine. Shivering, the metal equine’s rider continued to the amber lights.

  The rider led the appaloosa to a decrepit stable far from the flickering glow. Reins wrapped like ivy around the forearms, its rider pulled back gradually, and the steed's glinting frame halted.

  One leg swung over the saddle, and callused hands steadied the descent. Leather soles throwing droplets of potent mud, the rancher stranger horse around into its stall, slipped the halter off, heaved the saddle onto a peg, and latched the door. The stranger stopped and listened - nobody was around, no one'd see - and ripped off the sweat-drenched slouch and scratched where it had been.

  A thick mop of flaming strands - barely staying tied in a bun with a large red ribbon - flopped down onto the stranger's ribbon was torn off, and wild, long hair spilled over the shoulders and enveloped the neck and ears. Stormy grey eyes popped shot from the weeping fire and shifted to the edge of the rotting cabin.

  Footfalls obnoxious yet balanced, the stranger strode up the wooden stairs. Before her feet found purchase on the threshold, the door swung open. An oddball of a boy stood in the doorframe. The stranger looked at him with a weirdish expression.

  "I can't tell for the life o' me if you're twenty-two or twelve." The rancher rider The boy immediately shot back with, "Where the high Hell've you been?"

  "Chasin' cattle." The rider sauntered into the cabin and balanced herself on a cracked windowsill, slouching down 'til she nearly laid flat.

  The boy bit his tongue for a moment. "He's gone, firecracker."

  "Don't call me that, he is not gone, and you'd do good from gettin' whacked upside the head." She snarled.

  "What'd you want me to do, Winnie?"

  The ranger stared at the boy with fire in her eyes. "Malcolm, I swear on a Bible I will cut you with a dull blade if you call me anythin' but Red." A moment passed, and a chuckle escaped Malcolm's lips. He swayed on his feet, adjusted his britches, and spat out, "We can get another ox -"

  Red sat up as if a whip had cracked down her back. "You better be tellin' one o' your dry jokes, I ain't losin' Bunny! You know how much that beast means to me."

  "I know, but at the end o' the day, we gotta keep our, uh... herd together, an' if Bunny doesn't come back on his own, there's not much that can stop that longhorn." Malcolm reasoned. He sat down on a rickety chair in the corner and kicked off his boots. " How old is that one anyway?"

  Red let herself down on the windowsill again and murmured, "I've had that boy since I was about eight. We grew up together. I, uhh, I watched 'im be born. He was a tiny lil' thing - so fragile. I got the vaguest memory of... being in the barn."

  "An' here I thought you just liked him 'cause he's a fetching ox."

  "Never said he ain't," Red lowered herself from the window and snatched an apple from a bag of provisions. She bit into it hard, taking a hefty chunk away in her jaws. She spoke with her mouth full of pulp. "I'm sayin' he's a grown ox now. We've settled down for a while, an' he's not used to being stuck in one place. I can't condone him runnin' away for this long, but I can't imagine if he got lost or somethin' worse..."

  She swallowed her apple, and without a moment's hesitation, took another massive bite. "Damn, these are good."

  "Can you stop eatin' my apples? I got 'em with my money." Malcolm detested.

  "Funny how a man provides criticism." Red spat a seed onto the floor.

  "Funny how a woman herds cattle." Malcolm stared at Red with contentment. The room was silent for a moment. "Bunny is just fine - that massive beast can hold his own," Malcolm reassured. The silence resumed.

  Malcolm made a beeline for the glimmering candle on the windowsill and placed it on the table. He dragged a stool across the creaking floorboards and waited for Red to join him.

  "When are we shovin' off?" He breathed out.

  "Tomorrow, when the crickets quit their racket. He damn well won't see us comin'."

  "You sure about Deputy Graves?" Malcolm's tone wavered as the name fell on his lips.

  Red's forehead wrinkled. "I feel we can take him. I'm not messin' around like back in Topeka - I won't miss this next shot."

  "I'd sure damn hope so," Malcolm exclaimed. “We nearly got caught even with your fancy Appaloosa model out there." He gestured to the door. "That thing is Union, right? It's a volatile runaway war machine, fresh from Racine - makes us an even bigger target. Deputy Graves is sure to remember us, especially if we ride in on that ironclad..."

  Red looked offended. He could hear it in her voice as she spoke, “Blitzen was built for runnin', outrunnin', zigzagin' - he's the definition of agility! It's an Appaloosa model, not a Morgan."

  Malcolm could see the veins in her eyes, red and thin like rivers. "Red, do you remember them troops that rolled through Topeka?”

  “How the Hell could I forget?” She responded with great venom in her throat.

  “Yeah, the troops that were headin’ East? To Kansas City? Graves’ll have been back for a while, and if he ended up talking…” Malcolm paused. He sighed and steadied himself on the stool.

  When he spoke again, his breath had become heavy and panicked. “If the Union is still in Kansas City and they’ve caught wind we got their horse, it won't matter what our colors are - we're dead. Malcolm put his hands on the table: every word he said was articulate and stern. "We are wanted men as it is. If the army gets involved, they will find us and they will kill us. We ain't invincible."

  The room grew quiet once again. The sound of crickets carried into the house on a draft. Red scratched her scalp, then retied her bandana around her neck. She breathed in.

  "You gotta catch a rabbit before you skin it, Malcolm."

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  Minutes before dawn, four hooves beat into the cold earth. Both riders were silent like the calm before a storm. The path they trod had been traveled many a time before them - an old driver's line - how old, neither had a clue. Malcolm guessed the line had always been there, and always would be. Red knew it another way. She saw the hoof prints spanning the girth of the trail. Her nose was bombarded by the tang of manure.

  “When are you just gonna give up an’ take a damn loss?" Malcolm's voice broke the rhythmic quiet. Red, riding to the front of Blitzen's saddle, remained fixed on the path ahead as if a rope pulled her endlessly forward.

  "When I'm dead in the ground," she stated. Blitzen huffed, the sentient machine perfectly mimicking a live horse in the sway of its hips and timing of each hoofbeat. "We can't show our faces in Topeka again after that embarrassment. We gonna make up for that soon." She became suddenly aware of the .357 magnum in its holster, the formed leather taught to the right of Blitzen's saddle.

  The sun's blazing face had leaped across the sky by the time they'd bothered to look over their shoulder. Thirty-five miles of hard riding with few breaks would leave a horse ragged and near-collapse. Not Blitzen. These horses had been bred - or, manufactured - for fast, hard riding. Malcolm put a hand to Blitzen's haunch as the group slowed to a trot. The metal monster moved fluidly over indiscernible to the countless others they'd passed.

  The metal ravine where Blitzen's shoulders married hydraulic pistons to leg frame hissed with heat. His shining steel plating dripped with condensation from the steam that vented from his joints. Red's hand stung as she wiped the hot droplets from her machine's nose and eyes. At last, the infernal evening of the Kansas sky gave way to the little town of Lawrence.

  Red threaded the loose hairs back into her bun and secured her bandana. "Not a sound, y'all." She turned to Malcolm, voice deep and hoarse. They all knew the danger of walking through Lawrence; the conspicuous mechanical steed wouldn't go over well in such a divided town. But it was by far the fastest way to Kansas City and Deputy Graves.

  "Son-of-a-bitch is gonna pay, followin' us that damn far West... scarin' Bunny off... ratting us out to the army, probably…” Muttering, Red steadied herself allowing gravity to pull her from the saddle. Malcolm did the same.

  Deputy Jebodiah Graves was the wickedest lawman West of the state line. Gunsavvy as he was grey, Graves was an old dog who could learn new tricks; and with his old age came old alliances. However, it wasn't unlike him to shift his loyalty to stay in the good graces of the Union whenever they stopped in Kansas City.

  Red always complained about Topeka like it was a big deal but never went into detail - just murmured to herself and beat circles into the earth. Malcolm glanced at his partner and caught her kicking the air with her feet as she led the group into the sleeping town. She looked like she wanted to scream and tear her magnum out of its holster and shoot it dry into the moon: it would wake up the whole town in a minute and she wouldn't care. In his head, Malcolm could hear her hollering for Jebodiah Graves to come and get her just so she could watch his body ripple with the impact of her bullets.

  There was a tie-up at some inn with a faded sign. Faint honeyed lights illuminated windowsills and porches and shakes. Malcolm's foot hovered over the bottom step when Red pulled at his grimy sleeve. "We ain't goin' in there, dummy," she whisper-screamed. She pointed to behind the inn. They ducked to avoid the glowing windows as they trampled the perimeter. The stack of barrels and detritus would serve as their camp tonight.

  Malcolm and Red worked in the dying light of sunset and candleshine, leaning boards and old crates against the siding. Their wooden fortress was just big enough to shelter in. Malcolm looked up puzzled as Blitzen - a mighty mechanical appaloosa, mind you - lay down elegantly in a sandy shadow. Its limbs locked in under his torso flawlessly, the body compressing and gears clunking and rearranging and compacting within the steed's frame.

  Malcolm nudged Red with the toe of his boot, who herself had curled up in a tight ball under a stack of crated somethings. He held his breath. Red stirred to remove her slouch just enough to stare him down.

  "He looks like an armadillo," Malcolm nudged again, shouldering to Blitzen.

  "He's in rest mode, so I don't gotta keep feeding 'im, preserves steam," Red muttered through her replaced slouch. A flash of scarlet paisley was visible over her chin.

  "You look like an armadillo," Malcolm declared as he turned himself to the earth. He felt Red's hard leather sole bump against the back of his calf. Muffled curses were exchanged.

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  Red awoke sometime before noon. Blitzen's steadily warming muzzle emerged from the neat brick of gears and expelled hot breath into Red's face. Wagon wheels, heavy soles, and smokey voices made their presence known as they rose from the dirt. She shot up and out like a twenty-gauge. She reached blindly through the new light to wake Malcolm. He wasn't there. Blitzen sat unbothered in the shade of the inn, remaining in the prism of its bodily steel. Red threw some planks and a discarded burlap over Blitzen's form. Then she hid her features under the slouch and bandana, hunched her shoulders, and squared her hips before sauntering into the lively street and turning immediately to the inn.

  The entrance, careful as it was, was greeted by the creak of tired floorboards. Each vertebra sat stacked on top of the other, each a gleaming target under a buffalo hyde vest. Eyes turned onto and off of the newcomer in one motion, faces returning to tattered poker hands and chasing the bottom of a bottle.

  Malcolm had racked up a visible tab within the hours Red'd been asleep. And yet through flushed cheeks and slurred speech, he had managed to outdrink a local heavyweight whose bulk sagged on the bartop like a drowned slug. Red's expression changed naught.

  "You are unbelievable."

  Malcolm's bright face was like the painted mesa - layers of colors and varying intensity and saturation ran through his skin. "Yup?" he chirped.

  A bartender shook a dishrag in Malcolm's direction, "This boy's got some guts takin' on all that Jameson! Sure he don't need somethin' to eat?" Red shook in a no, careful not to knock that bandana loose. Hand and shoulder, Malcolm was escorted onto the porch as regulars applauded him out. A love tap to his cheek sobered him up right quick.

  "The fuck happened to 'not a sound?'" The stranger hissed through her teeth. The acid notes fell through Malcolm's ears like sand through a sieve. Red wasn't particularly surprised with her partner's behavior. Since they'd met in Topeka, Malcolm had proved to possess one of the highest tolerances for liquor Red'd ever seen. And at Malcolm's age, it was downright impressive. Didn't excuse this, though.

  "We need to keep a low profile, you know Graves has eyes n' ears everywhere from here to the Gulf! What if that liquor loosens ya too much, start shooting off to some informant, Huh? You think that lucky liver o' yours is that strong?" She gripped his shoulders. Malcolm stared blankly into her eyes.

  Red pushed him back and he plopped right down into the corner of the porch. "I could leave you out in the middle o' nowhere, halfway to the coasts, an' you wouldn't care - you're too drunk to care!"

  Malcolm lifted his head from the fetal position. With tired eyes and tired voice, he spoke. "You've already dragged me out to the middle of nowhere, Wichita."

  "Don't you dare -"

  "It's a lot of pressure, Wichita. Wichita, Winnie, Red... that's a funny bunch o' names you got there, Wichita-Winnie-Red." Malcolm flashed a boozy grin at her. Red's face flushed, seething.

  "You say my name again, I'll bury you with yer boots on, Colm."

  "Hey, hey, hey, too far." His hands shot up in defense, waving in a gentle breeze.

  "...You didn't even put any effort into yours," She retorted, a little defeated. "... Your stupid name."

  "Look," Malcolm rose from his corner, a little shaky, "there's just a way o' blowin' off steam. I needed a minute to, ya know, get away from this mess. For Chrissake, you're gettin' ready to kill a man 'cause he scared your pet cow and made ya look bad."

  Red lunged and grabbed the front of Malcolm's shirt in a white-knuckled fist. "Listen, bud." Her fury burnt his cheeks like the sun. She shook his collar with a snap of her wrist like he was some kinda mutt. "You're a damn liability. You gonna drink again?"

  "Nuh-uh."

  "You ain't tellin' nothin' to nobody?"

  "Nuh-uh-uh."

  "You lying to me?"

  "No, ma'am."

  Red tapped the back of Malcolm's head and his chin shot forward. "Jackass," she spat. His arms swung at his sides. "Mother o' Christ, why didn't I leave you back in Topeka... Let's just hope you can keep it low gettin' outa here. In the meantime, you stay in my sight: no wanderin', no exceptions." She snatched his hand and led him down the stairs.

  "Uh, Red?" Malcolm's hand squeezed hers.

  "What."

  "Almost done -"

  "Let out an' get out!"

  Malcolm adjusted his britches as he turned to Red. "Done."

  "You couln'a done all this before? Like before I had to watch you 'cause you ain't responsible?" Red let her

  "It's the Jameson," he dusted off his front and turned to their alley camp. "It goes through faster." Wiping his hands lazily on the thighs of his jeans, Malcolm rejoined her in the dusty alley. Still paranoid by Malcolm's lapse in willpower, Red asked again, "You're sure you've not said a word about Graves, or Blitzen, or Topeka, or Kansas City... or me?"

  "I'm still all fuzzy about it." Malcolm's mind trudged along. Red raised a hand. He threw his arm up in a block, anticipating impact. "No, no, no, no, no, what I meant was my memory is hazy but I know I said nothin'".

  "You know or you just don't remember?"

  "Both."

  Red lowered her hand. "How could it be both?" she whisper-screamed. She made a strangling motion toward him, then just balled her fists.

  "If I hadn't slept for so long, I woulda had us outa here before the sun came up. Blitzen -" she rapped on the machine's outer shell. Its extremities decompressed a bit and the steed's head levered up. "- we're leavin' soon. I'll get you some water an' flammables. Don't let this one out of your sight." Her head spun around to Malcolm's flushed face. The rouge seemed to have spread to his palms and forearms. A stranger to society once more, Red lowered the slouch over eyebrow and eyelid, striding into the street as a new man.

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  Heel leading toe leading heel, the stranger continued down the road in search of water. A well; a spigot; a stagnant pale of mosquito spawn; anything would do. There, a rusted tub - and what luck - full of water. It sat in the late afternoon shadow of a stable roof. And just within, dry hay: as flammable as the day was long. The only problem was the tub's heft. Red cursed, releasing a hot breath into the ever-hotter scorch of August.

  They’d need to sneak out the next night for Blitzen to refuel. Any hopes of making it to Kansas City by sunrise were gone: any inkling of Malcolm’s competence to ride that night was no more than a pool of whiskey on the bar top; Blitzen wouldn’t even be hot enough to burn water until at least tomorrow morning; and there was no way Red was risking using the last steam he had left. There was no choice: the gang was grounded in Lawrence for at least another twenty-four hours. Red willed muscle and bone step by step back to their hideaway.

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  “You’re back!” Malcolm glanced at Red as he sat upon folded legs with a hand of dirty playing cards. He had given Blitzen a hand as well, hard paper squares fanned out at the horse’s right hoof.

  Malcolm arranged his cards just so between his fingers. Slamming them into the dirt, he whisper-screamed “Royal flush, ya equine sonofabitch!”

  Blitzen’s ears dropped, his outstretched hoof digging at the turf. The creature let out a confused whine, followed by a huff of frustration. Malcolm winced slightly as the hot wind hit his face. Only then did Malcolm look at his partner for long enough to justify the words “You look like shit.”

  “You should be a deputy with that kinda detective work,” Red muttered, plopping down next to Blitzen and stretching out her limbs. She tore off the bandana which at this point was so soaked with breath and facial oil and sweat and dirt it was near-brown.

  Malcolm, still red in the face as expected, stared daggers at Red’s back. “I know damn well what you do to deputies,” he commented with audible snark.

  “Has anyone come by while I was gone?” Red asked with a genuineness that Malcolm would’ve appreciated had it come sooner.

  “No. Otherwise, I woulda took ‘em down.”

  She smirked. Unbearable as he could often be, Malcolm sometimes voiced a thought so gross and elementary that Red couldn’t help but find it funny.

  “Good. I can see y’all aren’t doing anything particularly important… and Malcolm, you need to sober up. Let’s hide Blitzen -“ she threw some burlap on the horse's back, “- and find somethin' to eat before we start worryin’ about something else.”

  Malcolm’s face lit up like a child’s. He sprung up to announce his opinion, but Red spoke first. “We eat quickly and quietly. In an’ out. Stay in my sight the whole time, remember?”

  “I dunno - remember my favorite food?”

  “Bacon.”

  “The other one.”

  “Absolutely not."

  “Fine. Bacon.”

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  Malcolm and Red sat themselves near the door. Slipping in behind a crowd, Red sat Malcolm in one of the inn's rickety chairs.

  "Stay put." Patting the air, Red turned away. Red flagged down the bartender and asked what food they had. The bartender came back with a list. "Lunch," he announced and gave Red the scrawled list of food. Eggs, biscuits, bacon, beans, buffalo jerky, beef jerky, salted pork, chili.

  "You got coffee?" Red asked in a near-guttural baritone. The bartender responded with a look over his shoulder and a pensive "I think so."

  Red glazed the menu and ordered a plate of bacon, a biscuit, and black coffee. When the food arrived at the table, Malcolm ate his bacon happily. Red was seated against the wall so she could take off the bandana and still hide her face. She sipped her coffee.

  "Shit's weak," she murmured.

  Malcolm looked at her sideways. "Don't drink it. An' besides we got them apples for the road."

  "Well, we ain't going nowhere much 'til tomorrow," Red added.

  "Even better. And speaking o' which, did you find fuel for Blitzen?"
  
  "The stable's got everything we need. And we'll head out tomorrow night for Kansas City, arrive in the morning, and settle this shit once an' for all," Red finished. "No more damn roadblocks." She took a hard bite of biscuit, then coffee, and felt the biscuit soak up the hot fluid like a sponge in her mouth.

  Malcolm, after another slice of bacon, asked, "Why ain't we leavin' the same night as we refuel?"

  Red looked up at him, seamlessly moving the paisley bandana over gashed lips. "Blitzen's been ridin' all last night, and he's been resting for quite a while. If we wait for him to refire, which'll take hours, and then try to leave, we'll be caught in the middle of the damn day! Everyone up n' down the state line is gonna see us. And by that, I mean Graves."

  Malcolm nodded. But then he added, "Wouldn't it be faster to just, I dunno... have Blitzen heat up while he runs an' all that new water just boils with the old stuff?"

  Red paused. Was Malcolm right? No, can't be... Could they actually leave tonight? Red thought for a moment, stuck in deep thought.

  Malcolm saw Red's pensiveness and resumed his exposition. "If we get Blitzen runnin' a few hours before the town goes to sleep, we'll have just enough time to get the water an' the fuel while Blitzen's still got that steam goin'! Then we can ride off into the just-past-sunset an' off to Kansas City for your showdown with Graves!" Malcolm ended the conversation almost screaming. Red clapped a hand over Malcolm's gob just before he mentioned the lawman's name. The lazy air of the bar stiffened. Red delivered a firm kick to Malcolm's calf. Red removed her hand to drink more coffee.

  But Malcolm was right. She'd gotten such bad tunnel vision that she couldn't comprehend any other solution. "That could work," Red's words slid across the table on hot breath like a rattlesnake in the sand. Malcolm mouthed "Really?" and pointed to himself in disbelief. Reluctantly, Red nodded. Disguising a laugh, Malcolm exhaled and kicked Red back. She flinched. Under the brim of her Stetson Malcolm caught a grin.

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