The rancher was thrown against the woodpile, the force of the blow knocking the air from his lungs. “El Cuchillo” stood over him, holding a heavy-barreled pistol, flanked by two of his men. One, a hulking brute, watched with a grin. El Cuchillo didn’t say a word. He simply leveled the pistol and fired. The rancher screamed, the sound swallowed by the thick pine forest, as the slug tore into his side. He slumped, his vision fading, his blood staining the dry earth. Through the haze of pain, he heard his wife’s frantic pleas from inside the cabin. He tried to move, to crawl, but his body wouldn’t obey. He could only watch, helpless. Pain and blood loss lulled the rancher into unconsciousness.
El Cuchillo struck a match. The flame bloomed, a fierce orange flower against the black night, and he dropped it. The rancher lay motionless in the dirt as the fire quickly consumed the dry wood. The heat was immense, but the sounds that echoed through the Ranchers semi-concious haze were the screams. The final, desperate pleas of his wife and child choking on the smoke as the roof began to fall. El Cuchillo and his men mounted their horses and rode away, leaving the rancher for the vultures and the flames.
⁂
The afternoon sun was high. Air dry and dusty like the graveyard that overlooked the town of Aqua Verde. Red clay dirt swirled in the hot breeze. Kain watched the front of Cantina Azul from the shade of a skeletal mesquite tree. He was a tall, lean man. The shade of the tree didn’t offer much relief from the scorching sun.
Ramon “El Cuchillo” Garcia and his crew robbed a Station Master in Teucumcari a month ago. They used dynamite to blow the station door off of its hinges. A telegraph operator reached for a concealed shotgun. That’s when the shooting started.
El Cuchillo and his men unloaded on the people in the office. Bullets turned ledgers into confetti and flesh into crimson ruin. When the smoke cleared, the station master, a junior clerk, and a telegraph operator were dead. The bandits relieved the safe of its $10,000 burden.
Just to add insult to injury, they set fire to a church on their way out of town. The citizens of Teucumcari were outraged and calling for justice. The railroad company put up the bounty. They wanted El Cuchillo dead or alive and if he was dead they wanted proof.
After five weeks of tracking his quarry, the murdering bandit was finally in range. Ever since El Cuchillo crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico, Kain had followed him like a guilty conscious. The tracking was arduous. Conditions were rough and hot. He missed Garcia in the town of Redemption by a few days. But now Kain had caught up with him in Aqua Verde. He drew the heavy Colt Peacemaker hanging from his right hip and checked the cylinder. Six bullets, more than enough for El Cuchillo and his crew.
Kain squinted and studied the exterior of the cantina with eyes the color of gun metal and just as hard. A moment later, the bounty hunter strode across the street kicking up plumes of red dust and pushed through the swinging doors.
⁂
The saloon talk died instantly. El Cuchillo was seated at a back table dealing Stud Poker. He wasn’t surprised, just irritated by the interruption. Kain didn’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, he walked right up to the card table, past the two armed men and pulled the creased wanted poster from his jacket. He slapped the poster onto the table, weighing it down with a single silver dollar.
“Garcia,” Kain started, his voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “Time to answer for what you did in Teucumcari.”
El Cuchillo chuckled, a sound like dry bones scraping together. “You think that poster means anything here Gringo? Get out of here before you pick up a few extra holes.”
Kain didn’t move or speak, he just stared. The bandit’s eyes narrowed as he sized Kain up and immediately saw that the tall, lean stranger was a professional, and the stranger was as serious as death.
”You’re burning daylight. I’ve got a deadline Garcia and you’ve got a date with the hangman,” Kain said.
The remaining patrons of the cantina had pressed themselves against the walls, watching the showdown with wide eyes. Kain could feel their fear but it only fueled his resolve.
The two henchmen now flanking El Cuchillo decided that was their cue. They drew their pistols in unison. Kain was prepared. A small derringer, palmed in his left hand, cracked a retort. The nearest shadow clutched his chest, sinking with a wet cough. Then Kain’s Peacemaker was instantly in his right hand, the pistol roaring angrily as he fired a shot and dropped the second man. His speed was inhuman, the efficiency terrifying.
El Cuchillo scrambled behind the overturned table. Kain aimed his pistol right at his quarry’s black heart and squeezed the trigger, but at the exact same moment a third henchman grabbed the bounty hunter’s gun hand. The shot went wide and struck Garcia in the hip and he howled with pain. Kain dropped his Colt in the melee. The only weapon he had left was the empty derringer.
The third henchman was big and lumbering with a grotesque scar running down his cheek. He grabbed a stave from the wood pile near the stove and made his way towards Kain. He raised the improvised club over his head and struck downwards, but the lean man was quicker. He side-stepped, dodged then swiftly pulled the bandanna from his neck, wrapped the derringer and swung it like a mace.
The weight struck the temple of the large man with a sickening crack like dry tinder snapping. His eyes widened with shock as he stumbled and fell face down on to the stove. Skin sizzling before his dead-weight dragged the body to the earthen floor.
Kain picked up his Colt and realized that the cantina was now empty except for the three dead men. El Cuchillo had used the opportunity to kick out the back door and sprint into the rapidly falling dusk. Kain didn’t rush. He reloaded his pistols slowly, methodically, listening to the silence.
⁂
The graveyard, built on a low, dusty hill overlooking Aqua Verde, was a maze of crumbling stone crosses and sunken tombstones. The air was cooling fast, carrying the scent of dry sage. Kain stalked between the weathered monuments like a wraith, his boots crunching on loose gravel. He saw the disturbed dirt near a large marble angel. El Cuchillo was favoring his right side, dragging a leg. Heavy droplets of blood congealed on the ground.
“You’re out of time, Ramon.” Kain called out, his voice sharp against the stillness.
A shot rang out and a bullet struck the angel statue, followed by a weak, desperate laugh that echoed from behind a cracked tombstone. “You can’t beat me bounty hunter! When a man stands against El Cuchillo, that man will die!” He screamed, rage consuming him.
The only sound that greeted him was a mirthless chuckle. “You’re a coward Ramon. I’m gonna cut you down like a stray dog.”
Garcia exploded from behind the stone, hand on the grip of his heavy barreled pistol. Rage reddened eyes glinting in the evening light. He was taking a final stand despite his crippling injury, a last surge of pure malice aimed at the man who dared insult him.
Kain stepped out from behind the marble angel and struck a match on it, then lit his cigarette. The two men stared hard at each other in the fading daylight. Garcia’s face a twisted mass of pain and rage. The bounty hunter’s face was an expressionless mask with cold eyes peering out from narrowed slits. A sense of vague recognition was beginning to dawn on El Cuchillo.
Kain did not wait until the last moment. He pulled his Colt and fanned two shots at El Cuchillo with inhuman speed. The slugs hit hard, spinning El Cuchillo around and he hit the ground near a tall, ornate wrought-iron cross. He coughed blood and stared up at Kain, the Colt still smoking. At the point of dying, Ramon Garcia finally remembered the man he thought had been left for dead.
“You owe me a debt Ramon. This ain’t about the money you stole or the people you murdered in Tucumcari. This is between you and me.” He didn’t shout but Kain’s voice was quiet. Seething. “You shot me and set fire to my cabin. I watched as my wife and child screamed.”
Kain knelt down, bringing his face close to the dying bandit. “I crawled for two days with a hole in my side. Hate gave me the strength to claw my way to you.”
He stood up and raised the Colt, pointing it directly at El Cuchillo’s terrified eyes. “When you get to hell give El Diablo my regards.”
The final shot was decisive and thunderous. El Cuchillo lay sprawled out. Kain stood over him, breathing heavily. He needed to move quickly. Tucumcari and the magistrates office was still a full days ride away.
Kain lifted El Cuchillo over his shoulder and carried his burden back to the cantina. He placed the remains head down over the saddle of El Cuchillo’s own horse. The townsfolk peered out from windows and doorways, murmuring in disbelief at the situation. Kain mounted his own horse and just before he rode away he said, “Vengeance has come to Aqua Verde!”
⁂
The magistrate’s office was oppressively formal. It was morning and Kain stood before the desk of the official, a nervous man with sweat beading on his brow already. The Magistrate grimaced as he stamped a form. “Ramon Garcia, a truly vile man. You left him…um, at the stables?”
Kain laid the wanted poster on the desk. “Proof of death is always messy.”
The Magistrate shuddered. He pushed a stack of gold certificates and bills across the desk. Ten thousand dollars. Kain counted it slowly, his eyes never leaving the money. The Magistrate watched, his voice barely a whisper as he studied Kain’s lined face. “The look in your eyes says you collected a private debt, son. I hope it was paid in full.”
Kain finished counting the bills and placed them carefully inside of an oilskin saddle bag. He looked up, giving the other man a cold, hard stare. “I think about the exchange rate. Nothing else is worth the dirt on my boots.”
He turned, the heavy pouch now nestled securely over his shoulder. Without another word, he left the office, leaving the Magistrate behind. The sun was still hot, the dust was still red, his wife and son were still dead and Kain had business elsewhere.
Eulogy
Unfortunately westerns are a dead genre. Which is ironic because westerns were one of the most popular genres of the pulp era. But in this neo-pulp era the western sadly did not come back.
