Pursuit

            Cynthia often what she looked like at full gallop in the park, her horse thundered across the grass beneath her. She and Simmons were in hot pursuit dodging around benches and fence posts. The perp was sprinting on foot for the tree-line in hopes of losing them in the wooded thicket. She listened to the drumming of the hooves on the dirt pathways broken into staccato of the concrete walks. The song of pursuit sung in her veins like liquid electricity. She imagined her hair flying around her head instead of being pulled back tightly under her cap.

            The pair charged around the new art school statue skidding on the loose rock as the perp scrambled into the wood thicket. She was amazed that the guy was still ahead of them. He should have been winded after that sprint across the green, but he hardly slowed as he wove into the thicket. She looked over to Simmons as they pulled their horses up to a stop in front of the thicket.

            “He’s going for the boat dock.” Simmons said over his shoulder.

            “Right- you go to the right around the storage facility, I will go round the other way, and we should be able to take him at the pass!” Simmons’s eyebrows went up at that.

            “At the pass?”

            “I meant cut him off before he can get away.” Simmons just shook his head as he wheeled his horse to the right.

            “Be careful, partner.” He drawled. “Don’t get your self shot by them cowboys!”

            “Simmons.”

Cynthia stopped speaking to grin and then sped her horse off to the left of the thicket. She glanced back into the thick of the trees catching a flash of the white shirt the perp was wearing as he dodged clumsily around trees. He was racing like a man stumbling drunk from the bar. As she rounded the thicket, the perp burst out of the tree-line and raced down the final slope towards the lake and boat dock. She rode into his wake, her horse running flat out, its eyes goggling, nostrils flared wide, steaming breath puffing out like a train.

Cynthia was on him and suddenly he cut left hard as she raced over the spot he had just been.  She pulled her horse into a wide u-turn, catching sight of Simmons pulling in front of the zigzagging runner at the boat dock. She crouches up into her saddle jockey style to gain speed. They close their net and it looks as if Simmons has him when the running man does a baseball power slide under his horse and survives. The runner scrambles to his feet and hurries on leaving Simmons stunned and looking at the ground. Cynthia dodges around him yelling incoherently.

The perp runs on but his speed is failing, he stumbles then sprawls down on his face but scrambles back up almost immediately. Simmons catches up to Cynthia as she slows her horse to a fast canter after the perp. He looks pissed and embarrassed.

“If you ever tell-“he begins.

“-I won’t describe the dumb look of disbelief on your face.” She finishes for him

“I will personally kick you of the Nag you are riding.”

“Where do you think he’s planning to go now?”

“I hope he won’t, I don’t feel like swimming.”

Then the both of them see the girl in the boat along with the perp. The perp starts yelling after the woman.

“Dammit.” Cynthia cusses.

The perp runs, skips like a long jumper and throws himself off the dock into the air towards the boat. The girl screams and covers her head. He almost makes it, at least his feet does, but the rest of his body- knees and up- does not. His butt hits the water with a flat wallop arms flailing as he goes under.

Cynthia pulls her horse up as the laughter bubbles up in her throat. Simmons joins her after a bit. The girl keeps on screaming until Simmons gathers himself together long enough to punch Cynthia on the shoulder. She almost falls out of the saddle. He jumps down from his horse and jogs along the dock as the perp surfaces in a panic.

Cynthia sighs and drops to the ground then strolls stiffly up the dock to join Simmons who is reassuring the fraught teenager to calm her down. Finally after some coxing the girl manages to from a line of rope from the boat to Simmons while Cynthia keeps an eye on the perp who is now clutching the side of the boat. Simmons pulls the boat to the dock and receives an instant armful of the blonde and scantily clad girl as she clambers in to his arms. He is both shocked and pleased and grins over the girl’s shoulder showing the white of his perfect teeth.

Cynthia glares at him and chuckles as she reaches down to haul the perp up out of the water and dump him on the dock. He lies there in total submission, bruised and looking like a wet sock. His sweats clinging to his skinning and boney body as he continues to gulp for air shivering. Swimming in late fall is not necessarily a good idea in New York.

“You should never run or swim away from the mounted police.” Cynthia states with a grin.

Sharkie

My favorite toy is my stuffed animal Sharkie.

Sharkie is grey and white; he is a sharks and very, very good at cards. I can make him eat all the players who win against him at cards. Sharkie and I play poker with red and white and blue and green poker chips. When we play poker we win a lot of blue ones. Sharkie sleeps with me, he is flat so he doesn’t make lumps in the bed like Cookie Monster or Brown Froggy and he is small and keeps me away from the Dark things in the closet. Sharkie is coolest and friends with Squirely. They race together and crash and stuff. They wear sunglasses, Sharkie’s fits better.

I take Sharkie to the store with me but Mommy won’t let me take him out of the car. Mommy says he’s to fer- fero- fer-row-shus! And that he will scare the willy-nilly out of anyone, but I know that it’s because he’s dirty and has a hole in his mouth. I told Mommy that Mommy should sew him up and Mommy did and washed him and now he is white.

Sharkie is my friend, we never fight and he never really bites me- not like my nephew Jamie. I hit Jamie and he cries to Mommy and Mommy makes me sit in my room and I hold Sharkie to me and say that I won’ cry.

Mommy won let me take Sharkie to school with me or any of my toys because the boys are bad and we fight a lots, and Daddy gets mad and says to Mommy that Michael is telling one of his kicked in the teeth stories again. Mommy tells Daddy to stop being silly.

I wish that Sharkie could bite boys and Jamie on his own then Daddy would have to be mad with Sharkie. Sharkie has taught me very- very good and I can bite back.

And I bit this boy at school today, Jimmy Ray he said that his Papaw died in a train wreck and I says he is a liar cause he says his Papaw died in a car wreck last week and he pushed me and I fell down. I didn’t cry, no I screamed “Jimmy Ray you done made me mad and I is gonna shit beat you.” And I jumped on him and he hit me in the tummy and then I bit him on his arm and he cried and cried. Missus Mabritt came and drug us over to the prin-prince-sip-pal’s room and she was very mad and said that I would have to doc- doc- fix Jimmy Ray’s arm and I had to put this water stuff in a brown bottle on Jimmy Ray and he cry more, then put a band-aid on. I says “I am sorry that I bit you Jimmy Ray, but he just cry and try to run away until Missus Thapper make him say he sorry too.

I sees my teeth marks on his arm and I says “I bite like Sharkie.” And Missus Thapper calls my Mommy and makes me stay in the bad room until Mommy comes to take me home. Then she makes me sit in my room with Sharkie until Daddy comes home. Mommy makes me and Sharkie soup and crackers. Mommy don’t tell Daddy and Sharkie and me are very- very good for Mommy

D&D Late Night

“Get the hell out. Get the hell out- that’s what my character screams as he runs back down the passage.”

                “Kuf races down the passage?” I say this to Quiz- Kuf is his character.

                “Yes, and he screams that to the others who are with me.” Quiz grins, his twenty-sided die in his hand.

                “Okay.” I look from Quiz to Chris; he is picking up his dice.

“So, what does Alucard do?”

                “I run like hell.” Chris says, as he rolls his die twenty on the table. The red die rolls across the table to stopping on thirteen.

                “Alucard not only runs like hell, but he passes Kcuf on the way out.” Alucard is Chris’s favorite character.

                Quiz throws his blue die twenty, it lands on twelve, and he leans back spreading his hands.

 “I’m right on his heels, Mark.”

                That’s me, I’m the Dungeon Master.

Another die twenty rolls across the table from my left. The green die settles on fourteen. Pope leans forward to squint at the number. Then he looks up at me and says. “My character, Talisin casts his teleport spell and then he and Kurgan whisk away to the great wide open spaces.”

                “Cool.” Steve, who plays Kurgan, says, “We’re outta’ there.”

                “The passage fills with a wave of liquid fire. What do you do Rob?” I look at him.             “Where’s Malac?”  Chris asks.

                “He’s not there.”

                “Damn NPC.” He sighs.

                “Rob?”

                We all look to Rob, he sits in the second to last spot in our corral of couches, and he rolls his die.

“Oh my.”

He has rolled a one.

“Linoleum Desk, the fearless Ranger, looks into the mouth of Hell and says-- oh my.”

He picks up his pencil and leans towards his player sheet, eraser ready.

                “Is Burt back from the can yet?”

                “No, but I’ll roll for him.”

Rob says reaching for his die twenty and rolls.

“Castigar is the wind-“

A fifteen.

“unlike Burt.”

We laugh; Burt is the slowest guy we know.

                “Anyway, the passage fills with fire as the dragons unleashes his breath weapon and toasts Desk-- as he fails to react in time to avoid the blast. Alucard, Kcuf, and Burt’s fighter run out of the dungeon passage just seconds in front of the wave of fire, which billows forth from the dungeon entrance as they jump and dive for cover.”

“Woah, cool.”

Burt has returned to his seat. He sits down with a thump like he was a sack of potatoes thrown onto the couch. There is a tile pattern pressed into his right cheek and the shadow of a bruise forming on his forehead.

“Musta’ passed out in the can.”

                “Linoleum?” Rob inquires, pencil ready in his hand.

                “No tile” I say staring at the pattern on Burt’s face.

                “No Linoleum Desk-- the smoking Ranger.”

“Whoops.”

I grab six die six and roll them with both hands. I count them.

“Twenty four.”

                “Ouch” Rob replies and his eraser goes to work on his character sheet.

                We wait.

                “Linoleum Desk, the Ranger from the North wood, walks—no, staggers out into the light, burnt and blackened but nevertheless alive.”

                We cheer; toasts are made to Rob’s ranger’s longevity.

                Dungeons and Dragons late night at the Student Center every Saturday since I came to Brevard College. Drinking Mad Dog twenty-twenty and Jack Daniel’s mixed with Food City Cola and playing the semi-sober, semi-serious game into the early hours of the morning. We could have been doing something else but in northwestern North Carolina, there was little to do after the sun went down. So every Saturday night, we gathered at the center to play, armed with our books and player sheets, dice and drinks. The group chased off any straggling students occupying the second floor and set up camp. From our couch encampment we commanded a clear view of the center so we could see “Barney Fife”- the campus cop before he could see us.

                Every campus that I have ever been on has a “Barney Fife” character on it. “Barney” whose real name was Eddie Bowers was a skinny man who was thought to be anorexic until some girl went to pieces at a student gathering, declaring that only women could be anorexic. Anyway, “Barney” would patrol around the campus the same way that Don Knotts did in Mayberry. “Barney” was so cock-sure that he was a good cop that he would brag to the students about his exploits as the campus cop and all the students he had busted. He was a sight to see, wearing his over large ball cap, a radio slung on each hip like a gunfighter.  One of the radios was the four hundred-megahertz that was used for the campus, a rectangular block on his right hip about the same dimensions of a brick. The other radio was the police scanner for monitoring what the police were doing; it was slung on his left hip with a CB attachment clipped to his left shoulder. The scanner was long like a two by four. The radios would swing with his hips, as he would strut about exercising his authority.

                In he came, radios swinging right up to the couch edge. He stopped there and took a deep sniff, crossed his arms and said.

                “You boys been drinking?”

                “No sir.” I answered, trying to appear as sober as possible. It usually fell to the Dungeon Master to fend off Eddie.

                Then Quiz offered him a drink from his three-liter cola-bottle laced with MD 20/20. “We’re just drinking some coke, Eddie.”

                At this Eddie frowned. No one ever calls Eddie “Barney,” to his face, except for the foreign exchanges students who actually thought it was his name.

                “Want a drink?” Quiz said, still holding up the bottle to Eddie. All eyes shift from Eddie to Quiz. Chris mouths out-- Are you crazy-- to Quiz, who shrugs. Eddie stands there in silence staring at the bottle, his mouth moving like he was chewing curd. Then his police scanner squawks and he leans his head down to the CB on his shoulder, listening. He nods and smiles pretending to know about what the other local cops are talking about on the radio. There are only six other cops in Brevard and they all have agreed that Eddie is a necessary evil. Eddie thinks that this means that they like him. Eddie steps back and palms a can of Skoal from his back pocket. Then with the move of a practiced professional, he snaps the lid twice with his fingernail. Click, click and pops the top off with only one hand. He takes a wad of Skoal in the other hand and feeds his lower lip. He then shifts the wad to a comfortable bulge against his jaw and spits accurately into the trash can some five feet away. “Gotta’ go.” He said, as he spins on his heel and marched off for the stairs, radios banging against each hip.

                “You’re nuts Quiz.” Chris says.

                “No sense of smell, no sense of taste.” Quiz states this with the ease of a pro

                “What?” Rob says with the same surprise we all feel.

                “Barney’s got no sense of taste or smell.” He says again, with a wicked grin.

                “How do you know that?” I say, eyebrow raised.

                “Local word is that he accidentally drank some formaldehyde when he was a mortician.”

                “No shit?” Rob snorts a laugh coming on.

                “No shit.” Quiz grins exposing yellowed teeth, he looks maniacal.

                “Hmm-- so Barney’s a mortician.” I state, filing that info away for later use.

                “Correction-- was a mortician.”

                “Oh.”

                                We sit in one corner of the student lounge on the second floor, couches gathered in formation around the dice table, actually a coffee table that has many different kinds of dice strewn about and in between the D&D sheets, cups and bottles. Dungeon and Dragon dice are basically geometric solids turned into playable versions like the traditional six-sided game dice. On the table there are twenty-sided, twelve-sided, ten-sided also called percentile because when you roll them together you can combine them from one to hundred. There are also eight-sided, the traditional six-sided and four-sided. They have geometric names but are usually referred to as die six or six sided.

                “The Dragon emerges from the mouth of the corridor, what do you do?” I drawl out over my cup.

Quiz shrugs, his black unkempt hair falling over his eyes; he blows smoke through his nose, waves his Swisher-sweet cigar with one hand and grabs his dice with the other.

                “I fuckin’ kill him.”

                “With?” I counter.

                “With, with--“ He sticks the cigar back in his mouth and grabs his character sheet from the table, stares at it a moment then-- “with my mace.” He rolls his dice, one of them die twenty skips off the table. “I missed him Mark. Nuts.”

                “Chris?”

                Chris drops the can of beer he’s been rolling around in his hands, and picks up his dice. He rolls. “Oh yes- he’s toast.”

Quiz and Chris do a high-five.

“Oh?” I inquire, still skeptic as to the power of his Wizard-Necromancer-Assassin.

Chris grins. “Fireball.”

“Burn baby!” Quiz and Pope say in unison.

“Area of effect?”

“Forty-foot sphere.” Chris says.

I roll my own die for the dragon’s saving throw versus the spell.

“The dragon saves- taking only half-damage from your fire-ball.”

“Damn.” Chris gathers up two handfuls of six-sided dice, shakes them and throws them on the table. They tumble end over end. Rob leans forward and begins to count the numbers, sliding the spent dice to the left. He looks up and says.

“Forty-six. Forty-six divided by two is--“ Rob says. His hands move as if he had a calculator there. “Twenty-three, twenty-three points of damage to the dragon.”

“The dragon shrugs it off.” I make a note on my own sheet.

“Nuts.” Rob says then grimaces and reaches for his dice bag.

“Hey guys.” Robin says as she walks up. I can see by her general demeanor that something is very wrong.

“The Halfling party-bitch has arrived.” Quiz announces and gestures to the space next to him on the couch.

Robin doesn’t move; her hair is a mess, not done up like before the game for her date tonight. She often dumps us to go out on dates, playing infrequently because she wants, as she puts it, a life with the real world. But tonight it looks like the world has caught up with our only female member. Her blouse is ripped open with three to four buttons missing. Her strawberry red hair is tangled in knots and in her face-half-masking the swollen lip and light shadow of a bruise above her right cheek bone. Her left arm is showing purplish marks on her skin.

“Shit.” Chris says, and rises to his feet.

I jump the table, almost making it but my foot catches Steve’s cup knocking it off and booze splashes the sidearm of Quiz’s couch. I stop and turn apologetically to Steve but he waves me off. I turn back to Robin; Chris has his arm around her. He supports her weight as he helps her over to the couch.  He helps her to sit down.

“What happened?” Chris asks.

“Are you okay?” Pope adds.

“Who did this to you?” Quiz hisses between clenched teeth.

“Man, somebody fucked you up.” Burt says. We all look at him- he is drunk. Quiz shrugs.

“Let her answer.” I say.

She looks at Quiz, then Chris, then me. “I-- I think I just got raped.” Her eyes are full of tears.

“Burt, get some ice.” I say without taking my eyes from hers.

Burt looks in the cooler stashed behind his couch. “No more ice.”

“Okay, go get her a coke.”

“We got coke.”

“Out of the machine, Burt.” I yell.

“Why?”

“Because it will be cold.” Chris says and moves towards him. Burt gets up and leaves.

“Who did this?” Quiz, his skin turning dark as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

Robin looks at him; her eyes are still unfocused from the tears. They were lovers once, one of the myriad D & D relationships that seldom survive.

“No.” she finally says

“What do ya’ mean no!” He jumps to his feet, waving his hands.

                “I won’t tell you.”

                “Why not?” Quiz rages.

                “You want to kill him?” Robin glares at Quiz.

                “Hell, yes.” His normally slited eyes are wide and his face flushed with barely contained fury

                “Why?”

                “What?” Quiz stops waving his arms and looks down at her.

                “Why do you want to kill him?”

                “Because--“ He raises his arms, he scowls then drops his arms.

                “Because why, Quiz.” Robin crosses her arms as she looks up at him.

                “Because-- ah to Hell with it. I’ll find out who he is.” He turns back towards his couch.

                “No you won’t Quiz.” She replies.

                “I won’t?” Quiz says. “Like Hell, I won’t.”

                “We’re over, Quiz. I am not your girlfriend anymore.” The bruise is turning yellow.

                “Dammit Robin, don’t do this.”

                “No Quiz.” She says again.

“God-dammit Robin, God-dammit.” Quiz looks at her then at the rest of us.

I sit there not wanting to get involved. I brace for him to attack her or throw something, he doesn’t. Instead he lowers his arms and looks at her one more time before grabbing his coat and marching away. The door on the ground floor slams. Robin winces.

                “I better go see if he is going to be okay.” Pope says, Steve gets up and they both exit. I look over to Chris; he nods and gets up.

                “I’ll go see what’s keeping Burt.”

                “Thanks.” Robin says as she touches his hand.

                “I’ll help you find him.” Rob adds, and leaves with Chris.

                Robin and I are left alone in the corner of couches; she reaches up and takes hold of my arm pulling me down to sit by her on the couch. I look at her, words escaping me. I can find no worthwhile things to say. She trembles, her shoulders hunching forward. I reach out to embrace her. I am awkward, clumsily I reach around her, trying to be careful-- to be gentle. She ignores my fumbling and presses her faces against my chest; her arms still crossed in front of her. I hold her and begin to rock as if I were cradling a hurt child. She cries into my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut but tears escaping. My skin is wet under my shirt. Her sobs catch in her throat-- a hoarse, whispering scream.  After awhile, her sobs subside and she puts her arms around me as well. She turns her head on my shoulder.

                “I got your shirt wet,” She mumbles, almost inaudible.

                “It’ll dry.”

She brings her arms back to her and cradles them against her breasts. I began to unfold my own embrace, but she stops me. I remain as I am, holding her with every substance of strength I have as if it would be enough to heal her hurt. I know it will not, but I hope that at least she will know that I want to.

Chris returns with the coke and some damp paper towels. He stands in front of us and wraps the coke with the towels, then places it on her bruised face. She uses her left hand to keep it there.

“The guys and I are going to make a food run, you two want anything.” He says.

Robin is silent. I look down at her to find her looking up at me.

“Some ice, a small bottle of Jack, some aspirin- no Advil, and some chips.” I say. “And some Kleenexes.” I know where they are going. Robin nods and tries to smile but winces as the split in her lower lip appears.

“So, I’ll see you later?” he says.

Now I know that he knows who Robin went out with tonight. From the look he gives me he knows that I know who Robin’s date was as well. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you later, drive carefully.” I lie. Chris leaves.

We are alone again.

“Thanks Mark. You’re a good liar.” She says as she cradle the coke against her face.

“Lots of practice.”

“I guess it would have been pointless to argue.”

“Yes, with Chris it would be- harder anyway than with Quiz.”

“Chris?” She lays her head in the cradle of my arm, still in my embrace.

“Chris, Quiz, all of them need rules to live by.” I pause for a moment as the weight of what I am about to say dawns on me. “Owen, that poor bastard, just broke one of our most sacred.”

“But Mark-- there aren’t really any rules.”

“I know that, you know that; hell- even Chris knows that.”

“Then why?”

“Chris says there ought to be.”

“Oh.”

“I do too.”

Men and Dogs

“Men are Dogs!” she said with a sneer as I look up

“Men are dogs” she said again and I agreed.

“But you’re a man?” she replied.

Thank you I said, I have really tried.

“So you are saying that you are a dog.” disbelief masking her face.

No. rather we- that is men are like dogs. We like to sleep all day, we like to hunt, we like to beg, we like to play, and we want the attention.

“Oh come on!” she said with a smile.

No really, most of us are just in denial. We love to have our backs scratched, and we love to be petted, why we go to great lengths for a good petting.

“Petting?” she said her brow furrows.

Like this I said and patted her hand, then ran my fingers up her arm to her neck.

“Down boy.” She declared, her eyes narrowing to slits.

We bark at the moon and chase cars and women. We love to get crazy, hoping and howling, always trying to be the loudest dog on the block.

“I think you are exaggerating somewhat.” She frowned

No, I say, men are in most ways like dogs. We like to eat- mostly beef and we even will perform for some kind of treat. We like to run in the pack or go as lone wolves.

“Now I can see that.” She said with a grin. “Men have this unspoken bond that is- instinctual- when faced with a problem or a girl friend.”

Ouch I said, Men may seem that they don’t care or become unpleasant when facing adversity, we just see that there is strength in numbers and thus problems can be thus avoided as are girlfriends…

“Is that all men and dogs are?” her sneer came creeping into her smile.

Seeing the peril I changed my attack and said, We love to be loved and hugged, we loved to be fed and housed. But at the same time we want to be kept, we want freedom and desire to run loose but still have a warm bed to return to.

“Oho, you have been exposed, men and dogs sleep around, are unruly and untrustworthy- and-“ She would have continued, but I help up my hand.

Would you let me finish?

“Okay.”  Triumph beginning on her face.

“We are loyal and protective. We want someone to watch over- we will stick around as long as you will let us and..

“And?” She said, eyebrow arching.

We make the best friends.

“Like you?” she sighed, smiling again.

Like me and good old Blue.

Mother's Wishes

Mothers Wishes

The iron horse rode the dusty cattle track up from Dayton, out towards the Sawmill Flats. Phelps watched it bounce along the track with its occupant’s a’ bouncing and hanging on for dear life. He spat over the neck of his horse and wondered why folk would give up their own two legs for a “contrapulation” like that kind of thing. He sat his saddle in his flannel clothes from back east and jeans and waited for the contraption to disappear over the ridge towards the house; then he turned Montana horse and headed up the trail with his hound dogging his heels. He would get there eventually.

The occupants of the motorized car were Bryson Phelps at the steering bar and Grayson Stewart, Dayton’s marshal beside him, with Mrs. Linda Phelps behind him in the bucket seat. It was Bryson’s first car and he was proud as anything to be showing the marshal how it beat traveling by horse.

“It’s like having your own rail car!” He shouted above the roar of the engine and the ruckus of the track. The marshal didn’t respond which no surprise was given the sick look of terror on his face. Instead he clung to his hat and the car door for dear life.

Linda smiled at her husband and then gagged as she remembered that opening her mouth was a good way to gain a throat full of road grit and dust. She gripped the seat and spat into her handkerchief as the car bounced its way on down towards the house. She was going to have to insist that her husband put a proper road in when they eventually moved there.

Out of the trees and green bladed hills the house appeared nestled between two hillocks and down among the pines. A Ranch house with adobe brick walls and wood posted porch.  As the car pulled towards the house, a pack of angry and howling dogs gave chase leaving the sheep to wander out from where they had just been herding them. They circled the vehicle as if hoping to herd it off to the barn, it pulled to a stop a few yards from the house. The dogs continued to circle as the dust settled, wary and suspicious but keeping their distance.

An Injun woman came out of the house; she was a dark beauty of middling height and long straight black hair. She wore plain brown woolens and a long skirt over moccasins. She shaded her eyes to watch the iron horse and its occupants arrange themselves and exit via the doors of the wagon. She gave a high pitched whistle at the dogs to clear them off, hoping they would return to the fields and their sheep. They did not budge but gave a wide berth to the newcomers.

 She shook her head at these white folks and their big village ways. Not for the first time, she paused to wonder what had possessed her to leave the tribe and follow Phelps back east across the Dakotas to this place so far from her lands.

Her small reminder of those reasons clutched at her skirt and peered out at the new strangers and the hulking metal beast. Daywolf looked at the monstrous thing, this horseless carriage in wide eyed fear as the white people came out from inside it wearing gray dresses and long coats and strange head-dresses that covered their eyes. He was a small boy, the product of the Cheyenne woman and her cowboy.

Now strangers had come here with marshal Stewart, she could not say what they would want but she could say that it was probably trouble. Stewart only came when there was a promise of trouble. She took her eyes away from the group dusting themselves off to look to the Winchester leaning in the corner by the door. She wished that Phelps would ride hard to return but it was not his way. He would come slowly and sure on that old mustang of his. He would handle it when he arrived.

Bryson looked at the woman on the porch as the boy peeped out from behind her skirts. He figured this must be the Indian woman that he had heard that his brother had taken up with but he hadn’t heard of a son. Where was his brother, he wondered as he took off his driving coat and then paused to take his wife’s as well. She smiled up at him and then bent to straighten her dress. He turned back to the house and began to approach, smiling.

“Better watch where you step.” The Indian said with a grimace.

            Bryson stopped, alarmed, he looked at her and then over at Stewart who had also stopped- he showed confusion but a smile also ghosted across his face. Bryson raised an eyebrow and Stewart looked down. Bryson looked down too. His shoe was inches from a pile of manure. He relaxed and skirted the obstruction.

            “Hello. My name is Bryson; I am Phelps’ younger brother from the city.”

He stuck out his hand. She looked at his hand as if it were some venomous snake and then back at him. She said nothing, nor did she take his hand, she just continued looking at him.

            “Molly.” Stewart said and tipped his hat. “We just came to see Phelps.”

            “He ‘aint here marshal.” The woman- Molly said. “And my name aint no Molly either.”

            “Now Molly, that is what the preacher man said it was so that you and Phelps could have a right Christian marriage- you gotta have a Christian name.” Stewart said this condescendingly as if he viewed her as a child. “Where is he anyway?”

            Molly made a face and pointed past them out towards the prairie at the silhouette of the lone rider approaching. Bryson turned to look and saw his brother come ambling over a small rise as he approached the house. The old cowboy was much the same as he had always been, not that Bryson had taken much time to stay in touch. Phelps rejected even letter writing and had never given over on the education that Bryson had gotten in the past. Bryson would not have even known of Ma’s passing had not Phelps considered that important enough to send a telegram.

            Bryson waited until his brother had pulled up his horse and hitched it to the rail, a sharp word from him and the dogs tucked their collective tails and scattered off to herd the sheep. Then as the cowboy turned back towards Bryson, he spoke up.

            “Hello Phelps. I-“

            “What you want Bryson?” Phelps answered as he walked onto the porch.

            “Can’t I just come to see you? You are my brother after all.” He moved to follow Phelps to the porch.

            Phelps turned and held up his hand to stop him. Linda had started too but then stopped, embarrassed, she blushed under the scrutinizing gaze.

            “Two years since Ma died and I haven’t seen you.” Phelps said.

            “I have written you several times.” Bryson said indignantly.

            “Sure, I got them and read them.” Phelps said as he sat down on the old rocker by the door, he reached up and took the Molly’s hand.

            “You never wrote anything back.” Bryson said looking around but seeing no other chairs.

            “Had nothing to say. Besides, you bring the marshal here- so that means that you want something lil’ brother.” Phelps said and then spat.

            “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Linda spoke up hopefully.

            “No ma’am, I reckon your husband wants something- so he can come right out an’ say it. No offense to you.” Phelps said giving her a nod. Linda paled and began to back away from the porch until Bryson reached out and took her by the arm. She gave a nervous jump and came to stand beside him.

            “Alright, since you want to get to the point and to hell with civility then I will say my peace.” Bryson declared and Phelps nodded waiting for him to continue.

            “When Ma died, I figured you would need- we would both need time to mourn her rightly. But now that time has passed and I want my share of the inheritance.”

            Phelps cursed and stood up and walked down the porch to lean on the post and look his brother in the eye.

            “I take you mean to come and take this ranch from me?” Phelps crossed his arms.

            Bryson swallowed and for a moment said nothing.

            “Well not exactly, I figured we could split the lands and I could have the house and the tract down to the river and you could take the prairie and tracts up to the mountains.” Bryson smiled and spread his hands. “That gives you most of the good lands and leaves me with enough to live on.”

            “Hell Bryson, it’s all my land, Ma got you learned and me I got the ranch and the work.” Phelps said it with disbelief; once upon a time this was the boy who had ridden the range at his side.

            “So you are saying that you won’t honor Ma’s will?” Bryson said reaching into his wallet and extracting a piece of paper.

            “There’s no will Bryson, she couldn’t even write- so don’t go waving that paper at me. She done sold off you part of the land to pay for your learning.” Phelps said searching for a calm that was fast escaping him.

            “She- she wrote a will. I got it right here-“Bryson said waving the paper. “What you mean she sold the land?”

            “That piece of paper was written by pa before he died. Ma took your half of the land and sold it so you could go to school.”

            Bryson stopped waving the paper and looked at the paper in his hand. He took some deep breaths and then looked back at Phelps.

            “Well, how do I know you telling the truth?”

            “You will have to make that decision on your own lil’ brother, but I will tell you this- this is my and my woman’s land and it will be my son’s.” And with that his hand came to rest on the butt of his pistol at his waist.

            Bryson’s eyes grew wide and he looked from Phelps to the gun and back to Phelps. Then as if he had forgotten he glanced over at Stewart to see him holding his own hand above his pistol. He swallowed again longing for water and time. He felt a pain in his left arm and looked down to see Linda’s hands gripping his arm. He looked back to see the strained expression on her all too pale face. He turned back to his older brother and held up his hands.

            “You wouldn’t shoot your own flesh and blood?”

            “Get off my land, lil’ brother and we won’t find out.” Phelps said.

            “I will be back, Phelps, with a court order if its necessary.” Bryson said brandishing the will like a sword.

            “I will burn this house before I let you live in it.” Phelps replied.

            Bryson backed away and got into his car, then stopped and looked at his stricken wife. He cursed and got out and helped her back into the bucket seat. When he got back in Stewart was already there. He looked back at Phelps who stood on the porch with his Indian woman and that half-breed child of theirs.

            “It’s not over, I will get my share!” He called.

            “It’s over.” Phelps said. “You are no brother of mine.”

            With that Bryson turned his car away from the house and drove away as fast as it would go, hoping that the dust and wind would dry his tears.

            

Balance

Balance

            For a long time Martin Sprock stared out across the cityscape lit by a multitude of lights as if they were the reflections of the star-filled sky. Martin was a real estate agent in upper west side Manhattan and he specialized in leasing high priced rental properties with panoramic views of New York City skylines. He was standing on the balcony of one such property now, glass of champagne in hand taking in the view quietly reciting his pitch in undertones. A party was going on two floors below him, the sounds of the laughter and jazz filtering up to him as he stood above it.

            Martin was a good man by most accounts, he thought himself as mostly honest- only lying when the truth was not sufficient or strong enough to make a sale. He hardly ever used flattery or chicanery to sell his leases to clients. He had been mostly successful but had never married and often failed to keep up his relationships beyond a couple of months. He wanted to live well, but a strong Irish Catholic upbringing had made him miserly so he spent very little beyond his most basic needs and banked the rest.

            Martin Sprock brushed his teeth twice a day, flossed between meals, swallowed a handful of vitamins down with decaffeinated coffee each morning before walking over from his studio apartment on the lower east side to the world of his work each morning. He was perhaps the most understated agent in town and ironically the best. He had a way of letting the apartments sell and lease themselves. It was as if he could get the apartments to talk through him though he said little to nothing and the clients would eat it right up like a kitten to a bowl of warm milk.

            Yet here he was on top of the world as he knew it but alone standing on a precipice of his own doom. Martin Sprock had come here not to celebrate his success but rather to end it. He stared in reverie at this city he worshipped and glorified in his own way, then back at the unforgiving stars that had seen fit to make his life meaningless. His tears burned his eyes as he got ready to jump over the balcony rail and down to the unfeeling concrete below.

            “Are you going to jump or not?”

            At first Martin Sprock was sure he had imagined the woman’s voice, but her presence was with him as he gripped the rail. He turned around guiltily like a boy caught with his hand in the till to look for her. She stood casually against the wall next to the French doors he had opened for this occasion.

            “Well?” She repeated, one eyebrow raised on her smooth tan face, her straight black bangs blowing gently over her nose and eyes. She was at once dark and mysterious and perhaps the most beautiful woman Martin Sprock had ever seen.

            He stared at her dumbfounded to be confronted by this vision of beauty at his moment of utmost despair. He forgot his drink was still in his hand as pointed it at her.

            “Who- how did you get in here?” he sputtered out

            “Who or how, I will only answer one of those questions.” She replied calmly crossing her slender arms. He saw that she wore a black turtleneck shirt and black pants.

            “What?” He uttered in confusion..

            “Another question Martin?” She replied as if taunting him, perhaps she was. “Just choose one and I will answer that.”

            Martin sat down at the base of the balcony in a thump as his drink sloshed out over his hand and down his sleeve. He looked at her in bafflement then at the drink before tossing it aside. The glass shattered as it hit the pavement of the balcony, the liquid splashing out in a brilliant arc. Martin Sprock noticing how it caught the lights of the city as it fell. Like rain he thought in wonder that things had never seemed to real until a moment ago when- when the woman had spoke. His eyes snapped back to where she had been standing but she was not there. He sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the rail.

            “You know they say that you see details you would have never noticed before when you are about to die.”

            Martin’s eyes popped open and his head swung around wildly as he searched for the speaker. She was standing further down the rail looking out across the city. Her rich chocolate hands on top of the stone her body slightly arching. Her feature smooth contours and fitting her clothes tightly as her body pressed against the fabric. He could almost smell the cinnamon if her perfume and see the rouge on her cheeks.

            “Are you going to die soon Martin?” She asked him without looking over.

            “Who are you? How did you-.“  He stopped mid-sentence as she turned towards him and raised her finger to her lips.

            “Only one question Martin, only one will I answer, nothing more- so choose wisely.” She smiled, a knowing look heating her gaze as she looked over at him.

            Martin Sprock opened his mouth and closed it again several times as the mysterious woman continued to smile at him with her dark amber eyes. Finally, not being able to take his confusion anymore he chose one question and closed his eyes again.

            “Am I going to die?”

            “Yes.”

            “What?” His eyes popped open again. “That’s it? Not some cryptic message, some veiled threat, some last chance?”

            “You didn’t ask for any such thing like that.”

            “That’s Bull- that’s crazy.” He had begun to gasp for air.

            She laughed a soft chuckle and walked back to where she had stood before opposite him. She squatted down to his level against the wall and gazed over at him.

            “You are going to die.” She said it with a finality that left nothing to doubt.

            “But how do you know that, how can you possibly know such a thing?”

            “It’s not all that hard, Martin. Everybody dies.” She ended with a smile.

            Martin sat for a long moment in silence before the truth of what she said hit him like a loose branch in the woods. At first he gaped then he coughed and slowly he laughed shaking his head. His laughter continued until it was almost a sob and he cut himself short.

            “You…. You had me going there for a bit.” He wagged his finger at her.

            “I did.” She replied curtly but her mirth did not reach her eyes. It stopped him mid-thought and mid-finger-shake.

            “What are you not telling me?”

            “You are all questions tonight and no answers, Martin.” She spoke softly, she raised an eyebrow and then spoke again. “Perhaps that is why you find yourself standing on the balcony of this building preparing to leap into the great beyond because you ask questions that you don’t really want answers to.”

            Martin stared in shock at her soft reply, finding himself speechless for the first time that night. Had he not just toasted the latest sale to the happy couple downstairs? Had he not just flirted with the blonde at the bar, unsuccessfully? Had he not come up here in dejection only to realize the futility if his worthless existence? His wonderings found an answer and as it dawned on him, Martin could see that the woman could see it as well.

            “I am still going to jump.”

            “Never expected you not too.”

            “Oh.”

            “Well?”

            “Well what?”

            “Are you going to jump or not?”

            “Right.” He said as he forced his body up and climbed onto the railing. Then he stopped and looked back at the woman who stood half in shadow. He balanced there precariously.

            “You want to jump with me?” He asked half hoping she would, half praying she would not.

            “I already have.” She said fading into the night.

            It was then Martin Sprock lost his balance.