Innocents' Massacre cont'd

D.

The red to orange play of color began to allude to the ending of day in the silenced town of Necessity. The quick steady sounds of water being lapped up by the thirsty mouth of Guy Patrick’s horse.
“Easy now, Miriam you have a lot of time to enjoy your rest. I think we are gonna be in this town for a nice piece.”
Truth to be told the persistent rhythm of water to tongue to mouth calmed Guy in much the way the song of the Indian ancients had. Intent on the music of his horse Guy spun the chamber of his revolver absently. The scenario rolled through his mind again and again. Five dead white men, slain violently by five decrepit Indian elders. A town of frightened white folks, easily the most dangerous kind, chomping at the bit for revenge. A Reservation of uncommonly peaceful Apache, trying to stay uninvolved. A redneck arrogant adventure-seeking sheriff. And a colored Indian-diplomat. Guy was over- whelmed.
“It was easier fighting Indian, renegades, bandits and Mexicans in the Ninth.”
Guy returned his revolver to his holster. He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. Slowly moving his hands, palms out, away from his pistol, Guy turned slowly to see who was there. The little white girl was very still, or perhaps it was the moment. She was eight or nine years old with pale skin and long dark hair to her back. Her eyes were light brown huge and nearly round. Guy looked at her delicate child features and his face softened.
“Hi, my name is Theresa. What’s yours?”
The voice was a happy expectant chirp. Guy smiled in spite of himself.
“Little missy, my name is Guy. Pleasure to meet you.”
Theresa took his outstretched hand and curtsied very solemnly. Her mouth moved to a small smile as she studied Guy.
“You look lost Mr. Guy. You been sitting here quiet for near ‘bouts an hour. I been watching. You need some help?”
Theresa sat down unbidden next to Guy, a friendly smile growing on her face. Guy looked around the street searching for the girl’s mother. Except for the two people and Miriam, the street was deserted.
“ I’m just resting Miss Theresa. Thank you for asking.”
“Oh you’re very welcome.”
They sat quietly staring together at the still town. Theresa began to emulate Guy’s every little movement. Soon she was sitting straight up with a stern look on her face, the childish mirror image of her subject. Her actions were only marred by her barely stifled giggles. Guy allowed her to enjoy her game some minutes before speaking.
“Miss Theresa do you think you should be out alone with all that’s been happening?”
Guy’s voice was soft but urgent.
“O them Injuns are jus’ killing old folks. And men at that! I’m not too worried … Say is that why you’re here?”
Theresa’s eyes got unbelievably larger and she smiled wider looking at Guy.
“Well yes child. I’m to end this foolishness.”
Theresa’s small face turned to worry.
“You’re not gonna shoot those old Injuns are you?”
Her faced turned to deep worry as Guy dared a consoling pat on her small hand.
"No, no little Missy, I’m just going to make sure no more folks die.”
Theresa’s face lightened some at Guy’s words. She looked away from her city.
“…my Mom says its going to end when it ends. I hope it stops soon. I’m tired of the sadness.”
“Yes, Necessity seems to be in deep mourning.”
Theresa’s face changed to one of terrible confusion, then brightened.
“You ever seen a dead person Mr. Guy?”
Guy’s face tightened and fell.
“Seen many…seen many.”
Guy closed his eyes as Theresa continued chattering on. But his mind was consumed with the past. Consumed with a memory.


Colorado 187?. Rocky Mountain passes gather snow as early winter envelops the region. The trail was cold and getting worse. The excitement of again facing combat heartened the freezing souls of the colored soldiers. Twelve men, eleven colored soldiers and the white sergeant move days ahead of their company, to follow a fading trail of renegade Apaches. They press on with the promise of a chance. A chance to prove their worth as soldiers as men as human beings.
“I was to find the path.
I was to lead the way.”

Elusive, perhaps invisible Indians exist in frozen dreams and warm hopes. Cut off by mounds of snow and time the soldiers set camp in clear, mountain passes. They sing songs, tell stories, lying about truths and giving beautiful life to falsehoods told from childhood. They conspire to keep lively cool spirits with the passionate promise of a chance. Then came the hunger.

“It grazed quietly in a mountain glade.
It’s albino pelt ruffling at its body’s huge movement.
The pale buffalo inspired hope. To the
Indians it was a sacred thing. To me
it represented food: survival and an extension
of the promise of a chance.

The hunt was on. Invigorated by a new prey, the soldiers the white beast relentlessly. For days they trailed the creature tirelessly. Each time the creature’s capture seemed imminent, it would disappear around a craggy bend or in a blanket of new snowfall. The hunt did rattle forth smaller game, giving the men sustenance for the days that followed, but the target, the buffalo like the Apache that initiated the whole campaign, remained elusive.
White grows heavy like a comforter lying over a bed. Soon a safe harbor from the elements became the primary objective of the band of warriors. They could hole up until the rest of their company caught up. The maze of mountain passes that the search for the White Buffalo lead them through ended in a small craggy nook protected from the worse cold and harshest winds that whipped around them.

“I took first watch as everyone settled in for
the night. I sat against a rock and watched
the white snow obscure the world like the
blackest night. And then to my fault I fell
asleep.”

Dead silence echoes as snow forms a solid world of blinding light. His eyes shoot open and see this. The comforting darkness behind his closed lids is a warm memory. A deep snort breaks the quiet of his musings. Its origin cannot be found, its intentions cannot be read. His trembling hand slides down to the rifle lying at his side. Guy raised his weapon, to face whatever terror this indefinable world dare throw at him. Like the curtains at a theater show the snow seemed to part. It let up and he saw a terrifying scene. A scene that paralyzed his tongue from voicing the scream his brain sent to it. His eyes went wide and falling tears froze on his cheek. His comrades, his friends lay shattered in broken heaps, stomped and gutted in a tableau of pure bestial carnage. The rifle fell from the soldier’s hand as he slid to the ground still struck completely dumb. A gravely, raspy weak crackling coming from his throat, like the sound of an animal shook to the bone by the enormity of the predator hunting it. The snow curtain fell, obscuring his vision once more and the snort, much closer, resounded through the gap. Slowly the snow took a monstrous form. A huge white shape coalescing as it came closer, encompassing Guy’s whole world. As his eyes locked onto the black rimmed pale eyes of the Buffalo, his bladder joined the litany of fear engorging his body as warm piss spread through his trousers. The beast towered over him, menacing in its proximity.

“I could not speak, nor could I move.
I felt the movement of my jaw and my
dead worthless tongue, not even able
to usher up some final death cry.
I stared at the eyes of my executioner.”

The snout of the killer inches from his face was covered in the gore and blood of the other soldiers, turned pink from mingling with the snow. Once again the ungodly snort exploded from it s maw spreading pink human refuse over the face and chest of Guy, lying helpless before it.

“I saw a look of recognition in
those damned eyes as the insides of
my friends froze across my face
and chest. The last pieces of proof
of their time on this world.
I prepared my mind, staring into the
cunning eyes of what I thought
had been our prey. I closed my
eyes, waiting. I would die.”

Time passed in the soldiers black world of prayer and hopes of paradise. As the words of the Twenty-third Psalm ran through his mind for the twenty-third time, he opened his eyes. He was alone. The snow stopped falling. He was alone and the snow had stopped. Guy laughed wearily to himself thinking it only a dream. He looked down to grasp his rifle and was transfixed by the still warm dripping stain on his shirt. Time slowed as he looked across the camp. Guy cried to himself, babbling incoherently as he waited for the beast to return to send him on the journey that his friends, his comrades, now walked. It never returned.
“I was alive. The joy of that
was coupled with the question…
Why?”





“Why’d you stop talking to me Mr. Guy?”
The wavering voice of the girl roused Guy from his introspection.
“Sorry child, I was just thinking about folks long gone, but that’s not the stuff for young ears. Sweetie I have a lemon drop for you if you can tell me where the old Meyer stable is.”
Theresa stood up excitedly. Ready for the task.
“You promise? I’ll show you exactly where it is Mr. Guy!”
After freeing Miriam from the water trough, Guy followed the laughing child to the nearby stables. He handed her the lemon drops and waved her on.
“Thank you child. Now you run on home. I’m sure your parents are worried after you.”
Theresa smiled gleefully, fisting her payment protectively.
“Alright Mr. Guy. See you later.”
Guy watched the happy child skip back into town, but he remained tight, bound to images of death.