The Undertaker
Dai Reid
Published by Ray Jaxome at Smashwords
Copyright Dai Reid 2012
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Chapter One – The Story
I rode into the valley on a grey stallion, my gun at my side, and the picture of my target folded up in the shirt pocket. No one was about, not for miles, and the dusty red clay road had no wagon tracks. I didn’t need to look at the information on the letter:
The Undertaker, Wanted for Treason, Wanted for a thousand dollars.
I’d known him for a long time. It was a sad state of affairs when you have to take down a friend to make an honest buck. I’d prefer to have made a dishonest one, but I’d fought in the war, got my pardon, and the misses didn’t want me to make no more mistakes.
I could tell from the noises my horse was making that it wanted water. Well, so did I, and I put my hand to my flask and sipped the last of it. The map said I would get to town in a few hours. As I rode my eyes darted from side to side. I didn’t like this countryside. The Indians were peaceful, now, but I had too many memories of them appearing like locusts off a hill, of them fighting to the death to defend their lands and their families from the white men. No, I didn’t want to be here, no sir, not now and not ever.
Maybe it was that wariness that saved my life.
At the top of the hill I saw a sudden glint of sunlight on mettle, and I pressed the side of my boot hard against the horse. It didn’t like what I’d done, and it reared up. The bullet hit where I had been, where the stallion was now, and blood flowed out of the animal so fast I thought it was going to bleed to death right under me.
The horse didn’t like the sensation. It reared, and screamed in fear and pain, and ran faster that the wind.
I held on for dear life.
Soon, the wound started to have its effect on the horse. It slowed down to the point that I could regain control. Then, I got down and checked the wound. As far as I could see the horse was living dead: there was little I could do. It would slow me down, so I pulled out the kit I needed then removed the saddle, and let the horse go free.
Then I started to walk.
I knew I didn’t have much time, you see. The guy who had ambushed me would be on horseback, and on foot there was no way I could beat him. I got off the road, and started to walk through the grasslands. They were parched brown. My gun was in my hands ready to shoot anything that attacked me. My throat felt dry, and all I could do was try to find some water.
After an hour of walking I heard steady thumping sound behind me.
There were three men, dressed head to toe in black, with the largest hats you’ve ever seen in your life. One of them looked Indian, but was dressed like an American. He was behind the other, who I recognised. I tried to dart behind a rock for shelter in the gun fight that I was about to die in.
As they got nearer to me, they slowed down. Finally, they got off their horses when they were just beyond range. It was obvious they knew exactly where I was.
“Bryant,” the butch man shouted my name, “We know you are there. Come out where we can see you.”
I stood up. “What do you guys want?” I asked.
“Well,” he smiled at me for a moment, “We want you dead, but the boss wants you alive.”
“And who is the boss?”
“The Undertaker,” they shouted. I guess I should have known already. How he did it, I couldn’t say, but he had a nose for trouble that could smell someone trying to kill him a hundred miles away.
“How do I know you won’t try to kill me?” I asked.
“You don’t” he paused, “But then again, we’re three against one. If we want you dead, you’re dead.” I nodded and holstered my gun. Then I walked towards the three, slowly, hoping not to frighten them into anything smart. They waited, then gestured to a horse, “You’ll have to do double with Marti,” they said. Marti looked like the Indian. It was an odd name, and they were an odd group. Not the kind of people someone like the Undertaker would normally hire.
Then again, he’d hired me, and I wasn’t the normal cowboy either.
We rode in silence, except for once when I asked for a sip of water. The Indian just laughed. I guess he had a good sense of humour. Finally, we arrived at the village – it was a two horse kind of town, with a salon, a barber shop, and not much else. The trappers must trade here, and people stop on the road. Although I hadn’t seen anyone like that on the journey here.
“The Undertaker is in the Salon,” Marti said, “He just wants to talk to you. No funny stuff, right?”
I nodded, then walked through the two flaps into the salon. It looked like any other bar you might find in these parts: dark, dingy, with a few rough cowboys drinking warm beer, and a fat man in a stained waistcoat leaning on the bar. In front of him on a stool sat The Undertaker. He looked no different from when I had last seen him.
“Hello, Partner,” he said, and pointed to the stool next to him, “Sit down. The same again, barkeep, and one for my friend.” I was about to tell him that I was no friend of mine when he leaned over, and smiled, and I was shocked to see he was missing his two front teeth, “You did that to me, that last day, in front of the fort.”