Portent: The Crooked Trail-A Western Tale

This story is based on the Masked Marvel, published by Youthful Magazines; created by Graham Ingels

Ellis Warren shot his way out of the bank at the town of Silent Aces yesterday, the loot was thrown across his saddle and his partner, Fred Pride, was shot dead by the Sheriff while Warren shinned-out and disappeared east towards New Mexico, gunning down some waddy on the street. It was all sin he could live with—the money would wash his guilt away. Soon Arizona would be far behind.

Ellis crawled toward the cabin, dragging his body forward with one elbow and scrambling with his knees to keep up. His other arm was swollen—blue-black by his side. The useless limb seemed to pulse and throb with each movement. It felt as though the skin were about to split open.

Earlier that morning Ellis rode his horse up on pile of mesquite that looked just about right for a camp fire, later. He dismounted and began grabbing it up for kindling. He didn’t have a lot of time to be particular; there might still be deputies on his trail. Without realizing it, he snatched up a prairie rattler alongside of some dead branches. He learned the hard way, they don’t always rattle. He didn’t even realize what he had done until it was pulling its fangs out of his arm.

Jumping back, he flung the serpent, pulled his pistol, and fired two or three times. The hasty attacks missed clean. It slithered away. The only thing the panicked attack accomplished was to frighten his horse, which was already spooked on account of the snake. It was a powerful depressing moment when his horse ran off at full gallop, bags of loot bouncing by its sides.    

Ellis ran, then walked for as far as he could, then stumbled a ways further.  By the time he came up on the cabin, he was on his hands and knees. He eventually crawled up the steps, biting down on his lower lip, so as not to cry out. He pushed the door open and moved inside. For the moment, there was nobody home.

He crawled up on a chair that faced the door, pulled out his pistol, and reloaded it with one hand. He practiced the feat back in his cavalry days; it was a useful skill to have when shooting from horseback. His mind wandered a bit. Pulling his focus back to where he was, he closed the Schofield on his lap and watched the door. He needed help, right quick, and if he had to coax some poor sodbuster at gunpoint he would.

***

That evening,

A masked rider with the face of a skull hurried to the house, jumping to the ground before Whirlwind came to a stop; a second horse followed the lead of the black charger also came to a halt. It may already be too late;  no sooner did his boots touch the ground, his pistols were in his hands. Whoever lived here might be in danger. There was likely a killer hole up in the cabin, and they may not even realize it, assuming they weren’t dead already.

The rider had been tracking a bank robber from Silent Aces since yesterday. The trail had went a little cold when he heard some gunshots early this morning and followed them, only to find the robber’s horse wandering alone with the bags of loot still tied across its saddle—no rider in sight. Once he found the foot trail, he began to follow the crook. By the looks of it, the robber was in bad shape. The latest sign indicated he was dragging himself.

The rider moved up to the window of the cabin, quickly ducking his head to peek inside. The brief glimpse revealed a sitting room. There was a young woman standing and staring down at a wingback chair, a darkness in her expression. The desperado’s arms and boots were visible, a Schofield revolver dangled limply in one hand. Something was wrong.

The rider moved to the door, calling inside, “Ma’am I need to come in there. Don’t be alarmed but I don’t think it’s safe for you.”

“I couldn’t be safer whoever you are.” She replied.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he saw the woman looking down at the body of Ellis Warren, dead in the chair, a gun was slack in his lifeless hand.

Marlena looked at the rider, not recoiling from the skull-masked stranger. She seemed in a daze. Her eyes rose up to meet the dark sockets of his mask. ”You have come for me, reaper?”

“No…for him. He robbed a bank.” The rider’s voice rasped, but was strong and even.

“He told me. He told me about the robbery in Silent Aces. He told me how he was bit by a rattle snake and that he needed my help.” Her lips pulled back sardonically.

“I told him how my husband was shot to death in Silent Aces outside the bank. He was there to secure a loan so that we might have a life together. We have a child on the way.” She pushed back a tear. “Then I  stood here and watched the Son-of-a-Bitch die. He lingered for hours. Truth is…you just did miss him.” Her sardonic sneer faded. “So you see, I just thought maybe you were sent from hell to take me.”  

“You didn’t kill him.” The rider said flatly.

“I didn’t save him. I watched him die.” There was hot anger curling her words from below.

“You can’t be judged for what you didn’t or couldn’t do. Whatever you think I am. I am just a man, and for what it’s worth I am sorry for what happened to your family.” The rider put his guns away and walked across to the chair, scooped up Ellis and carried him outside.  

Marlena followed the stranger outside and stood on the porch watching as he lashed the body onto dead robber’s brown getaway horse. She then returned inside.

The rider mounted Whirlwind with the death horse trailing behind, he bore the body and the loot back to Silent Aces.

***

Some time later, Chet Fairchild sat in his camp, the mask of Portent hung on the limb of a tree. Chet rarely drank alone. As he thought about the cruel twist of fate that brought a murderer face to face with the malign ramifications oh his deeds, he wondered what roll providence had in it all. He drained the tin cup of bourbon.

Justice, providence and a tiny rattler conspired together to send a murderer to the gallows. Had he not been there to witness it, then Chet Fairchild would never have believed it.