Portent and the Long Hard Climb-A Western Tale

Based on the Masked Marvel; Youthful Magazines (1949); created by Graham Ingels.

Arizona, 1876.
Every February, Chet Fairchild made the journey up the Kachinas to visit, “Old Man” Aaron Fennessey. The black steed, Whirlwind made the climb up the snow mottled slope; a discreet outlaw-trail called The Lost Highway.

Some years back Chet came this way with an outlaw. Chet had been badly injured and was being hauled in the back of a mule cart. A Comanchero was seeking help to save his life; it only seemed fair since the Comanchero and a few others ambushed him and gave him the wounds in the first place. It was easy, they got him talking about himself over a campfire. It wasn’t hard for an accomplice to sneak up on him, hold him down while the others jumped him.

Fairchild unconsciously rubbed his shoulder, just above the heart, soothing a long gone wound.
Whirlwind broke stride and moved to the right, avoiding a patch of jagged earth. Chet shifted his weight in the saddle, watching the jagged rocks peek up through the snow. Just a few feet beyond was the brink and a lethal drop. He scanned the terrain and let the mesmerizing sway of Whirlwind carry him once again to the past.

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Then
When the Comanchero ascended to the mid-way point of the trail, there was an explosive gunshot, and a ricochet off nearby rocks. The Comanchero leapt off the cart, taking cover behind it and Chet.

“What do you want?!” The echoing voice came from high cover.

“This man is dying. I heard there was a crazy old pale face that lived in a cabin up here that could maybe
save him…you that man?” The Comanchero kept down behind the cart and waited.

“What happened to him?”

“His dad’s a rich oil man. I’m sure the old tycoon would be mighty grateful to get his son back. I might even cut you in on the deal if you could see yourself clear to help out.”

There was a brief pause. “Sure…bring him in.”

After a long moment, the Comanchero stepped forward and took his seat on the cart.

A second bullet caught the outlaw clean in the chest and flipped him backwards off the cart. He hit the ground and rolled a bit.

The Comanchero choked out, “why?”

An older man rose up from behind tall rocks and quickly made his way down to the cart. “I didn’t lie to you boy. I just thought it prudent to play your game…by your rules. I don’t make deals with killers. Don’t worry none—I’ll bury you proper.”

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Chet smiled flatly to himself. Those words were the first time he ever heard the song of justice, only back then he was the one getting saved. The cabin revealed itself as he came around the bend. It was small, big enough for one or two people. The cabin had fallen into disrepair and Chet wondered how much longer it might stand. The rider spurred whirlwind forward as he passed the relic.

The wind blew hard against the mountain side, howling as it went, blindingly blowing loose snow against him. Whirlwind turned his head, seemingly looking at a crumbling fence post that still had a couple of timber slats leaned against it; the only evidence that it had ever been a corral. There was nothing left of the barn at all.

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Then
While recovering, Chet, listened as “Old Man” Fennessey read from books of philosophy; a ragweed poultice was kept on his injuries, drawing out infection. Over the course of many weeks he would learn about Plato, Socrates, Sun-Tzŭ, Carl Van Clausewitz, Alighieri, and Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur; it was even more than he learned in college. All Chet could think about was revenge. The Old Man fiercely focused his efforts to teach him something better.

Once he was able to stand and walk, the lessons continued; tending livestock, chopping wood, and hunting for food. Still, the philosophy continued; sometimes while they ate or on the front porch after dinner.

“Why are teaching me this?” Chet had asked that question many times, but only after months did
Fennessey give a satisfactory answer:

“When you leave here, it will be full of knowledge or full of hate, one. The ambush scarred-up your soul much, much worse than it did your body. It has taken a powerful amount of healing to fix both. I can’t do a job just half-way.”

When the time to leave came, at last, the old man imparted one final gift. “Out there in the Corral is that high-spirited black stallion which you like to call Whirlwind. Well, since you are the only one that seems to be able to throw a saddle on him, he’s yours.”

Chet Fairchild left the cabin and the old man behind and traced his way down the outlaw-trail to a world in which he would have a very different place in.

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“Woe boy.” The magnificent stallion was already slowing, in anticipation of his rider’s command, as if both had come for the same reason.

Chet was the son of a Wealthy Tycoon, born to comfort and privilege; selfish and shortsighted. When he first arrived here it was with a wounded soul and broken body. He has since learned to be a just man, a protector of the weak and an enemy of malign cruelty. It was more than a calling; it was a responsibility, and more than that, was it a reckoning for his self-exaltation and reckless exuberance.

Chet dismounted, undid the flap of his saddlebag, and withdrew a bottle of bourbon and a thick book. He walked ahead of Whirlwind and knelt down, removing the cork on the bottle with his teeth.

“Well Old Man, I thought we would discuss Malory this year. That is, unless you are just opposed to the notion.” Fairchild sat before a plain pile of stones; a funeral Cairn. He continued the lesson with the old man that taught him so much.

We don’t grow up all at once but learn lessons throughout life. Who we are is never exactly who we once were.

The End

Dedicated to the Memory of Amedeo Carmine Falcone, who always wanted to be a cowboy (1942-2022)