Portent and the Coward’s Last Chance
Based on the Masked Marvel, originally published by Youthful Magazines, 1949; created by Graham Ingels
Arizona, 1876
Reuben Parks drove his oxcart into the badlands, Everything he owned left behind in the tiny town of Horseshoe. It didn’t much matter; the likelihood of finding safety now, was slim. If he were lucky he might survive being scalped by apache or killed-dead by road agents, long enough to starve to death in some cave somewhere.
Chet Fairchild watched solemnly from the high rocks. He scanned the way the oxcart had come when his eyes rested uneasily on a small group of mounted riders; three of them. It looked like Adrian Jacks and his two brothers, Sanford and Chancy. They were Bad news—all of them were notorious troublemakers. He reined his black horse, Whirlwind, down a path to intercept the cart.
“I know,” stated Reuben in reply to the snorts and bellows of the Oxen, “but we can’t stop.” Reuben looked at the kegs in the back of the cart. Water sloshed back and forth with each movement as the cart crept over the uneven earth. Only one was full; the others were bone dry. “Should of thought that through a little better…” He wondered how he would ever reach California. He laughed nervously to himself, followed by a bitter sigh.
“Coming in!,” Chet Fairchild rode out from behind a wall of rock, wearing the skull-mask of grim portent; one hand raised in peace.
As soon as Reuben saw the frightening stranger he hastened the Oxen to move on. “I don’t know who you are, specter, or what you want, but I do not have it.” Reuben continued to push the team faster as the stranger trotted up beside the cart.
“Hang on now—stop the cart,” rasped the Herald of Portent. “You aren’t getting anywhere fast. What are you doing out here?”
On closer inspection, Reuben felt sure the stranger was a man and not a spirit, though the realization didn’t comfort him much. “Going to California,” he answered, looking around anxiously, still coaxing the slow moving team forward.
Whirlwind easily kept pace with the wagon. The rider continued, “Look…I don’t mean to alarm you none, but since I don’t see food in this wagon,” He locked an even, black socketed gaze on Reuben, “…you’re not going to make it. So what’s going on? You couldn’t be any more scared if they were giving out prizes for it.”
“A bad hombre name Adrian Jacks ran me out of town just because I expressed some opinions he didn’t care for…I’m not afraid to say that I can’t go back.” A wide-eyed look shot across Reuben’s face “No…I won’t go back…Adrian Jacks…he scares me to death.”
Adrian Jacks was a bad man alright, but not a particularly dangerous one. Truth-be-told he was a bully; Horseshoe wasn’t known for producing the kind of hard edged gunslingers and villains, like those that came out of tough towns like Tombstone, Deadwood, or Slow Funeral Ridge.
Chet recalled a time long ago, when his uncle, Thomas Fairchild taught him a lesson about fear…
***
Chet couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old; Thomas took him along to turn cattle out of one corral and transfer to another. The cattle were so big. Any one of them could mash him flat. Thomas sensed his fear and handed him a big brown cattleman’s hat.
Thomas explained the hat was a tool he was going to use to whoop and holler and make a big show. The cattle would be afraid and confused and go anywhere he scared them to. If anybody was going to be afraid it was going to be the cattle.
After that, Thomas climbed up on his horse and started moving the herd. Chet was too small for a horse so went on foot, running, and whooping and hollering, and just as his uncle said, the herd began to move where he wanted them to go.
It was right then that Chet learned to face his fears.
***
The grim rider pulled the rifle out of his saddle scabbard and offered the butt end to Reuben. “Take it for now.”
Reuben stopped his team and accepted the weapon hesitantly. “Then wha…”
The rider pointed back down the trail in the direction he had just come. “You are going to need it when you turn this cart around and head back into Horseshoe.”
Parks was already shaking his head frantically.
“Without food, water, medical supplies, or a map you don’t have a choice. If you get into any trouble with anybody on the trail, fire a warning shot and tell them to high tail it, and mean it. Make sure you stand your ground and keep that rifle aimed at them. Don’t let them get close enough to scrutinize you, fear makes a sorry war-paint.“
Parks sat slack-jawed for a moment.
“Go back home. I’ll come get my rifle from you in Horseshoe. Get moving, before I shoot you myself!!”
Truth is Reuben was more afraid of the weird, skull-faced rider than anything else right then. He turned his cart around and began riding back in the direction of Horseshoe, as the grim stranger disappeared, once again, into the dark folds of the rocky terrain.
Just then, Reuben, saw three riders approaching from the direction he was going. He could just hear their laughs and jeers. It was Adrian Jacks and his brothers.
The Jacks brothers were coming towards him, laughing and carrying-on. Adrian was pointing and making mocking faces. They were sure of themselves, full of themselves, and mean. This was it then. If he ran, he would be running forever.
Reuben hoisted the rifle up to his shoulder and fired a shot into the rocks. The shot exploded off of stone and the brothers stopped their horses in their tracks. They sat still in their saddles, frozen with bewilderment. He had their attention.
Reuben pressed the momentary advantage. “I’m going home! Don’t try and stop me! Next time I fire there will only be two brothers. You better get out of here, and fast!” The fear-bit shiver in his arms subsided; he had to make a stand. He cocked the lever on the rifle and loaded another round into the chamber.
No longer laughing, the three brothers reined their horses back down the trail, eager to put distance between themselves and Reuben. They called out threats and insults as they moved off.
The Masked rider followed Reuben from cover in the rocks, just in case the brothers double backed on him. As expected, they were just bullies and wanted no part of Reuben’s new found confidence.
Days later…
After leaving Reuben’s home with his rifle in hand. Chet Fairchild spurred Whirlwind into the rocks. Once he was behind cover he removed his mask, smiling as he strapped it back into his saddlebag. “Well Whirlwind, a scary hat and a big show still gets the point across.”
The End