'Hello, dear. You're doing very well! You're quite the schemer, aren't you?'
'I can't fault you. It's the perfect opportunity. Maybe that's why we click so well, you were always so mischievous.'
☐☐☐
☐NIGHTMARE☐RANDOM☐STORY☐
☐WILD☐WEST☐
☐NARRATIVE☐
☐☐☐
'Oh, have fun! Save people from desperados and bounty hunters. Or just kill them all!'
'I'll be watching your story.'
'Don't worry, you'll be fine. It's just a dream.'
'See you later, my hero.'
☐☐☐
"Since all men were boys, the gospel read true. Always was, always has been. But never had it come to pass that the words of the Lord would reckon with the lands of the West. Stories were told through generations, of a stranger. The Wanted Judge. He walked the earth, killed mountains of men, and he would continue to do so through tales. Young, momma told the rumors to me and my brothers. Said he killed our father. A bad, cruel husband. Ever since, I have searched for 'em. Time has passed, and now I am of my momma's age. To all my listeners. Here lies the story of a boy that had chased that mysterious stranger.
In the merciless mesas of New Mexico, the land lay brittle beneath the scorching sun. The scent of rain was forgotten, veiled beneath the foreign stench of manure left by hoof and wheel. Trails of trade had scarred the mesa plains, seeding small settlements rooted in that arid soil, birthing towns. There, tucked far from the reaches of greater civilization, stood a den of whiskey and respite, a tavern where tall tales take their first breath. It was in this particular tavern that the first account begins, and it was there a tavern owner spoke of what he had seen."
…
"It was sudden, like any other day, when a short passerby crossed the threshold of those doors. But it was no boy. The wind borne upon him carried the heavy reek of iron. The quarrels and the clatter within the tavern guttered out at once. A pall of dread settled upon the men in that dim room that day, and every day after it. The highest shadows swallowed the small stranger, and the noon light cast him in a cloak of darkness. In that instant, all present understood something was amiss. He was no chinaman they had ever set eyes upon. His hair was black as coal and his face pale as porcelain. His eyes were sharp yet vacant, like those in the skull of a stag long dead. That devil was not of the living, but something wearing the shell of a man. To look upon him was to feel Satan given shape, a primordial fear. If men did not piss themselves then, they stiffened where they sat like hunted prey. His steps were weighty, and the boards beneath him whispered with a rasp that resounded like drums known to mournful tribes. Such drums stirred the hearts of men to falter at their own breath. Death trailed the stride of such beasts. And rumor traveled that along nearby roads, bodies of wicked men lay strewn. Work of the Wanted Judge. Some were found clean, not a sign of blood but for the single crimson thread drawn from a bullet's entry in the skull, a shot never gone astray. But, others were found wrenched into simple shapes. No first-hand came from a sane man who witnessed such displays of brutality, only from the confessions of drunkards.
God have mercy, the first thought. Forgive my sins, the second. The tavern owner kept his voice still till the stranger stood before the bar, "…What can I do for you…Sir? Need something?" No patron or woman ever recalled the owner speaking a kindly word, much less toward any celestial breed, yet on that day the balance was fixed. But in spite of the courtesy, silence returned, and the fearsome stranger raised himself upon a stool. The stranger gazed upon the dull yellow boy rifle hanging behind the bar, then upon the owner. The moment endured like an eternity, the deadness of those eyes mirrored back, until the air itself chilled. A hand descended to the counter. Tap. Pause. Tap. A long tap. Pause. A long tap. Sweat welled upon the tavern owner's brow. None there understood what that oriental man had taken up. "…S-sir… I don't hear what you're saying." A long tap. Two taps. Pause. Two taps. Pause. One- "I understand!" Nearly breaking into tears like a woman beaten, the owner bent his neck in dread. With a haste unknown to his years he crossed the room upon his limp. A limp said to come from a mining accident, a twist of birth, or an old wound. The eyes of the men clung to table or floor, unmoving like dolls carved from the very same wood. The stranger remained motionless, no trace of humanity beneath the skin's guise.
Despite all, that day passed without disruption. The owner brought forth food. The stranger ate. Paid his due. And departed. He was not seen again in that town, save for the winds of iron."
…
"Under drinks and moonlight, the ol' tavern owner confessed his story to a curious boy. Said he'd never thought he'd feel that shame again. For a way of cleansing sin, when the boy begged him to learn more about the stranger, he did so. A book of morse was handed over, and a cardinal direction. With mercy's blessing, the boy was sent off, tracking the mythical Wanted Judge. And so, time passed."
…
"Pushing on. In the forests of Texas, thick and foggy pines and oak blot the sun's light above. Rot and insects fester in the layers of leaves, warming the mist, and wetting the soil to mud. Creeks wound through trees, banks bleeding around roots. The next account starts with bad folks capturing that very same boy. Merciless, filthy creatures of the territories, bandits. Not the courteous folks that have rules and ethics, these were hounds for wealth. Types that sell gold, jewelry, notes, people, and scalps. The boy, taken off the road, was taken by the opportunistic type of bandits. From picked up conversations, he fit the conditions, the boy was to be sold to a mining camp out south. But the eyes of a beast saw the boy.
Boon Hart held leader of the small but well-known Hart Gang. The Hart Gang bandits terrorized the edges of Texas, doing anything to make cash. They tolled, robbed, kidnapped, ransomed, killed, and reap'd as they pleased. The success came from their small loyal group, Boon Hart, Tommy Peyton, Doyle Clay, and "Dog-Fucker" Crow. Boon Hart had a soul of greed, checking pockets twice, and nabbing anything worth a pretty penny. And, he was clever, he stuck deals, made connections, and used cruelty as leverage. Tommy Peyton, an older man, held great respect among the men, giving advice. But, despite his wise words, the mind he had was of degenerate sin. Doyle Clay had no mind of his own, every choice, word, and opinion, given by Hart or Peyton, a loyal hound to the Hart Gang. "Dog-Fucker" Crow… did things that amused the gang. From jokes, Crow was once a prisoner, but after living up to his name, he became a member. Soon, tasting the freedom of the west, became another loyal 'hound' to the Hart Gang.
That fateful day, a boy was taken off the road, tipped off by a sleezy-fuck of a local. Rope coiled the wrists and ankles, bounding that boy onto a horse. The boy sat tied and gagged in the front with Clay trotting a horse. Clay, always in the back of the line, followed the gang's trail. Luckly, the Hart Gang was told of an illegal contract out south of Texas for young boys wanted in a mining operation. Around this time, oil just started to become appealing, so many folks prepared for transitions. Free labor that grows with the operation values interested many barons, so they skirted the law to have a blind eye. Therefore, the boy was to be sent across Texas for a quick exchange, an offering that would bear greater opportunities for the Hart Gang. If that were not the case, the boy would be scraps for the forest wilderness."
…
"Reaching an open patch, Hart whistles, "Boys. Set up camp." A days travel in, the skies dim. "Gettin', dark and we don't know this trail well. Tie the boy to a tree." Clay nods and reins his horse and then the boy. Peyton takes his bag and clears a small patch.
With a scratchy throat, Peyton orders, "Crow" He flicks his arm out, "Get sum wood. Firewood." Crow heads out to collect.
The woods stand and leaves sway to the force of wind. Peyton sets up a mound of kindling and strikes a match, flashing a moment of bright light, then to dim orange. The boy's absent gaze reignites and speaks muffled into a rope gag. Hart clicks his tongue, grins and snaps his fingers, "Clay, take off the gag. Let's hear what our money sayin'." Taking the gag off, the boy silences. "Whatcha have to say?" Hart gazes at the defiant boy holding his tongue, "You say it now, while I'm willing." He stares into the boy's eyes, then looks towards Peyton, "Might have to open him up. Loosen his lips, per say." He chuckles, and Peyton looks back.
Peyton scolds, "Not now." He focuses back onto the glowing embers, "May later… with permission, of course." Hart whistles for Clay's attention. Walking to Hart, Clay looks at 'em.
"Get the supplies for Peyton. And lay our bedrolls." Clay heads over to grab cookware strapped to Peyton's horse pack. "And, Peyton. We have another mouth to feed, feed 'em well, gotta have a healthy product."
Everyone, given their orders, follows them through and prepares for the night. The firewood collected, turns into a campfire with a cooking pot held over on a thin wire frame. Bed rolls lain on the floor, rocks, pebbles, and leaves swept away. As Peyton cooks a meal, the sky darkens till the only light comes from the fire. Conversations start picking up and food and whiskey are shared. After everyone's got their fill, Hart lightly gestures back to the boy. Clay fills his bowl back up and walks to the shadowed tree. The boy, reluctant, is spoon-fed the meal. A surprisingly decent smoky stew of beans and beef. Hart mentions as Clay feeds the boy, "Was spoils of our latest hunt." An ugly chortle comes out, "A tinhorn's stash. Rat died hoarding a few old cans." The boy hesitates but continues eating. Hart nods, "Tastes good though." By this time, Clay stops feeding and walks back to the campfire.
A silence hangs a bit, the noose knot twirlin'.
The boy speaks, "…For the food. I-I'll warn you." The high voice sounds of a girl, but the tone is calm, as much as a boy could muster.
Hart raises his eyebrows at Peyton, "See? What I tell you?" He smirks, "Your wisdom is fleeting." Then, turning back, facing the shrouded boy, "What's your warning boy? Daddy coming for us? Lawmen on our trail?"
The boy's face creases, obscured by darkness, "It won't be long till the Wanted Judge comes."
Silence tightens, tougher to breath. The mood sinks, Hart slowly speaks, "…The Wanted Judge. He's coming?" The tense air brushes against the revolvers tucked in holsters. "Boy." Hart stands tall and steps close, "What do you mean by that."
The boy takes deep breaths, composing himself, "We travel the Dead Man's Stretch."
Hart turns to Peyton, "That our trail?"
Peyton shakes his head, "We're on Dust Line Trail. I don't know no Dead Man's Stretch."
Hart turns back to the boy, cautious, "You lying?" There's no anger in his words, just worry. "C'mon, tell me boy. I'll take my chances elsewhere if you're honest. I'll let yah go, as good will among men."
The boy watches a bit, observing the tension rise, and in a low tone, "Dead Man's Stretch isn't an ordinary trail. It's the path Brother Black carved when he pillaged the territories."
Peyton gasps in recognition, "Brother Black." Hart takes note and grimly nods.
The boy continues, "The Wanted Judge follows this trail." Hart's grip tightens. "And…I saw 'em! In the woods back… A-and, if you hurt me. You'll suffer the worst fate of him. S-so, let me go, and, he may have mercy."
Silence consumes the camp, the light of the fire dimming, the sounds of the insects absent. Hart clenches his teeth, bleeding his sore gums, "Peyton." Peyton stays quiet, thinking a storm.
Clay speaks up, "Um, ain't the kid just lying?" The words lingering. No one responds. Clay does not speak again.
Crow curious, not familiar with the news of the west, questions, "Sir. Who's the judge? A lawman? Wasn't that a myth?" A continued silence bubbles till Peyton speaks up.
"Not, a *judge*. *The* *Wanted* Judge." He grinds his teeth, "Kid ain't lyin'." His leg tapping, hand on his revolver, "Tell 'em things over time…. He ain't lyin'…" Peyton's gaze sinking into the campfire.
A peaking dread finally meets the doubt, the moment silent, broken by Hart, "Time's not on our side." He puts a hand to his chest, checking his heartbeat, "The rumors are true." He draws his gun.
Peyton checks his chest and unholsters his gun and caresses it, "The devil comes."
Clay and Crow alarmed, draw their guns too, Clay stays quiet, but Crow glances around, "T-tell me dammit, what's coming!" Crow, stressed, mimics the movements and can feel his heart thumping in his chest, no matter how many calm breaths he takes. He's met with silence from his gang, but the boy speaks fast with anger, fear, and amusement.
"A lone ranger who wanders the west on foot! Every evil in his path will be judged! Hundreds, killed by a single bullet or torn to pig's shit! Now, let me go!" The boy struggles a bit, also a bit worried, "I saw his eyes during the kidnapping! He was watching! Untie me!"
Everyone's eyes dart around. Hart's breath paces uneven, he glances towards his horse, who stand frozen and silent, freezing him in place as well. Peyton's leg shakes with vigorous passion, the clinking of the cylinder tolling the bells. Clay curls a bit, his pistol gripped tightly by two hands. Crow trembles, his heart throbbing in pain. The boy, seeing he's not being released, closes his eyes and holds his breath. The silent night is colder than the previous. The sounds mute, the darkness overwhelming. The world stills, air stagnates… till a smell of iron approaches. God have mercy, the first thought. Forgive my sins, the second. A step in the darkness, a crunch of leaves.
Hart bolts to his horse. He reaches and struggles with his knife and cuts the rope. Desperate, he jumps on his horse and sits on the saddle. He whips the reigns, but the horse doesn't move, not even making a sound, trying not to breathe. "C'mon!" He continues whipping, desperately, pulling muscles from his arms, splattering flecks of horse blood everywhere. BANG! Hart collapses strung on his saddle. Clay jolts up and trips, scrambling away towards the darkness. BANG! Clay slumps over. Crow sprints away, hiding behind a tree. BANG! Peyton shoots himself in the head.
Crow's legs crumble. His heart burning up. His mind breaking, he screams, "Spare me! Spare me! Don't kill me!" He shrinks into the frame of a tree's trunk. His leg torn, pulling a muscle. Every joint weak. "Please! Please! Have mercy!" The sound of heavy steps come from the camp behind. "Lord have mercy!" The steps pause. Then light stomps and foot drags. A signal of absolute fear.
Long tap. Tap. Pause. Three long taps.
His heart bursting. Every thought in his head begging for life. Pleading to the almighty above, "Havemercyhavemercyhavemercyhavemercy!"
Two long taps. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Long tap. Tap. Pause. Long tap. Tap. Long tap. Tap. Pause. Long tap. Tap. Two long taps.
The rhythmic steps of the devil come closer, in a daze, Crow screams and fires his gun around the corner. BANG! BANG! BANG! With a final fight, he leaps out and fires more. BANG! BANG! With sight, Crow sees the figure cloaked in shadows. A sense of shame washes over. With a spark of desire for life, he aims. BANG! Right to the figure's chest. Then tries to fire more. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! No more in the chamber. BANG! Crow limps over, forehead pierced right through.
The boy eyes held shut. As sight would bring the death to reality. A moment rests, till steps approach the boy. A slight pause, then the sounds of dragging echo the camp. Men, dead men, being consumed by the woods. A body from the saddle of a horse, a body from the campfire, a body face first on the ground, and a body on its back. Dragged into shadows, never seen again. The haunting sounds of movement echoing away. Sweat beads from the boy's head, muscles on the face strain, trying to holding shut. But, the steps of the stranger come, stepping closer. The boy tears up, eyes closed, but speaks, "S-sir. H-h…help me." A silent prayer. The steps move closer, right in front of the boy. Then as the air settles, the rope is cut. The boy 's stiff body relaxes a bit, and he open his eyes. Appearing before him is a man cloaked in shadow, his garbs, a leather poncho that casts darkness. But, glimmering, is the reflection of eyes, and black hair. An uneasy sense of wrong. A feeling that one's a character in a book. Like the life one held was utterly meaningless in the presence of the son of God. The boy musters courage, a deep and devout worship, "Y-you're the Wanted Judge, right!" He heaves a breath, "I've been looking for you!" But, the man turns away. "Wait!" The boy stands up, his legs weak. The man steps deeper into the darkness. "Wait!!" The boy stumbles and follows. "You're a good man, right?" Chasing as the man walks deeper into the dim night. The action of walking towards him feels unnatural, like falling backwards off a cliff, "I've heard of what you've done! You're my hero!" They both pause, steps halt. The man drags his foot and stomps. Four taps. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Long tap. Tap. Pause. Three long taps. Like a Satan's voice, a black goat marking its decree onto the world. But, despite the odds, the boy remembers well, "Ah! That's m-morse code, right? Umm, H…E…R…O? Hero? Yes! Hero!" The man stomps, 'K. N. O. W. ?.' Grasping his memory, "Yes! Uh, a little. Oh. I need my book!" The boy feels around his clothes, but it's empty. He feels naked, like the darkness watches. The man tosses into the dark, a small book at the boy. "Ah! Oh, is this my book?" Too dark, the boy can't see the coverings, but he feels the shape, "Yes, this is my book. Thank you." The scene lingers, a pause in the night. "Mister. Can you please… help me?" A request to an angel of death. No response. "I'd like to follow! Please?" A wish to a flyin' star. A longer silence. "I… I..." Pause, pleading with the Almighty, "I don't know what to do… So… please?" Answering the prayer, the stranger responds, 'F. O. L. L. O. W.' "Uh…Yes? Really? Yes!!" Jumping in joy, the boy follows the man, The Wanted Judge.
The night is spent in silence, and continued pace. A slow, methodical walk. And, eventually, the dark lights of morning peak. The boy tired, still follows the man stepping slow like a march. Pausing, the man stops and points to a clearing, 'S. L. E. E. P.' Walking over, he sits down and leans on a tree, and reaching into his cloak, pulls out a sheet of metal, dented with bullets. Placing his pistol on top, he disassembles the gun and polishes it. The boy understands, leaning on a tree across the way, studying his book, till sleep. And time passes."
…
"That day started the boy's journey with the man. A man that fascinated the boy. A man with an otherworldly feel. Over the course of days, weeks, and overall many months, the boy learned more of morse code, and began having more questions. Questions of curiosity. So, with the extra space on his book, he began writing his findings. Creating a larger picture for the figure known as the Wanted Judge."
…
"On the travels throughout the Texas wilderness, they reach a town. Stepping into the bounds of humanity, the barrier that man created to separate from the beasts is trampled on, as the pair walks straight through. Iron reeks the streets, blooming the seed of fear. Passersby's hide, noble steeds cower, and lawmen pray with guns to chest. An unstoppable force splits the sea of man, allowing passage through the river of buildings. The calm, methodical steps echo the silent civilization, a heavy thud, thud, thud, that captures any listening's heartbeat. The boy whispers, "Why?" They hadn't stopped at any towns before. The man stepping forward, patterns his gait, 'F. O. O. D.' The boy nods from behind, "…and, why do they fear you?" On the road, the boy saw roadmen ride away, merchants haul forward, men hiding, or freezing. He questions this now, at town, a blatant scene, "Fear you such?" And, walking deeper into the town, steps studder and linger, 'N. I. G. H. T. M. A. R. E.' Puzzled, the boy persists, "…Nightmare?" A creeping feeling that all the folks nearby must feel. A sense of distortion. Nearing a soundless general store, the man stops and turns around, facing the boy, the first time since the beginning. Under a cloak, shadowed, the hollow eyes and skin on the flesh are unnatural, not ugly, not pretty, just captivating. And, that captivity shrinks the land to dust. Like the world was incompatible with the man. Sensing the emotions of the boy, the man points to the ground, and walks inside the store. There, waiting outside, the boy knew the man was special, more special than he could fathom but just enough to know, the Wanted Judge, was chaos to the brimming wild west. Lawmen can write their posters, but no humankind would take it up, for the Wanted Judge, was the earth's judge. A force of nature, spilling rivers of blood. The sin of death incarnate. Or hero to the victims of evil."
…
"More time passes, days, passing a week. With some familiarity, the boy asks more questions on the trail. Passing creeping woodland forest, humid air between trees. Rivers and creeks show more common, small winding paths that reach farther depths in the land. Somehow, the journey is simple, nearly comfortable. The sun is warm, the winds are nice, the rain doesn't fall near, the humidity is cool and refreshing, the pests absent. Everything that made life hard and miserable, was not present. This made the boy pleased, but there was a hint of somethin'. The march was improper, inappropriate to its name. Inconsistent.
Pathing through the soft dirt, leaves decomposing layers of soil, the boy walks the steps of the man. And asks the question he's been wondering for a while, "Why do you use morse?" He never knew of the word before being handed his book. And, understood in time, the man is honest, 'S. L. A. V. E.' The boy nearly misses a step, "Ah…" The words do not want to be brought up. An odd turn of fate, before, the boy was going to be sold as a slave. The boy chooses his words more carefully, a wisdom he picked up in fear and caution. He chose to stay silent. And, walking a few more steps ahead, the man pauses his march. Facing the boy, the man uncovers his cloak, to reveal his features. Revealed, more of his face is shown, already familiar, but what is implied is his neck. A twisted and caved in throat, marks of deep, dark scarring. His head looked separate, a clear boundary between head and body. The boy just stared in awe, shock, fear, and disgust? It was a sight that gave wonder to man's resilience. The man points to a clearing with a rock formation. Heading over, they both sit down, and begin slowly conversing.
'N. O. T. C. H. I. N. E. S. E.'
The boy tilts his head, referring to his notes for a quicker understandin'. Odd, the boy felt, clearly the man showed signs of being from the place known as China.
'K. O. R. E. A.'
Even stranger, the name had no recognition. And, certainly a boy this age wouldn't know.
'S. L. A. V. E.'
'N. O. R. T. H. C. A. R. O. L. I. N. A'
The boy nods.
'N. O. S. P. E. A. K. C. H. I. N. E. S. E.'
The boy blinks.
'H. A. N. G. M. E.'
'S. T. E. P. O. N. N. E. C. K'
'L. O. S. E. V. O. I. C. E.'
'A. S. J. O. K. E.'
The boy, piecing the word, feels odd, like… Pity? Shame?
'D. R. E. A. M.'
'D. A. E. G. O. N.'
'H. E. R. O.'
'F. A. I. N. T.'
'M. E. ?.'
'?.'
The man clenches his fists.
'N. I. G. H. T. M. A. R. E.'
'?.'
A heavy pressure.
'R. E. A. L. ?.'
'O. R.'
'F. A. K. E. ?.'"
…
"At that time, the boy did not know what the man truly meant, only written onto his notebook were the words of the stranger. That moment, they paused and took a silent breath. For but an instance, they shared a similar feeling. Then, they continued marching.
Few weeks pass. During those times, the notoriety of the Wanted Judge grew, widely feared as the devil, but silently known as a hero. Very occasionally, nearly every three days, on the trail, the man would order the boy to stand back or hide behind a tree. During those moments, there would be ambushes, toll-thieves, gangs, or robbers. All of which, howled into the wilderness. The wails of agony, the shots of gun fire, the echoes of curses, the pleading of mercy. All met the same fate under the Wanted Judge. Either cleanly shot, or brutally mangled. Only, that's what the boy presumed. Such cries of pain warrant extraordinary methods, which the boy would never see. He didn't want to, afraid that the sight would make him fear the man. So, when the man returned, smelling of stronger iron, the boy did not question, and continued walking the empty trail. More bodies to the death count the Wanted Judge was wanted for, and the more nobody wished to meet 'em. Even for wealth.
More weeks pass. The land turns from muddy ground and green trees to beautiful valleys and streams of rivers. Still, mighty hills were crowded by oak and pine trees, but no longer humid, tree sparser. The borders of eastern Texas into western Arkansaw, near Indian Territory.
One eventful day, during a bandit ambush, the Wanted Judge encountered a tribe of Native Americans. When the boy was sitting behind a tree, listening to the usual sounds, the terror halted as the persistent bandits were executed. Then another sound was heard. After a silence, the Wanted Judge revealed himself to the boy, gesturing him to stand up and come over. Thoughtlessly, the boy followed the orders and walked over, spotting a few Native American tribesmen, one with a rifle, one with a pistol, and the rest with spears and bows holding a sack of bandit belongings. The sight would be frightening if not for the man standing by the boy's side."
…
"Fearless, the tribesman with the rifle speaks, "Boy. Help Speak With Devil."
The boy nods, "I can do that."
The tribesman, "You. Very Strong Man. Has Killed Many. Protect The Tribe. And, Tribe Give, In Return."
The man taps his leg, the boy speaking, "How. Do. You. Need. Help."
With a few words with his fellow tribesmen, he grimly states, "…Raided By Bandits." His face showing anger, "Women. Children. Animal. Taken Or Killed."
Tapping the leg, "Give. Me. Food… And. I. Will. Help." A small hesitation in the taps, "Hero."
The tribesman nods, "Gratitude. Tribe Promise. Hero." Then, for a while, the tribesmen lead the pair through the woods, past valleys and eventually reaching a well-walked path. Smooth stones line paths, feathers stuffed in trees, neat piles of animal skulls, and loose wisping string gently blowing. The silent path leads to a village of short wooden lodges. Around a semi-round design, the many structures look like they were grown from the ground. Hanging on trees above, strung from nearly the entire tribe grounds are rope that carry herbs and cloths. But, the tribes ground is disturbed, wrapped in leather hide, laid on elevated platforms, the shapes of a men, women, and children. Around the platforms are hundreds of stones, and a few belongings beneath the bodies. In front, the tribe's main fire is strong, burning with logs. The land is quiet, except for the crackling of fire popping. The tribesmen walk inside the grounds and lead the man and boy to a larger, denser structure. Tall wooden beams and leather wrappings, color and flowers decorate the chief's home. Closer in the village, the boy notices eyes watching from inside other buildings. Fear. Anger. Nothing. They are an omen, the boy is curious, never has he seen these folk before, even the man he follows was the first korea-man. The idea of culture becoming a greater interest.
The tribesman pauses the walk and heads inside. The rest stand by, while one walks off with the sack of bandit loot. After a moment, the building's leather door opens, "Welcome." The rifle-tribesman heads back inside. The man looks at the boy and walks inside, pushing the flap away. The boy follows, the heavy leather nearly stronger than the boy's strength. Inside, a warmer, denser air of herbal smells. Above, the roof sparkles with sunlight holes, revealing wires hanging pouches of herbs, small tokens made of bone, and sculptures of wood animals. On the floor are dense leather skins and ahead is a wide opening with an older man sitting on a pillow. The old man has deep creases like leather, ash lines his face, wearing a feathery crown and beads of many colors around his ears and neck. The chief gestures to two pillows on the floor, while the rifle-tribesman stands to the side. The man and boy sit.
The chief lowers himself, deeply bowing, "You reek of death." Still bowing, "Spirit of dreams. You appear before us, in the unseen world." Unexpected, tears dot the dry leather, the sound of struggling, "The sky has no story. The trees have no memory. Every creature hungers." He fully sobs, "I can die now. Meeting the great mystery." Desperate sounds of crying echo for a few moments, then he composes himself, "Great mystery. Save who you can. Bring judgement to the broken spirits." Then facing up, meeting the devil's eyes, with intensity that scares the boy, "Hero."
…
And, that was it. Alone, the Wanted Judge marched into the wilderness and came back the next day, with a fresher smell of iron. Coming back, no one greeted, only the chief and a few guards met the man. Following the hero, tens of huddled tribe folk come back. The tribesmen all weary of the man, but the chief hopped and skipped over, in a jubilee with unfound energy from an ancient man. The chief, given a request from the hero, prepared a feast with the tribe's delicacies. Sweet corn pudding. Maple sugar cake. Bone marrow. Bear jerky. Mashed berries and deer fat. Plum dumplings. Pumpkin strips. Smoked catfish. Sassafras tea with cattail pollen cakes. Bison cheese. Roasted corn coffee. And corn beer.
The guards take away the lost tribesmen and return them to their homes. Despite saving nearly an entire tribe, everyone but the chief sat with the hero and boy. Isolated, the hero eats, with the chief watching like a dotting wife. The boy, never eating such strange food, had a hard time, found what he was familiar with, and ate it. The hero, ate everything with thought. Meticulously, taking each bite, which caught the boy's attention. "Do you like the food?" The hero nods chewing, tapping, 'I. Like. New. Food. Different. Taste. Makes. Me… Happy.' The boy's eyes widen as the letters make the word. A smile grows, a moment of realization that the stranger, man, devil, hero, had emotions. Looking at the display of food, the boy took another bite of a food he hadn't tried."
…
"And then time flew by. Leaving the tribe, they marched north of western Arkansaw, and then east into Oklahoma. After the months long journey, the boy's time with the Wanted Judge had to end. And…
Sorry my listeners, that's time. Purchase my memoir, over there near my lovely wife, to learn more of the Wanted Judge!"
...
Closing his book, an aged man, sitting on a stool, looks out to a crowd of listeners in fairgrounds. A small collective sigh gasp out, and they all clap, but a voice shouts, "C'mon, tell us what happened!" The aged man waves to the crowd, as many people drop one or two one-cent coins into a well-worn box. The voice again shouts, "I pay yah 10 cents! Please! Just a little more!" Causing a stir in the crowd, halting the people heading towards the woman with stacks of books.
The aged man smiles, "Hmm~ Sir you have a deal! But I'll only give a little more. Buy the book to find the rest. And... Hmm, I'll even give you a 5-cent discount on the book, so, your money isn't wasted, dear sir." The crowd gathers again, paying more attention. Some kids to the far back whisper that they've never heard of anything beyond the tribe part. The aged man doesn't open his book, "Hmm, I'll give some expository information, on the Wanted Judge." Looking at the crowd, attention grabbed, "We followed, the Dead Man's Stretch. And, if you remember, it was pathed by Brother Black." The name makes the crowd silent and mummer. "Yes. Brother Black. I could see the crowd gasp before when I mentioned the name, but for those who don't know, Brother Black was excommunicated from his church. Excommunicated for his extremist values, went on a religious pilgrimage through the most bandit ridden trail possible, trying to convert sinners. But he was cruel and killed all non-devout." He sighs, "Unfortunately, many took this as a sign to follow. Creating a wave of faithful hunters that massacred innocents and non-believers till they consumed themselves. Eventually, lawmen killed Brother Black and split the pilgrimage apart. This formed the trial known as the Dead Man's Stretch, a suicidal trail for those seeking death. The path went from Washington, Oregon, Northern California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Western Arkansas, to Eastern Oklahoma." The aged man gently smiles, "The Wanted Judge followed this trail. He was known for his prolific killings, beyond any number in modern history. The estimate is beyond 500." The crowd gasps. "Ladies and gentlemen." He raises a finger, "Do not think this is rumor, this is a low estimate on a fact." The crowd grows in whispers. "Yes, it's… nonsense, but there was a reason he was called the Wanted Judge, he was the judge to the entire wild west, racking up the highest bounty of…" He pauses and waits.
The crowd watches in anticipation, but suddenly another man from the crowd shouts, "Five thousand!" The crowd gasps, such an amount of money is life changing.
The aged man, tightly smiles, and then chuckles, "Ah, sir, you must be interested in the Wild West!"
The man in the crowd waves, "Yes! I've read your book!"
Another person in the crowd shouts, "Anybody interested, knows of the Wanted Judge! He's the most renown figure!"
The aged man pushes the air with both his hands, "Alright. Alright. Keep it calm. Yes, the Wanted Judge is well known, but the crowd here is here for a reason. And that is to learn. So, let me continue a little bit more, so that generous man can get his money's worth." The crowd silences. "Okay... So, after my fateful encounter with the Wanted Judge, years had passed, and eventually, I met my lovely wife over there. Wave, honey!" The woman to the side waves lightly to the crowd. "We had bonded on the shared experience. Her father, an abusive man." He softly chuckles, "Like my own." He does a finger gun gesture, "Was shot," firing the finger gun, "dead by the judge." He taps his forehead, "A singular shot to the head." The crowd gasps, women covering their mouths, men scratching their chin, boys doing the gun motion. "The story of love and death, more… in my book! Remember ladies and gentlemen, purchase, 'Day Gone Hero', a once in a lifetime experience with the Wanted Judge!" The crowd cheers, some women interested in the love sub-plot, men interested in the killing.
As the crowd claps, another noisy man shouts, "What happened to the Wanted Judge!?" The claps slowly stop, also curious. "What was the fate of the man? The western lone 'Hero'?" The aged man freezes, paused in thought, lingering the crowd's anticipation.
"Well... I'd say..., He's fi-"Interrupted.
"He killed himself!" A voice shouts. The crowd gasps once more, the roller-coaster of emotions nearly exhausting. They all look towards the source of the voice, but then they look towards the aged man. The aged man smiles, clenching his teeth.
"Ha-Haha…no." He bows, "Buy my book. Goodbye, adieu, my listeners." He turns around and walks off stage, to a back preparation room. He sighs and sits down on a chair. Tapping his foot on the ground. Behind him, coming in is a portly gentleman.
The portly gentleman lax, "Ahh, bad crowd?" The aged man nods. "Don't worry about them. You didn't stutter any words! You've gotten better. C'mon, let's have a drink. You're making enough to be wealthy."
The aged man takes a glance at an old notebook on a dressing stand. He takes a calm breath, and stands up smiling, "Mhm. People these days." He chuckles, "Let's have that drink."
"You're paying, right?"
"As I always do."
…