I dreamt a dream of the world ending in late November, 1878, in a hidden town nestled in the Colorado mountains, called Oatsin Sparrow.
I dreamt of the man who unknowingly made it happen. I lived his life; saw into his dark heart of longing and grit and despair.
It’s all too real, and for days now, not a single bit of it has left me.
It’s a crazy thought, but it’s almost as if this really happened in another when, somehow.
This is his story. This is my story.
The Faceless Indian
The killer’s dark eyes burned through the campfire at the apparition.
The silhouette of its-his war bonnet, feathers lining his back, wavering slightly from the cool October breeze as his phantasmal silhouette glistened in the moonlight near the river’s edge. The stallion he sat upon was motionless as was the Indian, Never giving any outward indication it noticed Orin’s presence, other than its refusal to leave his line of sight at any moment.
Sometimes it was as far out as the horizon line, barely visible in the naked, burning sun. Sometimes he would wake and it stood just feet from him, facing a seemingly random direction—always on his enormous horse. Always motionless.
The first time he saw it was the morning after a particularly bloody raid earlier that August in Southwestern Montana. He’d woken up to piss before dawn and almost bumped into the broadside of its horse as soon as he walked outside of his tent at Fort Shaw. He fell to his knees and let out a startled “Argh,” but the soldiers on watch didn’t hear him. He’d thought the Nez Perce had come to exact their revenge. The closest weapon within arm’s reach of the inside flap of the tent was his homemade bowie knife — a brutal and painful-looking piece of tempered steel he’d named Mammon— and he’d drawn it as he scrambled to his feet to make some clumsy attempt to defend himself. He slashed at its thigh and it blinked away without making a sound. He looked around, eyes bulging and confused. Then he saw it; it had moved about thirty feet away near out in the open pasture, and just stood there in the dawn light.
That was when he noticed it had no face.
Six hundred or so miles later, there they were; along Green River in eastern Utah territory. The Indian had never left him since. Not after he deserted the other men to catch what he believed at the time to be his fleeting sanity. Not after passing through all those towns filled with loose women and whiskey and severed arteries. Not after cutting the lives of two spirited boys to an abrupt end, for no other reason than having the misfortune of prodding a rattlesnake posing as a man. So, there he sat. Sharpening his crude weapon with which he’d inflicted so much pain throughout the years, and oiling his guns, for who knew what danger awaited around the corner for Orin Black to take part in. It always seemed to find him, and he always welcomed it.
He finished his dehydrated meat and drank from his canteen, eyes never leaving the enigma.
After a long pause with no sound but the burbling river and the cracking fire, he spoke out to the Faceless Indian, “We’re getting closer, aren’t we…”
Silence
“Yeah, we are… I can feel it.” and he could. He couldn’t place how or why he knew it, but he could sense they were drawing nearer to wherever it was taking him. In the beginning, it took six days to figure out whether he was following it, or it was following him, but it always had a gentle push Southeast, and now cutting hard East towards Colorado according to his map.
This pilgrimage he was on was leading him to something sinister, of that he was certain. That was okay though. Ever since he gunned down that first lone Nez Perce man on the way to Big Hole .. on that fateful night, his dark shepherd took the lead to his destiny and he was along for the journey. He remembered watching the man’s death rattle in the reeds and the bulging eyes that looked right into his as he stared down at the man from his mount. Although that wasn’t the first time he’d killed. No, there had been seven others up until then. But that man, that man somehow felt like he was an omen of senseless slaughter to come, the type that attached itself to his soul and never lets go, and he had been right so far. Wherever he was going, he was fascinated, horrified, and utterly obsessed with the thing The Ghost of the Plains he liked to call him to himself.
Orin ate the last bits of dried fruit he’d bought from Salt Lake a while back, and went to sleep under the stars.
When he awoke, it was brustled up beside Pepper, his dapple grey mare. She sniffed the emaciated stallion the Indian sat upon, and the otherworldly horse gave the slightest of nods toward her. Pepper didn’t rear or buck or do any of the other hierarchical things horses do when they came into contact with one another.
Orin got up and stomped what was left of the smoldering embers, placed his tinder box in his bedroll and rolled it, and put them in his mare’s saddlebags. He hopped up on her and presented an outstretched arm to the Indian— the universal gesture to lead the way, but specters didn’t abide by the behest of mortals. He commanded Pepper forward and she shouldered into them— a lazy attempt to get it *blink* along whatever path it was leading him. It didn’t work. The black steed just kept its balance, staggering its legs carelessly as he pushed into it.
He knew all he had to do was put his hand out to touch it, and it would move. The whole course of action was more out of boredom than anything else. He hopped off of Pepper, grabbed a rock about the size of a silver dollar, and threw it at the unnaturally thin faceless Indian. It made a dampened Thud, bounced off the smooth skin where his nose should have been, and tumbled to the ground. No reaction. Orin extended his index finger and moved it in slowly to the Indian horse’s hindquarter, and then it was gone from his immediate vicinity. he looked East, across the river and there it was 500 yards or so ahead of him. It seemed to move on its own more or after the first push. It just needed a little bit of a nudge at first light.
And they went on.
Three more days of following ensued, until a tinged orange canyon and natural bridges made out of sedimentary jutted overhead in awe-inspiring arches. The silhouette of the Indian and his stallion stood atop one of the natural rock bridges against the setting sun. It wanted him here, as it had wanted him at all of those other stops along the way.
But why did he listen? He’d been led to inescapable ultraviolence at every respite dingetown, and this place was sure to be no different. He could just as easily turn and head to a small haven where no one knew his name or what he’d done down in Mexico, away from all of the horrors he’d committed. But it would still be there, wouldn’t it? Taunting him. Reminding him that he was a violent man when it called for it, and the call often found him.
At least all of the bastards had it coming.
He and Pepper pressed on into the canyon, into the setting sun, and hitched up at the nearest saloon. He restocked on hard biscuits, dried meat, and beans at the local general goods store. He was due for a drink, a shave, and a hot bath. There were a few whores scurrying around and some gentlemen— if you can call them that—with a rather inebriated disposition, stumbling out of the swinging doors that poured life and sound into the dirt street as they opened. The Piano music played from inside and deep, and bellied laughter rumbled from someone that has had dulled all of their reserved notions about two hours ago. A washed-up whore walked right past the Faceless Indian— now tucked away in-between two buildings in the shadows— and didn’t give the most casual of glances at him. In fact, her hat blew off right near the stallion’s front hooves and she bent over near them to grab it, almost subconsciously not looking at them. and most definitely avoiding them. It was always this way when it was near others. The people seemed to do everything in their power not to look directly at it and didn’t even seem to notice its presence. Orin snapped back into focus and walked on.
He entered and ingested the place. Vagabonds, outlaws, and drunkards inhabited the dingy, warm piss smelling saloon. He understood why, too. It was completely cut away from the world— a perfect place for a tainted man to hide away. One of them was sure to give him some kind of shit, and he’d have to put a hole in him one way or another, but that wasn’t concerning him now. Now, he just wanted to drink.
He sat on the stool at the bar and an oddly prim and groomed bartender moved to him while cleaning a glass with a rag. His eyes deadened when as they scanned and took Orin in. Orin had a striking handsomeness about him; with high cheekbones, and a squared jaw. His hair was sandy blonde and long as was his beard, but his eyes were deep-set, dark, and wild; his face hard. A deep scar kissed the bridge of his nose and split his right eyebrow in two, trailing up the side of his head only added to his image. His rippled with sinew and his hands were veined and powerful, as was his neck. To some, he may have looked like a man who commanded respect; a man who you listened to when he told a tale of a battle in a distant savage land (although tale-telling wasn’t one of his strong suits), but to the bartender, he looked like a quarrelsome dead ringer for trouble.
The Drifter threw two bits on the counter, “Whiskey. And one of those cigars in that box over there,” he gave a faint nod at the cigar box behind the bartender. The bartender, straight-faced but amenable, poured first and then turned around to grab the cigar and the silver cigar cutter next to it. Orin Downed the whiskey in a quick *gulp* without grimacing.
“What brings you to Moab, fella?” the bartender asked. “Passing through?”. Orin just nodded and then glanced out the window the faceless Indian had been peering intently inside since he stepped foot in the building. His gaze reverted after the sharp *snip* of the cutter clipping the cigar; the waiter handed it to him.
“Quite the curious place— this little town full of men with suspicious dispositions. Never seen a place tucked away in the rocks quite like it.”
The bartender lit a match and held it to Orin’s cigar. “That it is. I suppose it’s off the beaten path enough. Not much calvary, bounty hunters nor Indians coming through here (or so he thought), and Sherif O’drury over yonder is playing cards with two men known to be wanted for stealing cattle,” The bartender said.
“How do you know I’m not the calvary, or a bounty hunter or hell why not both?” Orin gave a faint and crooked smile without showing any teeth.
“Bounty hunter— maybe” The oily bartender shrugged. “but I don’t believe you’d step out of this place without being greeted by the good Lord if you were so inclined to conduct business in here. The Coyote is off-limits in Moab. Besides, I don’t reckon you’re here for any of these fellas even if you were. Your eyes look the runnin’ type rather than the chasin’.” The bartender poured Orin another whiskey that he subsequently gulped down as though he was chasing away an unpleasant truth, and then signaled another.
He then turned back to the open window the Faceless Indian had been staring in from.
“…maybe a bit of both,” he said softly.
The Indian was shifting in the wind— its form, along with the steed (although he believed them to be one and the same) both seemed to have lost their inner bones and mass, much like a rattlesnake’s shed skin that had been dropped in a pool of water. It folded itself in and began to squeeze its way through the window with ethereal grace. It flooded in in an elongated mass, past the Sherriff and the other poker players— they didn’t seem to notice.
It moved behind the bartender and hovered over him in an enormous, tangled mass.
Orin had been staring at it. The bartender gave him an inquisitive look. “You okay, mister?”
It was a distant muffle to Orin. He knew what the entity’s hovering meant. This man had done something unspeakable. Looks like there won’t be time for a bath and a shave here, after all, he thought. The Steed’s head unfolded enough to form and look at the Bartender from behind him— its dead, white eyes staring down at the back of his head. Its mouth opened slowly and got close to the greasy strand of hair that he utilized his combover, and then exhaled through its nostrils.
The bartender felt the gust and jumped around, startled. “By Jesus!” He exclaimed. The tangled mess of entity retreated up above him out of his sight. The bartender looked around for anyone who may have been blowing in his ear. “What the fuck was that?!”
Orin just stared at him. “So in this respite for low men, what brought you here…” Orin’s eyes were fixated on the man. The bartender, still puzzled about the matter of the phantom draft what little remained of the hair on the top of his head, gave an apathetic, “Don’t all men have things they’d rather leave behind…” The Bartender distracted himself with a thought that gave him shame, or sadness, or regret, or none of those things. Orin could read it on his face. “Some more than others.” He downed his last whiskey and then got stood up to leave.
The Drifter didn’t care what the oily bartender had done. Orin had a bag of scalps himself in a patch knotted to his belt. He simply wanted to wash, and sleep. The Faceless Indian brought him to violence; used him. That, he knew at this point. Every stop in town ended the same way. The Faceless Indian lead him to one of the Darkened — as he liked to think of them— men who’d done unspeakable things. Most town visits ended in bloodshed. And every time he lost a piece of himself. But every now and then, he’d get to rest.
He turned and began to walk toward the entrance, and he felt a gust whoosh the side of his head, and a subsequent Crash* of glass explode against the doorframe.
The man playing the parlor music stopped, and everyone froze silent.
Orin let out a defeated sigh without turning around, lowered his head for a moment, and then turned around to confront the bartender.
The bartender’s eyes were pink, bulging, and wild. “What difference does it make to you what I done?!” His voice was quivering with rage. a voice from the poker table spoke out to the bartender
“Pete, what’s gotten into yo—”
“Shut your fucking mouth and sit back on that stool” Orin boomed at him, his eyes never leaving the man he now knew as *Pete*. The voice stilled, and he heard of the stool creak from a rear end re-acquainting itself with its pad.
“I just wanted a night’s rest in a bed and a shave” Orin muttered to himself as he exhaled through his nostrils. The floating, whisping skin of the entity had fully disappeared now. It had made its mark on the man, filled him with the pink mist of rage, and he wasn’t going to walk out of here alive.
Deep down Orin knew this but hadn’t quite let go of the notion of hot water on his skin.
“Pete… I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m just passing through and wanted a night’s rest before I moved on.” Orin knew at this point the spell the entity placed on these low men. It was almost as if it sparked the madness and rage of a bull, and directed it at Orin, so he could cut them down.
“These fine folks would understand if you just washed up and called it an evening, and got back to it in the morning. Why don’t you pour yourself some of your nicest brandy and go sit out under the stars for a while, Pete.” Orin’s voice was calm and smooth, but direct. His eyes wide and wild; his brain telling them to peel the lids away as far as possible to assess any threat in the form of another bottle, or even hot lead that might abruptly come his way.
Orin was well aware that, being a bartender, he would likely have to cut down at least a couple of others if, and when *Pete got any notions about him.
The bartender groaned at him in delirious anguish, clawing the side of his head until blood began to trail down the side of his cheek. The other hand, heavily tremored, drew closer to the pistol on his hip until the tip of the index finger toughed the dark steel “aahee.. she was just a little nig-”
CRAK!
Orin had heard enough. He sent a colt .45 round right through his left cheek and it made a colorful display of red rain and chunks of pink all over the bottles of spirits behind him. Pete fell, and the rest of his blood began to flow out of him— pressure pulsing with his heart while mindless “eehhhhhhh”s thronged from his vocal cords as his lungs pumped frenzied air.
The Drifter sent another five rounds into three more men to his left as they dried to draw on him… the first three rounds piercing the first man and entering the second, the fourth round to blow the jaw off the third who was behind him. and the last to stop the screaming of the man Orin had shot behind the first. It was all in such a lightning blur, everyone else was stunned in silence. A moment later, a woman in the corner screamed.
A massive, heavyset man that had been sitting at the poker table realized at some point that Orin had spent all of his rounds and grabbed him by the throat. He was at least four inches taller than The Drifter, and a good fifty pounds heavier. The man yanked Orin over to the wall and wrapped his sausage fingers tight around his throat. Orin clambered for a finger to break. With no luck, He took the heel of his boot and scraped it down the man’s shin with as much force as he could exert—which was considerable. the man reared his leg back but still maintained his grip. Another local got out of his chair to help subdue The Drifter, but as he ran up to their side, intestines fell to the floor.
The second man that had reached for Orin stammered back, hands to his stomach in shock. Orin had his awful-looking blade in his hand, the name Mammon cursive-engraved into the side of the blade and now dripping crimson.
Orin then stuck the tip into the side of the big man’s temple. As he fell to the ground, he hammered it in deeper and deeper until the involuntary twitching started— the nervous system giving its last hurrah.
Orin stood up using the still twitching body as something to prop himself with and began reloading his spent Colt 45 mindlessly as he breathed labored breaths. His hands still shook with adrenaline.
“Don’t worry, the show’s over unless anyone else cares to partake,” he said. He peered over at the Sheriff, who looked down at the floor as Orin’s gaze met his, hands still up in the air. Orin marked him a coward and continued scanning the room for anyone else who might be a threat. None seemed to have remained.
He went behind the bar and grabbed a few bottles of rye, and some top-shelf bourbon and put them all into his nap sack, and left The Coyote. His work was done here. He walked outside of the Saloon and the Faceless Indian stood ahead on its steed toward the end of town, satisfied and ready to press onward. It looked at Orin with the face of his Son yet again, and they moved on.
To Be Continued…