Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

In this cloying luminance, the woman appraised the dead baby turtle that had been inserted into her for some obscure purpose by a man whom she thankfully could not remember. The creature had died with its head and legs withdrawn into its shell, wholly isolated from the world, and she envied it.

“He ain’t the kind of Indian you need to worry ‘bout,” clarified Brent. “I shall not,” replied the gentleman, worried.

For almost a full decade, Brent had ridden with cattle outfits, and he knew the difference between good fellows and bad fellows and good fellows who did bad things accidentally and bad fellows who did good things deceivingly.

Dolores drew a nickel-plated pistol from Brent’s hip. “Shoot every single one that touched you,” said John Lawrence Plugford. “Or point them out to me.” “I know.” The patriarch patted his daughter’s shoulder. “Don’t murder nobody,” Yvette protested, “they’re weak is all.” Nobody responded to the choirmaster’s advice.

“Mr. Stromler,” said Long Clay. “Yes.” Nathaniel’s voice was hard with contempt. “We’re outnumbered ten to one. Or perhaps the ratio is worse. We must be ruthless.” “Do you intend to torture people?” “If you can’t stomach mean business, you should leave. If you lodge one complaint, Stevie and Brent will throw you in the cell and lock the door until it’s all over. If you attempt to impede my tactics in any way, I will shoot you.”

The tall narrow man returned his gaze to his telescopic sight, and the moonlight captured within its lenses turned his right eye into an opalescent gem.

Long Clay adjusted the telescopic sight of his rifle, and weak moonlight glowed within his right eye like a cataract. “You need to understand our tactic.” “We trust you,” said Stevie. “You need to know it fully,” the gunfighter replied, “in case I get put down.” “Okay,” replied Stevie and Dolores. “Go ‘head.” Brent was certain that he was about to hear the machinations of evil. “On an instinctual level,” Long Clay said, “a man fears torture and disfigurement more than he fears death. He can imagine what it’s like to be branded, because he’s burned himself; he can imagine what’s its like to be blind, because he’s been in a dark room stumbling into furniture; and if he’s ever had any pain in his privates, he can imagine what being castrated might feel like. “Death is very different to him, because it’s an unknown. The man might even believe it’s the beginning of some new type of existence—like those heaven fantasies your sister entertains. “But the man doesn’t have any delusions about what kind of life awaits a mutilated, blind fellow whose penis has been removed.”

The distant riders yelled and cursed. “¡Diablos!” “¡Animales!” “¡Bárbaros!” Although he did not know Spanish, Brent felt that he fully comprehended these imprecations. Presently, he heard the sound of crackling tinder that was Long Clay’s ugly laugh.