A stiff chill ran over the cold winter morning. It was shortly after sunrise when the dawn was still hazy, when the cool wind still held it's bite. The nightstalkers skulked back to their dens before the poisonous bellycrawlers came out to bask in the sunlight. In that short hour the land was peaceful, except for one patient hunter waiting to make his move.
The wide mouth of the valley was empty save for a small shack that had no right business being there. It was too far from a town of any sort and rested in the heart of the territory fiercely protected by savages. Nothing grew out there except for the shrubs and cacti: no way was it farming land and no way was there a family around to cultivate it. It was the sort of a place that a man would come to hide or a man would come to die.
Against the hue of the deep blue sky the silhouette of the hunter's stained hands wrapped a soaking cloth around the tip of an arrow. A more impetuous fellow might have charged in with guns blazing, but this particular cowboy had a plan. It was very important that he not call attention to himself: a difficult task in a valley frozen in silence. Taking his lit match he applied it to the rag, setting it ablaze.
He armed his bow and pulled it's string taught, aiming it for the sky. There was much ground to cover and his target was far, far away. Releasing it the burning streak of fire soared through the air and was eventually drawn back down. It embedded itself on the shack's roof. There was no dew in the air so in moments the flames would begin to spread. A second and third arrow finished the job, feeding the fire and sending it out of control. It spread slowly, but the patient hunter didn't mind: he had all the time in the world.
Smoke began to billow from the windows. Hadn't the owner noticed yet? Perhaps he was a heavy sleeper: the hunter had heard how loud he snored earlier, he could hear it all the way from outside the front porch. With eyes unwavering he watched, anxiously preparing himself for the moment when something, anything should happen. It was a show he didn't want to miss out on.
The door opened and out came a man running in a wild panic. He was still fully clothed: probably slept in them after he had to trade his blankets, but he was free of his gunbelt. Hastily retreating from his home he searched the horizon as he ran, fearing an attack from savage Indians. There were none. Neither did he see his hunter concealed behind a bush on the high ground. Frantically the prey fumbled about, determined to get as far away from the fire as he could.
Then it happened. Snap! He'd fallen into the trap laid out before him: one of the dozen animal traps hidden under a layer of sand. It's metal teeth snapped around his leg, digging into the skin and shattering the bone in impact. As he rolled around in pain he knew that it wasn't the Indians that were after him. Just when it was too late to get away he knew that something else far more cunning was out there and coming to get him.
For days the hunter had watched, spying from on high and gathering secrets about his prey that he probably didn't even know about himself. He was city folk, a banker it was said. Out west he dazzled one and all with his sharp tongue and sophistication. Most people had never heard a New York City accent before and mistook his winning smile, smart clothing and wide travels as success. Though it was all for show and the cowboy knew it. Out west all of that eastern know-how and street savvy meant exactly squat.
Rising from the bushes he began to stroll down to the valley, his six shooter drawn and keeping a very particular eye on where he'd laid his own traps. His solid brown eyes bore down onto the victim who was writhing in search of freedom. Completely unsympathetically he approached, never hesitating in his step as the tip of his dusty coat beat against his calves.
The prey did something unexpected and pulled a Colt, pointing it with great difficulty up towards his captor. He'd had it concealed inside his coat. Even with that gun he didn't look so smart lying there in the dirt with his short well-kept hair and trim mustache. If anything he looked just like one of those European sissies playing at being a man. It would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.
“Stop playin' with that thing like you know now t'use it,” came the deep, guttural drawl from behind the cowboy's thick, black mustache. It was the kind that made him appear as though he was always frowning, like a bloodhound.
“I'll blow your goddamn head off!” He was as angry as a rattlesnake and flailing around just as bad, cursing in his high city feller sort of whine. “I'm going to kill you, you dirty son of a bitch!”
The hunter paused, but didn't flinch. Not for a moment did he take his eyes from the other man's gaze, even as he threw down his own weapon and took a pair of bold steps forward. In fact he told him matter of factly, “You shoot me and you're dead as well. Ain't no chance of you getting out of that trap before you bleed to death unless I do it for you. Now throw away your gun'n let me see.”
Looking down at his calf there was a thick, wet pool of blood soaking into the leg of his pants, sticky and quickly clotting. Every time he pulled at it the pain only became more excruciating. The man standing before him, he didn't know who he was but he was speaking the truth. “No way, mister. You're... you're trying to kill me.”
“If I wanted to kill you then you wouldn't be talkin',” the cowboy huffed in annoyance. “I wouldn't even need to stand here. All I'd have needed is a rifle and a spot on that hill, but instead I'm here offerin' to get you out.”
Confused, the injured man looked at his gun and then at his ankle. The pain was almost too much to bear and overwhelmed his thoughts. At that moment there wasn't much he wouldn't do to get out of the trap's vice grip. What did this stranger want with him? It didn't matter. He needed freedom and would do anything to get it. Reluctantly he threw his weapon away to the sand a few feet away from him.
“That's better.” Closing in he leaned down to the trap and loosened it. The jaws unset and the bleeding calf was freed. Within a moment the prey leapt up and began crawling for his gun, but the infuriated cowboy marched up and expressed his disappointment with a sharp, knockout kick to his chin.
“Don't give me none of that horseshit,” he spat. “There'll be time for that later.”
* * * *
“Jasper Donell.”
The name hit him with the same force as the dried mud he'd just landed on. Winded, the city boy coughed and tried to refill his lungs without breathing in too much dust. From above the sun beat on his face, drying out his skin. It felt like he'd been baking for quite a while and when he raised a hand to cover his eyes he found that it had been tightly bound to the other. “What the hell am...? How do you know my name, mister?”
Though the cowboy didn't answer. Instead he swaggered back to his horse, his coat still blowing in the dry summer wind, following the rope the was tied around Jasper's ankles. He looked closely and one leg was heavily bandaged and in a splint, but it was still secure to the powerful beast in front of him. The thought of what was about to happen filled him with terror and as best he could he struggled to sit up and face his captor.
“What do you want from me?” he pleaded, his throat hoarse with fear. “I can give you anything you want! I can give you money!”
For a moment the cowboy stopped and turned his head, arching a curious brow at the last thing he'd said. Every man had his price: maybe this feller did as well. It was then that Jasper saw his opening. He shielded his eyes and lifted his head, doing his best to make sure his smile reflected the morning sun.
“You're a bounty hunter,” he mused dryly, laughing off his now petty frights. “Whatever they're offering you I can give you double. All you have to do is let me go free. I've... I've got nearly five hundred dollars in my coat pocket! It's yours... and more if you want it!”
Considering this for a moment the cowboy couldn't help but chuckle. It was deep and halted, like that of the devil when he got the last laugh. He took Jasper's money clip that he'd pilfered and waved himself with it, looking down to make sure he realised it. Whatever the hunter wanted was more than mere finances could resolve.
“There's no reward on your head,” he remarked slyly. The very idea itself was laughable. “Sheriff's office says you ain't worth the cash. An' I ain't no bounty hunter neither.”
“But... what else is there? What else could you possibly want with me?” Jasper was filled with confusion. The stranger couldn't be bought, no bounty was placed in his head: who could he possibly be? Then he realised, could he be an assassin? “Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me,” he grunted with increasing frustration. All of those stupid questions were beginning to tire him, especially when there was a job that needed doing. Without another word the cowboy mounted his black steed and ignored any further protests from the man tied behind. He paused only to give a brief warning. “Don't struggle. Try to keep your face covered.”
“Please, I beg of you...”
Though the cowboy, sure as ever, wouldn't listen. With a kick to it's side the horse was in motion and began running into the distance, trailing Jasper painfully behind. The sand tore away and scratched at his skin while his body bounced over stones. As much as he tried to shield his face and chest the force of the animal's motion kept his arms dragged over his head. Every part of his body felt as though it had been set on fire, that he'd been stabbed with a million pointed needles. All the while he questioned what he'd done to deserve this.
Looking back the cowboy sneered. Where his distaste for Jasper stemmed from was unknown, but despite the hurt he was administering he in no way enjoyed his work. As far as he was concerned Jasper was suffering for a reason. He'd spent days in planning and a whole night in waiting. There was something special he wanted from Jasper and he was going to get it, though first he could suffer a while. It was the least he could do.
* * * *
Dragging him down into the gully Jasper was little more than a tender piece of meat. Most of his clothing was torn and shredded while his skin had been worn down to the bloody muscle underneath. There wasn't much more he could do than wheeze, choke and cough out a few sentences. The desert left him completely helpless, unable to defend himself. Even raising his fists would prove damn near impossible.
Jasper winced as he tried to open his eyes. They were heavy, swollen and full of sand. His cheeks were covered in the blood from his hands where he'd tried to cover himself. He felt every bit as terrible as he looked and gasped with sweet relief when finally they came to a stop. Though the pain echoed, his body reminding him of every blow it just took.
Through his moaning he still begged for the cowboy to stop. He wasn't sure where he was and all he could see was the sun's scorching rays piercing down into his eyes. “Where... are...” The sound of rushing water, racing and trickling through the nearby rocks told him he was at a stream not far away, though how much time had passed as he was ground against the desert floor was difficult to tell.
“Get up.” The hunter cut his legs free, letting them fall to the ground heavily. As the splint hit the dirt Jasper cried out in pain, though his captor paid him no regard. He gave a sharp boot to the small of his back knowing full well he wouldn't be able to carry himself, but he would force him all the same. Jasper's persistent feebleness inspired a harder kick. “I said get up!”
“I... I can't!” he cried weakly. Already it felt like his spirit was broken. He couldn't defend himself, he didn't know how to fight back: never before had he ever felt so weak.
“Get up. You've got to walk down,” said the hunter coldly. He took the soft and swollen Jasper tightly by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to the edge of an embankment. As hard as he tried to stand him on his two legs they just wouldn't carry his weight, but the cowboy was going to be damned if he would either. Instead he let the body fall off the edge, rolling and screaming as it tumbled painfully over the rocks and fell to a heap on the gravel.
“Why?” Jasper gasped, trying painfully to see beyond the dust and to feel something other than sharp aches and stinging. Through his haze he could almost see the next embankment down by where the river ran. What was the cowboy's plan? Was he going to drown him? What was the point?
He took his time as he came down the dirt path. If Jasper was able to run now would have been the perfect chance, although that would probably only buy him a bullet in the back. Instead he had to lie there and suffer as the cowboy decided to draw it out, approaching slowly, step by step crunching against the rocks. Even then when Jasper was of no harm he didn't smile: instead he just looked down and studied him, as if to assess what more damage he could do before killing him.
“Please stop,” he rasped. “Please... I'll give you anything...”
“Only thing I want from you is a straight answer,” the cowboy said flatly. Continuing his bloody business he took once more a tight hold of Jasper's collar and led him to the water, then spread him face up over a large, flat rock.
The beaten victim almost cried at such seemingly pointless cruelty. Who was this man that attacked him so mercilessly? “You didn't have... to beat me... for that!” He wheezed, “I'll tell you anything you want!”
“What I want from you is the truth.” The cowboy leaned down, slow and steady as ever, and dipped his hands into the stream, cupping the water and splashing it onto his dry face. His attention turned back to his subject. “Word is that's not a commodity you deal in much.”
“Fine. So you work me over,” he reasoned, hoping that silver tongue he'd polished over an entire lifetime was enough to free him from the clutches of a madman. “I got it. You want the truth... You'll hurt me if you don't get it. That's fine...”
“That's how it is,” the cowboy agreed.
“Then I'll tell you whatever you want.” He began chuckling hysterically. Surely they'd reached an understanding: surely they'd be able to talk this out and get to the business at hand. That's when the pain would stop. After a while of healing he could probably salvage some food cans from the shack. There was now an end in sight.
The cowboy's serious expression didn't change for a moment as he unbuttoned Jasper's shirt. His gaze didn't part with his victim's, he just bore him down with his hard brown eyes. “Yep. You will.”
Profile
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
floorcandy- Miranda Sparks
- Shimmer