THE LAWMAN

“It’s about time you put down your guns, boys,” the Lawman said.

Laughter. Mocking, vile, and from his perspective, overconfident breaks out from the men on their horses. It never ceases to amaze him. Even as his reputation spread throughout the western territories, people disbelieve the stories. He had to admit, however, that if he hadn’t lived the events himself he’d harbor similar skepticism.

Legends are usually born of trught but this legend—a lone lawman poised against the human locusts whose disdain for peace and rule of law destroy the very land he loves seems impossible. Legends faced odds far superior to those he’s faced—and faces now. Not real life men.

Yet, here he stands.

In the twenty-five years since New Mexico became a territory, he’d taken onto himself the task of avenging the rampant murder of native peoples. Settlers, like he once had been, who pushed the indigenous peoples off their lands were little more than racist thieves. They were marauders under the guise of ‘Manifest Destiny’. They drove the millennia long residents of the land further and further west or north into nearly uninhabitable frozen lands, or worse, into extinction.

White men, with their guns, cannons, wagons, and oppresive religion committed atrocities he couldn’t speak of without bile forming in his throat.

Bile that burned, bitter with guilt.

Guilt that was deserverd. For he was one of those men.

He’d lived a no more noble life than those he now hunted. Sure, he’d extended kindness and generosity to the less fortunate people. But he’d taken first. His generosity had been a vain attempt to assuage his guilt. Just like every other white man that now owned land in the territory, he stole first, then gave back pittance at penance. He’d laid claim to lands that wasn’t his to take and give back small pieces of charity from the wealth those lands had created for him.

Then it all went wrong.

His change of heart came late in life. But he’d changed, nonetheless. He’d learned to love the land for what it provided and that love grew to include the people of the land—the rightful inhabitants who treated the land as their mother. He learned to love her for the life she provided him. He began to shun the idead that ‘God-given right’ entitled him and his kind to take a world that could not be owned. As his heart changed, he saw the damage he’d left in his conquest and discovered he was the bad man in the story. He never wanted to be the bad man. He believed he was doing God’s work.

It ripped his soul asunder when he realized the truh and he knew, then, that he was broken.

He found no peace when he slept. He found no joy in life. Even the arms of his wife brought no solace.

He was a visitor to the world, as temporary as the dust storms that blocked the sun. His presence in the land was fleeting, just as temporary as the sands of time. Time that ticked away at an accelerated rate as the years rolled on and he only grew more restless in his own skin. He vowed to use what time he had left in this world, brief as it may be, to make ammends. He vowed to change the hearts of his fellow colonizers, make them see how wrong they were. He vowed to deter them from taking more than they had.

Driven by guilt, he returned the one-hundred and sixty acres of land back to the tribe. He’d asked first for forgiveness, then he’d asked if he could stay, offering himself to them. They’d welcomed his change in heart. They celebrated the return of their land. But they also knew others would come. Penance was not made easy for him. The old him had committed atrocities they found hard to forgive.

They’d asked him to pay a price to prove his change of heart. He’d agreed without hearing the cost.

It never occured to him the cost would be so high.

The price of the native blood he’d shed to take the lands he’d stolen was more blood. Colonizer blood. He’d been asked to pay back in equal measure that which he’d taken. He didn’t know that they meant more than just the blood he’d spilled.

He didn’t know the turn his life would take.

He made the promise.

The next day his penance began.

Twelve years ago he made that promise. And for twelve years he chased down the worst of his kind, meting out the justice he knew he deserved just as swiftly. The change consumed him, drove him mad. But it gave him purpose. With each tribe he protected, he felt a little bit of his soul return. Not much. He’d done too many vile things for any singular act to heal him fully, but with each act, he felt the burden on his soul lessen.

Secretly, he’d hoped that his reputation would make for a ghost story whose telling would chase off any future raiders before they came to the lands of the Navajo and Pueblos and Apaches. He hoped that by now the fight would be over. Aferall, this wasn’t his land to protect and he was weary, deep into his bones.

He didn’t see himself as a Great White Hope. He saw himself as a tool, used by the land, to bring an end to her suffering and the suffering of her people.

This was the price he unwittingly agreed to pay. If he died in the process, so be it. An easy death was more than he deserved. Hopefully his God would forgive him his crimes. If not his, hopefully the gods of the people he’d wronged would see his change of heart and welcome him in. But he had little hope of that either. He didn’t delude himself with such thoughts. He just hoped he could right the wrongs of his life in these great desert lands; atone for crimes committed in the guise of divine right in the service of these ever expanding United States of America.

So here he was, alone, facing nine more gunslingers ready to bring down the lawman responsible for so many of their men’s deaths. They sought to bring him to justice as if he was somehow the evildoer in all of this. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Standing in front of these men, he remembered the events of his first fight.

That one had been particularly brutal. He could still feel the sting of hot metal piercing his body, tearing into his flesh as the bullets ripped into his skin, impacting his bones as they passed through the tender tissue and muscle. He remembered the how his body went into shock from the pain. He remembered the surge of adrenaline that spurred him on and helped him ignore the pain in the moment. He was amazed he had survived that time. He was outnumbered five to one then.

This time the odds were worse. But he never backed away from the fight. He had a reputation to protect.

Eleven rounds hit him. He still couldn’t understand how he managed to survive. Shoulders, chest, stomach, arms, and one in the foot. He should be dead. He should have been dead many times. Those men were shocked by the way he handled the pain of their bullets. The fear in their eyes when he stood back up after they’d run out of bullets brought him exquisite pleasure.

They were even more shocked when his twin Colt Peacemakers went off in rapid succession as he emptied them into the four of the five bandits. He put the last round into the hip of the fifth one, crippling him.

When the smoke cleared and all the gunfire stopped, he dropped to his knees, blood pouring out all over his body. He remembered how he saw the face of so many Gods and knew it had been for nothing. He been measured against the deeds of his past and found lacking. All the penance paid and still the stain of his crimes lingered.

He remembered the resignation he felt time and again. He didn’t despair or fight against the judgment. The punishment he knew was coming to his soul was just and fair. And the thought brought peace to him. He stayed there, kneeling, his life pouring out of him into the land, grateful that even if his soul was not saved, he at least learned better. He wasn’t the man he was before.

The next thing he knew he faced the cloudless desert sky, the sun a blinding blurry ball, baking his broken body. The memory of the heat, his skin on fire, the searing pain inside his guts, hot lead finally cooling inside. He remembered how, in the moment, he knew death was imminent. His regrets came sweeping back to him, the painful memories of his lost family, killed by raiders, white men who’d come to take what he had taken. He remembered how only through his own suffering at the hands of his own people was he able to understand what he’d done. It changed in him. And he realized that he’d only been reforged because he’d been put in the fire of his own making. And he felt himself change more.

He remembered how he smiled as he lay there dying. He found comfort that even in death, he could grow to be a better man.

But death hadn’t come. Instead the tribal healer had. And through the generosity of spirit of those he’d learned to love, he survived that ordeal.

Survived only to face the much greater odds with time.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The sound of their laughter brought him back to the moment.

“Every time,” he said with no small amount of exhaustion.

“Every time, what?” the leader of the Changor Gang asked.

“Every time I give dirt-bags like you a chance, you throw it away.”

The leader shifts in his saddle, the grin on his face growing wider.

“See that fellas? He still thinks he can take us all.” The man spit a dark brown, tobacco laced ball of liquid onto the Lawman’s boot and leaned over his horse, showing his teeth. It was a disgusting smile, the few teeth he had left, brown and rotting. His face was covered in dirt, clearly unbathed since the last ice age.

“Listen here, lawman,” he said, flipping the chew in his mouth. “We aren’t going to go easy on you.” He points a finger at the man on his right, “Gregor here is gonna put a bullet in your left kneecap.” Then he points to his left, “Quincy here is gonna put one in your right.” Then he thumbs his chest. “I’m gonna hit ya in the bag that hangs between ‘em.”

The Lawman had to fight back a smile. It was a pretty creative threat.

The leader turned in the saddle and pointed behind him.

“The rest of the gang is gonna tie yer limbs and neck to they horses and stretch ya, but good.”

The gang broke out in laughter again as the man turned and stared back at the Lawman.

“How ya likin’ the sound a that?” he asks.

The lawman shakes his head. “Well, that doesn’t sound all that fun to me. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to make you a counter offer.”

Laughter breaks out again.

“Well, I’d love ta hear it, lawman. We ain’t in no hurry and seeing as how these’re yer last minutes, it’s reasonable to grant you a moment to speak.”

The Lawman points to the members in the rear. “How about I take all of them first and then,” he points at the two flanking the leader, “I take them while they stare in shock.”

The Lawman smiles a wicked smile.

“And then you when you set your guns on the ground in response and fear, we have a little chat?”

More laughter.

The leader pulls out his pistol. The Lawman had to admit that he’d heard rumors about how quick a draw Billy Changor was. It was impressive. The stories didn’t lie.

“How’s ‘bout I just skip the plan altogether and put one ‘tween yer eyes?”

“Well, that would make me mighty sore,” the Lawman replies, no hint of sarcasm in the response.

The Lawman watched as Billy’s trigger finger twitched, the knuckle bending slightly. As the gunshot went off, the Lawman watched the round, surrounded by a flash of fire and smoke, exited the barrel. He could see the spin on it, it’s line true to Billy’s word, right at the point between the lawman’s eyes. There was no dodging it. Hot lead made it’s way to him and he remembered the pain before. But this one was not going to be like the last time. The shot was as true as it could be.

But he wasn’t afraid. Instinctively he willed himself away from the round to the back row of outlaws who made this day harder than it needed to be. He felt himself spread out to the man furthest back. He wrapped himself around the man, enveloped him like the sandstorms he’d grown so accustomed to in the vast New Mexico desert.

Billy Changor couldn’t understand what happened. He just watched as the Lawman vaporized into black smoke, swirled past him and the two men in front, bypassing them into the line of men in the rear. The shot from his pistol flew through the air, passing by without impact, to land harmlessly somewhere in the distance.

“What the hell!” Bill cried in dismay.

The black vapor moved like a ghost, quick, with purpose. It engulfed each of the six men in turn> Screams of horror and pain rang out across the desert for miles. Billy’s ear rang with the sound. The men’s horses panicked and ran, a disorganized stampede in every direction as six skinless, fleshless skeletons fell to the ground, bones scattering everywhere.

The men flanking Billy froze in fear, their horse bolting away as Billy fought to hold on to his own horse, staying put.

“Billy!” the one on the right screamed. “The rumors are true! We gotta get outta here!”

TheLawman spoke as he reappeared in front of the leader of the Changor Gang.

“I’m afraid that chance is long gone,” the Lawman says, drawing their attention back to the lawman. The two henchmen bring their horses back around, guns drawn.

Billy drew his second pistol and all three men fired at the Lawman, six-shooters drumming in a rhythm of practiced action, their trigger fingers controlled. But their rounds pass through wispy smoke as the Lawman once again vanishes into dark vapor, splitting into two clouds, and wraps himself around the two henchmen. The horror of their screams brought joy to the lawmn. He devoured their flesh with macabre sastifaction.

Billy took off with a kick. He spurred his horse into a full gallop, terror and escape his only thoughts.

The Lawman didn’t know how he did what he did, but the pleasure he felt in it couldn’t be denied. He ripped the skin from the two men, then their muscles, and then their organs. He burned them in an unholy fire of his own making. The more he tore at them, the hungrier he became. When their bones were all that was left he brought himself together and stared after Billy Changor, who was almost two hundred yards away.

“You can’t run Billy!” he yelled. His voice carryied on the desert wind, a menacing sound-wave that couldn’t be outrun. He watched as Billy turned in his saddle and in his panic was thrown from his horse.

The Lawman tilted his head in amusement and then vanished in a cloud, black fog that surged its way at Billy. Billy’s screams brought the lawman more joy. He found pleasure in the panic of the leader of the Changor gang. The frightened man dug his boot heels hard in the ground in a frantic attempt to escape. The Lawman engulfed Billy, speaking to him as he tore small pieces of flesh from his face and hands.

“I gave you a chance to leave,” the Lawman said, his voice faint like a ghost. “You heard the stories, Billy. I know you did. But you didn’t believe them did you? Others warned you I would come. Well now the stories can be renewed.”

Billy screamed in pain, grabbing at the wounds in his face.

“Tell them, Billy,” the Lawman whispered as he took one of Billy’s ears. “Tell them so they all hear. I will not be merciful. Blood for blood. The harm done to the people of this land must be repaid. Tell them I come for them. No more can we be the bringers of death to those the Mother loves. Be loud Billy. Make them hear.”

The Lawman ripped skin from Billy’s hand. He burned Billy’s cheek. He entered Billy’s nostrils and mouth and poisoned him inside. A small amount. A slow, painful death that would take years.

“Please! Stop! I can’t take it anymore!” Billy cried.

The Lawman stopped. He exited Billy’s body and reformed himself. In his hand he held Billy’s missing ear and threw it at Billy’s feet. Billy looked up at the lawman, flesh missing from his hands, his face, his scalp. He tried to blink but his eyelids were seared open.

“Tell them all, Billy.”

“I will! I swear! Please don’t kill me!”

“Oh, I don’t have to Billy. The desert will probably do that for me. You have no water, no food, and no horse. Good luck to you. If you survive, tell them all.”

The Lawman turned his back and walked away, yelling back over his shoulder. “I won’t have mercy on you again, Billy Changor. I have no mercy left to give. You’ve received the last of it. All of you have. I kill for fun now, Billy. Good luck with your life. You’re gonna need it.”

As he walked away, the Lawman felt the hunger again. It gnawed at him. The urge to feed, satiated only moments ago grew inside. He quickened his pace, hurrying toward the town of Lincoln where a particularly nasty landowner lived.

___________________________________________________________________________________

The Hataalii watched the men below as they spoke. He couldn’t make out what they said but he knew the story. The man former landowner now known as the Lawman faced the Changor Gang with courage. He knew the Lawman would not back down. He knew this would only end in suffering for the Changor Gang. And the end was just.

Smiling, the Apache healer considered what he had done. It was at great cost that he called upon the ga’an for help. He didn’t know at the time just how much. But the price wasn’t his to pay. It was the Lawman’s. The Lawman had done many good deeds for the Apache over the years but he’d committed far worse crimes first. The Hataalii knew of the Lawman’s history, most of the Lawman’s evil deeds occurred well after the Hataalii’s birth. He also knew the Lawman’s heart had changed. He’d seen it, over and over, in his visions. He’d watched as the heart of the man he once saw as an enemy evolved over time. He paid attention as the Lawman gave back the land he’d taken so many years prior. He’d seen the Lawman take up the mantle of protector against the very people he used to call kin.

The Lawman may have been evil at one time, that was true. Very evil. But the Hataalii also knew the Lawman had changed. He understood the Lawman wanted to end the suffering of the people of the Apache Nation. And for that reason, the Hataalii asked the ga’an to save the man when he found the white man dying in the desert many years prior.

The healer watched as the Lawman, now the Lawman, evaporated into the black mist. He smiled in satisfaction as the Changor Gang was eradicated from the earth, their sentence carried out for the crimes they’d committed on the nations throughout the desert. Then he watched with curiosity as the Lawman spared Billy Changor, threw something at the man’s feet, and walked away.

Yes, the cost had been great to save the Lawman.

The Lawman would never know rest. He was doomed to wander the lands of the Apache, Pueblo, and Navajo, hungry for vengeance against those that would harm the people who called this place home for thousands of generations.

The Hataalii sighed as the Lawman walked the valley below, alone, in search of his next prey.

Yes, the price was steep.

The Hataalii felt bad for the Lawman.

But the Lawman had set his fate the day he killed the Hataalii’s wife and children.

Yes, the Hataalii was at peace with the price the Lawman paid.

******************