The Wounded Knight

Short story intro to my "Ballads for Bullets" series.

The Wounded Knight
By Claevyan

The cowboy pushed through the swinging doors of Barnes’ Barn, the air inside thick with smoke and laughter. Istbirden’s only tavern buzzed on a Saturday evening, the glow of oil lamps casting long shadows across the wooden floor. He tipped his hat to a group of ranchers, his smile wide, eyes crinkling at the corners. He produced a tankard from the folds of his long coat and it was immediately filled with something warm and deep amber. The locals knew better than to question the man behind the bar. Tom Barnes made it special for himself, and rarely shared.

A shout went up from the poker table, and the cowboy made his way over, boots thudding on planks, duster coat brushing against a chair. He scanned the patrons as he passed. A chatty woman with auburn hair, a young clerk sleeping beside his cold stew, a man with a brown scarf and a scar,

“Mister, you in for a hand?” a grizzled farmer asked, shuffling cards with dirt-stained fingers.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” the gambler said, his voice warm, carrying over the din. He slid into a chair, setting his tankard on the table, the rich smell of metheglin welcome to those near it.

The cards flew, and the gambler’s laugh rang out, a sound that drew smiles from the table. He tossed a coin into the air and caught it, fingers quick. The grizzled farmer squinted a time or two but said nothing. Another hand, another win, the pile of coins growing. A young cowhand slapped the table, grinning. “You’re a lucky one, sir!”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” the gambler drawled, winking, his words smooth as river stones. He raised his tankard, toasting the table, then stood to shake their hands. His purse a little heavier, theirs lighter. But not by much. They weren't here for a serious game, and it was time the cowboy turned to other matters.

The cowboy let his eyes roam, before settling on the man with the brown scarf again. He was knee-deep in ale, based on his face, and nursing a new arrival.

The cowboy fixed his gaze for a moment, thinking. Then snapped a buckle on his bag, coming to a decision.

He turned, his smile returning, and pulled a dulcimer from the case.

The auburn hair at the bar called out to him, “Play us a tune, singer!”

The room quieted as he strummed, knobs twisted and notes cleared, sometimes haunting, sometimes sweet. The tavern filled with a melody that hinted of wild forests and forgotten magic. The cowboy sang.

“Pale was the wounded knight, that bore the rowan shield...” he began, a song most recalled but few remembered. A tale of a knight seeking the lady of the lake to heal his wounds. The witch of a fabled land. He sang of a lady clothed in velvety blue, a silver chain where womanly figure joined black mare's form. The knight called to her from the water’s edge, offering a bouquet of goldenrod. There was wonder in her stature, gentleness in her voice, healing in her touch. His fingers danced on the strings, the rhythm steady, but his pale eyes focused on the room. The woman with the auburn hair was enthralled. The man with the brown scarf was still nursing his mug, unlistening.

The knight rose hale and sound, protected by the witch’s magic, and the song ended. The singer stood, bowing with a flourish as manners dictated. He was a gentleman in a duster coat. Then he sat back down and strummed again. A different ballad, a lively tone. He wove a tale of a bounty hunting ranger, seeking a deadly quarry. Brown Scarf listened this time.

The singer finished and the applause was louder. Most offered a cheer, some offered a coin, others a beer. The cowboy thanked them as he packed away dulcimer and case. The woman with the auburn hair came to hold his arm, but brown scarf just dropped a few coins at his seat and left muttering drunkenly to himself.

"Just can’t please all men, can ya?" Auburn Hair sighed.

“Leave him be,” the cowboy said. “Man like hims got pain that never heals.”

“Hey Mister, another round?” the grizzled farmer asked, holding up the cards.

“Next time,” the cowboy said, his tone light but firm. He adjusted his hat, the brim shading his eyes, and brushed at his crimson vest. "I've got to see to my horse." The cowboy grinned, and the farmer understood.

"Best make your piss now, before the rest of us catch up on our cups!" the grizzled farmer answered and returned the smile.

The air outside was cool, the stars bright over Istbirden. The cowboy moved silently beside the road, duster and hat fading into the dark beyond the stable lantern.
The bounty hunter watched the man in the brown scarf stumble heavy on the road, his head bowed. Each step a fight against the loose gravel. The songs had done the trick this time, and gotten his mark out the door.
Brown scarf sobbed, then he screamed, then he vomited. The bounty hunter’s eyes narrowed, tracking the man’s erratic path. He was mumbling, groaning, then stopping to glance side to side like a hunted animal. The man veered to the road’s edge, crouching as if to hide. Waited, then lurched forward again, his anger flaring anew. The bounty hunter moved like a second shadow left unseen.
A cough clawed its way up the bounty hunter’s throat, unwanted and unwelcome. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling a familiar weight. The man in the brown scarf froze, his eyes wide. The bounty hunter saw a hand dart towards a pistol. Brown scarfs eyes slid past him as the man frantically scanned the dark beside the road.
“You’re worth more alive,” he said, his voice a low drawl.
The man’s hand shook, off-hand flying towards hammer. To the bounty hunter’s eyes, the road flared bright as daylight. The man froze for a heart beat. The bounty hunter exhaled. His revolver flashed. A sharp crack echoed off the empty road, and a brown scarf fluttered to the gravel. Still.
A rancher noticed the singer as he re-entered the tavern and raised his glass. "To the wounded among us! May we all find pretty ladies to kiss away the hurt!”

The cowboy tipped his hat, his smile returning, but his eyes held a shadow and a story the song didn’t tell.

Tom Barnes welcomed the cowboy and poured another drink into the carved yellow-brown tankard. Its silvered lip tarnished and dull. The cowboy took his drink to the fire and sat for a spell.
He joked with the grizzled farmer, and caught the sleeping clerk as he fell from his chair. The auburn-haired woman tried rousing him for another song but he turned her away with a wink and a promise:

“Another time, darling.”

Late into the night Tom Barnes ushered the last sleepy drunk to a bed, and brewed his last drink. Mug of black coffee in hand, Tom walked to the stable. The cowboy was there, tying a heavy bundle to his horse and preparing to leave.

"Heading out already then, cowboy?" Tom asked. "I've got a room left if you'd rather stay till day-break."

"It's the nature of the business, Mr. Barnes." he replied, " Besides, I've never been one to sleep long. Your fire provided more rest than I intended, welcome as it was."

Tom Barnes gave him the coffee, then stooped to pick up a fallen scarf from the stable floor. "Still trading ballads for bullets.” Tom sighed, as he looked it over.

“Give you any trouble?" he asked, folding the scarf into a saddle bag.

"It's the nature of the business, Mr. Barnes." Came the half-chuckled reply, face hidden behind the mug. "There's a grieving widower in Wilem who’s waited long to bury that scarf, and he's paying well to do it."

Tom could only grunt a reply as he looked again at the bundle. The cowboy's horse turned, eyes giving a knowing look.

"Gods speed then, Jesse." Tom said, as the cowboy returned the mug and put boot to stirrup. "And to you, Daisy." he added, patting the horse's rump. She let out a snort and held her head taller, the shimmer of silver mane against black coat regal in the lantern light.

The cowboy, Jesse, tipped his hat and gave Tom Barnes a smile. "She's starting to like you, Mr. Barnes-" His voice cut short as another fit of coughing bubbled up and hand flew to chest.

The Tavern Keep bowed his head and stepped aside. Then watched his friend, the cowboy, straighten in the saddle, pale face set, and disappear into the night. But on the air he could hear a voice humming. And as Tom Barnes walked back into his quiet tavern he found himself also humming. It was a melody most recalled, but few remembered.