The Wounded Knight

Short story intro to my "Ballads for Bullets" series. ~1500 words.

The Wounded Knight
By Claevyan.

Perhaps he could still call it home… but not tonight.
Jesse Crane pondered as his pale eyes looked down over the frontier town of Istbirdern from atop a low hill. The setting sun cast the shadowed form of man and horse almost to the doors of the building below. At the bottom of the hill the road passed Barnes' Barn, the local tavern, saloon, and stable, before turning sharply into the town proper.

A man had killed a woman in Wilem City, then fled south, fast as flat feet could carry him. Jesse aimed to end that flight.

“With luck, this will be quiet.” He said aloud, and his horse snorted.

“I know girl… luck’s got nothing to do with it.”

He leaned forward in the saddle and patted her neck, then sat up straight as movement caught his eye. A large man exited the local tavern to light the lantern beside the stable doors. He glanced towards Jesse, eyes lingered a moment, then offered a wave and walked back inside. Jesse leaned forward with a lazy flick of the reins and a few whispered words.

“I’ll be a gentleman about the whole affair, Daisy. A noteworthy performance. And we’ll leave as soon as we’re through.” The mare’s dark coat rippled as muscles moved and hooves thudded down gravel road towards the welcome lantern light.

~

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 cowboy 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 cowboy'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 cowboy 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 leaned back in his chair and let his eyes roam the room. They settled on the man with the brown scarf again.

Brown Scarf was obviously running from something. If the pile of beer mugs at his elbow was any indication, it was probably sobriety. His face was already turning the red of the careless drinker as he called for a new ale, accepting his next round with ill grace and shooing the serving girl away.

The cowboy watched, his brow furrowed. Then he came to a decision and turned to his bag, snapping open one of the side buckles. A smile came to his face as he slipped a well-worn dulcimer from its leather wrapping.

The auburn-haired woman at the bar noticed. “Play us a tune, dusty!” she called.

So he did.

The room quieted as he strummed, twisting the knobs to tune, working his fingers from one quick phrase to the next. Then he struck out a melody that hinted of wild forests and forgotten magic.

“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.

The cowboy's fingers danced on the strings, but his pale eyes roamed the room, heedless of what his hands were doing. He held the tavern in his spell, as sure as the witch of the song. The woman with the auburn hair was enthralled.

Brown Scarf nursed his mug, unlistening.

The knight rose hale and sound, protected by the witch’s magic, and the song ended. The tavern filled with applause as the cowboy stood, bowing with a mannerly flourish, his road-worn duster and crimson vest shimmered like a nobleman's damask brocade.

"Singer, give us another!" called a man from the back, raising his tankard.

The cowboy eased back into his seat and strummed again. A different ballad, a lively tone. He wove a tale of a bounty hunting ranger, seeking a deadly quarry.

This time, Brown Scarf listened.

The cowboy finished and the applause was louder. Most offered a cheer, some offered a coin, others a beer. The cowboy thanked them as he wrapped the dulcimer carefully in it's leather 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 him's 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, as the cowboy stepped out the doors of Barnes' Barn and onto the gravel track leading towards the town's small grassy park. He shifted his weight forward then paused, listening for the subtle scratch of a drunken boot dragging against the gravel further down the road. The cowboy moved silently to the side of the road, duster and hat blending into the dark beyond the stable lantern, and tracked his scared, brown-scarfed quarry.

The cowboy 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 cowboy'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. He waited, then lurched forward again, his anger flaring anew as he stumbled and fell to a knee. He wavered back to his feet and started cussing at the road, looking for a stone to blame for a tear in his trousers. The cowboy followed every faltering step, a second shadow unseen in the gloom.

A cough clawed its way up the cowboy’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 cowboy saw a hand dart towards a pistol. Brown Scarf's eyes slid past him as the man frantically scanned the dark beside the road, rusty barrel swinging wildly.

“You've not cleaned it properly” the cowboy chided. "Blood rusts the iron if you don't keep it oiled."

The man’s hand shook, eyes wide in terror, and off-hand flew towards his rusty pistol's hammer. The road flared bright as daylight to the cowboy's eyes. Brown Scarf’s movements slowed for a heart beat, the click of the hammer cocking loud as a clock chime. The cowboy exhaled. His revolver flashed. A sharp crack echoed off the gravel road, and a brown scarf fell to the ground.
Silent. Still.

With a rush, darkness reclaimed its place on the gravel road, and the sounds of night cautiously found their voice once more.

A rancher noticed the cowboy as he walked back into the tavern and raised his glass. "To the wounded among us! May we all find pretty ladies to kiss away our hurts!”

The cowboy tipped his hat, his smile infectious, 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”.

He settled deeper into the worn leather chair, staring at the burning logs as the night moved on around him. In the dancing firelight his unwavering eye and pale face cut a fine parian frieze.

Late into the night Tom Barnes ushered the last sleepy drunk to a bed, and brewed a stout pot of coffee.
Mug of black brew 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.