A Slow Flowing River

A Slow Flowing River

by

Wess Foreman

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2010 Wess Foreman

(wessforeman.com)

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PART ONE — A TRUE MURDERER

Those whom the gods would love, they first drive mad

— Euripides

Chapter 1: Canyon Cicadas

Jake Stern knows what happened. Knows the truth of things. He was there. So were Henry Wilder, Sam Cole, and that other one they call Gus but those three won't tell what happened. Not as it went. They might not lie outright but chances are they'll swear they didn't see much of anything — they'll leave everything to play out as it is apt to play out. Big bad Russel Brand swinging free at the knotted end of a taut rope if not shot dead first out here in the desert — mistook for a coyote in the tall grass.

* * *

Russel Brand took some comfort in the orchestral sounds of cicadas saturating the night air and reverberating against the walls of the coal black canyon where he was hiding. It meant no one was out beating the thickets looking for him. It meant he was alone here and safe.

Before the hiding there was a long painful ride. Before the ride there was a gunshot wound to the leg and a curse and a narrow escape on horseback. And before all the commotion there was another life. Another Russel Brand.

An entire string section of insect orchestra died out suddenly just south of his location — the direction he thought of as south anyway — the direction he had come from. He froze in the darkness, worried that someone had followed him there — however impossible that was to believe, being thrown clear from his saddle before entering the canyon and choosing a path obscured by scrub brush and rock, his horse bolting wild-eyed directionless into the void leading the others, he had hoped, further away from his position. Perhaps back to Mission Creek or on to the next town — Three Oaks or maybe Faygo.

He took deep breaths to slow the pounding in his chest and ease the thrumming in his ears. Listening to the darkness behind him. Listening with all his might for the crunch-crunch of footfalls. For the swish of scrub brush. For the sound of sliding rocks set loose by clumsy human stumblings in the dark. Sat there for what must have been thirty minutes or more — breathing and listening — right hand on the hilt of his knife and left hand propping his body up off the ground. Listening. Before long the chirru-chirru meditations of cicadas started up again and he closed his eyes and released the tension in his arms and body and fell instantly asleep.

* * *

Jake Stern knows what happened. Knows the truth of things. He was there. If only he has sense enough to keep his mouth shut about it until the right time. If only the others don't get to him first and lean on him and make him conveniently forget what happened, make him swear that he didn't see much of anything — or something worse than that. Something final and unforgivable.

Jake Stern's a good kid — but young still and scrawny and no match for dishonest ruffians set on a dangerous course of action. Just a kid — innocent and too young and out-numbered. Saw the whole thing happen with his own eyes. Saw Jerrod Price fall dead to the floor. Dead at my feet and by my hand — but a justified killing, I should add, done in honest defense of myself. Jerrod Price came at me with a cavalry blade — three feet long if it was an inch — blood lust in his eyes. Swinging wildly. Slicing the evening air before me. Smiling killer laughing at me. And myself unarmed. Afraid. Searching for escape. Wrong place wrong time and scrambling to keep my footing. Scrambling to keep my life.

And nothing against Jerrod Price before that time. No ill-will and no unkind words toward the man — no words at all between us in fact — just up and came at me. Of a sudden. Laughing and slicing the air and wanting his blade to dig in deep and find brown flesh beneath my clothing. Laughing. The half-crazed cackling of a madman coming at me. The other three, his boys, were shouting at him all the while to stop it. Trying to calm him while keeping a safe distance — at least three feet away and I didn't blame them — shouting at him and trying to distract him from whatever evil spirit had possession of him for whatever unholy purpose. All of them waving and shouting out: Mister Price! Whoa there! Hey, Boss. Mister Price, calm down. Whoa there, Mister Price! Mister Price!

And all of us half-wasted from the saloon's bitter-sweet liquor. And maybe that's what got into him, what made Jerrod Price go crazy, what had him swinging-mad at my face. I slipped and fell backward and saw stars upon hitting my head on a table edge — coming to and realizing that same table top stopped the blade from coming down upon me. Continuing my scramble under the table and beyond it — knowing that to flee was my only hope. Pushing chairs out of the way and pulling chairs down behind me — anything to stop him from coming at me. Anything to keep myself alive, though there wasn't a lucid thought in my head at that moment. Only survival. Only bone-bare survival.

And it was luck more than anything — though I'm willing to give credit to the Lord God Almighty if He wants it or to the will of human determination and survival if that be it — but something steadied my feet beneath me and turned me around at the right time and bade me launch myself, soberly between saber swings, full-shouldered into that madman. Full-shouldered and shouting wildly as I remember it and pushing all my weight against him. Shoving him heavily into the cleverly carved molding of the bar counter. And hearing all the breath push out of him at once. Hearing the deep crack of the oak counter behind him taking all our weight and all the backward force of our momentum. Hearing the crack of ribs and internal organs too and hearing that strange half-gurgle leak out from his lifeless lips. Dark red spittle forming up and dripping down from there. His eyes open but empty of all life — all motivation and evil-intent gone from them. His saber clattering thinly against the hardwood floor. The others stuck in place — stone silent with astonishment.

And my own self astonished and haggard and fully aware of the others in the room. The others who worked loyally for Jerrod Price for many long years. Everything crystal clear around me — adrenaline still pumping through my system, making me aware of everything in that room. I took a step back and the dead weight of Jerrod Price fell to the floor at my feet. Jake Stern was the first to make a sound and the sound was only a guttural gasp but I couldn't have put it better myself — for what else was there to say.

The second sound came from Henry Wilder. He stated the obvious: He's dead. And the two words came out as one word. And the sound of that word was mournful and it echoed off the walls and came back with the sound of anger in it, the sound of bitterness, and all eyes were aimed at me. And those eyes already made up their minds. Had sized up the situation and decided their collective move. And all I could do was run. Run and not look back. Run and be chased — I could hear them coming behind me. One of them shouting out my name, Russel Brand! Russel Brand! then shouting out the lie the three of them silently formulated against me: Russel Brand murdered Mister Price! Murderer! There goes the murderer!

And then a shot rang out. Someone shooting a pistol in the air. People coming out of buildings to see what the commotion was about. Then another pistol shot — heard the bullet whiz right past my head. And there was a horse tied to a post — a white and brown painted mare with saddle all ready to go. My sweaty hands fumbling at the lead, trying to release her, trying to get on her and ride out of there. To get far away from there. To forget all this ever happened. To go back to my life. This wasn't my fault. Then another shot — a rifle shot by the sound of it. The bullet tearing through my upper leg through the meat of my calf muscle. Searing all the way through and turning me around in pain. Falling — holding the horse's lead but falling — the rope releasing from the post. Getting myself up again, up and onto the horse and riding out of town. Sweaty and afraid. The others shouting and firing their guns and riding after me — somewhere after me in the dark. Justice! they cried, Justice for Jerrod Price! Hell-bent on catching me, on hanging-high the coward murderer Russel Brand.

And riding on and eventually falling off and getting up and hobbling off into the mouth of this canyon and tying a handkerchief around the leg wound and slowing my breath and resting and falling asleep to the overpowering ethereal orchestra of cicadas in the deep-growing darkness of the canyon: Chirru-chirru. Chirru-chirru. Chirru-chirru.

* * *

Russel Brand did not wake up again until the sun began filling the canyon with its golden light the next morning. And he found his position to be more precarious than he imagined the previous night. He thought the canyon was broader and deeper than it truly was. He imagined his midnight scrambling as long and meandering and himself tucked deep within the heart of God's safe refuge. Instead he was sprawled out and visible across the vast expanse of wilderness behind him and the canyon was only a shallow box canyon. And there was no climbing the steep incline of the canyon's beginnings — the great plateau above him was unreachable even with two good legs.

His body was stiff and his leg wound sent rivulets of pain through his leg and lower back every time he moved. But move he must — anyone traveling by this place would spot him. Bracing himself against the pain and trusting most of his weight to his good leg, he forced himself to stand and move in inefficient hops and hobbles to a scrub tree nearby. Here he found a suitable length of hardwood to fashion into something of a crutch, using his knife to dismember it from the body of the tree and to remove its smaller branches, leaving a convenient Y-shape at one end and wrapping that end in excess cloth for padding.

He made his way back up to high ground and surveyed the flatland surrounding him. Miles and miles of yellow-orange dirt and sand all the way to the horizon, spotted with gray-green scrub brush. Here and there. Distant mountain ranges loomed like some ancient wall built up all around the rim of the world — all of life held within its span — light-purple, worn and weathered around the edges, bleeding out and blending with dark clouds forming toward the southeast. Brand thought he saw a flash of lightning there — that or some curious trick of the eye. But he saw no trace of humanity anywhere. As far as the eye could see.

And that was some relief. But that left him completely alone out here and demonstrated the reality of his situation. He was an outcast now. Cut off from all civilized life. Completely and utterly. The pit of his stomach tightened and turned at the thought, leaving him empty inside. Empty and hopeless.

Brand quelled the feeling as quickly as it came, needing now to make important decisions regarding his next steps. It would not be easy. He was without horse. Without food and water. Wounded leg — at least the bullet had gone back out the other side and Brand was pretty sure it hadn't hit bone and hadn't nicked an artery. But stranded out here miles from anywhere