Here's a bit of a change of pace. Instead of articles, I'm going to start to toss out some short stories. Little more than blurbs, really. Bits that establish my world in my own head. They'll probably be rough as hell, but I appreciate your reading them.
Bird Doublehead was terrified.
He had never been a brave man. Brave men didn't stay quiet when women were forced to looms, and men into fields. Brave men didn't stand back as they watched outsiders uproot their people to some forsaken corner of creation. They certainly didn't watch while white men erect bonfires to burn the best of them. He could still hear the howls and whines. He could still taste burnt fur and flesh.
Bird wasn't brave in the least, but he was mad as hell, and that was a fine replacement. His head leaned forward, peeking through the trees. In the distance he could see a trail of dust stretching up to the sky. He raised his forearm above his eyes, squinting as he fought the sun.
The horse-drawn wagon clattered along the dirt path, the frame bouncing over every stray rock and occasional pothole. Its passage from Georgia had not been easy, as evidenced by the torn tarp and wary horses. It was for good reason. The wagon brought the scent of rot and wine, of an old man used to sweet things and easy paths. On the bench was bent the Major, gut protruding as his gnarled hands squeezed the reins. He was a man in the winter of his life. Once he could face it was a smile and a laugh, but now all he could muster was the weariness of all those years.
Treason aged a man considerably.
Bird emerged from the treeline, his heart hammering against his chest. The horses came to a dead stop. Their broad nostrils twitched as the pair sniffed at the air. The horses' eyes rolled back until they were all white, panicked wickers and whinies filling the air. Still, they held their ground as not to defy the seated man.
Bird could easily have ambushed the Major, brought him low with a hidden snap and have been done with it. There was no joy in such a victory. He'd dreamt of killing the Major since he was a boy, fangs and blood haunting every single night. It was for this that he'd gone all this way West, across unknown country with a dagger hidden behind every smile.
Doublehead'd be damned if he didn't look the man in his eye before he killed him.
The Major finally raised his head. It was with mild disinterest that he studied Bird, as if he was just another rock in a long road. It was enough to make the younger man's blood boil. The old man finished his inspection with a sigh.
"You're Chief Doublehead's boy?" asked the Major.
"Bird Doublehead," confirmed the assassin. "I've been following you since Turkeytown, by Reddingville Way."
"It took you this long to catch up?" The Major laughed, a clipped, rough sound. "You almost missed your chance." He nodded to the wagon. "I ran into a few of your friends in Chanceton."
"Weren't no friends of mine. No friend'd take what's mine away." Bird took a step forward. That's all the motion it took. The Major's hand settled on the rifle laying beside his seat.
"Don't be quick to join your Pa, boy. Turn around and just keep moving." He nudged his head forward, at the trail. "You've got a ways to go, and a new life to live. There's nothing here waiting for you but a quick end at my gun."
Bird Doublehead was terrified. He had never been a brave man, and he didn't want to die. Still, the pelt worn under his shirt bristled with fury. It ached to tear and bite, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong. It was filled with a rage that went beyond reason, and it swept the fear away.
"I mean t'finish what I started," said Bird, or so he tried. It was hard to speak between growing fangs and lengthening lips. The man dropped to all fours and as he did, the rifle rose. He could smell the panic coming off the Major, as sweet as honeysuckle, and he raced toward it.
The air filled with a bang and a roar.
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