The three bodies sit on the back of a cart like any other load ready to be taken into town; the driver reassuringly strokes his horses’ muzzles each in turn as if the beasts could divine the nature of their sombre cargo. Clearly he credits them with enough suspicion as he himself possesses, evidenced by the small crucifix he presses into his hand as if trying to make it a part of him. I seethe silently and internally at this display, averting my gaze before he senses it upon him. As a rule I try not to employ the devout; religious men won’t work Sundays. I make a grim half-smile for a brief moment at this recurrent private joke, true as it is.
I turn as I hear the dull thud of other hooves coming towards me, smiling fully and unabashed as my own horse is brought towards me. I take the reigns and give him a reassuring pat, muttering general niceties at the animal and tracing the diamond on his forehead.
‘Same old journey, Hector,’ I say softly as I heave myself up into the saddle and then looking down to Laurence, ‘Shouldn’t be more than a day, two tops, if we can get moving well enough. You know what to do.’
The Sergeant nods once, a wordless reply to confirm that he will keep things running as always in my absence. Walt’s too, for that matter.
I give the signal for our small convoy to head out and Hector sets off to take position just ahead of the cart, two gunmen leading the way ahead and another two bringing up the rear.
-------------
We arrive in the small town as the last of the sunlight vanishes far over the flat plains; almost cutting our journey a little too close and leaving us sitting ducks for undesirables, both hostile locals and those passing through for a quick buck. I pinch the bridge of my nose as my head seems to throb violently once more and look for the town hall, if you could describe it as such, which has no visible lights and so I settle down for a sleepless night in the similarly dilapidated hotel while the men take shifts to protect our absent friends from jackals and other raiders of the night.
Upon waking (not so sleepless after all), I descend into the lobby and decline the gristly, black plate of what I assume passes as breakfast and make my way to see the appropriate officials to register the three deaths and arrange for their families, if they have any, to be informed and take possession of their worldly goods; though, these are hardly likely to be much more than a lucky bullet and a comb. The clerk is ruddy-faced, middle aged man who goes about his business in an admirably efficient, if not entirely pleasant, fashion: the way he refers to the dead men by their initial and surname is particularly bile-inducing; Where is W. Haines from? How old is W. Haines? Does W. Haines have any family? Only this question quells the desire within me to give his family something to be informed about.
“Sir?”
I stare blankly, then, “No, no family.”
The clerk nods and presents me with several documents to sign, and thereafter I leave the stuffy little office and gulp in the fresh air, only wishing it weren’t so dry afterwards. The dread wells up inside me again as if it wants to burst from me and shatter my very being, but just can’t. I take a few deep breaths and lean against a hitching post, looking up to see the cart with the bodies being taken to their final resting place. I walk along after it, the town seeming appropriately devoid of life as I slowly progress down what passes for its main street to the small clapboard chapel and accompanying grave yard.
The cart-driver tells me that they have ready-dug graves and then goes on to tell me how much this simple display of efficiency appals him. For reasons unknown I don’t go on to tell him how much I want to bury him and his insipid superstitions in one of them, crucifix and all.
I shake this thought from my head and turn abruptly from the driver, wandering to the prospective grave sites, I breathe heavily again, but involuntarily this time; not even noon and already I’ve been driven to mentally murdering two men, and, banal though they might be, this is unhealthy, especially given recent events.
I clutch my head as the indefinable pain reaches a new crescendo, I stagger forwards and hold my hand in front of my eyes; where did this blood come from? In my distraction I lose my footing and tumble into one of the graves, someone is calling my name but this too seems distant and indefinable. I heave myself up from the sandy earth and claw at the walls of the grave but I can claim no purchase and I scramble pathetically until I am crippled by a pain through my back which brings me heavily to my knees.
The voice calls out my name again and I open my eyes to grey skies and rain, sand – sand, but not of the desert, just a bunker. The voice is clear now and as, apparently, is the pain in my head and back.
‘Mr. Burke?’ says the stranger, as he tries to help me to my feet.
‘I never fell in,’ I say, taking advantage of the stranger to lift myself out of the bunker.
But, no, not a stranger, just Pete.
‘Don’t worry sir, you’re okay, I think.’
I look around in a stupor, my clothes are soaked through yet patches of my own blood are still apparent against my shirt like gruesome inkblots, I scan the surroundings through the sheets of rain and light mist.
‘But what about the horse?’
‘Horse?’ asks Pete cluelessly, ‘Don’t worry about that now, let’s get you inside.’
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