Night Dancer
Kris Sparks
Published by Thunder Valley Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 by Kris Sparks
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Night Dancer
Kris Sparks
1891
His horse's soft whicker pulled Virgil Dean out of a drunken doze.
For a moment Virgil's dream was more real that the gently rolling prairie where he'd made his camp for the night. The burnt-sulfur smell of phantom gunpowder overpowered the damp, musty odor of dry grasses dusted with light snow. The sharp crack of Winchesters still echoed in his memory, overlaid with the ghostly cries of the dying. Like all his dreams of late, the horrors his mind didn't let him forget were more immediate than the distant yip of a coyote somewhere off in the deep black of the North Dakota night.
Virgil rubbed his hand over his face, trying to chase away the dream. He never really slept anymore. He either drank himself into a stupor or rode through the night until he fell off his saddle exhausted. Easy sleep was for men not haunted by nightmares of their own making.
Tonight he'd run out of whiskey before he could work up a truly decent drunk. The empty bottle glistened in the low flames of his campfire. Some nights he threw the empty bottle as far away from himself as he could, as if he could stuff his memories inside where the whiskey had been and rid himself of his dreams. Tonight the bottle lay in the dirt next to his hand where he'd dropped it.
He tried to get his brain to function, to work out how long he'd been caught in the dream by the size of the fire, the position of the stars in the sky. It would have been easier if he could see the stars clearly. It couldn't have been long. All the whiskey he'd drunk was still inside his head, making the world blurry around the edges.
His horse whickered again, louder this time. Virgil sat up from where he'd slumped against his saddle. He caught movement at the far edge of the light from his campfire. Too big to be a coyote. Nothing more threatening or his horse would be doing more than whickering a soft hello.
Not only was his bay gelding saying hello to something Virgil couldn't see, the confounded animal was walking toward the shadow at the edge of the firelight.
"What do you think you're doing?" Virgil muttered under his breath.
His rubbed his face again. When he opened his eyes this time, the shadow at the edge of the firelight had resolved itself to a human shape, but it was still too shrouded in the dark for Virgil to make out any features. The only thing he could see clearly was that the stranger stood too close to his horse for Virgil's liking. He'd be in a whole mess of trouble if the stranger decided to make off with his horse and leave Virgil out here alone on the prairie.
"Well, now. What a fine feller you are," the stranger said. The voice was masculine, deep with a lyrical way of talking Virgil had never heard before.
Virgil pushed himself to his feet, staggering only a little. "You want to take a step away from my horse," he said, loud and firm. At least that's the way it sounded in his head.
"Sorry I startled you," the stranger said. "I mean no harm to your fine horse. I saw the fire and thought I might share a little warmth. The night's a might chilly for a lad like me to be wanderin' in the dark when there's a campfire about."
The stranger patted Virgil's horse on the neck before he stepped away like Virgil asked. He seemed true enough to his word, at least about not harming the horse. Virgil wasn't in much shape to defend himself anyway if the stranger meant to harm him. He'd left his own Winchester behind when he'd fled the encampment in the night, crawling away like the yellow coward he was. His Colt wasn't much use to him these days either.
Virgil shrugged. He gestured toward the fire. "Come make yourself warm."
The stranger ambled toward the fire. He turned out to be a lanky young man -- little more than a boy, really -- all long limbs, dark, curly hair, and dark eyes bruised by heavy shadows. He had a thin mustache and a wispy bush of a beard that hugged the lower edge of his jaw and underneath the point of his chin. He wore a threadbare jacket over his clothes and a dusty knit scarf knotted around his neck. Virgil's gaze fell automatically to the boy's belt, but he could see no gun, not even the sheath of a knife.
The young man smiled, and Virgil could see hints of an easy charm in his manner that had no doubt talked more than one lady out of her virtue.
"I'm afraid my clothes have seen far better days," the stranger said. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly to one side, giving him an almost shy, hesitant look. Even though he knew better, Virgil felt himself relaxing. It didn't seem like the boy was out to kill him and steal his horse. At least not yet.
"Since you've been so kind to a poor lad like me, I should at least tell you who you've invited to sit by your fire." The stranger took one hand out of his pocket and held it out to Virgil. "Joe's my name."
Virgil didn't normally shake hands. He couldn't have said what made him lean forward and clasp fingers nearly as cold as the night air. "Virgil Dean," he said.
The stranger shook Virgil's hand once and let go. "Mr. Dean. I appreciate the fine hospitality of your fire."
"Virgil. Just Virgil will do fine." For months it had been Private Dean. Virgil hadn't gotten used to Mister yet, and a goodly part of him didn't think he deserved any fancy titles.
Right about then, his legs thought better of holding him up. He sat back down with little grace in the dirt next to his saddle. The world seemed to tilt to the side, or maybe it was Virgil who couldn't quite sit upright.
The stranger -- Joe -- turned toward the fire and crouched down on his haunches, rubbing his hands together close to the low flames. The smile stayed on his face although it looked forced now. His eyes stayed on the fire but he seemed to be focused on something far away that only he could see.
"I'd offer you some whiskey," Virgil said. "But it seems I'm fresh out."
He had the good graces to feel some embarrassment about the empty bottle, but Joe waved off his apology. "Whiskey's not what I'm needing, but I thank you for your kind offer." He brought his hands to his mouth and blew on his fingers.
Virgil looked around himself. He still had a couple of of unburned branches from when he'd gathered when he'd first made camp, back before the whisky beckoned with its promise of oblivion. "How about I build up that fire? Ought to get you warm."
He bent over slowly sideways and reached to retrieve the wood. He stirred up the fire with the end of one branch, and when the flames leapt higher into the night, he tossed the wood on the pile. It caught with a loud snap that made his horse pull its head up and take a few steps away from the light.
"Don't you go wandering off," Virgil said to the horse. "We got company thanks to you."
When Virgil looked back to the fire, he found Joe's gaze on him instead of the flames. Joe might be little more than a boy, but his eyes seemed ancient, full of a pain the kind Virgil knew himself. Eyes like that in such a young face -- the sight was compelling, and Virgil found himself staring back.
"Where might you be headin', if you don't mind me askin'?" Joe said after a long minute.
Virgil shrugged and turned his gaze toward the dark night beyond the fire. "Don't really have a destination." Mostly he'd been riding away from the place he wanted to leave far behind rather than toward a place he wanted to be, but Virgil didn't say that.
"Kinda like myself then," Joe said. "Been wanderin' for a time, never quite sure where I'll end up or who I'll find."
Virgil usually found himself with just his horse for company, even when he was in a camp or a saloon full of easy women who'd lie in bed with him for money. He never felt so alone as he did when he woke up next to a woman he'd paid for and realized she'd never truly been with him, only with the coin in his pocket.
Something wormed its way into Virgil's thoughts. He looked at Joe again, then peered into the gloom beyond the campfire from where Joe'd come. "Long ways from anywhere to be out here by yourself without a horse, aren't you?" he asked. "How'd you get here?" He looked down at Joe's boots. They might have been fancy at one time, the heels cut higher than Virgil's own, but the leather was old and cracked. Any shine they might have had long gone. "You walk?" Virgil's camp was a good two days ride from any stage line, another two from anything that could be called a town. Two days ride. A damn sight longer walk.
"Long ways from where I was, that's for certain." Joe's gaze slid back to the fire and what was left of his smile melted away.
Virgil was struck again with the haunted look that lived in the boy's eyes. It reminded Virgil of his dream, the same dream he had every night -- the crack of rifle fire, the stench of burning leather, the reek of death and betrayal. The screams of women and children as soldiers shot them down where they cowered in fear.
As Virgil shot them down as he'd been ordered.
He woke from that dream every night bathed in cold sweat, his stomach lurching.
"Payin' my penance, that's what my da would say," Joe said, almost like he was reading Virgil's thoughts. His voice was soft, like he was talking to himself. "And he'd be right, that he would."
A chill seemed to settle over the camp, even with the fire burning bright against the night.
Virgil didn't want to think about what kind of penance he'd be paying for the rest of his life. If he wasn't such a yellow coward, he'd have let his horse run free and turned his Colt on himself.
"Think I got some hard tack if you're hungry," Virgil said. He made the offer as much to get his mind off the memory of that burning camp as to be hospitable. Joe shook his head.
Virgil stared off into the night. He could feel weariness creeping in along the edges, making his eyelids too heavy to keep open. The whiskey, doing its job.
"Don't know about you, but it's time for this sorry excuse of a drunk to turn in," Virgil said. He untied his bedroll from his saddle, shook out the blanket. He scooted down a little on the rocky dirt until his head rested against his saddle. He spread the blanket out over himself.