Corralling Malignant Hate

 

The sun hung high in the azure sky, casting its relentless heat upon the parched land. Dust swirled in the air like restless spirits, and the only sound was the occasional flap of a lizard's tail against the dry earth. In this unforgiving landscape, Jake rode slowly under the scorching sun, his wide-brimmed hat shielding his eyes from the blinding glare.

“Dusty, I’m so dry I’m spitting’ cotton. I’ll bet you ain’t doin’ so well either.”

He slid from his saddle, moistened his bandana with a little of the precious water from his canteen,  rubbed it against his lips, and sucked at the moisture. Then he poured an inch of water in his hat and let the horse drink.

Dusty’s coat was dulled by years of toil, and he moved slowly with a weary gait, his once-bright eyes now clouded and tired. Every labored breath told the tale of a loyal companion who had weathered countless storms but now found himself in the twilight of his days, seeking solace in the gentle touch of familiar hands.

Jake loosened his leather vest that had seen better days and he glanced around at the dry land and motionless tumbleweed. Not even a breeze to break the eerie silence that blanketed the land.

 Suddenly, his gaze caught something unusual in the distance—a flash of color against the dull browns and ochres of the desert. Curiosity piqued, he pulled Dusty’s reins urging him forward, while his heart raced with intrigue.

As he approached, the sight before him made his stomach drop. There, tied spread-eagle on the ground, bound by rawhide leather and anchored by four weathered wooden stakes was an Indian man. His skin glistened with sweat, and his eyes were wide with fear and pain. Jake recognized the tribal markings on the man's arms, signs of a proud lineage now reduced to a desperate situation.

“Hold on, there!” Jake shouted. “I got ya.” He dashed toward the man, who struggled against the dry, shrinking leather.

 The Indian gasped, his voice hoarse,  “They gone… they come back soon.  Must hurry.”

With nimble fingers, Jake worked to untie the knots that held the man captive. “Who did this to ya?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting the assailants to return at any moment.

“White men,” the Indian replied, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Think I stole cattle. Not do. Hunt deer.” Finally, with a final tug, the leather straps fell away, and the Indian rose to his knees, gasping for air.

“Name’s Jake,” he said, offering a hand to help the man up. He handed the Indian his canteen, and the man took a deep swallow. “What’s yer name?”

“Tall Feather,” the Indian said, accepting the cowboy’s assistance. “Owe Jake life.”

“Don’t recon a kindness is worthy of a man’s life. Let’s get ya outta the open before them ranchers come back lookin’ for trouble,” Jake said, glancing around the barren landscape. “You got a place to go?”

Tall Feather shook his head. “No.” His brow furrowed and his voice trembled. “Tribe killed…many guns…many die.”

Jake frowned, feeling a pang of sympathy. “We’ll find water and shelter, together. Ain’t no man should suffer alone out here.”

Fate entwined the paths of the two as they rode Dusty under the glaring sun.

Jake knew that many of this kind considered Indians little more than animals, but he couldn’t figure why any man was better than any other regardless of the color of their skin.

“Must’ve sorrowed you some to lose your tribe like that.”

Tall Feather remained silent, so Jake continued.

“Lost my mother to malaria when I was a kid. Dad tried to raise my brothers and me right, but farmin’ was punishing. He died at thirty-two, a dried-up old man.”

“Earth harsh sometimes. Ones loved, die. We survive…live with their spirits around us.”

The words seemed a prophecy, when just a few hours later Dusty stumbled, wobbled a minute, and fell. He had been a companion and partner to Jake for fifteen years, but the age, the burden he carried, and the lack of water was too much.

“Horse old. Can’t save.”

Tears brimmed his eyes as Jake placed his revolver against the old stallion’s head.

“You’ve been a loyal partner and friend.”

He pulled the trigger.

Tall Feather held out his hand.“Knife.”

Jake’s brow wrinkled.

“What?”

“Borrow knife. Gods take ride…offer food.”

His heart ached as he understood the necessity. And watched as Tall Feather sliced meat from the horse and wrapped it in a bag made from the stallion’s skin. Slinging it over his shoulder, he stood and began walking. Jake followed.

Hours passed, and just as the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the dry earth, they stumbled upon the remnants of an abandoned town. It was a ghost of a place, buildings crumbling and windows shattered, like a forgotten relic of the past.

“Looks like we found ourselves a place to rest,” Jake said, surveying the scene. “Might even find some supplies in one of them old shacks.”

As they trudged into the vacant stores and saloons and began to explore, the air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. They rummaged through the remnants of what had once been a bustling community, but all they found were broken bottles and rusted metal. Yet, in the back of one building, they discovered a well—its wooden structure half-collapsed but still standing.

“Water!” Tall Feather exclaimed, rushing forward. Jake nodded, excitement bubbling within him. “Let’s see if we can clear away some of this rubble. We might be able to pull up a bucket or two.”

They worked together, using stones and their bare hands to chip away at the debris. Finally, after what felt like hours, they cleared enough space to lower a bucket into the well. With a creak and a splash, they pulled up fresh water, the sight of it glistening in the fading sunlight.

“Drink,” Jake urged, filling his canteen and passing it to Tall Feather. The Indian took a long, deep gulp, his face lighting up with relief. “Gift from  spirits,” he said, his voice reverent.

Jake filled his own canteen and sat on the edge of the well, letting the cool breeze wash over him. “Ain't this a fine find? We can rest for the night, and come mornin’, we’ll figure out what to do next.”

As twilight settled over the rugged landscape, Jake knelt down to gather dry twigs and stones, his hands roughened by years of hard work.

 

“Gotta get this fire goin’, Tall Feather,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of Southern drawl. He struck a match, watching it flicker to life before carefully placing it among the gathered kindling. “Ain't nothin’ like a good fire to keep the chill away and help a man think straight.” He turned to Tall Feather, who stood nearby, his dark eyes scanning the horizon, ever vigilant.

“A fire good,” Tall Feather replied, his accent thick but his intent clear. “Keep away bad spirits, yes.” He knelt beside Jake, adding larger branches to the pile. Then he opened the bag of meat from Dusty, poked a stick through a large piece, and held it over the flames. They each ate the cooked meat.

 “My people make fire like this, tell stories under stars. Grandfather say, ‘Fire is life.’”

 

Jake nodded, a warm smile creeping across his face as he recalled his own childhood, nights spent around the hearth with his family. “Ain’t that the truth? I remember sittin’ with my folks, listenin’ to ol’ man Jenkins spin tales of the wild. Seemed like every story had a lesson, whether ‘bout bravery or just plain common sense."

With the fire crackling to life, they settled back against a nearby rock, the flames casting flickering shadows around them. “You fight many battles, Jake?” Tall Feather asked, his curiosity piqued.

 

Jake chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “More than I care to count, friend. Some for land, some for honor, but most times, it’s just tryin’ to keep folks I care about safe.”

 

Tall Feather nodded, understanding the weight of that responsibility. “Tall Feather fight for people, too. My people. We lost much, but we stand strong. Together.”

 

The two men, despite their different paths, found common ground in the flickering light of the fire, united by the stories of their pasts and the hope for what lay ahead.

“I never thought I’d find a friend in the desert,” Jake admitted, gazing into the fire. “Life’s been a lonely road for me.”

Tall Feather nodded, face serious. “World many times make us different, but here in desert, we fight together like brothers. You save my life, Jake. For this, I  always thankful.”

As the stars twinkled above, a sudden sound pierced the tranquility—the distant echo of horse hooves. Jake’s heart raced as he exchanged a glance with Tall Feather. “We ain’t alone anymore,” he whispered, instinctively reaching for his revolver.

Shadowy figures appeared on the horizon, and Jake squinted to make out the shape. “Ranchers,” he said sharply. “They must’ve followed your trail.”

Tall Feather’s eyes narrowed. “We must hide. Quick!” They scurried behind the ruins of the old saloon, breathless and tense.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and soon, four men on horseback rode into the deserted town, their faces set with determination. They scanned the area, their eyes searching for any sign of the Indian they had been tracking.

“I swear I saw him head this way,” one of the ranchers said, a rugged man with a scar running down his cheek. “He can’t be far!”

Jake felt a surge of anger rise within him. “They’re lookin’ to do you harm, Tall Feather,” he murmured. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

Peeking around the corner of the saloon, Jake yelled, “You got no right to hunt this man! He ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”

The ranchers turned, surprise flashing across their faces. “You’re makin’ a mistake, cowboy,” the scarred man warned, drawing his pistol. “That Indian stole our cattle. Justice needs to be served.”

“Justice?” Jake spat. “What y’all call justice is just plain cruelty. You’re the ones who should be punished!”

Tall Feather added to the squabble.

“I not your enemy. I wish to live in harmony with the land.”

The standoff was tense, with fingers twitching near triggers, hearts pounding like thunder in the silence. But just as the situation reached a boiling point, a loud rumble echoed through the night.

“What in tarnation? We ain’t had rain for a couple of years,” one of the ranchers exclaimed, glancing up at the sky. A storm was brewing, dark clouds rolling in like a freight train across the horizon.

Tall Feather yelled back, “Ancestors’ spirits protect us. Fear the spirits!”

One of the ranchers, a rugged man with a scar running jaggedly beneath his left eye, had a face weathered by the harsh sun and hard living seemed to be the leader. His sweat-fouled black Stetson sat low on his brow, casting a shadow over his piercing gaze. The brim of the hat was frayed, a testament to long hours spent on horseback under the blistering sky. At his hip hung a well-worn Colt revolver, its handle polished from years of use, a reminder that he was not a man to be trifled with. His presence was imposing, exuding an air of menace that made it clear he wouldn’t hesitate to defend his territory or settle a score.

He laughed out loud.

“Spirits ain’t real, and there ain’t nothing gonna protect you from us. A little rain ain’t never hurt nobody.”

A flash of lightning lit the sky and struck a rusted old plow near the rancher’s leg. It ricocheted through his body, and for moments he froze in an electrified dance.

The other three ranchers stepped away in fright, gaping at the unmoving body of their leader. Tall Feather ran to the fallen man and knelt at his side. He put his ear to his chest.

“He not breathing,” he shouted. Then to the astonishment of the others, he began pounding on the rancher’s chest.

“What the tarnation are you doing?” one of the men yelled. “He’s dead. He don’t deserve no beatin’.”

Jake could sense the remaining three rancher’s growing bewilderment turning into anger. He couldn’t allow them to kill Tall Feather, so he began to move in front of his friend. Just as his foot rose something caught his eye, and he stopped. An almost imperceptible black mist rose from the dead rancher’s body. Was it his imagination?

Immediately the man began to cough and gasp. Jake and the other ranchers looked on in shock.

“He’s alive. I can’t believe it,” one of them said.

Another said, “It’s a miracle.”

Tall Feather put his arm under the rancher’s shoulder and helped him sit up. “Heart stopped,” he explained. “Had to beat it to wake.”

When the leader was fully recovered, he looked at Tall Feather, “You saved me. Even if you steal cows, you’re a good Indian.”

The anger and aggression was gone, and Jake wondered if that black mist was hate evaporating.

“I not steal cows. I hunt deer and elk,” Tall Feather said.

Jake addressed the ranchers.

“I believe him. Do you?”

They silently nodded in agreement.

“Got some horsemeat if you’re hungry. Glad to share.”

“Horsemeat?”

“Yeah. Dusty was old and weak from thirst. Had to put him down.”

They reluctantly accepted the offer, and built another fire under the shelter of the dilapidated roof of the saloon. The unexpected rain lasted most of the night.

 In the morning the ranchers left for their homes.

 Standing side by side, Jake and Tall Feather knew they had formed a bond—one where friendship and solidarity could overcome the darkness of prejudice and fear. Together, they would find their way. Friendship could overcome hardships and injustice.