Pioneer Dreams

It all happened quite quickly, actually.

First there was a snap from ahead. Then, screaming, loud and fierce. It woke Wyatt Slade from his trance of metal shoes and hot sun, and he made his way to the jockey box where Aaron sat attentively.

“What was that?” Wyatt said.

Aaron looked over. He’d grown so much in those last few years- ridges in his jawline, a speckling of brown on his upper lip- but when his eyes bugged up like blossoming Hawthorne, he knew he was seeing his little brother again. Wyatt put a hand on his shoulder, and with the other, lifted his 12 gauge onto his lap. The muzzle had been laying in the heat and was magma in his palm. Wyatt did not flinch.

“Don’t worry, Aaron. We’ll find out.”

And he was keen on that fact. They’d been on the trail for three weeks, and to his disappointment, everything had gone slicker than snot. He had witnessed no Indians, no thunderstorms, no black bears, no mountain lions. Hell, he would’ve settled for a termite infestation, if only to battle the morphine-like state of boredom he’d fallen into. Now was his chance, and he fingered the trigger of his double-pump with anticipation.

It was ten minutes before Aaron rounded the corner, the iron rimmed wagon wheels kicking up dust, coating their face and frills in fine white powder. It was so blinding, in fact, that if the screaming woman hadn’t screamed once more, Aaron would’ve turned her into pancake batter on the world’s hottest gridle. Wyatt grabbed the reins and reared with all his strength, causing the oxen to grunt and the dust to settle. Then, Aaron gasped. It was not what Wyatt had expected to see.

A woman lay sprawled on the path. Her bottom half was broken- definitely one leg, maybe both- and her top half was compensating for the pain. She screamed and seethed through her teeth, holding her arms over her eyes. Wyatt’s hands clenched up on the reins, and a tremble pulsed under his eyelid. They had stumbled upon a porcelain doll. He wanted to know who had shattered her.  

He hopped from the jockey box, the boots clouding his steps as he moved aside her. He unscrewed his sheepskin canteen and pulled a hand from her eyes. She winced and stared at him, another scream poised and ready.

“Here,” Wyatt said. He made his voice soft and deep, but it came out between keys, and it sounded silly. The woman was too tired to notice, and she opened her mouth as if stuck midsentence. Wyatt poured the water onto her lips- the woman drank ferociously, almost half the canteen. Some dripped down her cheeks in a way that looked like tears.

When she was through, Wyatt bent closer. “What is your name?”

“Helen.”

“Helen, who did this to you?” Her eyes were glossy and dark.

A fresh wave of spasms and shocks ran up her limbs, and her fingernails dug into the white crust of the earth.

“Bandits. Three of them. Overpowered my husband, stole our wagon. I was thrown out and beaten. They took him to their hideout. Up that way.” She pointed a finger up the road.

Wyatt could see the main trial on the right but would have completely overlooked the tight bush-ridden path that seemed to slither off and into the woods. It was wide enough for only one wagon.

“They won’t get away with this.” He looked over at his brother. Aaron’s lip was tucked under his front teeth, and long brown hairs stuck to his face like a prison. Yet he nodded and tightened up on the reins.

“We’ll get you in the wagon, Helen. We’ll make some splints.” Wyatt turned for some supplies. Helen’s hand dug into his calf. Wyatt winced and looked back.

“You can come back for me once you save Joseph. And…” Her eyes melted into pools of ink. Against her splayed black hair, which had turned gray in the beating, she seemed as old as the dust she lay in. “Make those bandits pay.”

Wyatt stared up at the clear blue sky, wiping a hand across his forehead. He only realized now that he, too, was biting his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He spat a red-tinted gob, the way Buffalo Bill did in his favorite dime novels, and tipped his felted hat her way. Then, he mounted the jockey box with his brother and steered around her towards the fork.

Once they were out of earshot, Aaron hands began to shake on the ropes. “Bandits?” he begged Wyatt. “We can’t take bandits! What if they’re armed?”

Wyatt put a hand on his shoulder. “That woman… Helen… she’s good as dead. Can’t you see? Montana is still three weeks away. Those legs will kill her by then.” His other hand groped the butt of his shotgun like a needy child. “Least we can do is save her husband. Then she might have a chance.”

Aaron swallowed a dry clump of mountain air. “Why us, though? Why us?” Wyatt said nothing. Aaron hadn’t seen her eyes like he had, hadn’t felt the force of her covenant. Instead, he opted for a smile. “Trust me. Have I let you down yet?”

Aaron returned a half-lipped grin and shook his head. Then, he started pulling the oxen down the narrow downhill route. It was the first path in days with a canopy, sycamores and maples holding hands above them, and it beat off the flies and sunbeams like a dream. The ground was a bit more solid, giving the boys a tougher ride, but with the elements off their back, there was no room to complain. They laughed and joked as the oxen led them further into bandit territory.

“What’s the first thing you’re buying when we make it home to St. Louis?” Aaron asked. He loved playing this game, and all variations of it- the first thing you’re going to eat, the first girl you’re taking on a date.

Wyatt put a finger to his chin. “Some nice knitting needles for Mama. Gold plated. I heard it staves off the arthritis.”

Aaron puffed his cheeks. “Mama don’t know the difference between gold and copper. I’ll get a sack suit. Light brown, perfect for the fall. And I’ll melt the rest of my share down into a timepiece.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes. “You’re spending your entire half on one measly suit?”

“Well, it’s not just one suit.” Aaron began. “It can be fitted with different shirts, different ties, even-“

Wyatt pulled back on the reins. “Quiet,” he whispered.

In front of them was a clearing of trees and a mountain cabin edging over a small stream. If Wyatt hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought it to be the most serene lodging in the world. Not a warbler nor a woodpecker could shatter the utter silence it resided in, and other than the water that puddled and pooled over the rocks, there was no motion here. It was a painting in minor flux- he would have liked to frame it for his Mama.

Aaron pointed to Wyatt’s left. “The wagon,” he said. Under a low sycamore, a bit out of view, were the remains of a covered wagon. The canvas was tattered and hung like a million loose teeth, and the wooden base had lost a wheel. The two leading oxen were gone, replaced by dried blood that led behind the cabin towards a poorly built shed. Somehow the silence was maintained.

“’They’re animals,” Wyatt whispered. He readied his weapon and jumped from the jockey box. “Let’s find our man.”

“Wait!” Aaron said, and Wyatt put a hand up behind him, not looking back. “There’s a revolver in the ammo crate. Can you handle it?”

Wyatt heard nothing but was reassured when Aaron’s feet made a clump on the soft earth. Together they moved to the cabin, stopping at the staircase that bent with age. It made no sound under their feet- the eerie silence seemed to have infected the cabin as well.

“Watch my back,” Wyatt whispered, twisting the doorhandle, and edging in with his elbow. He expected to witness thirteen pairs of eyes, delirious with rotten mutton in their teeth, knives and muzzles upturned. But to his surprise, there was no one except a tiny common area with a wicker wardrobe. A thin trail of blood dressed the floor and twisted down the hallway.

“There,” Wyatt said, his eyes dancing through the shadows, searching for a culprit. “We’re close.”

Aaron hadn’t seen the floor yet and decided he wouldn’t ever look. He followed Wyatt inside with eyes that coated the ceiling.

Each of Wyatt’s steps were slow, barely lifting from the ground, more akin to a shuffle. He managed each angle with a wide survey of his shotgun, his finger a twitchy gear ready to be turned. He was biting his lip again, and this time he swallowed the dry, packed iron in his mouth.

The second room opened up. It was dark with a patch of pale light that trickled in under lace curtains. The path of blood at his feet curled into a puddle, texturized red that stained and dripped under each cedar floorboard. Strangely, it was the smell of it all that made him moan- one of sour decay.

Wyatt then realized the moan hadn’t come from his mouth at all- it had come from Aaron, who was turned and facing the slightly vaulted ceiling. “What is it?” Wyatt attempted to say, but the words shriveled in his throat like cotton. Above them, in the top corner of the room, was a white package. Its bow was webbing, and although the present inside was hidden, by the smell and fingers that curled under the silky blanket, it was easy to assume who it was.

Aaron and Wyatt made eye contact, his wet eyes on Wyatt’s bloodshot ones, the tense heat of the room finally becoming realized in their shared, newfound fear. They had squashed spiders in their basement. This was something else entirely.

“Aaron, we need to go.” Wyatt said in that cowboy voice he’d been practicing. This time, it fell flat all together, sounding like a boy’s worst impression of one.

Aaron, noiseless, moved out of the kitchen, and Wyatt came after him. There was panic in the air, and it caused Wyatt to focus on the hammer of his shotgun for a moment too long. When he looked back up, his brother had begun to groan, grabbing something he could not see.

“Aaron?” The words themselves seemed coated in silk. Aaron didn’t turn around, and with horror Wyatt saw a pinch of red begin to blossom on his back. With a clunk, Aaron’s knees hit the floor, and he rolled forward onto his chest, revolver unfired in his hand.

Wyatt’s breath was snuffed away, and he raced to the aid of his brother. But there was a shadow there now, with familiar eyes and a less familiar figure. Her mouth had collapsed in on itself, becoming a pink, hairy sinkhole. Regardless, she attempted to speak, her voice sounding like wind through some tall grass.

“You’re good boys, you know that?”

“You’re a monster, Helen.” Wyatt said. He had the shotgun aimed at her face now.

“Monsters have to eat, too.” Then, a smile, which stretched to her ears in one gaping black trench. “Now, hold still.”

She stretched her needly arms towards him, but Wyatt was ready. He slammed the trigger backwards, his shoulder biting on the recoil, and watched as a million pellets sprinkled the woman in front of him. He expected her to collapse, or to hear that shriek he’d witnessed on the yellow road just hours before.  What he got was a turn of force, the woman on top of him, spindles digging into his throat, eight pricks of coal staring through her gray hair. His shotgun went scattering out of reach. Drops of ichor landed on his cheeks and chest, and he screamed as she moved her lips closer, and closer, and closer.

As Wyatt prepared to die, eyes locked on whispering curtains above, he thought about the web he’d been caught in, and how he’d never seen one so pretty.

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The trail looked different coming back. Maybe it was time’s work: the dusty gravel becoming well worn and sleek, the trees an older shade of green. But Wyatt knew it was probably his own eyes, softer now from months spent on the glaring river, that had changed this place.

Miles spoke up from the jockey box. “My girl won’t believe what I found. She always thought I was a fool for coming this way, but…” Miles fished a fat sack from his pocket and held it behind him. “This done speak for itself, don’t it!”

The two men on Wyatt’s sides smiled and cheered. Wyatt said nothing.

Miles turned around and saw Wyatt’s expressionless face. He chuckled, Kentucky on his lips. “There he goes again, Silent Wyatt. What, you don’t think we did good? Tell me we did good.”

Wyatt opened his eyes, laying prone on a bag of bread. They were searching through the thick beige canvas. “We did better than I ever imagined,” he said.

“That’s the spirit!” Miles said, smiling ear to ear. “Hey, what are y’all gonna buy first once you make it home? I’m thinking a saddle for my bronco, with leather engravings on the- “

There was a scream of the shrillest kind from thirty paces ahead. The crew looked in its direction, except Wyatt, who jumped to his knees. He knew that scream- he could never forget it.

“Huh. Probably a mountain lion,” Miles said. “Let’s check it out.” He yipped the oxen, and they pulled a little faster.

Wyatt scuttled to the front. His hair had grown, almost to his shoulders, and it gripped his wrinkled brow the same way it used to grip his brothers. “We can’t go this way,” Wyatt said.

Miles smiled at him with that same country-boy glee as before. “No need, Wyatt. I done dealt with these mountain lions before. Pop a cap and they’ll go running. You’re safe with us.” And then he patted Wyatt’s shoulder, pushing him a bit to the back.

Miles turned his eyes back on the road and pulled heavy on the ropes. The screaming was upon their crew, and as Miles stood on the jockey box to investigate, Wyatt pleaded. “Turn around! Now!”

But Miles wasn’t listening as he and the boys stepped off the box. He heard the same exclamations he’d uttered on that summer day long ago- “Oh my god…” “Who did this?” – and churned his teeth until he could taste their dust. Finally, he made his way to the trail as the others went in for stints and supplies.

On the ground was the broken woman. She looked a little fatter now, lips a bit redder, cheeks flush with tan. Her legs were mashed toothpicks, but now Wyatt noticed the intricacies of her deception, the quivers that raced up her ankles and knees and stomach. The woman opened her eyes for a moment, staring into the sun straight above, and smiled. He could almost see the canyon beneath it, paper mache over a million fangs.

“You did well,” Helen whispered.

“Is he still alive?” Wyatt asked.

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

Wyatt stared at her, the newfound softness in his eyes growing harder by the second. He thought about telling the crew everything, suiting up, and putting thirty shots in her at point blank range, but he knew he wouldn’t. He hated that his decision was so easy.

Wyatt yelled up to the crew, “She told me where to go, men. Let’s take a right up here.” There was finally a cowboy in his throat, Helen noticed.

Wyatt began walking back. And as he passed the oxen, he heard a laugh from behind him, the ugliest noise in existence, like the crinkle of burning fresh. He turned to address it.

She was looking at him, those sinkhole lips appearing as his caravan prepared to move. And although he couldn’t hear them, Wyatt knew what words she had spilled.

“Look who’s the spider now.”