Forged in Dust and Steel: The Rustler's Redemption

Sweat dropped from my forehead, sticky and warm, forming a puddle at the base of my nose. The salty sting awoke the cuts that slashed my skin. Them miserable Martians had tied my hands in a tangle, and strung me up from the tent’s ceiling, like cattle. No, worse than that, like one of their trinkets. Ain’t nothin’ worse than bein’ owned. Rage rattled within me. 

“So this is how the infamous Rustler dies, huh?” taunted a short Martian with a strict ponytail. “Pathetic. We’ll start with you, so your men can watch their leader perish.” His eyes bore into mine, prodding at my pride. “This is what you scumbags get for trying to steal our land.”

I raised an eyebrow. Their land? Possessive twats. 

I spat at him and watched his self-control crumble. Darn, what I’d give for a blade between my fingers. I’d’ve turned his face inside out.

“Now, now. That’s not very decent, even for the Rustler of Mars,” a voice emerged from the shadows. A voice I’d begun to yearn for. A voice that made my arm’s hair stand on end, whether out of fear or excitement, I had no goddam idea. “Leave us,” she commanded and her fellow Martian disappeared.  

“The Rustler of Mars,” I repeated, my tongue rolling over the name. “Dang, I’m one of you now?” I seduced myself into our game of catch and prey. The only doggone thing that spruced up my honour after bein’ put behind bars, again.”

“Would you want to? You’d have to cut off your balls and blind your eyes after what you did to my son’s tribe,” her big ol’ dark eyes met mine. “To our tribe,” she corrected. It was her turn to spit. Only, when she did, desire and challenge charged the air. I smiled at her, savouring the tension. 

“Dona, Dona, Dona…” I lowered my gaze. “Your son is an insult to ya’. He makes ya people look weak. A darn disgrace to yer image, Chiefess.” My eyes traced the curves of her hips. A game of hide and seek. I’d slam and caress her, and she kept me captive but breathin’.

Had I gone cuckoo? Dreamin’ ‘bout a woman forged of steel and wrinkles who, for three straight days, tore blazing iron into my skin? Strangely, her pleasure in her strength tasted like freedom, despite the shackles on my wrists.

“You don’t fool me, Rustler,” she said in her dry, sand-whispered accent as her breath caressed my skin. A tremor of a smile flickered across my face until pain convulsed my muscles. She’d struck the metal against my raw back.

“Straight shootin’ Dona Boss.” I forced a smile. “If that’s how y’all wanna get acquainted.” I searched for her scent, elusive and enigmatic.  

“Even the President’s family?” She asked. 

“Especially that old pig.” Corrupt pig. I roared in anger as I recalled how he slipped away from my bullet by a whisker. I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe that’s why I don’t give a darn about rotting here. 

“My, my, what a rebel we have.” Her long braid cascaded down her hip. Was she assessing my allegiance? The Tribes were no allies of the government. Maybe I could be of use. But only she’d think so, her son, the Chief, was as capable as a racing horse with a broken leg. 

Wariness laced with curiosity formed a tight knot between us. Mutual admiration drew us closer whilst shared threat repelled us. I cursed the damned pain coursing down my back and into my right leg, and instead focused on the darn foolish image of her and I riding into an orange-hued sky. 

“Too bad I’m going to have to kill you,” she declared, extracting herself from our game.

The distance in her tone seized me with panic. I locked my gaze onto hers, but she refused to meet my eyes. Instead, she turned her back, and as I felt my heartbeat thunder, she grabbed hold of the most ridiculously large machete. That thing could decimate a cavalry of horses with one swift movement - or end me, in the blink of an eye.   

My legs went weak.

She raised her arms, ready to slice my broken soul.

I took a deep breath, my final thoughts went to Silver Ray and the soft caress of her mane.

“Chiefess Donachita?” A voice bellowed outside the tent interrupting the devious widow who, determined, continued to grasp the blade, stepping forward with one leg. “Chiefess,” the voice and a small man barged into the room. “We have visitors.” Her arms hesitated, frozen mid-air. “Now,” the Martian insisted.

Visitors? In this forgotten land?

She slashed him with a furious look and dropped the weapon to the floor. The blade flew dangerously, almost peeling the skin off my toes. Fuck it, even if it had taken’em out, I’d still be better off than being turned into a pool of blood.

Dona vanished, finally allowing me to breathe. In the silence, I heard a distant noise, the rattling of a metal against wood. I tensed up. I recognised that sound. It was the sound of weakness, of treachery, of greed and stupidity - the damn ministry had arrived. They were the only ones travelling through the rusty plains in trains, everyone else was left in a desolate state. 

My rage plunged me into a web of memories of their schemes, my failed assault on them, and the decades I spent locked up until I tore myself free of that space, escaped from their fist. Snap out of it. They’re my opening. My source of distraction. I won’t waste it. 

Despite the days of torture, the pain crumbling my body and the exhaustion clouding my mind, my body took over. In an instant, I balanced my big toe and middle toe on the blade that had nearly sliced them off seconds ago. I pressed my toes together, feeling the sharpness of the blade against my skin. Warm blood oozed out but I ignored it. With one swift motion, I pulled my knees up and crunched my body, exerting pressure on the ropes. I was, but not close enough. I sensed the blade drifting away. I couldn’t let it. I wouldn’t let it. I spun my feet up and flung the blade spiralling through the air. I thrust my arms forward, almost failing to catch it, until I slid my wrists deeper into the knot and managed to snatch the machete before it threatened to castrate me.

I let out a sigh of relief. Darn!! That was close!

Before anyone entered the room, I wiggled my wrists in the ropes, and using my new toy, slashed through them. Loosened, I can untie the knot with my eyes closed, my mouth has done this countless times. This isn’t my first escapade, more like the fiftieth. 

Struggling to walk due to my injuries, I grasp a chair and snap its back, using it as a makeshift cane. There's only one thing left to do - I must disguise myself as one of them, the Martians. With my Earthian height and pale skin, I'd be easily spotted from anywhere. Thankfully, the bruises on my body help diminish my size, and the dust on the floor provides ample camouflage. Suppressing the urge to sneeze, I coat my skin with layers of red dust, watching my reflection transform into that of a Martian in the blade's reflection. It's a crude transformation, but it will have to suffice.

Tearing a hole in the tent's wall, I repurpose the cloth as a tribal uniform, albeit a ridiculous-looking one. However, it serves its purpose by concealing the machete I carry. Surveying the crimson plain, I detect noise emanating from the largest tent at the center. Curiosity entices me, but the memories of my comrades restrain me.

Within moments, I find myself outside their tent. Donachita's son has marked them with the red cross of outlaws, undermining their supposed trustworthiness. Before the Martian guard can spot me, I swiftly twist his neck, rendering him unconscious, and lay his hands beneath his head in a sign of tribal respect for this land, this formidable planet.

I march into the tent, and joy surges within me, causing my eyes to moisten. They're safe. I gaze at their faces, and at first, they don't recognize me until an idiot shouts, "The Rustler, the Rustler!"

"Rustler?" Artos exclaims, and I embrace him tightly. "Have they given you a baptism?" he jests, mocking my amateur camouflage. "Come on, you old fool, free me from these shackles!" He shakes his restraints.

That's when I reveal the machete, and my men erupt in admiration.

"Where did you get that?" one of them asks as I release him from his shackles.

"I told them you'd return! I told them you'd set us free," another says, breaking free.

"The Rustle of Mars rises again," hums a man. The sight of me ignites a surge of powerful energy in the room.

"You look like you've been turned into a steak. I'd eat you for lunch," Poncho, my oldest friend, remarks.

"Well, I wouldn't come close to eating what you have to offer," I reply, embracing him despite the stinging sensation against my injured back.

"I knew the rumors weren't true, knew you couldn't have abandoned us to be with that Chiefess," says another one of my men, who now wields the machete and sets the remaining captives free.

I smile, contemplating the fact that others spoke of our connection. There truly was something between us, I muse.

"Those motherfucking Martians," he snorts. "Take that!" he spits, voicing his disdain for their planet. All of my men are Earthians, all outlaws who, like me, escaped from the Government's prison.

I observe the men before me—a fractured gang after the ordeals of the past three days—yet I can see that my presence reignites their passion for adventure, for freedom. That's all that matters. Pride wells up within me. What a splendid bunch of misfits we are; they're family.

I gather Poncho and Artos, both as loyal as an alcoholic is to his bottle. The two of them, along with Silver Ray, are the closest I'll ever get to paradise's gates. We devise an exit plan, and within moments, we're out of that tent.

Poncho and Artos will lead our troop to the white tent in the middle; they've heard that the Martians gather there to handle weapons. Wretched bastards.

While the gang sets off to retrieve our ammunition, curiosity beckons me. I know I shouldn't indulge it, but the need to defy authority always compels me when they dare venture into these Freedom Lands.

I find a spot with a vent between the main tent and the ground, and I crouch beneath it. Surprisingly, it's quiet. Too quiet.

For a moment, panic surges within me, doubting whether they are actually there. I swiftly turn back, searching for any signs of danger. The quarters where my men were kept have been emptied of Martians.

What is happening?

In the distance, I hear two men conversing. My blood boils. It's the Minister himself with his second-in-command. They were the ones responsible for my failed assault on the President, the reason I ended up in jail. I follow their voices along the outside of the tent, grateful for the Martians' cloth tents that allow sound to seep through.

"The testing can commence once we've relocated the cattle," the Minister says. I clench my teeth. Despite our differences with the Martians, we don't treat them as second-class citizens in their own land.

"Should we move them to the goods wagon?"

"No, the nuclear equipment needs to stay there. It's already too warm on this godforsaken planet, and it could trigger an eruption at any moment. It must remain in the train's air-conditioned compartment."

"Very well, then where should we place the cattle?"

"Leave them here; the Mutation Testing team should arrive before dawn."

Those despicable bastards. Nuclear equipment? Mutation testing? I don't need to hear more to understand their nefarious intentions. Bile rises in my throat.

Not my problem, my fresh injuries remind me.

Yet, they intend to turn the Martians and their land into a testing ground for their experiments. I had heard whispers of the Government acquiring more land, but this revelation still shocks me. And to choose the Freedom Lands for such a purpose, of all places. Rage consumes me.

In the distance, I hear a whistle—Poncho's whistle. They're ready. In no time, those cunning bastards managed to retrieve our belongings. I glance back and see Silver Ray, a glimmer of silver amidst the sea of red.

My heart yearns to join her, to be with my men, but my feet remain rooted to the ground. It feels like an eternity passes, and I am still there when I hear her voice again, "Do you drown yourself in your bottle to silence the guilt?" Her image overwhelms me—her dark eyes, delicate wrinkles, and commanding presence.

Fuck it. I can never resist her.

I whistle, attempting to mimic a vulture—the bird the government reintroduced after their final voyage to Earth. The Ministry doesn't know we're here, and it must remain that way.

I can envision my group of men freezing in place, contemplating my whistle. I can even hear Poncho swearing, "Not a fucking chance."

I whistle again, wondering if they too mistake it for a vulture. Eventually, I witness my rugged gang of bastards approaching the main tent.

Within minutes, despite their reluctant expressions, we assume our positions.

I raise my hand into a fist, and they all—albeit begrudgingly—follow suit. The gratitude I feel toward this bunch of bloody bastards knows no bounds. I am filled with pride for what we stand for, pride in who we are—no matter how rough and immoral we may be.

I take one finger out from my fist. 

Then two. 

And then three. 

A pandemonium erupts.

Artos was always our best shooter, within seconds he takes down four of the government officials. His self made serpent poison bullets kill the men in one devious swift. 

I find Dona, her mouth gagged by those imbeciles. How disgusted I feel to be of the same race as the Government. I free her hands first, then her feet and I see that amongst our people getting slaughtered she lets me be the one that removes the weathered cloth from her mouth. Her skin is soft, gentle despite her age. She comes closer to me and I breathe her in expectantly when my head is knocked violently to the side. I wince but before I can see the Earthian who did this Dona plunges her dagger into his chest. Blood spills out from him. 

Four more men charge at us, tearing us apart too soon. I hear my comrades detonate another explosive, and I pray for their safety. Yet, the thought of nuclear weapons paralyzes me. All this chaos near the train will spell doom for us all

I see Poncho involved in a fight with four other men. How it is that he can be such a good fights man with such a large belly is beyond me. One of the four officials drops unconscious from a blow to his skull. 

"Artos," I yell, "separate the train."

"What?" He looks at me as if I've lost my mind. Pillaging the train was likely what they believed this attack was for.

"It contains weapons, nuclear weapons." His face pales, and before I can say anything else, he disappears. I realize he won't be alone—many government officials have escaped to the train—but I won't allow them to get away, not today, not ever.

I glance at my comrades battling alongside the Martians against the remaining officials, and I know what needs to be done. I find Silver Ray, mount her saddle, and wince at the pain of my injuries. I'm ready to gallop when a voice stops me.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Donachita stands before me. I extend my arm, lifting her up, and together we gallop toward the volcano. With her machete, we tear open the beast's flank, crushing the land to quake. We ride, Silver Ray nearly stumbling on the bubbles of lava emerging from he ground. The lava creeps towards the train, which Artos has managed to separate.

Within minutes, the explosion rips through the air. 

Oh, sweet freedom. Oh sweet taste of redemption.

But I don’t even look back. I know my men are safe. Donachita clings to me, her fierce spirit radiating from every pore. The wind whips through our hair as we navigate the treacherous terrain, the ground shaking beneath us with each eruption from the volcano. We stand together, witnessing the birth of a new era. This, I tell myself, is the story of legends, the spirit of rebellion and the indomitable spirit of freedom. I continue to gallop, with Dona pressed against me, against the backdrop of the orange-hue sky.