His name was Death

In a society built on the ideals of man, who can truly say what is morally good, and what makes you a villain?

In our own minds, we are never truly evil; only operating in a way that seems correct to us, with what few standards are set for humanity.

In a world of storybook heroes and villains, who truly is to blame? The man aligned to his own sense of morality, or those who align themselves with the moralities of those in power?

Those pawns of power seem to detest people like me; rebellious people love me.

But what does that make me? A villain? A wild card?

I take a drag from the cigarette poised between gloved fingers, and exhale a halo of smoke.

Symbolic I would like to think; a reminder that death is an angel as well.

A trail of flames spans out in front of me, burning toward a lone building seemingly pushed off to the side of town. The rickety hotel erupts into flames and I flick my cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it into the dirt with the heel of my boot.

My coat whips around my frame as the wind picks up, feeding the already growing flames. The empty gasoline canister at my feet topples over in the gust and I lower the brim of my hat over my eyes as I turn away.

Fire consumes everything in this arid climate almost instantaneously. The wooden structures being bleached and dried up like old snake sheds helps.

A crack echoes through the otherwise still night and I hear the building shudder.

Styx knickers leaning his frame against me and I notice his flared nostrils and ears perked to attention. I steady him with a palm against his neck, and his muscles twitch in anticipation as I climb into the saddle.

Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as the blaze consumes the upper level of the hotel.

Any time now.

An explosion from the lower level rips the building apart and sends wooden shards through the air; the shockwave from the blast causes a wall of dust to sweep upward and barrel down on us.

I yank Styx away and spur him into a gallop, leading him through the alley between the Bank and General Store.

The wall of dust beats against the buildings surrounding us and drowns out the sound of Styx’s hooves thundering against the dry ground. Our attempt to outrun it is futile however and the force of the blast overtakes us in an instant; which causes it to blow my hat off and nearly knocks Styx off his feet.

Bricks shatter in the wall to my left, causing the Bank to shudder and sag. The movement breaks a wooden awning between the two buildings free and it plummets down toward us.

Styx leaps clear and the awning lands inches behind us, shattering into a pile of splintered wood.

The General Store creaks and leans slightly closer to us, but doesn’t topple over.

I pull back on the reins quickly once we escape the alleyway and Styx tosses his head in irritation.

The dust settles and I cough, lungs and eyes filled with gritty sand.

The explosion was bigger than anticipated.

Through the gap between the Bank and the General Store, I can see the smoldering remains of the hotel with flames dancing in the moonlight.

Styx prances anxiously and I notice groups of people leaving their homes, searching for the cause of the ruckus.

I suck in a breath and dust myself off, keeping my head low and trying not to draw attention to myself, though there isn’t really any need.

Almost everyone in this part of the country know me by now.

For better or worse reasons.

I catch the eye of a young girl across the street clutching my hat, and she hesitantly walks forward to offer it up to me with a sparkle in her eye.

She then runs back to her haggard mother, and clings to her shyly. Both she and her mother have long ebony braids that trail past their waist, just as I do.

With the reins in one hand, I turn Styx away and tip my hat to her with the other.

The girl’s dark eyes follow me, as she curiously points me out to her mother, an Osage woman, who steals a glance as I pass by. I could swear that a look of relief passes over her tired face.

I nod in her direction and spur Styx into a gallop, hoping to make it to the next town by morning.

Word has a funny way of traveling out here in the tribal lands, and I want to make it out before anyone hears of this this incident.

…

“Mama, who is that man?” The young girl asks, gripping her mother’s nightgown in fright. Yet a lurking itch of curiosity hides behind her question.

The stench of burning crude oil fills the air in suffocating clouds, followed by the smell of burnt hair and alcohol.

Her mother watches the man on a pale stallion as he rides off into the night, both adorned with silver conchos and thin, decorative chains.

The faint sound of a bell can be heard as they fade away.

Her mother replies in a hushed tone, the other people in the town already whispering amongst themselves.

“His name dear one… is Death.”

…

My father was a failing English businessman who found solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle; drowning his sorrows after my mother, a beautiful Osage woman was brutally murdered. Her killers never found.

I was only a child when I realized that the Osage people were born of luck and misery; their lives marred by blood and money.

After crude oil was discovered on tribal land, the Osage quickly became the richest people this side of the Mississippi River; however their joy was short lived. And like many times before in their history, the Osage were forced to make way for a wave of black-hearted Englishmen donning suits and smelling of death.

These men brought hell on earth to my people. And I intend to make them suffer the same grueling fate that we have.

…

Bells toll in a distant cathedral, and the light of a rising sun warms my back as we enter the town of Pawhuska. My legs have gotten stiff after our nightlong journey, and sweat trails down Styx’s hide.

This town has changed a lot since the last time I saw it; fewer places to tie up a horse, and powerlines that cross overhead like barbed-wire fencing.

I find the Mason Hotel and dismount, tying Styx to an electrical pole near the front entry. And after securing his feed bag, I loosen his girth strap.

“This won’t take long.” I whisper and pat his neck.

The front lobby is overlooked by lofted windows and lit by twin chandeliers twinkling like sunrays. A mahogany reception desk sits on the far side of the lobby, followed by a bar area to its right.

An audible silence falls over the room of early morning patrons as I make my way across the lobby, spur bells jingling and echoing through the vast space.

“How may I help you s-sir?” A young blue-eyed boy asks, glancing from my face to the gun strapped to my waist as I lean against the reception desk.

He looks to be about 10 years old, with fading bruises nearly covered by the sleeves of his button up.

“I’d like a drink for me and my horse if you don’t mind,” I reply, looking past him toward an aged man watching from the bar area, “And I’d like to have a word with your boss.”

…

With a kick to the chest, the older man stumbles and falls backwards against his ornately carved desk.

I walk closer, spurs jingling and stand over his fallen body.

“I’ll only ask this once more… where is the auction going to be held, and when?”

The man wheezes and coughs, “You’ll burn in hell for this.”

I place my boot on his heaving chest just above his heart and lean down, shot glass in hand.

“Tell me, would it be worse than this? My mother was slaughtered before my eyes, and I watched my father drink himself to an early grave. All so men like you could live a life of luxury, pockets lined with the money stolen from my people.”

The man coughs and I lean back, relieving him of the weight.

“Now, answer the question: Where is the auction to be held?” I demand, and tip my glass back. The whiskey burns over my tongue and lights a fire in my chest.

“You could have asked anyone! Everyone knows it’s being held at the old church at Noon! Why choose me?” The man sputter pathetically and I set the glass down onto his desk.

“Because I thought you’d like to know that your shipment of oil won’t be coming in today.”

I see the man’s glassy eyes widen in horror, “You…”

“I suppose it will be common knowledge in a day or two, but that won’t be very useful to you, now will it?”

My boot presses down on his chest again, and I pull back the hammer on my revolver, “If the devil asks… just tell him I sent you.”

I find the young blue-eyed boy outside tightening Styx’s girth strap, a bowl of water on the sidewalk behind him.

“Thanks kid.”

The boy pauses and studies my soiled boots then looks up at me.

“Are you going to stop them from taking more land?” His voice is quiet but even.

I nod, “I plan to.” Then reaching into my pocket, I pull out a wad of cash and toss it to him.

His gaze flicks to mine and his hand clenches around the money in a fist “Those men, they killed… my sister, and her husband.”

I nod somberly, “I understand.”

The boy pats Styx and scurries off, glancing at us a few times over his shoulder.

I untie Styx and step into the stirrup, noticing that the blood spattered across the top of my boot is already crusting over.

“Let’s finish this, shall we?”

I see women and children peeking out of windows, and retreating behind lace curtains to exchange hushed words.

I pray to God that none of those businessmen are their husbands or fathers.

The church is an old wooden building, long abandoned and forgotten. Most of the stained glass is missing in the narrow windows, and the doors lean crooked on their hinges.

What once was a place of worship, now a place of business it seems.

I click my tongue at the thought and dismount Styx, leaving him to graze in a nearby field.

The sun is now high in the sky, as I make my way toward the back door of the church.

From my earlier visit, I remember that the back door leads to a room where all the instruments used to be held for the Sunday choir. And this room has a door that opens onto the stage where the auctioneer will be standing. Perfect.

I pull my hat off and pry the back door open as quietly as possible, the odor of gasoline and crude oil reaching my nose the second I enter the room.

Gallons of both oil and gasoline had been stashed away in the sanctuary most likely the night before, and seemingly awaited the next shipment. However it wouldn’t be arriving today.

I hear the auctioneer prattle off prices and bids, while the floor beneath my feet bows and creaks as I shuffle toward the stage door.

The room is dimly lit only by the slightly open door behind me, and the light filtering under the door ahead of me.

“Sold to the gentleman in the tweed vest.” The auctioneer booms and I click my tongue again.

Pushing the door open, I step out onto stage and my arrival causes a variety of reactions.

So, my reputation precedes me.

I chuckle bitterly, “It seems to me that you men didn’t pay much attention in Sunday School…” I walk closer to the pulpit and the auctioneer backs away quickly.

I set my hat down and continue, “Something very similar to this happened in the book of Matthew I believe: Jesus cleansing the temple.”

The businessmen in the front row of pews stand and pull out their guns, their hands trembling.

“What is the meaning of this?” They demand indignantly and glance at one another.

Terrified whispers echo through the room, and I look out over the crowd somberly.

“I came to bring you the news that your boss won’t be joining you today. He’s dead, along with all the other men that were bringing in your next shipment of oil.”

A jolt of fear passes through the crowd followed by a few indignant yells.

“Now, now, settle down. It’s nothing to lose your head over, unless you’d rather have it that way. No, I came to offer you a deal.”

I yank a cigarette tin from my coat pocket and pull one free.

“Those deeds that you have to Osage land… I want them.” I place the cigarette in my mouth and find my lighter, “This building could burst into flames any minute now, so I suggest you hurry.”

The men glance at each other uncertainly.

“Why would we believe a threat from a fabled Osage boy? How do we know you’re not just trying to swindle us out of our land?” One asks and I notice a few men retreat toward the double doors at the front of the church.

“Would you like to test it?” I ask, tapping the cigarette against the podium so that the ashes flutter to the ground at their feet. They tense and step backwards, knowing that the barrels of oil have leaked over the floor leaving puddles across the sanctuary.

“We’re locked in!” The men at the back yell and panic floods the room.

Men shove their way toward the door while others try to squeeze through the narrow windows.

“Do you believe me now?” I ask lowly.

“Let us out of here this instant! Do you have any idea who we are?” One steely eyed man asks voice rising above the commotion, yet terror flickers over his face.

“Oh yes, I know full well who you are: ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you made it a den of thieves’.” I step away from the podium and pull my revolver from its holster, “But I would like to remind you who I am.”

One of the men draws his gun and I fire a round through his heart before he can even aim. His body thuds to the floor and the noise echoes through the room.

“I’d hate to have to do that again, so let’s not waste any more time. Now, who would like to go first? I’m the only way out of this, that much you’ve figured out. So, if you don’t want to meet your Maker just yet, I suggest you hand over the deeds to the land you stole.”

One by one they begrudgingly lay the deeds on the stage at my feet, and someone retrieves the one from the fallen body.

After picking them all up and stuffing them into my vest pocket, I take one last drag from my cigarette and straighten.

“Well, let us out. We don’t have all day.” One of the men notes sourly.

I exhale a puff of smoke and chuckle, “I apologize gentlemen, but I haven’t cleansed the temple yet.”

I flick my cigarette at their feet and the floor bursts into flames, promptly setting their pantlegs on fire.

They scream and leap away from the spreading flames, only to set the pews on fire as well.

I grab my hat and back towards the stage door, catching their eye and they draw their guns once more. Shots ring out and one whizzes by my ear while another grazes my shoulder.

A group rushes to the stage, and I turn and run.

I shoulder the outside door just as they file into the instrument room, and a bullet embeds itself into my thigh.

The burning pain causes me to yelp and stumble through open door while the group of men run toward their only escape.

A thick metal rod falls into place once I shut the door completely, barring them inside.

Flames lick at the roof and smoke billows out from underneath the door, causing a barrage of coughs and curses.

I back away from the smoldering building and limp toward the field I left Styx in, knowing that at any second-

An explosion tears through the building and the force of it throws me off my feet. I land in a heap at the foot of a nearby elm tree, and lay gasping for breath.

Glancing up through the cascade of singed hair that’s come loose from my braid, I watch the church collapse.

I heave myself up despite the pain and make my way toward the field, managing to find Styx and climb into the saddle. The acrid smell of blood and singed hair filling my nose.

The church bell is the last thing I see as we turn and head for the outskirts of town; a miniature replica of it that my mother gave me still hangs from my saddle horn. A warning.

It is said that a villain feels no remorse for the sins he’s committed.

Yet I am only human; and I cannot help but feel weighed by the destruction I’ve caused, even in the service of others.

I am neither a hero, or a villain.

I am justice.

Because there is not a man on earth who can outrun Death.