“The Spaniard” is a serialized novella.
Synopsis:
A lone gaucho traverses a barren landscape in a 1930s era alternate world, chasing a shade that took what he loved most from him. Joining him is the mysterious Gunslinger, a woman he has met only in dreams, and a trickster spirit, who may or may not have an agenda of his own.
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This week’s episode:
Our hero, the man with no name, is now the hunted, chasing down work, a phantom woman, and still hunting the man, or thing, that took his family.
“Move human,” came a distinct growl. The Spaniard was instantly awake, aware of Coyote’s tense voice and insistent nudging. Napoleon was trembling, eager to be moving. The Spaniard pilled out both his guns and stood on his feet, on edge and ready. The rising sun was just breaking over the horizon. “Get going,” Coyote growled. “It’s almost here.”
The Spaniard did not need to ask what, and so he turned to Coyote and tipped his hat. Coyote blinked slowly and nodded back, pawing the ground impatiently. The Spaniard mounted Napoleon and flicked the reigns, digging his spurs in the horse’s hindquarters. He didn’t need to tell the horse twice. Napoleon took off, headed directly for the sun. In the darkness behind him where he had left Coyote, he heard an almighty roar and the call of an angry animal. The Spaniard was no coward, but Coyote was an old and powerful spirit. He could take care of himself.
Westward they rode, stopping for nothing. A heavy fear had settled on the man’s heart, for he could feel the darkness was approaching quickly from behind. Though the sun deterred it, if he stopped, it would catch up and overtake him and Napoleon. So he did not stop and drove the horse faster. They both felt the urgency of their predicament, and though Napoleon was exhausted, he continued to run, fueled by the hope that soon they would be in the town of Lobos.
The Spaniard and Napoleon arrived at Lobos in good time. They had slowed their pace to a trot, and Napoleon was almost dead from exhaustion, mouth foaming, but he remained upright and trod into town, ready to become part of the earth. The Spaniard urged him on, gently caressing the horse’s neck, murmuring soothing words of comfort. Napoleon whinnied weakly and trotted past a water trough. The water shimmered under the sunlight, a million diamonds covering its surface.
The town of Lobos was actively busy, women rushing to and from one store to another, men dragging stubborn horses to the road having fulfilled their business obligation. The Spaniard took little notice of the people, who looked as dusty and weathered as the Spaniard himself felt. He quickly spotted a hotel and pressed Napoleon forward. Stepping with half-hearted interest, Napoleon took him to the wooden walkway. He began to sag under his owner’s weight. The Spaniard dismounted and patted Napoleon’s nose, flies jumping up and down over the cold flesh. Not surprisingly, Napoleon proceeded to kneel into a heap and lay there, breathing slowly.
“Hey mister, I think your horse is broken,” piped a little blond boy leaning against a support post. He chewed a piece of tobacco, spitting expertly a few feet from himself.
Not really in the mood, the Spaniard faked a smile for the boy and replied, “He’ll be fixed soon. Good as new.”
“I don’t think so. That horse looks right dead.”
Shaking his head, the Spaniard left the boy standing there and headed into the cheap little hotel. He could have gone to the hotel with the saloon across the street, but he didn’t want to draw attention from the rough men who frequented those places.
The cool air of the place was only afforded by the shade it provided. There were no whores here in this hotel; it wasn’t disreputable for that kind of business. The sound his spurs made against the dusty wood echoed forlornly against the red wallpapered walls. A grizzled man with part of his nose missing stood behind the bar. A dirty dishtowel lie beside his gnarled fingers.
“Morning,” said a gruff voice. It came from the mass of gray bush surrounding the lower portion of the man’s face.
The Spaniard nodded his head. “I need a room,” he returned. “I also need some place to put up my horse.”
The old man jerked his thumb behind him. “We got lots of open stalls. Seems men prefer some place where they can spend their money on more earthly pleasures.” The old man jerked his partial nose in the direction of the other more prosperous and busier hotel.
“I see.” The Spaniard laid a few pieces of money on the table. “How many days will that get me?”
“Three.”
“Then how many for seven?”
The old man did some calculations in his head. He wasn’t about to stiff a man with a gun the size of what the Spaniard was carrying. Besides, he could tell this one was special. He wouldn’t have come to this decrepit old shack if he’d wanted excitement. Company was one thing that the Spaniard could get anywhere, with his looks. But if all a man wanted was an honest, unbroken night’s sleep, this place was better than anywhere else in town.
“Gimme four more, and we’ll call it even.”
The Spaniard put several more pieces on the bar. “And what about food and water for my horse?”
“The boy’ll take care of him out back. At the end of your stay, I’ll give you the bill. You here for work in the mine or something?”
“Or something,” he replied, and turning with a smile, headed back out to Napoleon.
The little boy from before was kneeling before the horse, waving a cup of water in front of Napoleon’s nose.
“Come on horsey, drink. You’ll get better, I promise.” The boy was stroking Napoleon’s nose gently, smiling toothily at the exhausted creature. Napoleon rolled his eyes at the Spaniard. “Get this kid away from me!” he seemed to plead.
The child, no more than eight, looked up at the Spaniard and plainly said, without guile, “I tried to make him better mister, but he don’t want no water.”
The Spaniard smiled genuinely at the boy’s innocent intentions.
“Do you think he’ll make it doctor?”
“I think so, but you better get him away from the sun. It ain’t safe for a wore-out horse like him.”
“Well thank-you Doc. Here’s a little money for your troubles.” The Spaniard handed the boy a coin, who took it in astonishment. He bit the piece to check its authenticity. He stared at it in wide-eyed awe, as though he had never received money in his life. The Spaniard suspected the boy hadn’t.
“Thanks,” was all he could muster and he jumped up and hugged the worn man, quickly leaping away with the coin. He took off down the wooden walkway, his little blond head bobbing as he left. Still surprised by the hug, the Spaniard shook his head and took Napoleon’s reigns.
“Let’s go treat you like a real horse.” Getting up with effort, Napoleon followed the Spaniard to a back alley and dusty courtyard. There, they found a set of stables and the barkeep's stable boy, who was instructed to take better care of Napoleon than any person the boy had ever known. With settled, the Spaniard went into the hotel and up to his room to sleep. He shut his door quietly and threw down his hat on the empty, battered rocking chair at the open window. The curtains stirred as a cool wind infiltrated the room, bringing with it the smell of heat and dust. The Spaniard sneezed and walked to the bed. For once, the sheets were not yellowed and did not smell of urine and bile. The washing must have been done recently. The Spaniard dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.
As he laid his face into the pillow, he felt the emptiness that had been his life flow over and through him. He missed her, her smell, her smile. He thought of the boy. It was unbearable to think of the loss, after all that had happened. He let blessed sleep claim him and was consumed by oblivion.
In the dream, for it had begun the moment he’d fallen asleep, the Spaniard saw the woman. She appeared more woman than girl now, for she seemed mature in a way that she had not been in previous dreams. They were standing on the plateau where he and Coyote had dreamed the night before.
“Hello,” he began, approaching from behind. “I didn’t see you last night.”
“I was not dreaming last night. I was busy elsewhere.”
“Doing what?” he asked. There was tone of polite curiosity in his voice. She never faced him directly in the dreams, but now she did.
“Are you real?”
The Spaniard remained silent at the question. It was so strange to hear it coming from her. Normally that was his line as he turned his thoughts over and over.
“Very.”
“I dream of you often.”
“Do you? It is I who dreams of you. You are merely a dream as far as I know. If you are real, someone I could find in the waking world—” his voice rose with excitement.
“Stop looking for me. Go back where you came from,” she interjected. Her response was sharp, cutting. She was impatient and hostile. “Get out of my head. I don’t want to see you anymore.” She turned from him now and stood on the edge of the butte.
“No, don’t!” he cried, reaching, afraid she would topple over the edge into the cloud bank.
Her hair stirred, whipping violently about her shoulders in the angry wind that had risen swiftly.
“Why do you torment me? Why do you appear?” she spoke in soft, passionate tones. Silently, the Spaniard came to stand next to the woman. He did not look at her face but glanced at her in his peripherals.
“I’ve never meant to cause you pain. I only want to be with you, as I am now.”
“Then maybe you should wake up,” she replied solemnly.
Without surprise, the Spaniard did. He turned, shifting uncomfortably in the bed, his head toward the window. The sunlight had not changed. He’d only been asleep a half an hour. He felt even more tired than before his nap. Painfully, he rolled over and stood up. The Spaniard hadn’t taken his guns off when he’d lain down and consequently, had lain on them. His hip was tender to the touch. Grunting, he readjusted his holsters and placed his hat with firm confidence on his head. A solid drink was in order.
The bar across the street was a shady little establishment. Faded white paint peeled off the shutters and window frame, lending an air of decrepit former glory to the saloon’s gloomy atmosphere. But whatever mood it suggested outside its doors was as opposite as black was to white. The Spaniard stepped through the swinging doors, bullet holes carved into its frame; he surveyed for a place to sit down.
The whores lined the walls and poker tables full of stinking men, who’d not left the green felt since the evening before, eyeing him with a mixture of hesitant suspicion; the whores with appreciative lust, for before them stood a specimen than ranked higher in attractiveness than all the men in the bar combined. The whores had to stop themselves from staring. But the Spaniard had no interest in whores or women of any kind. He left the doorway and headed to the bar ignoring the people he passed by. As he had walked past the stained and pungent smelling poker tables, the Spaniard had gotten the distinct impression he was being observed with a fierce concentration. But the watcher wasn’t one of these gambling fools; certainly yes, they were watching him too. It was intense, highly focused, and therein retained was something uncannily familiar about the way this person looked at him. The Spaniard briefly scanned the room, but all he saw was a sea of hats, some larger and dustier than others. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know who it was observing him so intently.
Sitting down, the barkeep sauntered over to the Spaniard, one scraggly gray eyebrow cocked. “What’ll it be cowboy?”
“Not a cowboy.”
“Rancher? Gunfigher? Shadowslayer?” the old barkeep said. The suggestive tone of his voice caught the Spaniard off guard and he eyed the barkeep decisively. The barkeep leaned in close to the Spaniard and whispered, “Those dark fellows have been staring at you since the moment you walked in. If you’d like to live long enough to see tomorrow, I suggest you high tail it out of Lobos.”
“The advice is appreciated, but I need the money from the mines more than I fear a few shadows.”
The barkeep shrugged, but his eyes still acknowledged that he thought the Spaniard was making a mistake.
“Whiskey?”
“Rum, if you have any.”
“Got plenty of that.” The barkeep rummaged under the bar and pulled out an aged bottle. The glass was blue, still as brilliant as the day it had been packaged and shipped. The amber liquid flowed smoothly into the glass. The rum’s smell wafted over the countertop and invaded the Spaniard’s nose.
“Smell’s great.”
“Some of my finest stock. Grown and distilled right out of Barelia.”
The Spaniard set down a coin and the barkeep took it and himself to the opposite end of the counter. As the Spaniard brought the glass to his lips, he heard a commotion take place behind him. Casually, he turned on the stool to watch what was stirring trouble.
Near the doors stood two men who had recently stood up from their poker game and were accosting one of the other players. The bigger of the two men, who had a nasty black scar running from his eye to his jaw line, knocked the hat off the third player at the table.
The Spaniard gripped the glass hard. The player whose hat now lay on the ground pulled out a gun and spoke quietly to the other two men. Scarface spat on the spread of cards and drew his own gun. A shot rang out in the bar, piercing the steady buzz of the saloon. All grew still and quiet. The barkeep stepped from around the bar, a smoking shotgun held firmly in his hands, the barrel’s smoke curling through the yellow air.
“None of that in my bar. You wanna fight, you take it outside,” he barked with barred teeth.
The two ruffians exchanged glances and grabbed the Gunfighter. The Gunfighter put up a struggle but could not resist the two men that dragged her outside. The Spaniard followed, shoving other patrons out of the way in his rush to get to the Gunfighter. Bursting through the swinging doors, he nearly tumbled to the ground. Outside in the street the thugs and the Gunfighter faced off. The ugly brutes sneered, confident that this young thing could never beat them in a gunfight.
“Ladies first,” drawled Scarface, his sneer revealing a blackened set of rotted teeth. When the Gunfighter did not move, the scarred thug spat at the ground and shouted, “Draw bitch.”
The Spaniard watched, feeling terror immobilize him as the Gunfighter drew her weapon and shot both men. She was so quick, the Spaniard hadn’t been able to blink in the time she released both shots and holstered her guns. Both men hit the ground at roughly the same time, motionless in the dirt. As the Spaniard started to regain himself, the Gunfighter turned and walked from the scene. In that moment, he saw the second of the two men, the tall silent fellow, sit up and cock his pistol. Catching a glimpse of the man’s eyes, the Spaniard drew his own gun and the shot rang out.
The Gunfighter stopped and turned. She looked from the now truly dead thug to the Spaniard. Her eyes burned fiery with recognition, and disbelief. She walked to him and stopped several feet in front of him, scrutinizing every inch she could see with her eyes. The Spaniard released the breath he had been holding and said to the woman, “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”
The Gunfighter merely nodded and stepped onto the wooden platform with the Spaniard. Her spurs scraped the wood as it creaked under her weight. She walked past the astonished faces that populated Lobos and headed into the bar. She led him to the farthest corner of the saloon, but not before she retrieved her hat, dusting it off with a little flourish. It had remained untouched since the saloon’s patrons had left the building. Eyeing her with surprise, the Spaniard pulled out his chair and sat down cautiously. They sat together in silence, observing the other until the saloon filled up again and returned to its usual cacophony.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in wonder. “You’re merely a dream. At least, I thought you were.”
For the first time in many months, the Spaniard smiled a true smile and looked at the Gunfighter with great intensity. Same eyes, same beautiful flaxen hair, same lovely, fair skin. And although he knew without doubt that she was the woman in his dreams that relieved his suffering, she was not the same, not entirely as she was in the dreamlands.
The Gunfighter was young, younger than him by a decent amount of years. She was tired and had the wise eyes of an old soul who had seen much in her life, a fine sprinkling of faint lines creased at her eyes and around her mouth. There was an aged, almost timeless look about her and a weariness the Spaniard knew well.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I am no dream. I can be a nightmare to my enemies.” He took a sip of his rum.
“I hope I’m not one.” The barest glimpse of a smile.
“No, I don’t believe you are, but if I may ask, who are you?”
“I am the Gunfighter.” She explained no further as she drank deeply from her glass, studying him in turn. “I could ask you the same question.”
“You could, but I’d be inclined to answer just as cryptically as you just did.”
“Touché. But why’ve I been seeing you in my dreams?” She shook her head. It was rhetorical.
He answered anyway. “That I do not know. If I could, I would tell you. Honestly, I hoped maybe you knew.”
From the street came the sound of heavy hooves and the surprised cries of women and men alike. The sound pounded up through the floorboards, rattling the glass in the windowpanes. Fierce and low, both the Spaniard and the Gunfighter turned their heads in the direction of the street. A feeling of dread filled the Spaniard’s belly. Without seeing, he knew with absolute certainty what had arrived in town.
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Rachael Varca is a writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, short stories, and home of the serialized novel, Heart of Stone. To see which books she’s working on for Commonplace Thoughts, visit her at Bookshop.org.
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