The Spaniard, Ep. 3
A dark fantasy Western
“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:
The Spaniard is given a tempting proposal. Before the duel, he and the Gunfighter take a moment’s reprieve to regroup and properly introduce themselves.
From outside, a horse began to whinny in fear, stomping and pawing at the compacted dust of the ground; the sound was soon followed by the steps of silver spurs scraping against the wooden planks with each step, slamming with power and might. This time the sound in the saloon did not die off as it had before.
“You and I may have to leave in a few moments.” His hand instinctively went to his gun; he drew in his breath sharply.
In the doorway appeared a shadow, black and indistinguishable from the distance. The Spaniard remained still, refusing to blink, watching with clear certainty of the thing’s intent.
“I take it something is going to go down?”
The Spaniard nodded.
“All right then. But I don’t think he’s here for you.”
For the briefest moment, the Spaniard narrowed his eyes and glanced at the Gunfighter. Her lips were a thin line, her face tense.
“He’s not here for you. Coyote was sure he—”
The shadow stepped through the door, its weighted iron boots unable to rival the din of the cowboy’s laughter and drunk melodies, but the Gunfighter and the Spaniard could feel the vibrations of its steps. If he had come for an audience, he’d arrived in the wrong bad. Turning his head this way and that, he surveyed the crowd until his gaze landed on the Spaniard. The smile the Spaniard saw was little more than barred fangs. There was no mirth or goodness in that terrible leer. With steady, confident steps, he moved toward the Spaniard smoothly, never breaking eye contact. Neither party moved at the table.
“Hello there ma’m. Mighty nice day outside.”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“Do you mind if I have a few words with your husband here.”
"You are welcome to say whatever you like, though he isn’t my husband.”
“Ah. Even so ma’m, that wasn’t an invitation to stay.”
“I haven’t any intention of leaving him alone here with you. Say what you must.”
The Spaniard observed the eloquent cool of her voice. The shadow merely watched her with the barest flicker of irritation for a moment before pulling up a chair across from both of them. The expression on his face was utterly unreadable, for the features were rough, as though hastily formed and without thought to the consideration of the ability to show emotions; the face was totally inhuman, a mimic only good enough if you weren’t paying attention.
Turning to the Spaniard, it said, “I’m here for you. I’ve tracked you for miles and I come offering you a lucrative deal. If you take it, you’ll be set for life, for eternity, never have to ever worry about being hunted or wanted, or left wanting, again.”
“Well that does sound wonderful. What’s this deal entail?” The Spaniard set his gun on the table, carefully pointed at the shade, his fingers resting on the grip.
“Pretty simple.” The thing leaned in with its shark smile, its breath softly stinking of wet rot. It didn't look at the gun. “Work for us, fight on our side, follow Zalmon, and you’re set.”
There was a carefully timed pause, followed by, “What would I be doing for you?”
“Whatever is asked of you. My lord’s work. Nothing too strenuous of course. Just a little corruption of souls, running people like her out. We can promise you the acquisition of a new ’27 Hartley Touring car, a stabled manor house, complete with glass windows, a larder and parlor for entertaining. Power to impel and convince, wealth—more wealth than you ever saw on that bleak little homestead of yours, your choice of beautiful distractions—” it glanced at the Gunfighter, then returned its attention to the Spaniard. “The power is especially wonderful; you can do what you want with it, whatever you want: build, create, destroy, even resurrect the dead.” That smile that was not a smile tugged painfully across the mish-mashed face.
Silently the Spaniard pondered the thing’s words. Yes they were tempting him. Yes, they were offering him something seductive. To bring back the dead, he could have Imelda back, their son … hold her in his arms …
“What you offer is…tempting. And I’d like to accept, but honestly, it’s not for me. The conscience thing gets in the way of that. I have no desire to corrupt or control innocent people. They can do that on their own without any help from you or me.”
It scoffed, a sound like wind blowing over dry stalks. “Don’t be so quick to say no. I’ll give you a time limit. You’ve got till sundown to decide. Think of this as your get-out-of-jail-free pass. You took the life of one of my best agents. I’m giving you the chance to replace him, or pay for his death.” It shrugged, but the gesture was forced. The Spaniard heard the creak of old, dead joints. It wore whomever this man had been like a costume, and an ill-treated one at that.
“I’ll be waiting for you at town hall, on the steps. I’ll expect a more favorable answer at that time. If you refuse me again,” and here the shade paused to lift its hand and form it into the shape of a gun, imitating the sound of a gunshot. It smiled, though the Spaniard found himself comparing its smile to that of a wolf. Yellow chipped bone glinted with saliva from the rotted, graying gums. The Gunfighter wrinkled her nose at the rank stench that floated from its mouth.
“Sundown.” Before either could blink, the shadow faded in the same way smoke dissipates into the air; the last to disappear was its eyes, piercing and dark. It left behind a lingering smell of putrid decay.
The Gunfighter turned to the Spaniard and said distantly, “You were right, he was here for you.”
“You were right too. Something really bad is about to go down. Don’t stick around if you want to see the tomorrow’s morn.”
“Oh, I’ll survive. It’s you I’m not so sure of.” She flashed a wry smile and signaled a bar maid to get her a drink. Once the order was taken and filled, the Gunfighter took a long swig.
“My name is Gabriella,” she said quietly. “I figure if we’ve been seeing each other for a while, we could get the formalities out of the way.”
"Julian Rojas,” the Spaniard replied. “You don’t look like a Gabriella."
“The name Julian is more fitting a rich noble than some gaucho like yourself.”
“My mother had a romantic streak when it came to naming her children.”
She was silent, unsure what to say next to him.
The Spaniard drained the rest of his glass and watched the girl. “It really isn’t safe for us to talk here.”
“Fine. Let’s go then.”
The two rose out of their seats in unison and paid special attention to anyone watching them. No secret knowledge caused his spine to shiver and so he led the Gunfighter back to his room across the dusty street. Passerby thought nothing of the two, who merely looked as they did, a man and a woman fresh from the road looking for a place to lay down together, though that was not what either had in mind.
When the door was safely locked and the place scoured for spies, the Spaniard laid down his gun and sat on the bed, running his fingers through his dark hair. The Gunfighter could see the light streaks of white and gray beginning to form at the temples, little patches of white appearing in his stubble. She took the stained green brocade chair in the opposite corner, staring out the dusty window.
The silence in the room was matched only by the heat of the sun pouring through the glass panes. A few hours waited between them and their next meeting with the shade. The Spaniard pierced her with his steady gaze, but she refused to meet his eyes, watching the scene below with feigned interest.
He finally broke their voluntary silence. “Gabriella, why you are here? It can’t be just chance. There's other things at work.” It felt good to know her name, place a defining word to her. Hell, it felt fantastic just to feel the 'g' form in his lips and the 'l's roll off his tongue.
She rubbed at her eyes and continued watching the townsfolk scurry back and forth like busy ants. “I’ve been following shadows all the way from Meridian Falls. Their leader, the one who pulls all the strings and orchestrates the fates he wants under his control, is supposed to be here, if not here, then…I don’t know. But I know I’m supposed to be here to fight them.”
“Have you been doing this, hunting, long?”
“Since I was sixteen. My mother gave me her hope chest, filled with her guns. My father said it was preordained – he had a vision as a boy – I’m supposed to fight them.”
“You could choose not to.”
“I lost my choice when they offered to bring my parents back, and my husband, after Zalmon had them murdered. He does that with all those who possess the capability of becoming other. That way, once you trade yourself for something you want back, he has you, forever. There’s no breaking it.”
“So that’s why.”
“Why what?”
“He killed my wife.”
“Zalmon just likes taking women. He took my sister Ester before he tried to take me.”
“And you resisted?”
“Obviously, since I’m sitting here. I shot the fingers of his right hand off. It’s likely why he has a bounty out for me.” Her smile was disarming, but the sadness that lay under it spoke of more than their brief conversation.
The Spaniard chuckled. Before he wouldn’t have thought her capable of it; seeing her in the flesh proved her to be a real example of how dreams fool you.
“You’re not what I anticipated.”
“Neither are you. You’re much younger in my dreams. How old are you?”
“Thirty. You?”
“You’re lying. I can tell by the twitch near your eye.”
“Thirty-four.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ha. You’re older than I thought.:
“I know. I look like a good bit younger.”
Pausing, he stared at his hands, backs tanned brown, lean, hardened, and tough. I feel old, weary, he thought.
“Why are you so easy with me?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Because I know you. You’re someone that I can trust. You would never betray me.”
Standing suddenly, he drew his gun, aiming for her heart. “Can you be so sure now?” his voice was a steel edged blade and his brown eyes were iron.
Without fear, the gun shaking ever so slightly in his hands, she faced him as she stood, came to him and let the muzzle of the gun sit just under her collar bone, breathing steadily.
“You won’t shoot me. I know I would be dead at this moment if you had so chosen it.” The words were eloquent, her speech losing the slight drawl, briefly illuminating what he assumed was her good background. Her soft fingers curled around the gun. The Gunfighter held his gaze as she slid her fingers to his, loosening them from their iron grip on the crosshatched handle. Pulling it free, she tossed the gun on the end of the bed, holding his hand in her own.
“You don’t kill the innocent or the just. In my dreams, you’re not tired, lined, or dusty from the road. You’re looking at me now, like you always have before.”
“Before, if I’d met you on any other day than today, I would have laughed and just scowled. I wouldn’t have believed you.”
“But you do now?”
“Before I thought you were just a dream.”
The Spaniard stepped closer and pulled her to him, but he did not crush her against him. Gently, her caressed her hair and studied the lines just curving around her mouth, the blue eyes pale and watery, with flecks of gold. Inside his chest, he felt his heart swell, his blood pressure rising. Imelda’s face flashed in his mind, and his breath caught as the rest of him tensed.
He would have made love to her, taking her into the uncomfortable spring mattress and caressing her before consummating a desire he didn’t want to think about, that had been building in him for these past four months. The Gunfighter saw the hesitation, pulled back from him, suspecting what was tearing at him internally; the desire had been pent up in her too. There was a pregnant pause as she started to speak, but quickly zipped her lips shut.
“We can’t do this,” he said, watching her. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
She nodded, and stepped back toward the wall, and rambled a little. “For many reasons. We’d be too vulnerable; they might be inclined to act early. We’d be caught off guard. But most of all … you’re not ready. And I … can’t. I … it’s not about my husband. It’s … it’s something else.”
It made sense to him; without explanation, he felt the same way.
They found themselves laying in the bed together later, holding one another, in the cool of the room, in the hours of the afternoon before battle. The contours of her body pressed into him, two pieces of a jigsaw that suddenly fit when before there were only raw edges. She rested in him and the rise and fall of his breathing.
There was a calm that settled, much as the kind found in the center of a hurricane. They could feel the rising pressure, the mounting tension pressing in around them. Yet they remained largely untouched by it. This would not be the first time they felt the eye hovering over, providing a temporary peace of sorts that gave a mild stability. It would not be the last, either.
His tension would rise, coiling a hard knot in his lungs, only for the Gunfighter to place her hand on his chest and press gently, the anxiety dissipating. The anticipation of the battle had been swirling in the Spaniard’s belly. He wanted this, yet dreaded its arrival.
Outside, the storm that was quietly yet forcefully coloring the horizon spread over the land, shaking the ground with its impetuous, thundering laughter. It unfurled in rolling puffs, billowing outward in coils and tendrils. Antelope and pronghorn raised their heads to taste the air and shuddered at the scent, while rabbits and other small mammals took one look at the sky and dove into their burrows to wait it out. Spiders of impressive size that ruled their desert kingdoms withdrew into their underground nests, mandibles working back and forth to clear the dust blowing in. The residents of Lobos felt the low rumbling of the storm. They shook inside as their hearts began to pound in the anticipation of the impending battle. Hidden, down into the most private unknown parts of their souls, the men and women of Lobos sported the fear the shadows instilled in all sane, normal creatures.
Children took shelter in their beds against the nameless dread, clinging desperately to the stuffed bears and dolls they used for comfort when, like in previous times, the nightmares of adults became real, though they could not have told you why they shook. They saw nothing to cause their consternation besides the clouds. Lobos had never experienced such an attack as the one descending now. Above them, the sky became a sick black and green, the clouds writhing in such a ferocious tantrum that the very earth began to weep – the cricks, in challenge to the sky, frothed themselves into a frenzy, a cacophonous roar of rabid water flowing and flooding over the dry banks and beds. So was to be the fate of the world. In living memory in later years, townsfolk struggled to accurately describe the anger that nature expressed in those short few hours. Years after, when the battle was done, the folk of Lobos looked upon that day and feared nature’s retaliation for the evil committed upon its ground. But the time was not right. This was only a tantrum. They hadn’t yet seen the reckoning that came much later.
Slowly rising from the bed, the iron dowels casting spidery shadows on the wall, the Spaniard stared out the window and saw the black clouds, purple lightning spiking in forked paths against the distant Los Nieves mountains. He wondered if the clouds intended to break the sky. In reply, the earth rumbled.
“Sure likes to put on a show, this Zalmon.”
“Only when he’s sure he’ll win. But this isn’t him. This is that shade’s doing. If it were him, you would know. It would feel…different.”
“How?”
“Let’s just call this the vaudeville act before the master showman arrives.” Her face wrinkled in worry. “It'd be like that fear of whatever's in the bushes times a thousand, the cold chill you get at night sometimes thinking about your death that you can't shake off." The Spaniard saw her swallow, saw the dread she spoke of rise up only to be shoved hastily back into its hiding place. Her eyes met his, desperate. "We have to get out there, before it decides to strike the townsfolk and light them up too.” Stepping from the bed, she swung the holster around her waist and secured it without looking. Fingers moving like the lightening that forked and hissed, she checked and loaded each of her weapons. It was apparent how natural and instinctive the motion was, like breathing. A real pro, she flipped her hat onto her head and turned to watch the Spaniard intently. “This is a scuffle. Zalmon will give you a war.”
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🫧 🧼 Housekeeping 🧼 🫧
A few short, small things.
First, I know I said I’d put a pause on free essays while The Spaniard publishes (my serial publishing through Summer 2025 about a gaucho who fights monsters), but I found free time to voice-compose two pieces (one paid, one free) while doing dishes as my husband took the baby on a walk. It certainly made scheduling to publish much, much easier. I felt it was an important enough topic to opine on that needed saying.
Secondly, I finally got my act together, or rather, came across the very helpful work of
, who has many thoughtful Notes on writing and formatting your Substack (if you’re a writer) to be more user friendly for readers. She’s also a delightful writer who, among other things, has started publishing AI-related creepy-pasta, and I’m all for it.Because of that formatting advice …
Updates to Inking Out Loud now include:
A friendly Start Here guide now pinned to the front page of the site (I’m really proud of this page, please check it out)
A proper Welcome Email to Free and Paid Subscribers ⬇️
I had written a Welcome Email for both sets of Subscribers when I started IOL, but apparently … I didn’t save it. To my surprise, I discovered the generic text was still sitting there. So, for curiosity’s sake, there are screenshots to look at what I put together. Honestly, there are so many little things one can do to improve visibility and marketing, it’s difficult to keep track of them all. But like anything else, this is a laboratory, and it’s an ongoing project that receives constant tweaking and perfecting.
Those three steps — personalized Welcome email, a Start Here guide, and an easily findable Table of Contents for all of your serialized or novel content, will make it easier for people to find what you do and appreciate the value and hard work that you have dedicated to what you write.
To my non-writing subscribers, hopefully this makes navigating around a bit easier for all of you. If you have any suggestions, please drop them in the comments below.
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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