Smoke rose to a cloudless orange sky. Of course, where there was smoke, there was fire. A group of tents burned with bright flames that rivaled the glowing sun that bathed the dry land with its blinding wrath. It was a hot day, but that was a given in the West. It was blistering hot every day, cold every night. The heat was so strong that day that the flames, of which some reached over eight feet in height, did not add anymore hotness to the surrounding air. What hotness could the humble fires bring that the raging sun could not? It was not a challenge to the sun. The sun saw all and burned all equally.
Beside the flaming tents was a tree. Yes, a tree, a simple one. It was anything but impressive, but how it tried to shade the ground beneath it, trying to shield some critters from the ever-watching sun was admiring. It was the only tree within site of the camp. It was most likely the reason there were tents there in the first place. Besides water, trees were a traveler's favorite.
The light breeze shifted the sand around a pair of snakeskin boots. At the pointed toe of the left boot was an extinguished cigarette, a feeble puff of smoke still left it, telling that it had just been dropped to the ground. With that final iota of smoke, it was done, its relieving flame was dead forever, much like the residents of the tents, who now laid down their faces in the dust, waiting for some living soul to give them a proper burial.
The boot took a step forward, removing the sand with the movement. The boots were custom made, but were of a style that was long out of season. They were old, very old. It was the shape of boots that could only be worn by folk with thin, womanly feet. Upon the fronts of the boots were carvings of apples in the leather. Tucked in the boots were loose blue jeans, ragged and torn. Bloodstains from past encounters dotted the jeans, never taken out in any cleaning. They were once a dark blue, like the fancy jeans, but with age they were the same color as the dust and dirt.
A brown leather belt was sagging over the waist of the onlooker. It had two holsters. Both were filled with six-shot revolvers that never shined in the sun. The rest of the belt was lined with bullets meant to feed the two metallic beasts that defined the day and age. Over the waist lay a homemade orange plaid shirt. Even being plaid, it lacked color. The faded orange had seen troubling sights like the one before it. It had seen it too many times. The shirt was slightly hidden by a light leather vest that was common to the folks of the badlands.
The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, exposing weathered freckled forearms. The arms ended in thin black leather gloves which undoubtedly covered heavily calloused hands. They were the quickest hands one could ever find in such a wasteland. They were hands forged in blood and brass, trained to be the deadliest force one could ever happen upon west of the green valleys. The hands knew nothing of talent, but contained the experience of a hundred fighters.
Upon the wide shoulders was a scarred neck. Upon the scared neck was the head of a young blonde woman. Thick freckles dotted her cheeks and nose. Her cracked lips were turned in a serious frown that was their natural position. Emerald eyes inspected the burning tents, reflecting the fires in her irises. Not a speck of makeup or anything of female fashion was present. Her face was natural. The only powder and rouge was the dust and grime from a long ride.
On her blonde hair was a Stetson hat. It was not her hat, but her father's. On the left side of the hat was crack that ran for about two inches. No accident had left the scar there, no horse bite. It was the result of a flying bullet that had missed the wearer. Some could consider it a sign of luck at such a fortunate miss, but the second shot was not to be found on the hat. That second shot was deadly and it was that second shot that gave the woman her hat.
The woman squinted as the wind picked up, whisking the dirt and chaff into the dry air. Her arms were crossed around her stomach; her posture was leaning to one side. She moved her lips, releasing a cloud of smoke that had been sucked in from the cigarette that was now under her boot. The wind took the smoke and spread it out so fast that one could think it never had left her mouth at all.
There were three tents in front of her, each one crumbling in flames. The occupants of the tents were sprawled around, each resting in their own blood and dirt. Some were shot, some were stabbed, but each one resoundingly deceased. The woman did not look at their bodies with mourning, but with disappointment. Bodies were common this far from the cities. At one time, the woman would have been terrified to see such a massacre, but after years of living out in the badlands, all that she could muster was a tired sigh.
A stick was broke behind her. The woman instantly took notice of the disturbance and glanced behind her. The sound was caused by a girl much younger than her. The girl possessed vibrant red hair that was tied with a small bow in the back. She did not realize the sound she had made and hesitantly approached the woman who now looked at with her disapproving eyes.
"I told ya to stay with the horses," she told the young girl with a slow shake of her head.
"Sorry, Sis. I jus' wanted to make sure ya was alright," the young sister responded with a nervous swallow.
"Well, I'm fine. Ya didn't need to check up on me," the woman returned her gaze to the camp.
"I guess we got here too late?" the girl gulped when she arrived to the side of her sister.
"Ya got that right," the woman cracked her neck. "All of 'em are more dead than a starved bull."
The girl took a step back as the wind had turned and the flames now faced at them. She was a young girl, but she held several similarities to her sister. Her hands were just as calloused, her face was just as scarred and she even had the same freckles. The main difference was their clothes. With her being a young girl, it was of the fashion to wear a dress. It was a red dress that matched her hair. It was not that she liked wearing the dress, but instead that it was the only dress she owned.
"Who ya think did it, Jack?" she asked. "Do ya think it was the Midnight Rider?"
Jack shook her head. "Ya need to stop thinking he did every killing out in this country."
"Well, he killed Ma and Pa-"
The woman silenced her sister with a glare that only she could produced. The Midnight Rider was a mysterious criminal of the West. No one knew his real name nor his true appearance. All they did know were the crimes he committed, as they all were similar and happened only at midnight. He was a lone murderer, much unlike the other criminals who operated in bandit gangs. The woman and her sister had been looking for him ever since the night Jack had gotten her hat.
"Abby, if ya gonna be here, ya might as well help me," Jack suggested.
The woman called Jack walked through the camp, looking for any signs that could help them. The first thing she noticed was the horse tracks that ran away from the scene of the crime. The horses that these men rode were all missing, presumably captured by the attackers, which meant that whoever did this was not alone. The Midnight Rider, in all his mysterious ways, would have left the horses as he did not need them. He didn't trade; he didn't talk to other bandits. He was a phantom of the badlands. No, this had been done by a different wicked individual.
"These tracks lead to the town of Broadbrook," Jack said and pointed northward. "I'd reckon that's where these killers were heading."
"Now why would they want that?" Abby questioned.
"I don't know. Broadbrook is jus' a minin' town, nothing special. There's only one way to find out, Sis."
"We shouldn't go up there if the bandits are over there," Abby warned. "They killed these six men like it was nothing! There could be twenty or thirty of 'em!"
Jack ignored her sister and continued to search the camp. There was not much else. She did not expect something grand to pop up since these perished men were but surveyors, inspecting the land for future ranchers. Not one had a fighting bone in their bodies, so it was not a surprise they fell to an ambush so easily.
She did find something of interest. Her eyes caught the end of some small wooden object. So she went to her knee and uncovered the rest of the object from the wind-blown dust. It was a small wooden cross, a token item that religious men would carry on their person. It was a common item enough, but it meant something to Jack. Her hand took hold of it and she lifted it off the ground.
The wind blew louder at that moment. Jack's blonde hair whipped around and she had to place a hand on her beloved hat to keep it on her head. Her eyes did not leave the cross. It was so simple a shape, a child could carve it with a knife in just an hour. The wind was now blowing so hard that it was whistling by her. It seemed like it was calling out to her.
"You...tell that...long-tongue liar..." it said to her.
That was all she could make out of the wind's message. She knew what it meant and solemnly placed the cross in her pocket. Abby watched her older sister with some confusion. She did not hear the wind's whispers. In all actuality, her hair was only slightly moving in an extremely calm breeze. It was like the wind had never roared in the first place.
"Get the horses ready," Jack instructed as she pulled out a cigarette from her pocket.
"Are we leavin' already?" Abby whined.
"Yeah," the sister nodded as she lit a match and brought it to the cigarette in her mouth. "We're headin' to Broadbrook. Right. Now. We got somethin' to do there."
~*~