I Don't Want To Hurt No More

The sun was bright. Glaring down with an intensity that stagnated the air. Thick, dry, and hard to breath. The moisture deprived earth crunched beneath booted feet. The wind provided no reprieve. It blew like a furnace and the sand burned like fire.

Pulling the large, brimmed hat lower, the figure squinted into the shimmering landscape, barely able to see through the brilliance. The handkerchief wrapped tight around their nose and mouth. The duster whipped behind in the wind causing the twin rifles that were strapped over it to clang together.

The figure’s name was Miranda Clemette. She was a mix of pacific islander and white. Her father was tall and for a woman so was she. She stood at five feet, ten inches. Her eyes were lavender, and her hair was the color of raven’s feathers.

She was by all accounts a weary, lost soul. Doing what she had to do to survive. A vagabond, a wayfarer, a bounty hunter. A tough woman who had lived a tough life. Family killed by bandits when she was a teen. She was sold as a slave and passed for several years. The things done to her, unspeakable. But that is the life of a slave. The unspeakable. When she had survived twenty winters on this earth, she escaped.

As she walked her mind wandered back to that night.

She was in a small mercenary camp. A mixture of ruthless lowlifes from all races. They went as the money went. If the white man wanted to fight natives, they would fight them. If natives wanted to fight white men, they would fight them too. Hell, they would even fight with the Mexicans.

A standard evening in the camp. One of debauchery and drunkenness. A stout hairy pig by the name of Tom Handcock grabbed her by the hair and drug her to his tent. He tossed her down onto his bed roll and tore off his belt, letting his pants slump to the floor. His buck knife fell to the floor as well. He barely noticed in the intoxicated state he was in. As he drooled on himself and snorted with the perceived pleasure he was about to partake in, her lavender eyes locked onto his. He hesitated, then became anger and pulled her up, looked her in the eye, smiled and proceeded to lick her cheek slowly with her beer-soaked tongue. Chuckling to himself he suddenly slapped her across the face.

As she fell back to the ground, she angled herself to land within reach of the knife. As she feigned pain and writhed around, she inched her left hand closer to the knife. Almost there…Tom groped her thigh from behind and she winced. She rolled still holding her face with her right hand and her left remained outstretched. The tip of her index finger touched the blade and as the drunken pig grabbed her ankle, she gripped the knife. Pulling it close as he rolled her over, she waited until the heat of his breath was upon her bosom. She shuttered uncontrollably as he ripped her blouse open and the foul, hot breath fell upon her. As his tongue touched her breast, she drove the knife with all her might right into the man’s cranium.

The drunkard convulsed for a few moments and then was still. She felt the warm ooze of blood as it trickled from the knife wound and the man’s mouth. She laid panting for a moment frozen at what she had done. As the adrenaline left her, she realized the time was now to escape!

She rolled the pig off her and stood up. Plucking the knife from Tom’s head, she grabbed his belt and holstered six shooter, then put his jacket and boots on and took off into the woods without a second glance.

She shook her head and patted her holster. That same pistol she took years ago, a Smith and Wesson Model 3 Russian it was called, still by her side. A rarer model in the United States as it was mainly for Russian military. A .44 caliber single action revolver. She took the best care of it she could, and it had held up well, but years of use things tend to wear.

On her back she carried a Henry Repeating rifle and a Sharps Falling Block rifle with scope. As a bounty hunter you never know how close you can get to folk or how many friends your target will have.

As she trudged on in this hellish landscape, she popped the cork on her water skin and drank the remaining contents. The water touched her chapped lips, and the cooling effect was invigorating, and her throat loosened up with the flow of water. It was a welcomed respite. Still her eyes burned, and her feet were worn thin. She was rubbed raw in a lot of places better not thought about and exhaustion was creeping in. Her horse died on her miles back. She wasn’t even entirely sure she was walking in the right direction. The sun, the damned sun, just burned and burned. Beating the body down and weakening the spirit.

Continuing her slog, her mind again drifted.

It was winter and she was in a native village. The center bonfire roared, and the tribesman were enjoying a hunting success from earlier that day. Six bison had been killed and brought back to the village. A plentiful bounty. This would feed the tribe for a month at least. Natives used everything from an animal: skins, bone, fur, and meat.

She had been found by the tribe three winters ago alone and struggling to survive. They took her in and learned that she was hot tempered and fierce. Being a slave and breaking free and living in the wilderness can have that effect on folk. After a time, she learned their language and became an official member of the tribe. After a while she honed her skills for tracking and hunting, using both a bow and rifle. She even convinced the chieftain of her prowess and he allowed her to hunt with the men in the tribe.

As the fire grew higher into the night and the evening cheer grew to grander proportions, the tribe shaman beckoned her to her side. Together they went to her makeshift hut. Covered in furs to ward against the cold, the woman had other symbols to ward off things less…physical. Crow’s feet hung from random locations, a wheat broom was placed over the entrance and incense burned continuously. Small animal bones and crystals were placed upon an alter along with numerous vials of powers and sands of all different colors. A small fire burned in the center of the hut. The shaman sat on one side and beckoned her to sit on the other.

“Why are you still here, Miranda?” The old woman inquired.

“Pardon?”

“Why are you still here?” she smiled.

“Because this has become a home to me. Your people have taken me in and cared for me. Allowed me to contribute.” Miranda responded.

The old shaman pulled a vial from her alter, poured herself a handful of it and tossed it into the fire. The fire flared for an instance then began to glow green. The hut was awash in a green light. The aura and mood of the hut shifted. The smell was of foliage.

“You do not belong here. Something pulls your spirit. You are angry. You are hurt. You need to seek out your path to heal. To calm your spirit and yourself.”

Miranda grew angry and frightened at the same time. She rose her voice. ‘You are kicking me out? Getting rid of me?”

“No, my child. Only you can make that discission.” The shaman waved her hand with such quickness it passed right through the flames untouched. At that instant the fire returned to normal, and the green hue had vanished.

“Only the gods know your path. They can show you, but you must walk it.”

Tears streaked through the dust on her face. She instinctively rested her hand on the tomahawk she carried on her hip. That was years ago. Though the memory was a rather happy one she was spiteful of it and cursed at the heavens. “The path? Haha! Funny! Real funny! Gods? Ha!”

As she reached the apex of a large hill, she saw the tree line. It was still a good couple miles off, but she could see it! Much closer she noticed smoke coming from a barn near a farmhouse about halfway between her and the trees.

Gunshots! A raid? She pulled her Falling Block rifle from over her shoulder and looked through the scope. Even with the scope it was still too far away to get exacts but a building was on fire and there was a shootout going down.

She rushed down the hill and ran towards the violence. After a few minutes she looked through the scoped rifle again to survey the area. She could see clearly now. A raid. Bandits were attacking the settlement. She heard a girl’s scream.

She only had three bullets for the rifle and there were at least a dozen raiders. She calmed her heart, slowed her breath, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. BAM! One bandit dead. She reloaded and moved to the next target. BAM! Another dead.

After her third shot she dropped the scoped rifle and charged towards the settlement with her repeater out. All her pain and exhaustion gone. The adrenaline had kicked in. As she reached the outskirts, she popped off two shots at one of the raiders hiding behind a water barrel. The bandits, each wearing a white bandana wrapped around their arm, took notice of this new combatant. Two rushed towards her firing off shots as they ran. She ducked back along the shed wall. As they rounded the corner, she blasted holes in them point blank. The amused looks on their faces sank into dismay as the life flowed from their bodies.

She heard footsteps behind her from a third bandit and spun around to fire, but the rifle jammed. She immediately tossed to the ground and pulled her tomahawk from her belt to block a downward knife stab. The bandit was strong and smelled of cigars and whisky. He smiled as his knife slowly pushed down closer and closer to her chest. The girl’s scream came again and with renewed vigor Miranda twisted the tomahawk and at the same instance kneed the man in the gut knocking him to the floor. Before he could even turn to face her the tomahawk blade cleaved his skull.

The scream came again. She raced around the shed and saw scene. A little girl on her knees with one of the bandits hovering over her. The girl’s father laid in front of her bleeding out. Her brothers and mother held at bay behind her. There were six bandits left. The sun beat down on them. Miranda realized how hot she had gotten. Sweating everywhere. The aches and pains of her travels, of her life, all flooded back in on her. She squinted her eyes.

“Well now girly. You’ve managed to kill several of my men.” Came a gruff voice from the man standing over the girl.

“Six actually.” She smiled.

.

Good. Six bullets, she thought.

As the spittle hit the ground Miranda dropped the tomahawk and pulled her revolver from her hip. A bolt of lightning whitened the blue sky. Thunder crashed as bullets began to fly. The bullets pierce flesh and drink of its blood.

Miranda felt her body fall to the dusty earth and her life slowly drained away. As she stared up at the sky, clouds converged, and thunder rumbled again as rain droplets began to fall.

A smile crosses her face one last time.