Sandi Ault - Wild Penance

We rode out of there encrusted with a thick coat of snow. The brim of my hat collapsed under the weight, and a landslide of white fell down my face, cooling my scorched skin. I had pointed us toward the Forest Service road above and to the north of the morada. I knew the snow would be heavier in the higher elevation, but I didn’t think Manny had much time. There would be a ranger posted somewhere up there, and we might be able to get help.

Redhead amazed me. A horse trained for trail riding, she was sensitive to the slightest pressure of my knees, hardly needed a bridle. But she was certainly not trained to pull a cart, and especially not from a drag on her saddle horn. In spite of that, she lowered her head and bulled into the storm, pulling us behind her as I yelled encouragement. “That’s it! Come on, girl. Good girl. Come on, Redhead!” The snow accumulated on her backside, on the cart, even on the horsehair ropes between us, and it piled into high drifts around us. Redhead plodded on, barely visible in front of me. Between my extended arms, La Muerte smiled and kept her silence.

As we neared the road, a streak of blue heat raced past my face at the speed of light. Behind it, a moment later, came a far-off crack, like a chair leg breaking. Gunshot! Oh, God! Someone is shooting at me! My rifle! I sent out a desperate searching look through the curtain of white ahead of me, as if my eyes could close the gap between me and what lay impossibly out of reach. I’d left my rifle in the holster attached to Redhead’s saddle!

Another shot whizzed past me. The horse lurched to a stop. I jumped out of the cart as the front tipped up again, and ran behind it for cover. Redhead! There was a loud choomfff, and shards of wood flew as a shot hit the skeleton. La Muerte slumped backward and slid down the bed of the tilted cart, her wooden spine severed at the waist by the bullet, her outstretched bony arm tractioned back and toward the ground by the weight of the heavy steel ax. I heard another shot crack and Redhead reared up and screamed at the danger. I looked out again, afraid of what I would see. I could barely make her out. She was standing amazingly still. She looked like she had her head down, but I couldn’t be sure. I could see nothing but snow. From far off came the sound of an engine grinding in low gear on the Forest Service road farther to the right of me, and beyond.

I waited. The shooter had stopped firing. I listened for the engine; it was still in the distance, but moving closer. I heard the whine of the wheels slipping, spinning, the sound of the driver trying to rock it out of the mire by alternating between drive and reverse. I looked at Manny, the ribs of the skeleton wedged against his head, the skull against his shoulder, La Muerte’s macabre eyes looking past me. Manny’s eyes were open now, too-and peering at me. I put a finger in front of my lips and mouthed a silent Shhhhh. I could see blood from his leg dripping off the back of the tilted cart again, in spite of my makeshift tourniquet. I heard a dull thud, felt the earth shake. I bolted around the edge of the cart, screaming, “Redhead!”

She was down, but before I could get to her, a figure came running toward me, covered in snow, a rifle pointed at my chest. The fur rim on the hood of the parka was coated with white, and the face within the hood was in darkness. Instinctively I backed up, my hands in the air, until I was standing behind the cart again. The shooter followed. “Get down on the ground,” he grunted.

I knew that voice!

He pushed me hard, shoving me face-first into the snow. He placed the tip of the rifle barrel on the bare skin at the back of my neck, under my hat. “Where is La Arca?” he demanded.

“I don’t have it,” I choked, my mouth filling with snow as he pressed me down into a drift with the rifle.

“You have it!” he yelled, pushing the barrel so violently into my neck that it snapped forward and my face hit hard against the ground, buried in the mound of white crystals beneath me. I felt a rent open on the inside of my mouth, and blood pooled behind my lower lip. He let up pressure with the rifle barrel and I raised my head and gasped for air.

“Where is it?”

I took another breath. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t have it.”

I felt his hand seize me by the back of my coat and pull me up fast, turning me toward him, like a puppet. The rifle barrel found the ledge of my chin and pushed hard against my jawbone, forcing my head back. His hood had fallen away from his face a little. His brows were tipped with ice crystals, and his eyes were like gleaming black glass. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No.” I spat, tasting blood.

He laughed, threw his head back. “I should have known!” He shook his head back and forth, still laughing.

I strained to keep my chin above the rifle barrel, edging almost imperceptibly to one side. He pulled the nose of the gun away. I slumped a little in relief and used this motion to block my left hand with my body, wishing it could have been my right. The shooter tilted his head to one side, his face suddenly sober again. “I’ll find it. And when I find it, I’ll destroy it, just like I destroyed that morada back there! You’re going to die now!” he screamed.

I grabbed the ax with my left hand just as he released my coat. He shoved my chest hard, pushing me backward to the ground. He raised the rifle and readied to shoot.

As I fell, I drew back the ax and flung it as hard as I could. But La Muerte had not surrendered her hatchet to me. Instead, she flew with it-the upper half of her anyway. In the split second between the time I hurled the weapon and the moment it struck, I saw my assailant’s startled look of incredulous fear as the hideous face of Death came speeding toward him, with her irregular, oversized human teeth and shining, milky white eyes, her stream of long, black hair sailing behind her splintered ribs like a veil. The blow knocked him off balance and caused him to turn and then lurch into a sidestep. The ax had hit hard, but it had barely penetrated his parka. He fought to regain his balance and raised the rifle again, backing up to take aim.

Behind him, in the still-tilted cart, silent as the snow, Manny rose like an angel onto his one good leg, his arms extended to the sides, like wings, balancing him. He was covered completely in white and looked like a great, hovering bird. Having gained his balance, he raised up the huge crucifix, which he held in his right hand, moved the left hand to grasp it also, and drove the splintered end of it down into the back of Andy Vincent.

The two then tumbled forward toward me in a kind of slow-motion swoop. I scrambled to the left to avoid being crushed, and their fall to the earth made a soft whoomp. I hurried to Manny, who had slid to one side as he fell. I rolled him onto his back and put my hands on either side of his face. His eyes looked at me with a kind of strange joy. “I was supposed to watch over you,” he said. “I was your ángel .”

“I know. Don’t talk!” I begged him. I moved to tighten his tourniquet, the muffler now completely saturated with blood and stiff with ice crystals.

“Señorita,” he said, “you cannot keep something alive that is meant to die.”

I looked at him. “There’s help coming,” I pleaded. “Just hold on! I heard an engine on the road! Someone’s coming!”

His face collapsed in my hands.

“Manny.” I patted his cheek fervently, as if to revive him. “Manny!” I screamed. I felt his neck for a pulse, but his heart was silent.

“Jamaica!” a voice yelled from somewhere behind me. “Jamaica, are you all right?” It was coming closer.

I stood up. A Forest Service truck sat humming less than a hundred feet away, its yellow headlights like beacons of gold through which snow was driving into the clean white field ahead. The truck’s wipers beat a dull rhythm as they struggled under the weight of thick globs of ice. A familiar hat, with patches of white already beginning to accumulate on its brown brim, tilted into the driving blizzard as its wearer hurried toward me, the face beneath the hat obscured.