Rudolph Wurlitzer - Slow Fade

He accepted but called for a slight delay.

“I’ll take a ride on one of those horses over there and then sleep until I wake up. If you’re still around I’ll drive you to L.A.”

He took his Levi jacket off her shoulders because the night had turned cold and because he wanted to stiff her a little. Then he walked over to the corral and saddled up a bay mare.

Swinging up into the saddle, he walked the horse toward the desert, the first hint of dawn giving definition to high clumps of gray sage. A.D.’s father had owned race horses at one point in his short, checkered career, and that had been a time they had shared together, driving out to the track outside of Cleveland in the early morning. But the horses weren’t fast and his father wasn’t either, and after he was caught bouncing bad checks from Ohio to Iowa, he skipped bail and was never heard from again. He must have had moments like this, A.D. thought, at the mercy of whatever weirdness was coming down the road. It depressed him thinking about his father and how lame he was. His own head felt separate from the rest of his body, as if out of control somewhere on its swivel. He needed to drop anchor, not let a nameless horse carry him over country he felt no connection to. As if to answer this sudden need for a direction, he guided the horse down the banks of an arroyo, but the arroyo came suddenly to an end and he had to hold on to the pommel as the horse scrambled up onto the desert again.

He rode on, prodding the horse into a loping stride, his mood changing as the sun pushed over the horizon like a squashed tomato. He was shaking loose a bit, riding into open space, and fuck the rest. The acrid smell of the sage enveloped him, his mind slacking off as he rode into a dense forest of piñon and juniper. A twisted branch whipped against him, drawing blood across his forehead. But A.D. was so deep into the mythology of his ride that he accepted the pain as initiation, and riding back into the open again, he permitted the glory of the day to elevate him once more. The horse tested the reins, wanting to stretch out, and he let himself go the rest of the way as well, flat out if that was meant to be, and they galloped across the desert and then down along the banks of a stilled green river.

A rifle shot broke the thunder of his ride. Then another.

Heading straight toward him along the banks of the river galloped two runaway horses and their riders. It was an apparition that was never to leave A.D., one that he would visualize constantly, without warning, always in slow motion, the figures swaying toward him as if under water.

As A.D.’s horse bucked up a steep hill, the first rider passed him, her long black hair flying out behind her as she hung grimly on to the horse’s mane, a look of amazed terror on her face.

The second horse swerved up the hill, galloping neck and neck beside him, its rider rising high in the air over the saddle, his elongated arms and legs flopping about in total abandon. He managed to let out a yell and looked toward A.D., a sly smile on his pale emaciated face, as if some part of him was watching over the whole mad plunging ride, even as his body flew over the horse’s neck toward the ground.

A.D.’s horse swerved again and ran straight back across the desert. More shots rang out followed by a line of horsemen appearing over the crest of a hill. It dimly occurred to him that they were Indians and that they were preparing to let fly a volley of arrows in his direction.

A.D. saw the arrow quite clearly as it fell out of the brilliant blue sky and felt the unwavering surge of his horse riding forward to meet it. Then there was total blackness followed by oblivion.

HE WOKE later — they were to tell him two days later — conscious only that his head was wrapped in bandages and that he was alive. When he woke again the darkness and pain remained. His hands traced the bandages over his eyes and the thought of being blind made him fade out once more, curling in on himself, whimpering and moaning like a small animal.

Still later, he woke once more, screaming out.

A hand lightly touched his wrist.

“You’ve lost an eye,” a man’s voice said. “Your other eye will be all right except that it’s traumatized and you won’t be able to see out of it for a few weeks. It’s a kind of localized hysteria.”

“Which eye is gone?”

“The left.”

“Are you the doctor?” A.D. asked.

“Unfortunately, no. But I read your chart. I’m the last person you saw before you rode into that arrow. I’m Walker Hardin.”

As if on instant replay, he saw again that mad puppetlike figure flying over the horse’s neck.

“You crazy asshole,” A.D. said. “You almost killed me.”

“It’s true.” Walker’s voice was soft and matter-of-fact. “You came close to dying.”

The hand removed itself from A.D.’s wrist and he could hear Walker pouring a glass of water.

“My horse spooked,” Walker explained. “And then Evelyn’s horse lost control. It was a spectacular ride.”

“Fuck you and your horse and your spectacular ride,” A.D. said. “What about the Indians?”

“They were Apaches about to scalp three mountain men.”

The image enraged A.D. “There aren’t any mountain men in the desert,” he yelled.

“They were on their way to Mexico to get laid.”

His hand reached up to his blind eye. He didn’t care about any of this bullshit. One entire eye had been eliminated from his head and he wanted it back. He didn’t want a black patch or some piece of round glass. He wanted the cocksucker’s eye and he reached out for Walker. An eye for an eye.

Walker took hold of A.D.’s clawing hand and lowered it down by his side. His grip was like a handcuff. “We all rode onto a movie set,” he said. “You spoiled the first shot of the day.”

“You mean none of this is real?” A.D. asked.

“The arrow must have been real.”

“The arrow?”

“Yes. The arrow.”

“Well, I’m going to sue somebody,” A.D. said. “Half my vision is gone and somebody has to pay for that.”

“How much do you think half your vision is worth?”

“Worth? How do I know what an eye is worth? I won’t have any peripheral vision or depth of field. That’s a definite handicap.”

Walker didn’t answer. A.D. thought he would ask for two million dollars to start with and then come down to a million, bottom line. The idea of losing an eye and gaining a sack of gold seemed like the deal of a lifetime.

“You might have a hard time collecting from the movie people,” Walker said, as if he had been lurking outside A.D.’s mind. “Their lawyers are all on retainers and they have nothing to do but slow things up and fuck around with you. They also found some drugs in your pocket which they turned over to the sheriff.”

A.D.’s hopes slid to the bottom as fast as they had streaked to the top.

“As fate would have it, my father is the director of this miserable film,” Walker said. “He’ll certainly try and make a deal with you because making deals is how he goes about things. If I were you I would certainly listen to what he has to offer.”

A.D. could hear Walker slowly and painfully shift around in his chair.

“Are you badly smashed up?” he asked.

“A broken shoulder and a few cracked ribs. Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Who was the girl?” A.D. wanted to know. He was starting to drift off, but he didn’t want Walker to leave without knowing who the girl was.

“My father’s wife” was the answer.

“I’m freaked,” A.D. said.

“What of?” Walker asked, his voice gentle and sad, coming from far away.

“That I won’t make a deal,” A.D. whispered.