Free Far Bright Star by Robert Olmstead Page A

to fill the canyon ground but followed close behind. Their horses were compact, not tall and leggy like his but full form and set low on their legs. Their pace was that of a forced walk. The men shot across their horses’ necks but placed their shots so as not to kill. They plowed the earth and chipped stone and flattened their lead against rocks and ledges. The bullets hissed by like spit into a fire, and still he did not move his exposed position.
    Then the Dorado fell forward onto the neck of his white horse, shot through the heart, the blood pouring from his wound. Then came instant the flat cracking report of a rifle that was not a Springfield or Winchester or Mauser. It was Preston’s custom-made English rifle and he was standing upright and still holding the butt tight to his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the wood.
    For some reason the animal did not break but stopped and would not move and stood stock still on the center ground. Runnels of blood seeped from beneath the man and down the horse’s shoulders. The heart pumped steadily, emptying the man’s blood onto the horse’s shoulders and legs until its white hide was caped red. The horse pawed and shrugged and the man slid to the ground, slowly at first and then all in a rush as if desperate to meet the rising earth and the forever that was waiting for him.

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    T HE SOUND OF the shot echoed in the hollow air, seeming time without end, rebellowing off the rocky walls, and when finally diminished it was a sound like the sift and drag of sand. Men on both sides paused and were shocked at its event.
    “You witless bastard,” Napoleon said. “You have just kilt us.”
    But Preston seemed indifferent. He’d wanted to demonstrate his courage and this he would do, no matter how thoughtless, uncharitable, and condemning. What he would have and what was required made no difference to him.
    “Don’t fly at me,” Preston said. “It’s done and there’s no undoing it.”
    “No. I’d say you are right on that account. There is no undoing it.”
    In the old days he’d have shot Preston on the spot for such insubordination and not even have been questioned. You only led by the consent of those you would lead. You only commanded because there were those who agreed to be commanded and he knew Preston was his failure. Napoleon wondered about himself. In how many battles had he fought on the side of murderers? How many times in his life would he have willingly changed sides?
    With the death of the Dorado was the death of possibility. Now it was time come for them to encounter their fears. They would have to reach down and fetch up what was inside them, knowing they would surely die and there would be little time to spend hoping for deliverance and the wondering was it a Godless world.
    His mind was quickened and was without doubt. Fire would now answer fire. There was no reality beyond this reality and all time was now. His green men would have their baptism in the desert. He knew Extra Billy had the murderous spirit, but would the rest of them? Being a long-range killer was one thing, but this would soon be a different matter. The lowness of their professional competence he’d experienced before. But this day they’d drop their blood because of it and if they knew anything they knew this.
    With the westering sun the shadows lengthened and deepened. Overhead the sky was still light, but where they held was darkening. He recalled words his father read to him when he was a boy: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, . . . lend the eye a terrible aspect; . . . set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit.
    Suddenly the air sang and the rocks and ground stitched as if an iron needle driven by a great treadle and then was sound—the clatter of a machine gun. The bullets flashed overhead and ripped against the canyon walls and a thousand shards of stone flew in the air.
    He threw the binoculars to Stableforth and instructed