Diego Sieiro

The Devil's Grass

 

 

The only bullet that counts is the one that kills you.

 

All others remain but a nuisance. John gazed at the horizon, ignoring the pain. The first rain drops found him lost in memory; had it been five, six or ten years since they left him for dead. Thunder rumbled on, the echoes of its roar disregarded. John dwelled on the memory of that old flannel shirt—not a scrap survived the shooting.

 

John’s flesh was no stranger to the bite of lead. Blood pouring from a limb or two, never stopped him from pulling them triggers. His last gig, the rescue of the daughter of a rich farmer, ended in a massacre.

Eight men fell to gunfire. John, last man standing, undone by one girl. After all John was not made of stone—quite the advantage in his line of work. A few days later John started on the next job; the capture, or assassination, of a thief. Reminiscing about the girl during work hours, allowed a pair of men to get close.

 

A rifle shot struck his shoulder. Half the slug camped on bone, the other half eloped with vessels and skin.

A heartbeat later, a bullet filled his empty stomach. The Smith and Wesson, which he thought glued to his hand, fell. The world spun and John slid towards the ground. His horse galloped on, as the whinnies of others closed in. Three more shots left barrels in a smoky hurry. First one to the stomach—again; second one to the leg, an inch above the knee. The last one crossed his head, digging a canal across the top of his skull. Hooves dispersed sand slowly. His nostrils flooded with coppery scents, and his ears rang.

 

His new friends arrived courtesy of the girl’s father. The arrangement of her marriage in such a profitable manner resulted from happenstance. Forming ties with a family of such renown fulfilled the lifelong dream of her father. The in-laws rejected the bride, on account of existing tear and wear. Nothing but an execution could do. The landholder paid handsomely for John’s blood, and got his money’s worth.

 

In red bursts John painted the dry soil. The gunmen barred filthy teeth; as they mixed laughter and profanities. Thinking the bounty hunter dead, they sheathed their pistols. John pulled the Peacemaker.

The Colt sang the chorus to their requiem. The man on the left lost half a head to the one slug. The mercenary to the right got the remaining five bullets, from crotch to forehead. On his knees he dropped—dead already. John closed his eyes.

 

A solid whisper rubbed against his face. Buzzards shrieked around the nearby corpses. One separated from the flock to try its luck with the bounty hunter. John loathed these creatures. The good old Peacemaker he flung, smacking the bird atop the head. The gunslinger sighed: a gasp of air and a fistful of sand leaving his throat. Darkness swamped the world, leaving pain as its sole beacon.

 

Another lenient caress touched his cheek, softer than before. Even if it killed him, he would wiggle his way towards the knife on his ankle. John’s last deed might be to skin that feathered fiend, and then let laughter drag him to hell.

 

Delicate hands held a limp arm. John began the search for his blade. A woman stopped his squirming with a glance—green eyes met his blue ones. She smiled and obscurity shrouded his pain.

 

She nurtured him back to health, between little words and big fits of coughing. After three days of shadows, a pale pretty face greeted him. She carried herself diligently. A steady pace allowed the rearrangement of red hair, ruffled from a trembling chest. Gore and phlegm mixed in the handkerchief sown to her hand. The cloth each time kissed her crackled lips through gracious motions. In elegance was worn the dress that outgrew her, its top populated by withered blood-flowers. The consumption gave her a diminished frame, light enough to rob the echo from her steps. Yet no malady stole the shine of her emerald eyes. That evening he managed a weak kiss on her lips. On the next dawn she died. John buried her on the seventh day. After seeing from the floor how the cat bit half her face away.

 

Had it been one, four, seven or ten years? Alongside her body, he interred the capacity to care. Thunder rolled away, echoing the scream to his back. He turned to gaze upon a shack; from within it a woman was ousted. The door slammed with force against a crooked frame, making the dwelling tremble.

 

Loud in his cursing, the perpetrator never noticed John approaching. The peacemaker once again made peace. One shot splattered the few brains in that skull against an unkempt wall. The blood trickling from her mouth and the swelling black eye convinced John. No questions needed no asking.

 

The new widow crawled towards the corpse, dipping her dress in the mud. Tears stuck her dishevelled hairs to a bloated face. On her knees, for once, the woman towered over the remnants of her abuser. A meaningless name she called, as frail hands pounded against a sturdy chest. The horse snorted and trotted away—nothing new to see here. Shaking and gasping, she raised. Red faced, she puffed her way into the hovel. From within escaped a clank. A moment later, she appeared with a shotgun on her hands.

Her body shook whilst aiming. John stared into the black holes gawking at him. 

 

In the darkness of the barrels, he encountered those green eyes. Would she kiss him well again? A caress of lead to yield them all bleak?

 

A whimper erupted, releasing the firearm from her hands. The metal trifled against a rock, scaring a hiss

out of an old tomcat. John prodded his mount onwards, not looking back as he said:

 

“Lady, if I was you. I’d let the damn cat eat all of his face.”

 

 

 

Back Home

 

Rivers uncoil,

They get straight to stand up

But they don’t leave

 

I laugh,

Knowing that

Sooner or later

They will be dry

 

Mountains yawn

Then spin a little

But they don’t leave

 

I cry,

Knowing that

Sooner or later

They will erode.

 

Forests sit,

Then tap their roots,

But they don’t leave

 

I shudder,

Knowing that

Sooner or later

They will burn.

 

The salt of the earth

That shaped the clay into me

Has been robbed,

By hypocrites.

 

My roots pulled out

By coincidences

Left to be earthed again

By my patience

 

What I was is not what I am,

Yet what I am never changed

 

 

 

Diego Sieiro has published short stories and poetry in magazines like Danse Macabre and Leaves of Ink. He recently published a short comic called "Perfume for the widow", based on literary works of his Galician roots. He lives in Dublin, Ireland.