Townsend Walker

A Rifle on the Rise

 

 

The man lay at the edge of the rise looking through metal rimmed glasses down the barrel of his rifle. He was outfitted in riding boots, britches, and a tweed jacket, His horse, with a cavalry saddle, nibbled at the grass some hundred yards behind him. Further to the west, a wood, and beyond, lay rolling farmland. 

 

Below the rise, in the man’s view, was a row of cottages, perhaps ten, spread irregularly along a narrow road. Behind the cottages, a quarter of a mile or so, the sea. There was a sameness to the cottages in style and structure, save for the variable tidiness of the front gardens and the color of the doors.

 

The man’s focus was the fourth cottage from the right, the one with the faded blue door and a failed flower garden, though in one corner, newly tilled soil suggested it might be undergoing a renewal. The faded blue door opened slightly. A boy, perhaps five years old, with blond hair, skipped out, followed by a woman in boots, apron, blond hair tied back in a bun, carrying a basket. The man lowered the rifle. The boy, then the woman, glanced up toward the rise. She put her hand on the boy’s head, went back into the cottage, returned with a shawl around her shoulders, took the boy’s hand and turned to the left down the road in the direction of the village. 

 

With some luck, John Taylor, the man’s target, would open the faded blue door, for an errand of some variety, or to continue tilling the failed flower garden. John Taylor would then be an open shot. The man with the rifle waited for many hours, past the time the boy and his mother returned from the market with an overflowing basket. The sun set would soon put the cottage in shadow and make an accurate shot impossible. The man walked down the grassy slope to his horse and rode away through the wood to his house.

 

That evening, the man reported his failure to the leader. Because there were another two days before John Taylor needed to die, the leader was not particularly fretful about that day’s lack of success. When asked why John Taylor must die by Friday, the leader said it was integral to a larger operation he was not at liberty to talk about. 

 

The next day, the man with the rifle, wended his way before daybreak through the woods. It was dark and shadowy, but he’d known the paths from his farm to the sea from the time he was a child. He arrived early and settled comfortably into position. The mother and son left the cottage mid-morning with their basket. They looked up, then walked left toward the village. Curious, the man with the rifle thought, the local market is not held on Thursday. Near mid-day, the horse, a well-trained stallion he’d owned for ten years, startled and bolted from the area where he was pasturing. The man with the rifle left his perch overlooking the cottages to fetch his horse. He tied him to a nearby tree and resumed his position. The sun set without further activity at the cottage.

 

That evening the man with the rifle reported his failure to the leader. He was somewhat abashed by it, so did not mention the incident with the horse. He mentioned the market basket carried by the woman. Was John Taylor’s wife involved in his activities? The leader was troubled. There was one less day to eliminate John Taylor, plus in the intervening 24 hours his death had become more crucial to the success of the larger operation. “He must be eliminated tomorrow,” the leader insisted.

 

“Why wait for him to leave the cottage? Why not go to his door, knock, and shoot him?” the man with the rifle asked.

 

“It is crucial the shooting be anonymous.”

 

They discussed ways to lure John Taylor from his cottage: a message, a shot off the chimney, a shot into the garden, a noise to make him curious enough to come outside. “Only, do not shoot John Taylor in front of the boy.”

 

In the morning, the man arrived at the edge of the rise before the sun rose. A howling wind swept in from the sea. His disquieted horse stamped the ground and snorted. The man took up his position, a trifle uneasily today. He adjusted his view three times before finally sighting his rifle on the faded blue door of John Taylor’s cottage. He noticed light streaming through a side window.

 

Five minutes later, his arms were pinned to the ground. So forcefully, his rifle fell from his hands.

 

“You have him good, Mary?”

 

“I do, John.”

 

“You bastard, you’ve perched here with your rifle sighted on us, three days now. But, before this day is over, you will be tied into a small boat and towed out to sea,” John said. “Now, stand up, you son of a bitch.”

 

“My horse . . .”

 

“Your horse will find its way home,” Mary said. “When you’re well out to sea.”

 

The man with the rife sputtered, “How did . . .”

 

“Sun glinting off your glasses, our boy saw it.”

 

 

 

Townsend Walker draws inspiration from cemeteries, foreign places, violence and strong women. A collection of short stories, 3 Women, 4 Towns, 5 Bodies & other stories was published by Deeds Publishing in 2018. Winner of a Book Excellence Award, an Eyelands Award, a Silver Feathered Quill Award and a Pinnacle Award. A novella, La Ronde was published by Truth Serum Press in 2015. Over one hundred  short stories have been published in literary journals and included in twelve anthologies. Short story awards include two nominations for the PEN/O.Henry Award, first place in the SLO NightWriters contest. Four stories were performed at the New Short Fiction Series in Hollywood. His website is www.townsendwalker.com