Death is Denied

 

A baptism of dust engulfed Bart filling his lungs. He tried to lick his parched, cracked lips with no success. The air around him reeked of death. Bart lifted his bandana and smelled, discovering he was the horrible order.

“Hell,” he said in a deflated voice. Somewhere in the front Death rode lead. On Bart's right was the snarling Indian he had just killed with the broken lance, and on his left, the Indian warrior who had fought beside him. He noticed his brother Ben just ahead of him.

 

Bart always knew he wore Hell’s mark, but he never figured to be part of a gathering committee. The riders pressed hard against the sunrise, making strides on the setting sun to add Mike Potter, a man he’d never met, but the man’s iniquities called them. For he too robbed the good of possessions and life. Mike Potter was just another no-good killer that would partake of this unnatural pursuit of purgatory warmed-over. Mike and his partner had just torched a farmhouse. All they got for their efforts was a fist full of cash, a wedding ring, and a trail of cerise.

 

The old farmer stepped over his wife of thirty-five years, cleared his eyes, and lined up his target's. Determined to repay the outlaws, blood for blood he fired. Years of practice found its mark; both men felt the bite of his aim. A mortal wound tore through Mike Potter’s chest. His partner Ted Benson took point. During the escape a hot piece of lead tore muscle and sinew, weighing down his left arm, leaving it useless. Their crimson trail a flaming roadmap for any tracker, but no tracker pursued them. Only Death nipped at their heels.

 

Two blue roams waded up a shallow creek allowing blood markers to wash downstream. The heavy evening air forced the fire’s smoke downward. The haze skirted above the treetops, tickling the space between, and filling his nostrils with their foul deed.

 

Ted knew an Indian mission to be nearby. Either they would find medical care in the mission or a couple of headstones. The glow from the fire bloomed behind him, and he regretted leaving the old man alive. Clearly that small oversite would probably be his last. Ted dallied Mike’s bridle to his own saddle horn and walked the horses to the clearing. The mission stood on the other side of an apple orchard, and he knew luck smiled.

 

“Hang on, Pal, we’re almost there,” Ted said, looking over his shoulder. However, Mike and his mount were gone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Cold air passed through him, and his body began to shiver. Quietly he mounted his pony, then broke for the mission.

 

The padre lite the final candle, and with the sign of the cross, he rose as he touched off the final candle that he burned for the lost. He burned the candles every Sunday for midnight mass. Of course, most nights, he held this ceremony alone. Father Thomas had fashioned several triangle-shaped mirrors into the ‘Star of David.’  The star hung over the altar of light. He had trimmed the star with three small tails of small clear beads.  The heat from the candles gave the star motion allowing it’s beaded tail to softly chime. The flickering lights danced off the mirrors. Such a peaceful display. He thought it must please God, and he smiled at the thought of it. Tonight, the alter of lite beamed with beauty and song. With joy and gladness, he joined in singing the 23rd Psalms.

 

 Father Thomas could hear a rider. Soon, he could see the outline of a man. An ominous cloud thick and full seemed to trail the man. The rider did not guide his horse or rein it in, but the lathered beast abruptly stopped in front of the padre, and the blood-soaked man crumbled at his feet. Once freed of his rider, the horse turned and wildly ran into the dark away from the direction they had just come.

 

Hours passed as Father Thomas removed the slug and cleaned the man’s wound. He stared at the sleeping man, an outlaw he was certain. For in the man’s vest, he found blood-stained money and a woman’s wedding ring. Father Thomas knew God had sent him this wayward lamb. A lost soul for sure, and he began to pray.

 

Time moved by slowly, soon, he should hear the man mumbling.

 

“What did you say, my son,” said the old padre.

 

“I was praying along with you, asking God to hide me from Death.”

 

“No man can hide from death or his deeds, lest God forgives him.”

 

“But, Death purses me hot and heavy and without mercy.”

 

“Son, there is an appointment for each of us to die, and then the judgment, but if we give our hearts to God, our souls can live on with him in paradise,” Father Thomas said. A gust of wind blew open the door of the mission. Father Thomas quickly ran to secure the latch. All the candles at the altar were blown out except the one he had lite for the lost.

 

The tiny light flickered in the dark. Ted’s voice trailed off weak of scratchy. “Forgive me my sins, Lord,” the young man said his ashen complexion shading even paler, and as the end came his lips and his soul crested upward.

 

Death blazed through Ted, but as he exited, he emerged empty handed. The horde of soul raiders jetted upward. Fury rent him wildly, and Death cursed and howled like a feral beast. He spun Hades on his heels and plummeted toward Father Thomas, but Death had not sting for the padre. The force of their passing blew out all the candles except for the candle he had lit for the lost, and Death turned his chase on Samuel Decker.

Author's Note

no time to edit this morning

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you dear Cherrie. I did enjoy the story and I can't wait to read more. When death is looking for you. You are in bad trouble. Thank you dear friend for sharing the amazing chapter.
Coyote