The Pillager

They come with guns holstered snugly at their hips, with horses snorting and stomping.I hear their spurs ringing as they drop from sun-baked saddles. Crouching below the window, I lift my free hand and wipe the sweat from my brow. The other hand is wrapped firmly around a rifle.

 

I take a deep breath; let it out slowly.

__________________

"C'mon, we have to get out of here," He grabs his guns, stuffs his hat over all his dark, dust-drenched hair.

 

I do not move; he scowls.

 

"What are you doing? Get up!"

 

I tap my fingers on the arm of my chair, twist my mouth thoughtfully--shake my head.

 

"No. I think I'm going to stay here."

 

"Absolutely not," He says, almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it; he throws my hat at me, "Get up."

 

"If they find me, they'll be satisfied. They've already hung Masterson and Hinders. And I reckon they'll catch Landry and Giff on their way up here. If they catch me as well, I think they just might be more willing to let the rest of you disappear."

 

"That's the right stupidest thing I ever did hear."

 

"You're forgetting your place, Tipton."

 

We stare at each other for a long, hard moment.

 

"You know, you may be the boss of the gang, but it's just me and you here now--and you're just a woman. I could lift you over my shoulder and carry you right the hell out of here."

 

"Go ahead and try, boy. But you know I'll have to shoot you if you do."

 

He kicks over an empty stool.

 

"What about all that talking you did! What about when you said it was our job to take care of our people, to be like that Robin Hood fella--steal from the rich and give to the poor. How are you gonna help people if you're dead as a doornail? There's people out there still counting on us! On you!"

 

"I've done what I can. It's time to give it up, Tipton. And you know that if we both make a break for it, they'll catch up to us in no time. If they're already in Ironton like the boy said, then they'll be here in an hour, maybe two. Someone has to stall them."

 

"So I'll do it."

 

"No--no, I don't think so. See, I'm feeling really tired, Tipton. I think I'm gonna just...sit right here."

 

"They're not gonna take you alive, Kate."

 

"I know."

 

"This isn't a joke! They're going to kill you, and I'm not going to let that--" He moves toward me, his eyes set on carrying out his earlier threat.

 

My gun, that gleaming extension of myself, raises; I no longer even have to think the command--as if my brain were actually stored in those barrels. I pull back the hammer; the quiet click, like a whispered warning, seems to fill the small space entirely. I stare down the barrel at him.

 

"Go, Tipton. Now. You know where it's all hidden--give it away, keep only enough to start yourself over, then disappear."

 

His face contorts in frustration and rage. But he does not argue. He turns, grabs his guns and leaves. I listen to the pounding of his hooves as they fade into the distance; it feels like a long time. I take a deep breath; let it out slowly. I tap the arm of my chair again. I stand up, cross to the steamer trunk at the other side of the room. The carbine sits there silently inside. I pull it out; I cross to the lamp. I watch the flame for a minute. Then I put it out. The cabin will appear dark, and I will take the first man by surprise.

 

I pull my chair to the window, I sit down, and I wait.

_________________________________

I listen to the spurs, with my back against the wall; there's broken glass all around me on the badly-gapped floor boards. I hear a symphony of ringing spurs. Those spurs are discovering their fallen comrades: eight law men, shot dead and lying in the dust. They must have sent much more than eight men this time. But by now, the shattered glass at my feet is beginning to gleam; light is drifting through the open window--gray and bleak, but light all the same. Dawn is breaking and I have succeeded.

 

"Kate!" One of them calls through the gathering morning, "Kate, it's Marshall Benjamin Hooper. We know you're in there, Kate. And we know all these men out here couldn't have missed every shot they fired."

 

He's right, they didn't. My shoulder is on fire, and the blood is getting sticky on my arm. It's nearly glued my finger to the carbine's trigger. And there's another pain, somewhere around my middle, somewhere I can't quite place. It's a duller ache, a more profound sort of throbbing, and I know that it's the more serious wound: it hurts less but is bleeding more.

 

"So why don't you come on out here, Kate," The marshall says, "So we can have a nice talk."

 

Things seem to slow down. I'd heard a man say once that his life flashed before his eyes when he fell down a ravine on his horse. I feel very differently. I feel aware suddenly of my body, of my surroundings. The gleaming glass reminds me of the unsurpassed stillness of a snow-covered valley as the sun glints on its stark, white surface. The glass continues to wink in the burgeoning morning light and it makes me think of nights spent staring at stars, makes me think of the moment I stared up and marveled at the enormity of everything and came to peace with the fact that I was not nearly smart enough or big enough to ever understand anything about anything. I begin losing focus.

 

I take a deep breath; let it out slowly.

 

I push myself away from the wall. It takes a great effort. I climb to my feet. The carbine is too heavy now; I let it fall to the floor. I pull up my Colt Single Action Army.

 

My head is beginning to feel light, my thoughts becoming even more erratic. I'm thinking of Tipton and the pounding of hooves and I'm thinking of the Marshall with the booming voice, and I'm thinking of how much my shoulder is hurting and I'm ignoring the copious amount of blood I'm losing.

 

I take a deep breath; let it out slowly.

 

Then, for a moment, I think I can hear my mother reading to me from the Bible, and it doesn't seem strange at all. I'm sitting at her knee on a hot summer evening and she's reading while my father cleans his gun. He sees me watching and looks up. He holds the gun out to me. My mother stops reading to glare disapprovingly at him. I take the gun and hold it reverently, afraid but fascinated. Even I know that girls aren't supposed to hold guns. She needs to know how to use it, Emmy, he tells my mother, her brother's dead and we won't be here forever. Listen to me, Kate--do you know what this is?

 

Back in the cabin with my blood drip, drip, dripping on the floorboards, I nod and say, "A gun, Papa. Your gun."

 

No, girl, this ain't my gun. This is God's Gun. Any gun fired by a Harper is a Gun of God. You remember that. You can know how to fire gun--anyone can know how to fire a gun--but you need to know how to use a gun. And the only proper way to ever use a gun is in the service of the Lord.

 

"Yes, Papa,"I say distantly, leaning heavily against the wall beside the door, "Always."

 

"Kate Harper, you are accused of the robbery of no less than twelve privately owned trains, the murder of thirty-two men of the law, the theft of eighty-four thousand dollars, and extended evasion of the law. For your crimes against the government of the United States of America, you have been deemed a danger to the general safety of society, and are currently wanted dead or alive. But mostly just dead. So why don't you just give yourself up peacefully so we can all go home."

 

Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! Many are they that rise up against me.

 

Many there be which say of my soul, 'God will not save him'.

 

I take a deep breath; let it out slowly.

 

I am the Pillager, the Plunderer, the Thief and the Criminal and the Great Golden Hero.

 

 The World is mine and I am God's.

 

My mind is beginning to go.

 

But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

I pull the hammer back on my gun, the Gun of God. I stand in the door. The edges are glowing with the morning light. The edges glow.

 

"Come out, Kate!"

 

I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people that have set themselves against me round about.

 

Thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly.

 

And everything happens so slowly. I am calm. I open the door and step outside. The sun blinds me, burns my eyes. I raise my gun at a vast, sheer wall of glimmering metal stars: badges, all with their own guns already raised at me, two dozen silver barrels shining gloriously in the early morning light. I pull the trigger on the Gun of God.

 

I take a deep breath.

 

Let it out slowly.

 

 

Salvation belongeth unto the Lord: thy blessing is upon thy people.