The Falcon
fiction by Jefre Schmitz

"Goddammit!" he swore.

His feet shot out from beneath him, then he slid down the muddy wash in a free fall before his shin slammed into an exposed facing of tuff. A numbing pain paralyzed his shin.

The rain fell like a thousand waterfalls from the conifers and aspens to tumble in torrents down the wash through which Samuel Pitts made his descent. He sat still and waited for the pain to subside while water rushed into his back and all around. He winced as a fallen tree limb carried swiftly along plowed into his back and hurtled over his shoulder. Squinting hard, he could just make out a strip of the logging road below.

It had rained all night and into the early morning. By mid-morning, it had abated, and he'd made up his mind to head down the mountain while the getting was good. Having turned south after navigating the north rim to start down the west facing, the rain returned with a vengeance. Every step was treacherous, but he knew the mountain better than he knew himself.

The rainwater now sheeted across his face in thin, soft veils. He lifted his head and closed his eyes...

Yesterday afternoon, he stood motionless on the Great Promontory of the north rim, looking up the valley which fans and curves gently past the foothills of the towering San Juan Mountains, then recedes into the pale stretches of the distant mesas beyond. The wild coursing of the Uncompaghre River cuts a steel ribbon down the entire length of the valley, drawing countless herds of cattle and sheep to the edge of its rushes and rocky banks.

There, on the mesa horizon, he observed the storm's assemblage. Bluish strobes of light radiating across the trembling valley floor signaled its slow progression and stilled the milling herds. A cold surge of wind preceded and buffeted softly into the face of the north rim, announcing itself as a mild fluttering of the aspen leaves, silver and pale green, like some unearthly blessing from an unconventional god little understood by man.

As he watched, the peregrine falcon took up company with him... its shrill cry, the storm's vanguard. It traveled in long, sweeping arcs from the tops of the groves at the closed end of the valley, up the cliff walls below him, then ascended to within a hundred yards of where he stood, tilting and banking to flash its distinctively striped breast. It arrived some five years ago and immediately wove itself into Pitt's soul. It was his only possession he couldn't keep tethered to his beloved mountain and for that, he experienced the closest thing to what other men would call envy.

This vision and all others before it represented his perfect solitude. Solitude anywhere else would bear the curse of enduring loneliness. This was not his curse - it was his strength. His only curse was that he must, at times, take temporary leave of it to obtain the necessary provisions to sustain his mountain way of life. This was one of those times.

A half-mile from town, Pitts came upon the Stubbs' place and noticed something odd. He slowed for closer inspection. The rain had diminished to a fine mist, but a heavy gray persisted and draped an uneasy quiet over the place. Absent were any of the familiar smells one associated with Stubbs' place: cut lumber and the rendering of slain animals. Only the crisp odor of wet pine and mossy humus hung in the air.

Most of the time, Stubbs had some piece of machinery rattling or grinding away, sending noise rumbling up the mountain at all hours of the day and in any kind of weather. Stubbs' mule stood statue-still next to a barn, looking across the way at nothing in particular. No smoke issued forth from the shanty chimney or from any of the accustomed places marking his stills that ranged intermittently a few hundred feet up the mountain across a narrow stretch of the river running behind his place. Nothing moved at all.

Pitts scanned further, hearing only the frying pan noises of the rain lightly touching the earth. From the corner of his eye she emerged from around the side of the shanty. She caught sight of him at the same instant and froze.

Both might have thought each other lost companions - rejects from another civilization. He, with his long, lank and graying hair pasted about his shoulders, thinly veiling his gaunt, forgotten face. She, with dirty blonde hair, equally untamed and shooting outward in tangled masses from a narrow, angular face of primitive beauty.

It had been several years since he had seen her last, but Pitts recognized her as Stubbs' daughter. He vaguely recalled her name being Marilyn, or something like that.

She stared back at him with eyes wide open and trained directly at him, yet unfixed at the same time like those of some ghostly changeling. Pitts walked right into and behind those eyes and detected an intelligence that ran as still and sure as the river below them. He felt as though her eyes could track him with idle caution and contemplate the events of a lifetime all at once.

Pitts held a hand up over his eyes and looked about one more time to see if ol' Stubbs was somewhere about. The only thing that had moved was the mule that now made its way slowly down to the river.

He looked back at her standing there like a deer that had just lifted its head at the sound of a hunter's footfall. She had her jaw set more firmly now and regarded him more attentively. She opened her mouth slightly as if to say something, then thought better of it.

Pitts decided it was time to move on and not get wrapped up in anyone else's business... particularly someone like Stubbs. He stalked off with his head dropped to shield the rain. He permitted one last sidelong glance over to see her reaction. She watched him for a few strides, then looked back up the road to convince herself Pitts hadn't any company.

Pitts hobbled onward. At the last turn before entering town, he looked down at what was left of his boots. They were a sorry sight, but he couldn't complain. Perkins was a good man and would come through again, he could be sure.

Perkins' general store sat right on the town's edge and was a welcomed sight for any fly fisherman entering Paradox or any poor bastard fleeing it. Several fishermen stood around a Chevy truck shootin' the shit while two other young, hard-looking men dressed in camouflage green helped one another string a bow.

Pitts wondered what the hell those two were going to do with a bow and arrow. Any grizzly in these parts wouldn't miss a step on the way to lopping off an arm or gutting a man with only a dart sticking in them.

Before going up to the door, Pitts pulled his cap out of his back pocket and shoved it down over his eyes. It was crusty and smelled badly of mildew. He hated having to wear the damn thing, but trying to remain anonymous had a price tag on it.

At the far end of the porch spanning the length of the storefront, Pitts spotted a pair of boots waiting for him. That surprised him because Perkins wouldn't have been expecting him for another month. Pitts smiled and strode on over to them.

As he neared, the two bow hunters paused and looked sideways at him with an uneven mixture of passing curiosity and city-bred suspicion. At that very moment, the pale sun that had struggled all morning to assert itself, burned a hole through the clouds and surrounded Pitts with a halo of blinding light... his mystery remained intact.

Pitts muttered some kind of salutation and touched his bill. The bow hunters shielded their eyes and responded with a wooden, "Hidy."

Hmm... Texans, he thought.

Pitts grabbed the boots and walked to the opposite end of the porch. He sat down and removed his old boots, then tossed them into a rusty barrel next to the parking lot's edge.

Before putting on the dark leather brogans, Pitts ran a slow hand over them. It was evident that they'd never been worn and he made a note to bring some prime, black bear cutlets for Perkins his next time down. He had to tug hard to get the boots on, and the fit was more than a little snug.

"Wet weather'll make a man's feet swell and a good boot collapse," said a laughing voice from the doorway behind him. Pitts smiled without turning around.

"What clued ye I was comin on in?" asked Pitts.

"Last time we got blasted this bad, it flushed you on out. I figured this time wouldn't be any different." Perkins paused as the sun disappeared behind another black column of crenellated clouds beginning to roll in over Pitts' mountain. Lightening forked wickedly and an adjunct crack of thunder roared overhead.

"I watched you dragging your ass down the road. Rough passage down?"

"Whitewater all the way. Rugged... rugged," said Pitts, shaking his head.

Pitts stood and took a few steps around. He looked back over at Perkins and said, "I'm much obliged. Foot rot ain't flatterin for a man my age."

"Neither was having to steal shoes," Perkins said with a wink.

Perkins spoke of a time when Pitts would slip into Paradox under the cover of darkness and steal what he needed. It was never more than anyone would notice because he didn't need much. The mountain provided a wondrous bounty.

Every few visits, Pitts would burgle his way into Perkins' general store and steal a pair of inexpensive boots for himself and canvas shoes for Sadie and Josh. Perkins eventually wised up and caught Pitts red-handed one night. Perkins almost cried with relief upon discovering it was Pitts because he had already made up his mind he'd have to blow the head off the sumbitch if it was one of them forestry fucks from town who found courage in a pint of whiskey.

After awhile, Perkins got a handle on Pitts' schedule and would set out a reasonable pair of second-hand boots and shoes for him. Eventually, they forged a friendship that suited their independent and stoic natures.

Pitts, from Texas, and Perkins, from Missouri, arrived in Paradox twenty-seven years ago with the first wave of workers hired by the U.S. Forestry Service commissioned to revitalize a region left devastated by years of copper ore mining. The men worked hard, but the pay was reasonable. Early on, both men were respectful of one another, but too much alike to ever get close.

After Pitts' brother, Blake, arrived a few years later with his wife, Mae, and her mother, Sadie, all kinds of hell broke loose and circumstances drove them all up the mountain for good. Perkins lost touch, but never forgot.

"When are you going invite me up for a visit? I haven't seen Sadie in a hunnerd years. I suppose she still squats and pisses vinegar," said Perkins with a chuckle.

"That ol' woman'd pepper you with a spray of lead before you'd get a 'Hidy' out. She reminds me every day I'm the only white man she won't shoot on sight. Hell, I gotta shake tree limbs and holler every time I get back to camp, elst I catch'er unaware with an itchy trigger finger," said Pitts. "The only peace me and that woman's ever known sits atop that mountain."

Perkins laughed, but he knew it was the truth. His laugh drifted off and he asked serious-like, "You never told me what happened to ol' Blake. That brother of yours was a good man... straight-shooter."

Pitts' lips drew back into a grimace. "Ye never ast 'bout'm before." Pitts dropped his head. "He, uh.. well... aw, hell."

Pitts shook his head, then said: "He jest couldn't handle it when Mae passed on givin birth to Josh. Things started comin apart, then one day he jest up't 'n took a flyin lesson off the promontory. His bones are still down in that grove beneath it, I reckon."

Both stood silently for a moment. Brightening a little, Pitts lifted his feet and walked in place a few steps.

"Damn, Perk. Theseyer ain't no bottom tier boots. What gives?" asked Pitts.

"The fishing guide business has been good. Thought I'd pass it along to a friend," said Perkins, leaning his head out from under the porch awning to examine the weather.

"Sadie need re-shoddin?" asked Perkins.

"Nope, hers are fine. She don't traffic much in'm anymore. Slowin down considerably," answered Pitts.

Pitts thought a moment, the said: "I gotta tell ye, we got just 'bout wiped out last night. The thatch on the lean-to warshed out and took most of our stock on down the mountain. All of Sadie's fixins: flour, herbs and dairy... gone. Most of my cured meat buried. Shit, two goats up't and lit out. Bottom line, Perk, I ain't got two plug nickels to trade widja."

"Forget it, Sammy. The day I start twisting the arm of the only decent man this end of valley is the day I'll have to start darkening the door of some church. Jesus'd shit a black Bible if he saw me at his front stoop," said Perkins.

Pitts didn't bother to say thanks; he didn't have to. He merely glanced over at Perkins with a half-smile. Pitts held his eyes on Perkins for a bit and thought to himself how well Perkins had weathered over time - a little softer through the middle, a lot rougher around the edges, yet all of the calm resolve intact. This town could be dragged by its balls through hell and Perk would keep his head about him, Pitts thought.

Perkins regarded the darkening skies and asked: "You aren't planning to head back up that mountain tonight, huh?"

"Hell, no. I'm aimin to track down Josh, God willin. You reckon you can get me some bearin's on'm?"

"Sammy, it wouldn't be too smart to be sniffing around town right now. Lotsa changes and most of 'em wouldn't suit you."

"Perk, I don't plan to go ridin in nekked firin a pistol. Folks don't ever pay me any mind. I'm a goddam shadow."

"Well, that might give you a better shot at finding him cuz he drifts around like one, too. Last I heard he was pushing a broom over at Jake's."

Pitts sat down on the edge of the porch and hung his head. Perkins sat next to him and lit a cigarette. Pitts waved him off when Perkins offered him one.

"What kinda hell's that boy catchin?" Pitts asked softly.

"Lots. Hell, there ain't that much to him. Hardly any bigger than when I last saw him five years ago. But that boy's got a hide thicker than a hillbilly's noggin."

Perkins looked at him. "Somebody's going to kill him someday. You know it's coming."

"Yeah, I know. I'm goin to try to convince'm of that if'n I can get a hand on'm," said Pitts.

"You ever figure out why he left for good?" asked Perkins.

"I reckon he needed sumthin he couldn't find. Thar's a lot to be had on that mountain top if'n one knows where to look. Towards the end, the last year or so when he started sneakin down from time to time, I couldn't tell'm or show'm shit." Pitts craned his head to look on down the road as if hoping he might see Josh walking towards him with a smile.

"Mountain life won't take for most troubled boys, you hafta admit," said Perkins.

"I reckon. Takes after Blake. Blake wudda been a good daddy fer'm if'n he'd stuck it out. All I can do is jest tho' up my hands," sighed Pitts.

Changing the subject, Pitts asked: "Hey, what's gawn on up at Stubbs? Looked like a horde of temperance ladies came through and shut'm down."

Perkins' expression soured a bit, and he stood like it was time to make a point.

"That brings me back to those changes I was talking about. Stubby's cooking in hell right about now. Not saying he didn't have it coming, but you wouldn't want your worst enemy going the way he did."

Pitts straightened for a better listen.

"Sammy, there's a new badge in Paradox. Name's Dirker. The sumbitch brags he's from Texas, but betting money would wager he clawed his way outta hell getting here. No one can, or will, pin anything on'm, but word has it he's already killed five or six men...one a colored man. He ain't gonna need any excuse if he catches sight of Josh."

"What's this redneck constable got to do with Stubbs?"

"Rumor spread Stubby's daughter, Merilee, got knocked up and gave birth to a little boy. No surprise there since she was the only piece of ass 'round here, in my view, that'll have you fumbling with your zipper. Anyway, something 'bout the baby set ol' Stubby off to beating her up just 'bout daily. She'd stagger on into town bloodied and bruised until one day Dirker noticed and thought he'd pay Stubby a visit."

Perkins' gaze wandered upriver before continuing. "That same day, one of my customers fishing up on Santee's Hole spotted a man's leg floating on by - pants and a boot still clinging to it. You know what that dumb sumbitch did? Kept on fishing. Said the trout were biting and he wasn't going to leave. An hour later, a trunk followed with Stubby's plaid shirt wrapped 'round it, then ol' Stubby's head came bobbing on down right behind it. Finally decided then to pack up his shit and come on in. Me and the dog hiked on back in there and found most of the pieces. It was clear he'd been cut up that day - fresh 'n all. I say cut up, but hell, I swear his head had been wrenched off... kinda like a chicken."

"I reckon you believe it was this Dirker that done did it, huh?" asked Pitts.

"That man's a monster, Sammy. One look'll convince you of that. Steer real wide, I'm telling you."

Pitts kicked at the ground and said: "I saw Merilee back up at Stubbs'. She looked kinda ragged... scared. We didn't say a word to one another."

"You'd be the first one I know of that's seen her since the killing. She have that child with her?"

"Nah. Jest her and all she did was eye me fer a spell. I figured sumthin was up, but I cain't be gittin into things."

Pitts stood and stretched. His shin throbbed something fierce and he felt ten more years had been thrown on his back.

The skies flashed and thunder exploded in close succession.

"Damn, that was close!" exclaimed Perkins. "Look, where you going to hole up tonight?"

Pitts shrugged. "Haven't thought that far ahead. You reckon I can curl up in that shed of yers?"

"You're damn right. Safer here."

Perkins then dug a hand into his pocket and removed a roll of bills. Pitts hated this part of their transactions because he always got the better part of them; especially when showing up empty-handed as he had now. He looked away as Perkins peeled off a few dollars. Next thing he knew, Perkins reached over and stuffed the money in his shirt pocket.

"Here. Buy yourself a beer over at Jake's and give the rest to Josh. I'll pack up your provisions and leave'm in the shed for you," said Perkins, resting a hand on Pitts' shoulder.

Pitts forced himself to look Perkins in the eye, then cut them away quickly with a bowed head to signal a silent thank-you. After adjusting his cap a little more firmly on his head, he headed off.

The rain kicked in hard just as he made his way through the network of mud pathways that zigzagged on the outskirts of the town square. What few traveled about walked hunched, leaning into the slanting downpour. Pitts veered from all others, bristling uncomfortably if anyone strayed too close.

It had been some ten years since he had last ventured this far into town, but not much had changed. The same collection of shoddily constructed clapboard buildings still stood, many listing in disrepair or decaying from disuse. A slow death awaited this town with little hope of resuscitation.

At a far corner of the town square, he ducked under a covered porch in front of a barbershop and took a look around. The town sat in a basin at the end of the valley's run, surrounded by three gently sloping mountains carved by eons of glacial melts. The storm had stalled directly overhead and pressed its heavy burden down onto the town. Tendrils of smoke-like clouds dangled from the charcoal sky like the gnarled fingers of some wraith casting a spell on the forsaken town.

The row of whorehouses that sat up on a small ridge above the river was barely visible. Dim, yellow lights glowed from several of its squat, dingy rooms like an avatar of the pathetic desolation of those that chose to live here.

A rapping noise sounded on a window behind him, and he turned to look. An angry, distrustful face appeared from behind a foggy window, vehemently mouthing words Pitts couldn't hear. An arm suddenly appeared from out of the shadows motioning to Pitts to get a move on. The arm then jerked down a shade that read, We're Closed - Now Git! Pitts ignored this and remained standing there, waiting for the rain to slack.

After several minutes, the rain abruptly halted as if commanded to do so. His vision improved and he could now make out the faded, hand-painted sign for Jake's Saloon on the other side of the square. A quick glance around revealed few onlookers, and he took a cautious step out into the street.

He hadn't taken more than three steps before a door on the left-hand side of the square burst open to slam loudly against a wood-sided building. Dirker emerged from a darkened doorway like some sort of prehistoric beast. Pitts noted the "City Constable" sign posted above the door.

"My God!" mouthed Pitts as he watched the enormous man stride with unholy purpose into the street. A sharp chill always accompanies a mountain storm, yet this man wore nothing beneath a pair of expansive, blue denim overalls. His snakeskin boots and black Stetson were the only trappings of his preposterous charade of law enforcement.

Dirker stopped dead in the middle of the square and held his head tilted upward, as if to catch scent of some hidden prey. Pitts found himself backpedaling to slide behind the corner side of the barbershop.

Pitts peered back around to see if Dirker would move on. Instead, he stood firm, scanning about in a reconnoitering fashion. A mane of black hair fell in thick curls from beneath the brim of his hat to drape over his massive shoulders. The thick, dark features of his entire countenance bore an unfathomable malevolence. All pedestrians either receded into the adjacent side streets or tried blending in with the storefronts.

Pitts waited and studied the man. Dirker seemed content to merely pose and enjoy the terrifying effect of his visage. Pitts felt a knot of anxiety begin to tighten behind his chest. His destination lay a scant fifty steps from him, but to any prudent man, it might as well have been a day's trip on foot.

Suddenly, a piercing screech echoed above, and Pitts looked up to see the falcon knife through the cloudbank like a laser. With its wings tucked, it sped from the back end of town and across the length of square, never more than twenty yards from the ground. All watched as it continued on out of town, then observed the full extension of its wings to lift it back into the clouds. Pitts' chest swelled with a powerful emotion that shoved aside his alien fear.

Dirker stood transfixed, clearly astonished at what he had just witnessed. The event had the effect of finally shifting him, and he shambled off. Pitts stepped out from behind the barbershop and followed Dirker unfalteringly into Jake's.

Conversations turned to murmurs, heads bowed, and shoulders rode up to better cover their faces with the collars of their jackets as Dirker strode in. Pitts sidled around him to take a seat at the nearest end of the bar.

Pitts had his back turned to the rest of saloon, yet a large mirror that hung above the bar provided a good view of most everything behind him. He glanced up and caught Dirker's reflection standing over his left shoulder. Pitts fastened a stare and set his jaw. Dirker seemed unnerved by that and moved off to the other end of the bar, his boots clacking a slow rhythm over the hardwood floors.

Pitts stole a moment to examine himself in the mirror. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. He pushed his cap further back and looked at the man inside with perfect clarity. He saw eyes that were deep, clear pools containing a secret knowledge... knowledge of an absolute truth gliding like some silhouetted phantasmagory just below the surface. A faint smile etched its way onto his face and he ordered a whiskey.

Dirker's voice shook the room.

"Wilson! Word has it ye have some wayward, no-talkin, half-nigger workin heah. What am I tuh make of that?"

The wizened bartender stiffened in the middle of pouring Pitts's whiskey, fearful of saying anything. Pitts noticed Wilson's pouring hand beginning to tremble, so he gently took the bottle away and finished pouring himself.

"I cain't abide with no nigger-harborin in this town of mine. I've always been clear on that. Now, gawn 'n tell me where he be!"

Dirker rose and his stool tumble to the floor behind him. Wilson recoiled and collided into a liquor shelf, sending a bottle of tequila crashing to the floor. Dirker slammed both hands on the bar and bent over it to take a look behind.

"Where he be, goddammit!" he bellowed.

Pitts felt Dirker's hot, acrid breath drift into him, yet he sat still and fixed his eyes into the mirror. Wilson whimpered, his whole body fidgeting and his jaw jumping all about.

Dirker wheeled to face the rest of the saloon with a hiss of air sucked through his bared teeth. Pitts watched all from the mirror. In a far corner under a tin-covered lamp, he saw the two bow hunters. One began to rise with an overly ambitious expression stamped on his face, but his partner wisely grabbed hold of his arm and held tight.

Damn fool, Pitts thought.

Dirker glared briefly at the bow hunters before a door on the opposite side of the saloon opened. Pitts abruptly set down his drink and controlled an urge to bolt from his stool.

Josh stood at the door with the light angling from behind, casting an oblique shadow on a wooden figure. Pitts' shin throbbed, and a cold hand of fear clamped down on his heart. He struggled to pry the icy fingers loose.

"Jesus Christ! They was right - a vanilla nigger. Wilson! Whaddya think ol' Jake would do if'n he found all his hep swingin from a rope in the square? Bidness might fall off some, ye reckon?"

Tears ran down Wilson's face. Pitts whispered: "Git on outta here ol' man 'fore he kills ye just fer sport." Wilson shot a glance at the door, but couldn't move one jot.

Josh looked behind him, charting an escape route while Pitts contemplated intercession. Then, someone said something.

"Well I'll be goddamned! Ye think a man could enjoy a drink without some yahoo bustin in 'n working his jaw like some jackass?"

The drunk bow hunter sat cross-legged, but it was evident he was prepared for a conflict. Dirker drew breath into his massive chest and seemed to consume an even more sizable chunk of the shrinking saloon. Josh took a step back behind the doorjamb.

"Yer talkin to the law of thisyer town, boy." Dirker's eyes looked like headlamps on a freight train.

"Shit! Ye ain't nuttin' but bags of air - the kind me and my brother heah use'ta kick the hell outta back home fer bein bigger than their britches."

The drunk's brother gulped down his drink to fuel his race against a fear that nipped at his heels.

In one gigantic stride, Dirker was on the man. Dirker drove his fist like a piston into the drunk's face before he could even rise from his chair. The skull collapsed with the sound of an ice sheet cracking, and he crumpled in a heap. Blood gushed scarlet and splashed upon the floor.

People scrambled. Pitts shouted at Josh to skedaddle, however, Josh stayed put. The drunk's brother stood gaping at the limp corpse. Dirker hesitated for only a second before grabbing the other by the hair as though to wrest his head from his neck. That shook the man from his stupor and he twisted free and sped off, leaving a wad of hair in Dirker's huge mitt.

Suddenly, Pitts found himself outside of his body, like some winged creature had lifted him aloft in its talons. In his right hand, he saw the half-filled bottle of whiskey Wilson had left on the bar. He looked back over at Dirker and waited as his own body began moving towards Dirker with alarming speed.

The bottle shattered against Dirker's head with a benign, hollow sound. Dirker turned mechanically with a fleeting expression of mild surprise.

The cold hand of fear had withdrawn, and Pitts steeled his jaw in the face of Dirker's wild fury. Dirker grasped him by the shoulders and they locked eyes. Pitts' shone brilliantly as he drilled into the black caverns of Dirker's. The deep pools turned a magnificent blue and the falcon soared within azure depths. Dirker flinched as though he, too, saw the great bird of prey.

"Let go of'm, peckerwood," said Josh with a frayed voice.

Pitts swung his eyes over at Josh. "Son, git the hell on outta heah."

Dirker took too long disengaging from Pitts, and in that interval, Josh vanished.

"Eeeaawww!" growled Dirker and shoved Pitts backwards. Pitts felt the air escape his body as he smashed into the bar. While doubled over, he managed to lift his head enough to see Dirker leaving through the door where Josh had stood.

Pitts straightened and hurried outside. He looked about, searching for any sign of Josh. Panic seized him momentarily as he agonized over what to do next.

Dirker came lumbering from out behind a building next to the Constable's Office roaring, "Sonny! Goddammit, idjit. Git awn out heah! We're a'goin coon huntin!"

A skinny, ragtag individual bolted out of the Constable's Office, slipping and almost falling on the wet porch as he skidded to a halt in front of Dirker.

"Jesus Christ, shit-fer-brains. We ain't goin after'm like two swingin dicks on a picnic. Git yer ass back in thar and bring back dem rifles."

After witnessing that exchange, Pitts relaxed a bit, confident Josh had the wherewithal to elude the two of them. Simple logic told him to disappear, too, and he headed on back to Perkins'.

He worried himself sick for most of the walk back, hoping Josh had enough sense to get back up the mountain. With every movement or rustle in the trees and brush, Pitts stopped and took a long look, carefully calling out Josh's name.

Pitts told Perkins everything as they ate out on the front porch of general store that evening.

"Look. You stay put right here tonight and try not to worry any. That boy's got more sense than any man 'round here when it comes to these mountains. Dirker ain't going to find squat unless Josh is looking for him... which he ain't."

"Yer right, I s'pose," said Pitts, running his eyes up and down the road between bites of his venison sandwich.

"I'm going to be up late tonight doing inventory. I'll keep my ears pricked and a rifle loaded. You look like you got on the wrong end of an ass-whupping. Get some sleep and I'll wake you up early to get a head start up that mountain."

So, Pitts turned in a little more at ease, but still very much on edge. In the corner of the shed, Pitts saw all his provisions stacked and bundled up neatly. He couldn't imagine where he'd be without Perkins.

He lay for several hours turning things over in his mind. He was exhausted, but sleep wasn't going to come easy. Outside, the clouds had given way to a cold, starlit night. Inside the shed, he squirmed within the oppressive heat of his troubled7 mind.

When he finally did manage to doze off, he immediately drifted into a shockingly vivid dream. It was another one of his flying dreams. They were frequent and typically satisfying. This one assumed a much different identity.

Most times, his flights started from the Great Promontory to travel up the great valley, towards the distant mesas, following the winding path of the Uncompaghre. Along the way, he'd hold communion with the silent herds, the darting trout and the steadfast ranchers who tracked his progression with a heavy, calloused hand arched over the brow of their weathered faces.

This night, he soared above the Great Promontory in wide, looping circles. Instead of flying with a sense of joyful liberation, he flew with a sense of trepidation. He flew as though tasked with a vigil, waiting for something terrible to happen under his watchful guardianship. His flight began to spiral into a gradual descent, increasing the acuity of his vision.

Then, out of the tree line that bordered the base of the promontory, he saw Sadie. Her stooped figure clutched a walking stick and hobbled along with deliberate step, up the rocky embankment of the promontory. He opened what he thought to be his mouth to issue a warning, yet his voice manifested itself as only a foreign noise, unknown to him, ignored by her.

She continued up the promontory, perilously approaching the rim of the overlook. His voice was no longer of any use. He dove hard and swift and as he approached, he marveled at the shadow cast by his wingspan... much broader than usual. Then from below his body, he saw his talons splay... again, more impressive. The size and strength he knew they possessed frightened and excited him.

He plucked her neatly from the brink of promontory's edge, then beat his majestic wings furiously, carrying them both higher and higher. Had it been a cloudless night, he would have picked a star, any star, and flown towards it... away from the mountain where she'd be safe forever.

A noise stirred him from his sleep, but not so much so that he fully awoke. Through fluttering lids he watched the shed door being pushed open. An elongated shadow slanted inward, followed closely by the head and shoulders of one he recognized... one he wanted so badly to grab up in his arms and rescue.

Behind Josh, another shadow loomed, motionless and unsubstantial. For a moment, the soft light of the moon gently illuminated Josh's face, calming Pitts and allowing him to rest peacefully. In the next instant, the second shadow surged and collided with Josh's against the wall above his cot, then disappeared without a trace. Josh then turned abruptly to leave.

Pitts found himself trapped inside this half-dream. The door closed behind Josh and Pitts shouted his name in the deafening silence. He shouted a second time and cursed his limbs of stone that refused to move.

Perkins shook Pitts hard to rouse him. Pitts heard Perkins calling to him, but it seemed to be a voice on the other side of a coffin lid - a lid fastened tight. In his exhausted state, Pitts could only wait until someone pried it open.

"Sammy? Sammy. Get your ass up, son! C'mon, now!" Perkins grabbed him up by the shoulders and shook harder.

"I've seen Dirker! You hear me? That sumbitch was here!"

Pitts opened his eyes at the mention of Dirker's name and finally pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"What? Where?" Pitts asked with a low voice, rubbing his face.

"Here! Just a couple of minutes ago. Dammit, Sammy. I coulda shot that bastard cold. I couldn't do it. Jesus Christ, Sammy, I couldn't do it!" he said in a brittle voice.

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing. Just looked at me as he was heading up the road... towards the mountain."

"Anyone with'm?"

"Naw. Shit, Sammy, I coulda plugged him good."

Pitts stood with the sound of cracking joints and ran his fingers through his hair. Motes swam in a shaft of light at the door, and Pitts knew that it was still very early in the morning.

"This ain't yer battle, Perk. 'Sides, they'd destroy ye if'n ye'd taken him out, shore 'nuff."

"Whaddya going do, Sammy?"

"I'm gawn up that mountain. I ain't got no choice."

"He'll kill you."

"Ain't no choice."

Pitts walked out into the day and thought to himself how glorious it would have been under different circumstances. The still, cool air barely disturbed a tree. Only the sounds of the mountain bluebird and the river's sojourn to the Gunnison met the ear. A yellow tanager flitted from fence rail to post and the morning dew glistened.

Perkins shoved a .45 into his hand and said, "You got six rounds. You'll need 'em all."

Pitts stared at it a moment, then handed it back.

"I'm gawn to hafta be unencumbered gittin up that mountain. He head up the warsh?"

"Not sure. I didn't follow him any further than the end of the lot. I reckon he'd find any path he could take. He's 'bout three, four minutes ahead of you."

"I'm takin the flumes back up... faster that way."

"That's way 'round on the north side, Sammy. Besides, in broad daylight? Someone's bound to see you."

Pitts and Perkins started walking up the road together.

"Gittin up that warsh's gawn to be a slippery proposition. I'll make betta time using my pulleys on the flumes. If'n someone sees me, I figure things are gawn change anyways today. Don't make no difference."

Pitts then turned and said: "Where ye goin?"

"As far as you'll let me."

"Ye git off here. Look, I aim to be comin back fer them provisions," said Pitts with a determined grin.

Perkins pulled up and stood with his hands on his hips. He said nothing further as he watched Pitts break into a slow jog then disappear around a bend in the road.

A heavy fatigue invaded his body three quarters the way up the north facing. He was far from unobtrusive as he hoisted himself up the mining flumes by way of his makeshift pulleys. Being spotted by a curious onlooker now was the least of his concerns.

A shrill cry echoed overhead and he stopped to look up. He was only a couple hundred yards below the outcropping on the west side of the promontory. There, dipping low against the rim, was the falcon. Its shrieking seemed frantic, the sounding of an alarm, and he doubled his efforts.

He reached the outcropping almost out of breath, yet he pushed on and finally crested the west side of the promontory. It was downhill from there to his encampment just below the tree line. He was certain he had arrived before Dirker.

He took a quick look about, but could no longer see the falcon. As he began his descent, a shotgun blast boomed out from below - his shotgun. He now knew he was too late. His knees buckled as though the bones in his legs had disintegrated.

He willed himself headlong into something he knew would be devastating. His mind's eye played out an image: a raging fire sweeping up the mountain and out of control, the mighty battlements of the Great Promontory crumbling away in huge sheets to tumble and billow up in ashes from the fruited groves below.

Pitts' cache of tools and traps lay hidden in a stone enclave bordering the tree line. He ducked in and took up a scythe - rarely used and razor sharp. He continued on with a myriad of images, both beautiful and terrifying, racing through his head.

Finally, he parted his way through a hedge of thick junipers and stopped to behold the desecration at hand. Dirker's back was to him, arm raised, clutching a broad-bladed ax. It rose and fell with the methodical meter of a madman. Blood flung in thick, crimson ropes from the ax blade as it reached the apex of each stroke.

Pitts' face contorted into an ugly, foul expression borne from a violent collision of wrath and grief. An ocean of noise roared all about him, but he could quite clearly hear Dirker's grunts accompanying each murderous blow delivered.

He now stood a mere three feet from Dirker. His own life seemed to have already ended no matter what he did next. The weight of the scythe seemed to have increased two-fold, yet he raised it with the help of an accorded fate.

Then something odd happened. The airspace between himself and Dirker bent slightly, or perhaps distorted in the blink of an eye. Dirker must have sensed it, too, because he ceased his slaughter and wavered unsteadily on his feet.

For several seconds, Pitts looked on, mystified. Then he saw the shaft of the arrow embedded deeply in a fir, two body lengths away at Dirker's left. Calculating direction, Pitts turned his head to the right.

The surviving bow hunter stared back at his deed with a blank expression. No sign of retribution registered anywhere on his face. The bow hunter shifted his eyes to Pitts and they briefly looked at one another as if neither could grasp the significance of anything anymore.

Dirker made a gurgling noise and dropped his ax. He began to turn to face his adversaries. Pitts took a step back, keeping his eyes directly on Dirker, not wanting to see the aftermath of the savage attack.

The arrow had torn a gaping wound through Dirker's neck, completely severing his windpipe. He held a hand over the wound and struggled to breathe. An evil glint still burned in his eyes, however, and Pitts knew what he had to do.

The first blow of the scythe cleaved Dirker from the left collarbone to the right side of the abdomen; the second, across the left arm at the elbow, through the ribcage to finally intersect the path of the first. With that, Dirker literally fell apart in pieces.

Pitts averted his eyes as Dirker tumbled. He strove to fight back tears he hadn't shed since he was a child. Now on his knees, he looked up at the bow hunter.

The young man casually slung his bow over his shoulder while holding his eyes firmly on the horror before him. It was impossible to tell what thoughts ran through his mind before he turned and left without a word.

It was many minutes Pitts knelt motionless before the cry of the falcon rang out again. He lifted his head and tried to locate it through the thick canopy of trees. The cries rang out again from the direction of the promontory, so he rose to follow.

He trudged up the embankment, pulling the weight of twenty years of memories of his time on the mountain. They were to convene one last time. The falcon banked and dove repeatedly against the cliff walls, patiently awaiting his arrival.

Near the rim's edge, he collapsed. He lay with his back propped up against a large boulder. The falcon now spoke to him. It made several passes, each time speaking something new. Some words comforted him; others saddened him tremendously. Ultimately, the falcon bid him farewell.

He watched the falcon make its way up the valley and on to the distant mesas beyond. All the while, the very fabric of his soul unraveled. When the falcon was no more than a speck against the cloudless sky, he succumbed entirely to a profound despair and loneliness he'd never known.

At some interval, a sound interrupted his prostration. Was it the sound of a child crying? Pitts had his head buried under his arm when he thought he heard the noise. He didn't want to look; he didn't want to look at anything except darkness right then.

Again, he heard it, followed by the crunch of footfall in the surrounding scree. A hand gently tugged at his arm, and he lifted it from atop his head. The bright sun blinded him, so he put a hand up to block it.

Merilee's face appeared like an angel's, her wild hair shining golden with the sun at her back. Her smile contained all the goodness in the world that he had thought destroyed in the wake of today's events.

He tried to smile back, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. She reached down again with one arm and helped pull him into a sitting position. In her other arm, she cradled the child - pale, mottled and bustling with nervous energy. Its tiny arms clawed at the air and grasped at things that intrigue a child's mind.

Merilee noticed Pitts ogling the child and laughed, then just as quickly, began to cry with the joy of having just rescued him from his bitter agony. Pitts' eyes shone wet, but he held his quivering jaw firmly.

Was deliverance at hand?

"Here," Merilee said and extended her arms to carefully place the child in his.

He trembled and the child belted out a mighty scream that would have rivaled that of the falcon. Pitts and Merilee looked at one another and laughed.

Someone else approached. Pitts looked at him first with astonishment, then relief. Josh placed an arm around Merilee and drew her near, whereupon she closed her eyes and leaned to rest her head against his chest. Pitts looked down at their child and watched its eyes dart about, taking inventory of all the splendor of its new home.

"My God, look! Over there!" whispered Josh and pointed across the way towards the overlook.

A golden eagle perched royally on the rim's edge, a glorious presage of a benevolent mountain god. In a spectacular display of power and grace, it spread its wings full and stamped about, splintering the variegated rock with its vise-like talons. Directly above the crown of the giant eagle flickered a morning star, a beacon, and Pitts knew Sadie had gone home.

The child stirred and screamed again. Pitts bent his head and whispered an ancient secret, then clasped the child tightly to his breast so that it might hear the rejoicing of his reincarnated soul.

Copyright © 2002 Jefre Schmitz
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Jefre Schmitz's day job is Technical Manager of the automated financial systems for a large state agency in Austin, Texas...spectacularly uninteresting, he says, but "it puts vittles on the table." In the summer of 2001, he developed an itch to start scribbling some words on paper after having read the entire works of Cormac McCarthy and Flannery O'Connor. His aspirations are not to attain the lofty heights of these two authors, but rather to pay homage by practicing an art they perfected and "have a damn good time in the process."