Sangre de Cristo.
A teaser for a project I'm working on set in the wild west.
Dyin’ just ain’t like it is in literature. It’s a slow, silent thief, creeping in the chill of the night.
There is a moment, a breath, an instant when the bitter cold hands of death are closed around its victim, slowly, ever so slowly stealing away the essence of life, until it fades to oblivion. When the light of one’s eyes steadily dims deep and grey over many hours, fading to darkness under luminescent sky of twinkling stars. The soul frees from the tethering to its mortal body, being swept into the cool western breeze, finally receiving absolution. It often is a slow process, like drifting to deep sleep or embarking upon uncharted lands, taking time for the birds. But oh, it can snatch quickly too, snuffing life like a thread of flame reduced to tinder and smoke. There is no rhyme or reason to death, no meaning to be found. Only finality. An ever-lingering presence, haunting in the shadows, unbeknownst to all except those who succumb to it. Until one day, we too, shall be captured in silence. How I wish mine eyes were spared death’s sight.
Colter Grey stood atop an overlook, peering west. He was deep in thought as rich crimson reds gave way to violet in the setting sun collapsing behind the distant rigid mountainline. Sangre de Cristo; blood of Christ adequately named as stripes of blood-red gleam conceded hitherto. The mountains whispered stories of redemption. Of hope. Of a new beginning. All masked upon a twilight eve. A half-lit tobacco pipe rested in Colter’s mouth, clear wisps of smoke tracing the air, steadily curling and rising over his brow before kissing the wind where it disappeared into the fading sky. The day had been calm, rather warm for this time of year in southern Colorado. However, the further he approached the mountains, the more the air had that peculiar bite that chilled the bones. Colter had not anticipated traveling this late in September, knowing full well that come snow season he could find himself stranded and alone, with only his quarter-horse, Sentry, for company. But it was time and the opportunity seemed to seize him with haste. Colter knew he must move on.
Sentry was Colter’s only companion, a gift given to him when his brother fell at the onset of war. He approached her, patting her gently on the side of her muzzle, her breath warming his outstretched left hand as he began unfastening the pack saddle hanging off her hip, carefully removing a canvas wedge tent and multiple stitched blankets. Sentry sighed softly, her hooves shifting on the earth, stirring a cloud of dust that rose toward Colter. “I know, girl, I know,” Colter said, the pipe in his mouth now extinguished as he unfolded one of the blankets that contained grain for Sentry and got on his hands and knees to begin preparing the site.
Once finished, he located a nearby body of water, a small creek feeding into it from the northern edge, scribbling over small mounds and stone. In the center of the water stood a lone fawn, silently drinking and basking until it noticed Colter and Sentry and lifted its eyes, its ears perking up in curious observation. It did not flee, and instead gave itself back to sipping, ripples of water steadily expanding around each subtle movement. Despite the long travels, water had remained quite plentiful as they neared the mountainous terrain, marking an end to the threat of parchedness. Colter could tell that Sentry was rather relieved by this as well; her body subtly more relaxed and responsive upon the trek, her mood noticeably improved.
Night fell quickly as they returned to the campsite, the stars stretching like vast, gleaming rivers to the ends of the earth. Colter set about gathering kindling and soon coaxed a small fire to life. The flames crackled softly, blending with the rhythmic clicks of crickets and cicadas singing their song under a canopy of astral luminaries. Colter removed his black leather gambler’s hat, resting it upon his knee as he admired the heavens, and partook a portion of dried venison before he eventually retired to the tent and placed the cap over his brow. There would be need for tracking wild deer and antelope to replenish his waning food supply on the morrow, but hopefully the road ahead would satisfy. And the destination offer refuge for his weary mind.
This is fantastic!
Niiice!