This is the first few pages of a short story. The full story will be available upon publication. If you like it, please click here to send an email to duke@dukepennell.com and let him know! Death Rides a Pale Horse By Duke Pennell All I ever wanted was to be left in peace but, when they killed her, the gentle part of me died and something hard and ugly took its place. Fawn was hanging blankets out to air in the chilly fall breeze when three men walked their horses up to her. I was coming home from hunting, halfway down the aspen-covered slope across from our cabin, when they pulled their pistols. Puffs of smoke sprang from their guns and I went numb, frozen by the wrongness of it. A second later, the sound from their pistols reached me, just dull pops at this distance. I heard them laugh then, and there was more smoke. They were shooting down into her as she lay on the ground, and her body jerked with each impact of a bullet. Everything went red in a flare of fury. I yanked my Sharps rifle out of its saddle scabbard, snapped it to my shoulder, and fired. It was a good four hundred yards to the cabin, a long shot for most rifles, but well within range for the Big Fifty buffalo gun, and the heavy bullet took the nearest rider in the chest, ripping him off his horse. I reloaded and took aim while the other two stared up the slope. Pilgrims. Shouldn't be standin' still like that. My rifle bucked and roared again. The shot was off, but a mist of blood burst from the side of one man's head. He yowled and slapped his hand to his left ear, then wheeled his horse and headed off at a dead run. His partner was right behind him, hightailing it, with the riderless horse running after. I kicked Smoky into a run and headed him straight down the side of the slope. Knew I was pushing him too hard for this hill, but I paid that no mind. We came out of the aspens close enough for me to get a look at them. The one I'd winged had brown hair. The other one wore what looked like a coonskin cap, only it was black with a streak of white. A skunk's pelt. Then my horse slipped on some loose rock and went down. We hit hard, and those two could have had me then if they'd come back--but they were running, not fighting. We were banged up pretty good, but I managed to hobble to the cabin. Too late. My beautiful Fawn was dead. I fell to my knees. Like a forlorn old wolf, I threw back my head and howled. Don't know how long I was there like that. Felt like forever. Finally, though, I came to my senses. She was gone and I had to build her burial pyre. I looked around--it needed to be in just the right place--and saw a patch of wildflowers a little ways from the cabin. She'd been partial to wildflowers. Said they brought beauty into her life. This'll do. Took the better part of the afternoon to gather enough pine poles to build it. I laid her body on it, along with all her hair combs and other finery, and covered her with some of the flowers she'd loved so much. Cutting a hank of my hair, I made a small slit on my chest and squeezed a few drops of blood out, wetting the lock. I laid that on her bosom, so she'd always have some of me and my heartblood with her. Cut a lock of her hair and put it in a pouch I hung around my neck. Then I sang her death song. I sang to the Great Spirit and told him to welcome a good woman, one who'd loved the mountains where we'd lived, the passing of the seasons, and the life she was given. It may not have been a true Ute death song, but it was the best I could do. I lit a torch, set the platform ablaze. My eyes got blurry, knees buckled, and I slumped to the ground. Could have sworn then that I felt her hand on my shoulder and heard her voice whisper to me. "It is enough, my husband." Then she was gone. And I was alone. Sometime during the night my anguish gave way to sleep, but I was awake before the sky turned pink from the sunrise. The flaming rage no longer consumed me--it had burned down to a white-hot ball of hate. I packed up one side of my saddlebags with jerky, two cans of beans, and coffee. The other side got my pistol box. It held a sack of black powder, a tin of caps, and bullets for my old Walker .44 revolver. It was a real he-coon of a pistol--big, heavy, and not very handy for carrying around--but when shooting time came, it'd do the job. Besides, it was all I had except for my Sharps. A double-handful of cartridges for the Sharps went in my coat pocket. Sticking the Walker into my belt, I picked up the rifle and was ready. I fetched Smoky, tied my gear behind the saddle, and went to the front of the cabin. One more job to do before I left. Going to the dead man's body, I pulled out my skinning knife. A quick cut around the top of his head, a sharp yank, and I had his scalp. Tucking it under my belt, I tied a rope around his foot, stepped into the saddle, took a dally around the horn, and kneed the horse on out toward the valley, draggin' the body behind. Once we were off the plateau, I untied the rope and left the body where it lay. Let the wolves have it. He didn't deserve burying. I set to following the other two. We moved slow because of the tumble of the day before, but their tracks were plain and I stayed on their trail till sundown, stopping only to eat a cold can of beans. Spent the night under a bristlecone pine, letting its twisted branches scatter any smoke from my small fire. Sleep came hard. Lying there, looking up at the stars, I ached for Fawn. And I burned to find her killers.