the KNIGHT (sirgunslinger) wrote in burn_town, @ 2011-11-08 15:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | knight |
If It Wasn't Blood, It Was Dirt
Making his way towards the horses' trough, he washed the blood from his hands. The water was cool but not cold, and it bit at the few cuts he'd earned the last few days. With the blood went the dirt, and it was the first time he'd seen the skin of his calloused hands not covered in dust for weeks now.
If it wasn't blood, it was dirt.
Still, it could have been worse. Could have been his blood he was washing, but for the most part it belonged to the dead man who laid a few feet away. Flies had already began to gather, and the man's dog sniffed at him curiously, trying to figure out the source of the coppery scent of blood that hug thickly in the air. Blood and decaying flesh were two smells a man never forgot, and he'd had all too much of it lately.
Bill paused, glancing over at the body. He walked over towards it, shooing the dog away as he knelt down and reached up with a cleaned hand to brush the tips of his fingertips down along the eyelids of the body, closing those accusing eyes that stared up at God Himself. 'This man murdered me, in cold blood!' they seemed to scream, and he didn't need nothing telling God more of his bad deeds. The Man Upstairs already had His fair share of reasons to look the other way and forsake him. But this had been a job, someone had hired him for this citing that this man who laid dead beneath his feet was a killer himself.
And that made it okay just long enough for Bill to carry out the deed.
Later the guilt would set it. Later his nightmares would feature a new character with the face of this dead man beneath him.
Bill stood up and moved away from the corpse, swatting flies away as he walked. The town that laid on the dusty horizon was anything but welcoming. Reaper's Gulch. The name alone testified of his arrival, and he never counted that as a good thing. He had friends there, but he had enemies as well. In fact, the balance tipped more towards the latter, and Billy wasn't sure he wanted to test the Fates. He whistled over his shoulder, catching the attention of his horse--who had scattered when the bullets went flying--listening for the animal's familiar trot behind him. Part of the reason he insisted on training the horses he road himself was for moments like this, moments when the animals became the single witness to his most vile crimes. It was important to make sure they trusted him even with blood on his hands, because even if he'd washed the red away, the horse could no doubt smell the lingering scent of it there on his skin.
He turned, reached up to run his hand gently down the horse's face, then walked around to mount it, kicking gently and directing the animal towards that awful city in the horizon.