(The author was reading Stephen King at this time he wrote this Western story.)
He took on a stance of readiness as he prepared to meet his destiny. The streets of the little cow-town were deserted; everyone could sense that lead was about to fly - the hostile aroma hung in the air. He lifted his Stetson and scratched his filthy, matted hair. He hadn't bathed in over a month, and he smelled like the stagnant animal he had become.
Ruthless steel hands gripped the pearl handle of his Smith & Wesson 44-40 Old Frontier. A lone, round drop of sweat carelessly rolled down his ragged brow into his right eye. He ignored the slight stinging, burning sensation of the sweat bead. He had waited what seemed like his whole life for this moment, and nothing would deter him.
He was born Charles P. Fredrickson, but to the few people he came in contact with the last five years, he was Dusty. Partly because he rarely bathed, but mainly because he drifted in and out of their lives like a speck of dust.
It was because of circumstance that Dusty was alone. And it was circumstance that ruled his entire life. Abandoned at birth, he was tossed from one foster home to another, all just looking for cheap labor. He finally broke the bonds of child slavery in his tenth year, escaping a farm house ruled by a drunken child molester, in the light of an August moon. He only returned six years later to shoot the bastard dead.
Though Dusty had been cut from hard stone, he had not always had such a thirst for blood. Yet this thirst came only with a hunger for revenge. He even managed to live a normal life, for one year, ten months, and twenty-three days - the time he was married to Clara. He wanted that life to last.
But Charles ceased to exist and Dusty was born the day the monster destroyed that normal life and, perhaps, his sanity. Monster was the only word he could think of to describe the person who raped and killed his Clara. He couldn't believe a human could have committed such an act.
This creature had just been passing though when he stopped by Dusty's house on a warm mid-afternoon in June, five long years earlier. That normal house sat on the edge of town near the desert. Clara was singing to herself as she hung clothes out to dry, most likely wondering what to cook for supper as the stranger stepped out from behind the big oak at the side of the house.
"What can I do for you, sir?" She was startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger, but didn't feel threatened.
"Well, ma'am, I was wondering if I could draw a drink of water from your well. It's a hot day, and I've been walking for quite a spell."
"Go right ahead, help yourself."
The stranger walked over to the well, his eyes never leaving Clara, and lowered the wooden bucket. Soon the pail returned with its cool treat. He greedily stifled his thirst and walked back toward her. "Thank you for the water." He stood awkwardly for a moment before speaking again. "I hate to be a bother, but do ya think ya could spare a bite to eat? I'd be happy to pay ya for it."
His constant stare made Clara nervous - the way a wolf would look at a rabbit before setting out after it. Being a good Christian woman, Clara would not even allow her worst enemy to go hungry as long as she had food to offer. She led the stranger into the house and started the stove as his cold gray eyes constantly undressed her.
"Y'know, a man that's been on the road a while gets lonely." He smiled at Clara. "Since my horse died, two weeks ago, I just been walkin' round under God's blue sky and wonderin' if I wasn't the only one who really existed. It began to seem to me that everybody else was put on this here earth to either test me or please me. I'm beginning to think I'm gonna live forever 'cause if I die the world will no longer exist. I think I must be...."
"Here," Clara said coldly as she handed him the food. "Just take this and leave. You can keep the plate. Just go... please." His stare and his words were beginning to frighten her.
"I don't really seem to be hungry at the moment. And you don't seem to understand."
"My husband will be home soon. It would be best if you leave, now."
"You belong to me." He seized her arm. "Everything belongs to me!"
"No!" She screamed as he ripped her thin dress with one quick jerking motion. Clara tried to fight, but the stranger quickly forced her to the floor and went into her, then slammed his fist into her body and face while raping her, yelling at the top of his voice "I am HE!" repeatedly. Blood covered the kitchen floor as he continued to pound on Clara even after she breathed her last.
Suddenly becalmed, the stranger walked back to the well and washed off the blood. He retuned to the kitchen, sat and ate the meal Clara so kindly made for him. Then he went out, took Dusty's horse and rode off into the desert.
Not half an hour had passed before Dusty returned to find what remained of his wife. After weeping for the first time in his adult life, he buried Clara and decided to set out after the monster.
He no longer had a horse so he entered the desert on foot. The hunting was slow, but the longer his search, the greater his thirst grew. The only clues he had to go on were the impressions of the monster's boots in his yard and the tracks left by his own horse. In time he would be able to know which way to travel, as if he were being pulled toward the monster. And he would see the stranger's face in his dreams.
(To be continued)
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