Dusty's Monster, Part 4 (conclusion)

After five years, three months and four days, Dusty finally saw his monster. There was no mistaking him - he was the devil's son. The man who had been a stranger to his wife was no longer a stranger to him. He had known the animal for five long years. Hate for this creature rang through his veins, ever since the day he arrived home to find his mutilated wife lying naked on the kitchen floor. Now there he sat, at the bar in the Horse Shoe Saloon.

He wondered if the monster would recognize him. Feeling that it wouldn't really matter, Dusty walked over and sat beside his enemy, holding back the urge to reach over and strangle the bastard, and ordered a beer.

"You from around here?" Dusty asked.

"Nope, just passing through."

"Sounds like me."

It was silent for a minute. As far as Dusty could tell, the monster didn't have the slightest idea who he was.

"You ever travel through Miles Creek? That's where I'm from."

"Can't say that I recollect. O'course I been all over. I can't even start to recall everywhere I been. What state or territory's it in?"

"Arizona." Dusty thought that the monster sure was friendly.

"Yeah, I've been through Arizona, beautiful territory. Lots o' desert. Killed one horse and almost another going through there. You look like you've spent a lot of time in the desert."

Dusty was sizing up the man as he spoke. He took particular notice of the boots the man had on. The shape of the soles matched the footprints left in Charles' yard a thousand years earlier. He had all the proof he needed. Dusty started to pull his gun right there and blow a hole in the monster's head. But he had waited too long for this meeting. He wanted something more.

To anyone sitting in that saloon looking at the two men, Dusty would have appeared to be the monster. For the other man was neatly dressed in a long coat and tie, looking as if he might have bathed that day. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and combed. He looked like he would have been an ideal suitor for any single lady. Dusty knew that no jury would ever find the fiend guilty of the rape and murder of his wife. But Smith & Wesson was the only jury Dusty needed.

"Yeah, I've spent the last five years in the desert." Had Dusty looked in a mirror, he would not have recognized his own reflection. The young, vibrant man of five years earlier was gone. His face was leathery, and his eyes had a distant look about them. His clothes were faded, filthy, and tattered. He looked like he should be begging in the streets. Yet here was this well-groomed monster sitting beside him, talking to him like a long lost brother. Dusty thought that in a way, they were brothers. The monster had not chosen his wife by accident. That choice was in some way influenced by the devil.

Everything was now clear to Dusty - both men was part of some sick, perverted game. The monster couldn't be blamed for his actions no more than the sun could be blamed for rising. Dusty knew that killing the monster would be exactly what the devil would want him to do. To kill the monster would play right into the devils' game - but what choice did he have? Walk away? After five years of hell, Dusty knew he couldn't just walk away. Maybe the devil was going to win after all.

"You really look like you could use a bath, and a shave. I got some money if you need it. I could get you a room here and you could get some rest." Why was this monster saying that? The same man who could do so much damage to his lovely wife. How could he be so kind? Maybe this wasn't the monster. Dusty was confused - the whole devil-game business had mixed up his mind. He began to think that maybe he shouldn't kill this guy until he was positive that he was the monster. He could have been mistaken at first - five years in the desert could have made him crazy. He needed more proof.

"Why would you give me money?"

"I know you. I've been there. It's not easy being a traveling man. The desert's cruel. It makes people do foolish things. Look, if you feel funny about taking my money, you could groom my horse or something. You seem strong on pride."

"I've just been out there so long, things start to get fuzzy. You know what I mean." Dusty was starting to believe that he was dead wrong about this man.

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

Dusty wasn't sure what was happening. This guy had to be the same animal that plagued his dreams over the last five years. He hated this person, yet he was beginning to feel some compassion toward him. He wasn't sure if he would be able to kill him or not.

"Finish your beer, I'll pay for it. Then come with me," the monster said pleasantly.

"Okay. But first, what's your name?"

"Stuart. Stuart Andrews. What's yours?"

He almost said Charles, but replied, "They call me Dusty." He pressed the cool mug against his lips and poured the remaining beer into his mouth. After the last swallow, he let out a loud belch. The monster smiled.

"Well, then, we're off." As Stuart rose from his stool and started for the door, he accidentally kicked Dusty's right foot. Pain exploded through Dusty's body, but he kept it hidden; he just took a deep breath and clenched his fists.

Dusty followed Stuart three buildings down to the stables, stopping at the third stall. "This is my horse," Stuart said as he opened the gate.

Even after five years, Dusty recognized his own horse. No mistaking the gray stallion with the patch of black directly under its left ear. The horse must have remembered him, because it quickly approached him, rubbing its jaw against Dusty's chin.

"Looks like he likes you," the monster said.

"Where did you get this horse?" Dusty gave Stuart the benefit of the doubt.

"Had him since birth."

Dusty knew that was a lie. He was indeed the monster and always had been. No more would Dusty let his mind get clouded with the fiend's kindness, or the devil's games. He had only one purpose in life - to see the monster that killed Clara die.

"Now, you can groom the horse, and I'll go back to the saloon." Stuart turned to walk away, then stopped. "Oh, yeah - you can come and collect your money when you're finished."

Dusty couldn't believe that this rapist, this murderer was ordering him around. He wanted to blow a hole through his back right there, but something stopped him - the stupid thought about the devil's game. By the time Dusty could wipe it out of his mind, the monster had left.

He followed Stuart out the door and saw him walking twenty yards ahead. The monster's steps were in the same pattern as the footprints in Charles' yard an eternity ago.
Dusty no longer cared if it was the devil's game or not. He earned his revenge and nothing would stop him.

"You! BASTARD!" Dusty yelled. Everyone in the street turned to stare, as if all of their names were bastard. Suddenly, they realized what was going on and the street quickly emptied - except for Dusty and the monster.

"Dusty? Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah, you know I'm talking to you."

"But why are you so rude?" The monster tried to play innocent, but Dusty was no longer fooled. This was it, and nothing was going to stop it.

Dusty took on a stance of readiness as he prepared to meet his destiny. He scratched his hair and gripped his pistol as he asked, "Have you ever raped a woman?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"Did you rape my Clara?"

The monster grinned. "Was that her name? Yeah, she really knew how to put out, didn't she?"

Filled with red-hot anger, Dusty didn't notice the monster draw and fire. The bullet hit his right shoulder, which exploded with pain as warm blood sprayed his face.

"I am HE!" the monster screamed, but Dusty didn't hear. Trying desperately to ignore the pain, he pulled his gun, but the bullet-torn muscle didn't want to cooperate. Determined not to let anything stop the moment, Dusty forced his shoulder to obey his brain. He raised the pistol and smoothly squeezed the trigger. The recoil threw his injured arm back.

With pleasure he saw the midsection of the fiend explode. The animal's body jerked back as the bullet ripped a hole in his stomach. His arms flew forward, and he dropped his gun. He then fell backward onto his side and his knees drew toward his chest.

Dusty willed his aching body toward the shaking monster that lay bleeding and twitching in the middle of the street. People were starting to stare out windows and doors.

As the monster saw Dusty standing next to him, he stared upward and laughed a sickening, repulsive laugh. Then he took in one more breath to shout "I AM HE!"

Dusty lowered his Smith & Wesson 44-40 Old Frontier and placed its muzzle on the monster's temple.

"You are shit."

He pulled the trigger. Dusty wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel at that moment, but he certainly didn't feel satisfied. What he felt as he walked away from the corpse of the fiend was more akin to emptiness, a lack of purpose. His mission was over and now he had to begin again.

The devil had won, but to Dusty it didn't matter. The monster was dead. It wouldn't bring Clara back, but it ended five years of miserable searching. However, as Dusty looked at the orange sunset on his way out of town, he knew that he would never be normal again.

He would always be Dusty.

Dusty's Monster, Part 3

A sand storm on the third day of Dusty's pursuit had erased the tracks that were left by his horse. Only when he would stumble onto the remains of a fire or some other sign of life did he have proof that he was headed in the right direction, He was never positive that he would ever find his wife's murderer - sometimes he wasn't sure he ever had a wife - maybe his life just started somewhere in the desert - maybe he was in hell. All he did know was that he would never be able to do anything but search - search for the monster.

Small town were scattered throughout the desert, like islands in the ocean. Most centered around a creek or small lake. Sometimes Dusty would go months without seeing one. Most of the times when he did pass through a town, he would do odd jobs in return for bullets or food - clean a stable, butcher an animal - jobs most people would rather not do.

He never would stay in a town more than two days. After so much time in the desert, towns gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Dusty could not feel the force when he was in a town. It was that force that led him down the right path, like a sixth sense, that homed in on the monster.

Once a man gave him a horse for a job well done. Dusty rode the beautiful animal for three days. Although he made better time, he felt the force leave him, as if the devil himself must be toying with him, wanting to see just how far a man would push himself to avenge his wife. The devil wanted him to give up. But Dusty was not even going to let the devil stop him.



Dusty woke to see the sun rising over a small dune. He glanced down and saw his legs protruding from the coyote's corpse. Even for him this was not a sight to awaken to. His stomach turned, and he noticed how stiff his legs had become. The animal was even stiffer, and Dusty heard dull ripping noises as he pulled out his intestine-covered feet.

He screamed in pain as he rubbed his feet in the sand to remove the blood and guts. With his blanket, he wiped away the dirt. The big toe on his right foot had turned a blackish-green. Dusty knew it would have to go. He crawled back about a hundred yards to where he had camped the night before. He removed the whiskey bottle from the leather bag that contained his life. He found the cleanest area of the blanket and cut a strip of it with his knife, then saturated it with whiskey. He poured half of the remaining alcohol over his toe, rinsing off the remaining sand and blood.

In a little ritual he stretched his arms over his head, then down to his sides, tendons popping as he did so. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on thoughts of Clara, and her beautiful face he knew and loved before the monster destroyed it.

Dusty placed the sharp knife on the base of his toe with the handle pointing away from his foot. He clenched his right fist tightly and raised it two feet above the knife. With all the strength he could muster, he brought it down on the top of the blade. The knife passed through the bone, but the toe then gave in the sand. The sharp steel fell short of completing the job, and when his foot jerked up from the intense pain, the dark green toe hung beneath it like a rain-drenched flag. Out of his mind with pain, Dusty reached down and quickly ripped the toe completely off his foot. Green sludge spewed from the severed toe as it hit the ground, and Dusty tightened his grip in agony.

He poured the remaining whiskey onto the nub where his toe had been, sending a fiery feeling throughout his body. He had just enough time to wrap the whiskey-soaked strip of cloth around his foot before passing out from the pain.

He was brought back to the world of the living by a drop of rain. It had been over a week since he had seen any water at all, and more than two months since it had rained. Dusty opened his eyes to a dark gray sky. The clouds were big and heavy, ready to soak the thirsty ground. His toe was aching, but the force was eating away at him to get going. It was stronger than it had ever been. He could feel the monster's presence all around. He had to move fast.

Dusty ignored any signal of pain that his foot was trying to send to his brain. He gathered his belongings, pulled on his left boot and started to pack his right. Then he thought, No, if I'm going to meet that monster it'll be with both boots on, and I'll be damned if I'm going to limp.

He drew his right boot over his foot. The pain was exploding like dynamite, but he refused to acknowledge it. Then without a trace of a limp he began to follow the path that seemed to glow in front of him.

After walking for almost an hour, the rain stopped. Not gradually, but all at once; one second it was pouring, the next, nothing. The clouds parted and the sun shone through the gap, like a giant spotlight, on a large river surrounded by trees. Dusty could see a deer drinking from it. His first thought was that he had died; everything looked so peaceful. He wanted to run and jump into the clear water, knowing how good it would feel. But something inside also knew that if he did, he would never get his revenge.

To his right, Dusty saw a narrow bridge made of stone. He knew if he chose to cross it, the jagged rocks would create unthinkable pain to his feet, even through his boots. On the other side of the river, where the bridge stood, was nothing but hot, dry sand. The trees ended before reaching the bridge.

Dusty knew he had a choice - stay there and bathe in the cool river, or refuse the relief and continue along the horrid, punishing path of revenge. He took two more steps toward the water, turned aside, then ran as fast as he could to the bridge.

The choice had been made five years earlier. The game was over. The devil lost.


(To be continued)