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.
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