Showdown at Buzzard Creek

Showdown at Buzzard Creek

There was always something strange about the boy. “He was an only child after all, and perhaps I failed him after his mother died.” Dutch thought to himself as he rode across the frigid plain. He had never quite warmed to the boy, but then “How could you?” he asked himself. Always odd, always made Dutch feel ill at ease. He recalled the time on his eleventh birthday when he found him standing in the corral in nothing but his long johns staring up at the immensity of the Texas sky. The cold February moon shone down its warmthless light upon them, and he remembered how the boy had acknowledged his presence, greeting him coldly in a distracted monotone cast carelessly over one shoulder. “Hello Dutch. I’m almost done here. I’ll be inside soon.” Dutch knew full well that at three in the morning in the Texas panhandle at that time of year they both should have been inside nestled alongside the aged and reliable pot-bellied stove long since. However, the chills that ran up his spine and the sensation of others watching from somewhere led him to accept the child’s odd explanation for his behavior and leave him to his peculiar business. He could still feel the uneasiness follow him as it had followed him on that cold walk back to the ranch house nine years ago, almost to the day.

He didn’t know particularly what he planned to do when he saw him, but he hadn’t ruled anything out yet either. Ward was his son, or at least that’s what Dutch had always believed ever since he was born. He still believed it up until three weeks ago. Now he was less sure. Yet he still thought of him as a son. He had even given him his name in honor of Dutch’s own grandfather. He was an old actor from the glory days of Hollywood westerns. Growing up on his grandfathers’ silver screen adventures Dutch vowed that he too would be a cowboy and had lived his life in such a way.

When Ward was born, Ward the younger that is, Dutch was so excited to share his cowboy code, his ethos and way of life with his son. He couldn’t wait to share his love of horseback riding and his passion for nature and living things. His compassion for the animals they kept and his patented way of nurturing the livestock, the lifeblood of any ranch worth its salt. They shared these passions and Ward excelled at all of them, with the notable exception of passion itself. The boy cared for nothing, living or dead. He simply existed and completed whatever task was set before him.

He thrived in fact.

He won riding and roping competitions. He won spelling bees and Tae Kwon Do tournaments. His pig won a blue ribbon once, and he was unmatched at all the carnival games at the state fair that year. From the time he was a toddler he had exceptional hand eye coordination and put it to use, his fingers always busily twitching or fiddling with some knick-knack or toy. Ward never needed glasses, or braces, or any other form of corrective medical care. On the rare occasions where he was thrown from a horse or took an unlucky spill and broke bones or needed stitches, his injuries had healed in a remarkably brief amount of time. The doctors were always bewildered, unable to contain or find an explanation for their astonishment.

To say he was a rare child would be an understatement. Dutch had accepted his “rareness” early on, but it continued to disturb him. For the last twenty years he had been disturbed, but never more so than when he had walked into the den three weeks ago to find Ward waiting for him. He was standing statue still apart from his fingers which were rolling a quarter between themselves back and forth. Dutch assumed he had come home early from college but was swiftly disabused of this notion when Ward spoke. “We have to talk about my fathers, and about me going home.” The rest of the conversation and Wards subsequent departure had taken place in a haze. It was like a half-remembered dream, all he retained from the encounter was the date, place, and time of the appointed meeting.

February 27th at three o’clock in the morning at Buzzard Creek. Dutch was to be there without fail. He was unclear on the finer points but understood it to be some form or a rite of passage. So, he rode on absentmindedly tugging at the neck of his insulated Carhart coat, pulling it tighter against the bitter cold. He wracked his brain for the millionth time to recall something more of substance from the encounter. He recollected something about being called to account. His hand instinctively dropped again to check that his grandfathers six gun was still resting in its holster.

It was.

His last conversation with Ward had been deeply troubling, but it was his last conversation with his late wife Carmen which haunted him. She had told him of what she described as “the dream” at least she told him, she had accepted it as such in order to move on with her life. As Carmen lay dying though she was assailed by a lifetimes worth of lingering doubts that crashed against her like waves on a weather-beaten coastline. Strongest among them were doubts about the dream.

It had been right before they had found out they were going to be parents. She dreamt of awakening in a bright silver room with figures around her. One of them approached and the last image she saw before she lost consciousness was of an abnormally large skull. When she regained consciousness, she was walking down a corridor in what she might have guessed was a submarine. Then darkness, then another bright room and a surgical table. She spoke of the feeling of tight straps on her wrists and ankles, and of poking and prodding things. Sharp pain, and instruments taking things out, putting other things in. She vividly recalled the primal fear she felt and then, in the next instant almost or so it seemed, she awoke with a start in her own bed. She ran to the bathroom and vomited. Then she stripped and took a shower, all the while giving herself a thorough inspection. She could find nothing new or amiss. There were no surgery scars, or residual pain. There was nothing to indicate anything other than sleep had occurred. Merely a bad dream, it must have been! Carmen reassured herself. She never spoke of it to anyone, even Dutch. She didn’t want to be one of “those people”, the ones who talk about seeing things, flying saucers and the like. Shortly after they had found out about the pregnancy and other thoughts and more pressing concerns took precedence in her mind. On her deathbed she lacked such worries and qualms. And so, she had unburdened herself to Dutch and then closed her eyes and slept, never to wake again.

The memory of that final conversation, final night, chilled him worse than the howling winds which tugged at his old grey Stetson. Threatening to tear it off, failing to do so. Dutch reached the rim of the canyon and dismounted to give Crumb a rest. He had always been a good horse and a loyal companion, and it had been a long cold ride. “Only a bit further.” He told himself as he looked down upon the carpet of flashing red lights stretching out East and West to the horizon. It was there, down in the valley below the turbines and their scarlet eyes.

“Look for the flashing lights, I’ll be below in the old creek bed.” Ward had told him. Dutch watched as they all blinked in unison illuminating the valley with their devilish gaze. Dutch turned and began to unsaddle Crumb, as he removed the last bit of tack he spoke soothingly to his old friend.

“I can make my own way down from here, no reason for you to have to make the climb back out. Stay warm and thank you.” With that he turned and picked his way down through the boulders to valley floor. When Dutch had made it down into the valley and was fifteen paces from Ward he spoke.

“I’m glad you could make it Dutch.” Ward had never once called him Father, or Dad, or Daddy or anything except his name, always and only Dutch. As he started to make his reply nine figures detached themselves from the nearest turbines and drifted down effortlessly as if they rode the blades down and stepped off at the bottom as you would an escalator. They were all medium height with slender builds, large heads, and long fidgety fingers. Dutch was forming more of an idea now about what he was going to do and liked the plan more and more as he thought about it. The nine had arranged themselves on either side of Ward forming a semicircle with Dutch facing them. He thought of Crumb and hoped he enjoyed life on the plains, he deserved to run free. Besides he had no need of him for the return journey. He had his mind set now. He had watched helplessly as Carmen had been slowly taken by cancer and had no desire to let it ravage him in a similar fashion. The diagnosis had come in a month ago, terminal. This seemed to Dutch a much better opportunity to make an end and he wasn’t planning on squandering the chance.

“They have questions you must answer.” Ward commanded with no particular inflection. He continued “My fathers must know things, about my childhood, about my birth. Did the woman Carmen have struggles? They say it was a routine insemination.”

There was no sound but the wind for a long moment.

“They must know these things before I can complete my mission!” Ward urged, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Dutch saved him any further suspense and punctuated his statement with two quick shots fired from the hip. He was no great quick draw artist, his grandfather was known about Hollywood as a fast draw and showcased it regularly on film, after incessant pleading he had taught Dutch a trick or two, and although Dutch was no Doc Holiday or Wyatt Earp this wasn’t exactly the O.K. Corral either. His aim was true enough tonight and the element of surprise coupled with his rage at this most recent revelation did the rest. The two outermost members of the semicircle were caught flush in what Dutch guessed to be a vital region of their torso. Each tumbled back and died with a primordial shriek. For a moment only did he pause his onslaught and glimpsed the look of shock and fury on Wards face. Dutch fired again and killed two more, blowing the latter’s head apart, then saw Ward bring up the muzzle of his own revolver and fire. The force of it struck him so hard it felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer and swung it full force to his spine in the spot between his shoulder blades. He staggered back and felt the life pour out of him. He became dimly aware of his grandfathers’ gun still in his hand and looked down to see a bullet hole in a dangerously heart like place.

“Damn it, but he was always an excellent marksman too.” He thought to himself. Blinking away the pain with one of the last blinks of his life. Looking up he saw the red glow pulse and wondered if it was his blood causing the color. Then he smiled at the thought of having outwitted cancer and his own grim slow death sentence, and with his remaining strength raised his gun and fired. He missed Ward wide as the alien child’s return shot struck its mark and Dutch’s world went dark.

The End