Heads of Cattle

Martin Mann squints as he scans the horizon, the nub of a used cigar clenched between his teeth. He lets out a frustrated sigh as he dismounts Blue Baby. His dusty boots hit the ground.

“You can take it easy, girl. We’re done fer today,” he says, giving his horse a gentle pat on her hind leg.

He removes her saddle, placing it on a bed of dry grass. Blue Baby takes the opportunity to find herself a nice, dusty patch of earth and rolls around in it. Martin lays down and rests his head on the saddle, placing his hat on his chest. He uses his tongue to roll the cigar nub back and forth between his teeth to help him relax. The ground vibrates to the beat of a trotting horse. The horse comes to a stop, causing a cloud of dust to waft into Martin’s face. He closes his eyes and fans away the cloud with his hand. Martin doesn’t need to see to know that this must be Duke Harris.

“Did Elijah show?” Duke asks.

“Do ya see ‘im?” Martin shortly responds.

“Dern… reckon he’s alright?” Duke responds, looking at the western sun.

Martin is getting tired of questions he couldn’t possibly know the answer to.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he finally got himself killed,” Martin says, hoping this will be the end of the conversation.

“Reckon I should go out and look for ‘im?” Duke asks, not understanding that Martin isn’t in the mood.

“Don’t bother. We’ll stop by El Paso tomorrow and ask if they’d seen ‘im” Martin says, putting his hat over his face.

Duke finally understands, “Well, alright. I’ll go tell Lewis and the others,” he says and turns his horse around. “Come on by if you want some grub,” he says and rides away.

Martin doesn’t respond. His hat protects his face from the dust kicked up by Duke’s horse this time. Elijah usually shows eventually, but it’s rare that he’s gone this long. It’s been five days since he left to find a place to settle around El Paso. Elijah has a big mouth and is known for getting himself in a scuffle because of it; Martin just hopes that Elijah has a black eye and not a bullet in his head.

Duke finds most of the crew already settled down around a camp fire. The cast iron skillet sizzles as Lewis tosses in a scoop of lard. Rodrigo and Otto just finished up the campsite and are working on getting a game of cards going. Otto adjusts his spectacles and looks at Duke.

“Is the boy still gone?” he asks with a frown.

“‘Fraid so,” Duke replies. He dismounts and takes a seat with Otto. Rodrigo deals him in. “I reckon Martin ain’t too happy about it,” he continues.

Sowbelly crackles in the cast iron pan, filling the camp with a rich and fatty smell. The cattle start to wind down as the orange glow of the sun begins to fade, making way for the moon. Lewis’s low, rumbling voice fills the tense air,

“Could someone go get Tom?” he says.

They sit in silence. No one wants to volunteer.

“One of you’s gotta tell the kid Elijah ain’t come back yet,” Lewis breaks the silence.

“I was the one that asked Martin. I reckon that means someone else oughta do it,” Duke says.

“That don’t make sense,” Rodrigo replies, “You heard it from Martin, that means you do it. You know the most ‘bout it,” he says.

“There ain’t much to know ‘bout it! He ain’t showed up and that’s it. I reckon anyone could do it,” Duke rebuts.

“Your horse still has his saddle, so you should-” Rodrigo is interrupted.

“Quit acting like children before I gotta do this myself!” Lewis bellows. His voice carries across the desert.

Otto stands up and gestures for the men to settle down.

“It’s alright Lewis. I will go talk with the boy,” Otto says.

“Thanks, Otto…” Duke sheepishly says.

“Of course,” Otto says. He gives Duke an understanding smile.

Lewis turns his head back to the pan and pokes at the embers with a hunting knife. Rodrigo and Duke fiddle with the cards and stare at the ground. Otto saddles up his horse, Alice, and rides to the sea of cattle just outside of camp.

Tom paces on his horse around the cattle. He doesn’t notice Otto until he’s a few yards away. His concerned scowl turns into an anxious smile.

“Hey, Otto! What’s happening? Did he show?” Tom says.

Otto tries to find the right words. Tom’s expression fades into disappointment and worry.

“It’s alright, Tom. I’m sure he’ll come tomorrow. He’s probably held up in some saloon,” Otto attempts to reassure him.

“You and I know that ain’t true, Otto. Elijah is in trouble and someone needs to go look for ‘im,” he says.

“We’ll be around El Paso sometime tomorrow. We can search for him then. I’m sure Martin would let you look for yourself if you asked,” Otto reasons with him.

“This can’t wait! If he’s in trouble then he needs someone to find him tonight! How would you feel if we just waited when you were up a creek?”

“Son… I understand-” Otto is interrupted.

“I ain’t your son, I ain’t your kid, I ain’t your boy! Mr. Martin hired me to be on this crew, so dammit, I’m a member of this crew! As a member of this crew, I think I get a say in whether or not we leave someone to die!” Tom says. His face is red and tears form in the corners of his eyes.

Otto nods. Tom looks at Otto’s old eyes behind his spectacles, they don’t hold any anger, only compassion. Tom wipes the tears from his face and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Otto. I shouldn’t’ve yelled at ya like that,” he says.

“It’s alright, Tom. You’re correct; you are a member of the crew. I think you have the right to talk with Martin if you would like. We all care about Elijah, but we also care about you,” Otto says.

“You’re right, Otto. I’ll go talk to ‘im,” he says with a smile, “There any grub left for me?”

The pair start to make their way back to the camp until they hear something far off towards the horizon. It grows more distinct: the sound of a galloping horse. Right there, in front of the giant orange sun, is the small silhouette of a cowboy making his triumphant return. The two men face each other and share a grin; it seems that Elijah was coming home after all.

Martin wakes to the smell of bacon. He had convinced himself that he was too frustrated to eat but his nose was making a very compelling counter argument. He massages the back of his neck as he makes his way back to camp; Blue Baby walking by his side. By the time he arrives, Lewis already has his plate ready to go. Rodrigo and Duke are having their fair share over by the wagon. Martin and Lewis exchange waves and Martin takes his seat by the fire.

“Couldn’t resist?” Lewis says.

“Seems you already knew that,” Martin says. He cuts into the slab of pork with his knife. “Where’s Otto and the boy?” he asks before he chews a mouthful.

“Otto left to tell ‘im that we ain’t found Elijah,” Lewis replies.

“Dern. We all learn that lesson on the trail eventually. Maybe it’s good for the boy,” Martin says coldly.

“You gonna look for ‘im in El Paso?” Lewis asks.

“Of course. I ain’t holding my breath that we’ll find him though. At least not alive,” Martin says. He pokes around at his food with the tip of his knife.

“It’s tough. He’s a good kid,” Lewis says. Martin starts to speak but is interrupted by the sound of gunfire out towards the cattle. Without hesitation, the men launch to their feet and draw their weapons. Martin hops bareback onto Blue Baby.

“Y’all follow behind. Make sure you’re wearing iron,” he says. Blue Baby bolts away.

Duke, Rodrigo, and Lewis are soon to follow. As Martin approaches he hears sounds of anguish.

“WHAT DID THEY DO TO ‘IM?!” Tom screams.

Martin rides up to see Tom on his knees while Otto consoles him. Next to them is a man sitting on a horse. Martin stops Baby Blue to get a better look at the scene in front of him; he grips his pistol tightly and places his finger on the trigger. Backlit by the last sliver of the setting sun, there is a man sitting on a horse. The horse is pale and gaunt. Its leathery skin is stretched with long scars running up and down its body. He can see its heart and lungs writhe under its thin hide. It exhales hot steam from its receding, exposed gums with each breath and its bulging eyes dart around their sunken sockets. The man’s jeans are tucked into a nice pair of black leather boots. He wears a white, cotton shirt stained with dark brown blood from his severed neck. A bull’s skull sits where his head used to be; it’s clean of all flesh or skin. A triangle is carved in the space between the eyes. The horse’s thin legs jitter and shake and the body on top sways along with it.
The rest of the crew arrives soon after. They try to wrap their heads around this horrific sight. Lewis approaches Martin.

“Elijah?” He asks.

“Don’t think so. But that might be,” Martin says, gesturing behind the horse.

A corpse lies face down in the dirt. It’s attached to the saddle of the ghostly horse by a rope around its ankles.

“Jesus…” Lewis says. He gets off his horse to get a closer look.

Tom’s wails fill the air and engulf the men.

“WHO DID THIS TO ‘IM?! HE DIDN’T DESERVE IT!” Tom screams.

Tom gets up and shoots his revolver erratically into the air.

“I’LL KILL ‘EM! LET ME KILL ‘EM! PLEASE!” He continues.

Otto places his hands on Tom’s shoulders and turns him around so he can’t see what remains of Elijah. He quietly consoles him. Tom cries into his chest. Otto uses his eyes to tell Martin to take care of this while he takes care of the kid. Duke and Rodrigo are unable to bring themselves any closer. They stand back, clutching their guns in sweaty palms and looking over each other’s shoulders.

“You reckon it’s some Indians did this?” He says in a hushed tone out of Tom’s earshot.

“I’d wager…” Martin says. He slowly walks up towards the gaunt horse. Its eyes follow him closely but its body doesn’t move or react to his approach.

Lewis follows Martin’s lead. He grips his pistol in one hand and his knife in the other as he walks a wide path around the horse. He squats next to Elijah’s corpse and cuts the rope around his ankles. The legs hit the ground with a lifeless thud and the horse begins to move. Martin backs up and raises his repeater to his shoulder. The horse and its headless rider saunter a few yards away. They watch the crew in silence, swaying along with the breeze. Martin stares back with the barrel of his gun. He doesn’t even dare to blink.

“Martin… I don’t think this was Indians,” Lewis says. He’s crouched down by the corpse analyzing it closely.

“Why’s that?” Martin asks while keeping his sight on the rider.

“I don’t think Indians can write,” Lewis replies.

“MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR GOD” is scratched into Elijah’s skin across his back. Martin glances at Lewis and then back at the rider. He lowers his weapon and makes his way over to investigate the body, making sure to not let the rider out of his sights.

“Rodrigo, Duke, make yourselves useful,” he says, “keep ‘im in your sights” he points at the rider.

The men’s hands tremble as they follow the order. Martin reads the writing in between glances at the rider.

“Shit… I don’t know what this is, Lewis,” Martin says. He didn’t intend to be so honest but the words just slipped out.

Lewis nods his head as he grabs the body with one hand on the shoulder and the other grasping his thigh. He flips it over. What’s left of his face is flat from miles and miles of coarse sand grinding against it. His chest and stomach aren’t fairing much better. Martin and Lewis can’t help but analyze every vile detail despite the cries from their nauseous stomachs to stop. Lewis shoves his boot under the body and flips it over one more time to spare everyone else from the grotesque horror.

A loud hiss cuts through the air, making everyone jump. They all stare at the gaunt horse. Steam pours out of its open mouth, its eyes dart back and forth to every member of the crew. All of their weapons are aimed at the horse and his rider. They all wait for someone to pull the trigger first.

“Martin… look at the cattle,” Otto says behind Martin’s back. His voice is quiet and collected, but there’s a deep sense of fear underlying it.

Martin slowly turns his head, hoping this nightmare will end. Otto and Tom are looking out into the sea of cattle with their jaws locked open. 650 pairs of eyes. The cattle stand still like statues as they stare right through the men and at the rider. The grief in Tom’s heart quickly drains away to make room for an intense feeling of dread. He looks back at the rider, getting a good look at it for the first time.

“What is he pointing at?” the words slip out of Tom’s mouth in a stutter whisper. Only Otto can make out what he’s saying.

Otto turns away from the cattle and faces the rider. The rider’s right arm is outstretched. As the limp body sways back and forth, the arm remains completely rigid and in place. His gloved hand is pointed directly at Otto. Otto stumbles backwards, fiddling with his holster to grab his gun, but before he can a bull charges out from the herd. Otto is gored by the beast. He sees the tip of the horn poking out through his stomach as it drips blood down the front of his shirt. The bull thrashes back and forth until Otto is flung off its horn and into the dirt. A trail of blood and intestines follow behind him. The crew fill the bull with lead before they fully understand what just happened. Tom is the first to rush towards Otto’s body. He kneels beside him trying to figure out how to get his guts back where they belong. He weeps as the hopelessness sets in. The rest of the crew know this isn’t the time to grieve, so they keep their guns cocked.

“Where did that damn horse go?” Rodrigo says through a trembling jaw.

They scan the area and see that the gaunt horse and its rider disappeared without a trace. Martin runs over to where it was standing, but doesn’t see as much as a footprint left behind. Lewis grabs Martin by the arm and faces him towards the herd.

“The cattle,” Lewis says, keeping his voice low out of instinct.

Martin sees the cows now turned to the side. He traces their line of sight all the way to the camp. The campfire flickers off in the distance. That flicker is snuffed out soon after.

Martin gathers the crew together away from the herd. Lewis helps Tom off of Otto’s body. He’s too defeated to put up a fight.

“I reckon that’s the devil! Y’all saw it too! That demon killed ‘im, they killed Otto!” Duke whispers to the rest of the group.

Rodrigo spins the cylinder of his revolver and tries to ignore Duke. He knows Duke is right, but he doesn’t want it to be true.

“Don’t matter what it is,” Martin looks around at the rest of his crew. “All that matters is that it needs to die.”

“And how you reckon we’ll do that? You ain’t gonna kill the devil,” Duke says.

“I don’t give a damn what you yellow bellies end up doin’, but I got ‘bout 650 heads of cattle, and they ain’t gonna walk themselves to Cheyenne!” Martin says, putting his finger in Duke’s face.

The men stand there in silent tension. Martin turns and whistles for Blue Baby and hops on her back when she arrives.

“Lewis, you in?” He asks.

“Course,” Lewis responds. He grabs the stocky horse by its reins and jumps into the saddle.

The two men take off towards the camp. Tom catches up soon after. Martin turns to tell him to go back and stay with Duke and Rodrigo but he stops himself; he’s not gonna rob the boy his opportunity for revenge. Martin is disappointed that only two members of his crew had the nerve to stand with him in the face of death, but he doesn’t resent Duke and Rodrigo; most men would have done the same in their position.

“Lewis, stay on my left. Tom, you take the right. Keep your eyes up and your weapons drawn. I don’t know how many people are in camp, so stay on your guard ‘til I say so,” Martin instructs the two men. They give quiet approval in return.

The sun has already set by the time they reach camp; the waxing moon’s white light is all they have to work with. Martin sees the silhouette of the chuckwagon right where they left it. A few smoldering embers from the extinguished camp fire beneath a thin layer of white ash. They aim their weapons and look around the camp. Apart from the smothered camp fire, there is no evidence that anyone other than them was ever here. Martin holds his hand up to signal for the others to stay put. He gets off of Blue Baby and creeps up to the Chuckwagon. He keeps his cocked repeater nestled in his shoulder as he approaches. Each step is slow and deliberate. He leans up against the side of the wagon and crouches down. He presses a rock into his palm and tosses the rock around the corner of the wagon and listens.
Nothing.
He takes a breath and peeks around the corner and confirms that the wagon is safe. Martin hears a scream.

“GO TO HELL, BASTARD!” Tom yells.

Lewis turns his head toward Tom and follows his gaze. The rider sways about 5 yards back in the direction they came from. Tom has his pistol raised at him. Lewis reaches for his gun. Tom brings down the hammer, it strikes the firing pin. The gun goes up in smoke. All six rounds explode all at once in the cylinder. It engulfs the gun in a ball of fire, spraying shrapnel in all directions. Three of Tom’s fingers are blown off, leaving behind just his pinky and ring fingers hanging on to his mangled hand. The hammer of the firearm flies back in his face, smashing its way through his eyeball, lodging itself into his brain. Shards of iron create gashes along his face and through his cheek. Lewis looks back at the rider. He sits there and sways completely unharmed, with a single finger pointed at Tom. Shrapnel finally nestles itself into the body of Lewis’s horse. The horse lets out horrible neigh and runs off. Lewis loses his balance and flies off the back of the horse. His thoughts become blurry the second his head crashes into the ground. Martin comes running from behind the wagon, firearm raised. He squints one eye and takes aim at the rider. He can see it swaying back and forth, its right hand pointing straight down the barrel of his gun. A warm breath down the back of his neck makes him pause. He feels something wet and slimy grip the back of his arm. It pulls his arm back, taking the repeater with it. Martin looks back. Hundreds of cattle, some less than an inch away from him. The herd surrounds him, grabbing and pulling at him with their slobbery mouths. He can feel their massive tongues licking his skin and soaking his clothes. He squirms and swears at the cattle. The creatures begin to grip his skin harder. Harder than he thought a cow was capable of biting. The pressure increases and the pain starts to set in. An upper set of teeth begin to grow, poking through their gummy upper palate. The new teeth grind his flesh against their bottom incisors until it starts to tear. The cows whip their heads back, taking a chunk of flesh with them. They chew it like cud, slowly and methodically as if they’ve savoring it. Martin screams, feeling the blood gush out all across his body. His clothes are torn to shreds to expose more of his skin. Young calves rip off his boots; they bite off his toes one by one. His shrieks are drowned out by rhythmic mooing.
Sweat pours down Lewis’s face. He feels his blood run cold and his muscles go numb. The mooing stops all at once. He watches the cattle turn their heads and face him. He looks back at the rider, his breathing becoming more and more frantic. The gloved hand of the rider points at him, right between his eyes. The cows let out a unified moo. Lewis stumbles to his feet and begins to sprint. The ground shakes as the stampede races towards him. He runs as fast as his legs will take him, but he’s only able to delay his death by a few seconds. He falls to the ground, crushed by hundreds of pounds of beef. His ribcage splinters, his spine snaps, and his skull shatters under hundreds of thundering hooves. Thankfully, his pain is short lived. The cows were merciful and efficient.
Rodrigo and Duke feel the thunderous approach of the stampede. Duke turns to face Rodrigo and screams at the sight of the rider towering over him. Rodrigo feels the hot, stuttering breath of the gaunt horse run down the back of his spine. Against his best instincts, he turns around to regard the demon. He falls to his knees as tears stream down his face. He turns to see the approaching stampede. Duke hops on his horse and dashes away out of the corner of his eye. Rodrigo searches but his horse is nowhere to be found.

“DUKE! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!” He shouts out.

No response. Duke is long gone.

Rodrigo cries. He sniffles and gasps for air as the tears wash over his face. He reaches down his shirt and pulls out a small cross at the end of a chain. He closes his eyes and holds it close.

“Padre nuestro… que estás en los cielos,” his breathy words barely escape his lips, “santificado sea tu Nombre-” he continues.

The rumbling of the stampede shakes the ground.

“-venga a nosotros tu reino; hágase tu voluntad, así en la tierra como en el cielo,” he recites. The prayer is unable to release him from the grip his fear has over him.

He closes his eyes and continues to whisper the Lord’s prayer under his breath as the sound of hooves pounding the dirt gets louder and louder. He’s engulfed by the herd. It’s a mass of pure sound.
The sound subsides.
He hears the herd running off into the distance. He opens his eyes and turns his head. They’re gone. They ran around him. He lived. Relief floods his body and he sobs, thanking God repeatedly. He looks up and sees the rider standing in front of him, no longer on his horse. Rodrigo meets the gaze of the cow skull. He looks at the upside down triangle carved in its forehead. He begins to weep once more and begs for his life. The ride removes the glove off his right hand. Its skin is dry and pale like salt cured meat. Rodrigo feels his head get yanked back. The gaunt horse had his hair in its mouth. The rider faces his palm towards Rodrigo, that same triangle glowing in the center. Its soft orange glow becomes brighter until it’s almost white. The palm moves closer to Rodrigo’s face; it smells like burning meat. He closes his eyes and calls out the Lord’s name. The palm brands his forehead. He feels his skin melting and hardening under the hot palm. Smoke drifts down his forehead, he can smell his own burning flesh. The rider pulls the palm back, slips his glove back on, and the horse releases Rodrigo. He falls to the ground in agonizing pain. He presses his face into the cool night soil to get some relief, but it just irritates his exposed, raw skin. He rolls on the ground and pulls up grass, begging the rider for mercy.

Silence. Only the gentle rumble of the far off stampede.

He forces his eyes open and looks around. He’s all alone.

The wind carries the sweat off of Duke’s face. He’s standing in the stirrups with his backside hovering over the saddle. He cracks the reins of the horse and curses at it to run faster.

“Come on… you damn horse! You’re gonna get us both killed! Reckon you can pick up the pace you piece of shit!” he yells.

The herd behind him is still a good distance away, but they’re consistent and they’re closing in on him. They seem to know which way he’s going before even he does. He looks back over his shoulder to confirm what he already knows. Yep. Still on his tail. He blocks out his memory of his last moments with Rodrigo. He promises that he’ll do right by him once this is all over. He turns his head back around and sees the rider swaying in front of the moon. He leans back in the saddle and pulls hard on the reins. His horse springs up onto its hind legs and crashes to the ground on top of Duke. He feels the air exit his lungs under its crushing weight. The horse scrambles up and dashes away.

“COME BACK HERE! YOU NO GOOD…” he gives up. The horse is gone.

He turns back towards the rider. His horse takes slow steps towards him. Duke tries to stand but his legs are still numb from the fall. He stumbles back into the dirt and starts to crawl away towards the herd. He reckons he’ll have a better chance with the herd than with the demon that eliminated his entire crew. Something catches his feet. He feels it tighten around his ankles. He begins to cry out for help, but there’s no one around for miles. He can feel himself being pulled backwards by his ankles. The rider ties the rope to his saddle and begins to ride. The course sand cuts into Duke’s clothes. His body bounces up and down once the horse enters a gallop. His face smashes into the soil. He feels it rubbing the skin off his face. Dirt enters his mouth as he screams. The rider gallops away into the horizon towards the brilliant light of the waxing moon.

Credit: Hayden Gill

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