Needless Things

Needless Things

Short Story by Fredrick Willful

The man I seek still lurks. He is cunning in his ways; he leaves no obvious traces behind. I can only find him by the way the path moves along the prairie. Nothing is obvious, and as I look into my future I realize nothing is safe. Jones tucked the ink and quill in his patch and folded his straw-bound notebook and laid it beside the campfire, making sure not to lay it too close to the burning embers. As he poked the embers in the pit, giving it life, he sat and watched the flames dance. He smiled and stroked his beard. The trees looked down about him; he could hear the hissing. Looking up, he started humming tunes in his head, random as they came. He looked at his horse, Bessie. She was fast asleep. He sat and watched until the fire died, smiling as it did so. He wrapped his buffalo skin around his body and smiled. The fire would hold and eventually run on its last let, until it burned no more. But, that was okay, for it was a needless thing.

He was woken up by none other than Bessie. He was upset but glad; he needed to wake early to catch some gain on the man’s trail. She poked his face with her nose, snorting snot all over him. Getting up in a tired daze, he just sat up and laughed, stroking her mane. “You’re the hungriest horse I’ve ever had, Bessie. What is it you were you expecting, a steak with eggs?”
She looked at him, her eyes hoping for just that. Instead he gave her some bread. As the suns first few rays hit the earth, Jones took his sack and belongings and straddled her up. He looked at the trail through the thick brush of trees. “God help us,” he muttered. The man he was seeking could be hiding in these very woods. He marched foreword, silent as the grave as the trees hung their limbs cast out to dry.

Jones approached a small cabin house, set in the clearing. Some slight smoke arose from the top of its roof, coming from the chimney. It was dancing to the tune of a waltz, or so Jones would imagine it to be dancing to. Jones looked at the sky and saw it was mid-morning; surely someone had to be up in the house. He led Bessie to the post and tied her up, and removed his shotgun from his hoister. No trouble was expected from these people, but it was best to be prepared. The man could be lurking behind the doors; Jones had become so paranoid of everything that it was best to trust no one, his only friend was Bessie.
He knocked on the door heavy, and a timid man came up to him. A dealer of some sort, canned goods or spices, Jones figured. The man looked at the man and then his double barreled shotgun. “Looking for trouble, stranger?”
“No,” Jones replied in his gruff tone. “Only for an old friend. I’ll pay for any supplies you may have that I can use, if you don’t mind.”
“No! Not at all. By the way, my names McCaskey, John McCaskey. I don’t get many visitors around here.”
The two men shook hands and made their way inside. John brought him a chair and showed him some of his spices and foods. Canned beans, he needed some of those. Jones bought two cans of beans and a can of spices, and had a cigarette with him for the hospitality. He set his hat down beside him and puffed a couple of deep breaths. Silence filled the room, only the sound of burning paper filling the room. Finally, John piped up.
“So, what brings you to this part of Montana, may I ask?” asked John.
Jones sighed. “I’m looking for the man who gave me this.” He removed his hat and revealed two thin scars running down the top of his head to the side of his face.
“Huh, those look like burn marks,” observed John.
“Yep, got them back three months ago. I lived with my family on a ranch down in the Dakotas, when one day we were attacked. We were attacked by a group of young robbers, and they wanted to escape and stay the night. I refused, and they took my two children and wife. They drowned the two children in the river. Then they raped my wife and did the same. They tied me up, and I sat there and watched as they did that to my children and wife, the only things I loved. Then, a man took a cattle burner and burnt a thin line down my face. He spoke to me and said, ‘People are needless things, Jones. You have to let go once in awhile.’ Then he hit me over the head with his gun and I blacked out.”
“The next morning I woke up and sobbed, looking around and hoping it was just a dream, but then I saw the dead bodies in the river, floating, staring at me. I looked around with rage, got my horse packed some things, including my gun, and set onwards, hoping to find him. That was three months ago, around summertime.”
John stared in space. He took a puff of his cigarette, and looked at Jones. “What do you think you’re going to do once you find him?”
Jones puffed his cigarette, “I’m going to take a blade, cut two lines across his face, and point my shotgun right in his mouth, and blow that son of a bitch’s face off.” He almost smiled as he took a last puff of his cigarette. He shuffled in his pocket and found two gold pieces. “Take care, John,” he said as he left the cabin, leaving John almost speechless.
He walked outside and found his horse, egging him on. He smiled, and hopped on, putting the spices and beans in his pouch as he rode on into the woods once more.

I approach the man who I have been upon these very weary months. He is close; I can smell him in the air and feel his back creeping along the trees. Yes, he is near. When I find him, I will most surely kill him. But what would come about after that? This I do not know, or want to comprehend. I just hope that God, if one still exists, has a path. I hope he cries and sobs and begs for forgiveness before I kill him. Then I will laugh, and be filled with such joy no man could describe. It was nine days until he approached it, the place where his enemy lay. It was night, the moon gazing down on him. He could see the campsite a hundred miles away, the campfire flickering onto the bear fur behind it. The man must be sleeping, he figured. He looked around the dark trees nestling around. He could smell him near. That dirty smell of nicotine, mixed with the dirty stench of a man who never cleans himself, never has time to bathe him. It was a disgusting smell, one that any man could recognize.
Jones face was solemn as he quietly crept down from his horse. He held up his gun, pointing, looking around for the man. He crept low; this was him moment. He could not let himself be given away.
Suddenly he jumped and heard a loud shot ring through the air, and in an instant his horse was on the ground, shot in the leg, possibly broken. The horse wailed, huffing deeply and fast paced, it knew it was his time. Jones landed on the ground, and pointed his shotgun blindly around. “Damn you!” he shouted. The dust tasted dry as he crawled frantically, looking about, until he saw him. The moonlight showing his silhouette, standing and looking. Jones quickly jumped behind a tree, he could see him, and the man was a hundred feet within his grasp! The gun felt heavy in his hands, this was his last chance he was going to have, and if he were to die, it wouldn’t be without a fight. He jumped from behind the tree, out into the clearing, and he aimed and fired.
The gun jumped like a missile in his hand as he saw the man fall, screaming as he did so. The man was wailing and swearing. Jones ran up to him and looked. He had blown half of the man’s leg off. Bad shot, but he had at least hit his target. The man was panting, and crying, and then he saw the face of Jones, standing over him with his gun, and he smiled.
“I was expecting you, one of these days. I knew you would come sometime, it was only a matter of time.”
He was losing his breath, he knew he was going to die, and he was accepting it with grace. Jones finally asked. “What’s your name?”
He smiled. “All this and you don’t even know my fucking name? Tom, Tom Hilbert. Me and my team traveled for weeks after that, and I finally killed them. Do you know why Jones? Cause they were needless things for me. Needless people, they had no purpose. They raped your wife and killed your kids. They were sleeping with their whores in a penthouse and I killed them. Serves those assholes right.”
Jones remembered passing through there, remembering hearing the story of the massacre of three young boys in that little tiny town. What a sorry sight, yet satisfying.
“You know what the funny thing is? We both got what we wanted in the end, didn’t we? We both got the same fucking thing. I wanted the rowdy and dangerous life, you wanted to kill me. Well, we’ve both succeeded haven’t we? Life is a needless thing, and mine needs to end.”
Tom took his hand and grabbed the barrel of Jones’ gun, putting it spot on his own face. “Do it! Do it, you little fuck! Go on and do it!”
Jones looked at Tom a long time. Tom was panting, he was eager for it to end. The grass around his foot was pure shiny red now, nothing was left for him. “Let it go, Tom,” Jones said, and he pulled the trigger.
The shot rang throughout the woods; blood splattered his pants and boots. He looked down at the disfigured body and started to laugh. First softly, then loud, as if he had heard a funny joke. He had finally killed the bastard! The one that had raped and murdered his wife, downed his little boy and girl in the river. He was free, and then he heard the whine from Bessie.
He ran down to her, and saw her, bleeding on the ground, he felt her leg, it was broken in half, no repair. His face turned sullen, and he took his double barrel shot gun and reloaded it with two bullets. He pointed the gun at Bessie’s head and muttered, “Needless thing.” He pulled the trigger, and all was still but Jones’ bitter cry.
He could feel the blood pouring from Bessie’s head and onto his shoes. Jones swept his arm down and shoved the rusty and metallic tasting barrel of his shotgun up his mouth. He looked up at the stars and saw the moon. Oh well, he thought. Just a needless thing. He closed his eyes and screamed, “I’ll see you in hell Tom!”
The shot rang throughout the woods, and silence crept through the woods, until only the noise of the wind and trees could be heard.