it flew over the plain in a cloud of thinning dust and its beak was slick with carrion shellac and its wings ragged but still functional and its thoughtstream had already migrated on from the two prey animals it had swooped and pecked at and although it would recognize them again if it encountered them it no longer thought about them at all and it should have been unable to distinguish between people because none had existed in the ancestral environment but years of patient study compressed into a thin sheet of metal had taught it to recognize the sound and appearance of the man who carried it close to his heart imprisoned crucified on the wall of the barn where it had hung for centuries since the men posing with guns had holed its wings and smashed its bones and punctured its lungs and sent it falling out of the air and now in the air once again it detected the voice and the heat and the heartbeat of the man far below it and circled to plan its descent with the sun behind it so if he spotted it he would be unable to see
The horses made unhappy sounds. Maruthas spoke to them in Latin and again in Pahlavi to steady them. The storm had died down enough that the animals could hear him. They were upset at the sounds of thunder from the house at the edge of the plain, which he could see now in the fading red sunlight still filtered by hanging dust. He took the hoods off the beasts one at a time to clean the stray accumulations of grit from their eyes.
He felt a pain in his hand. His jaw. The solar plexus and the underlying center mass of the torso. Sympathetic pains for the victims and perpetrators of the fight happening inside the house, or merely old wounds irritated by the storm.
The roadhouse exterior was caked with dirt, as were the cars in the parking lot. Under the cake of dust and the light of the falling sun it all looked red. Outlaw Journalist Namond Lick sat on the railing of the back porch and kicked his legs like a kid. He had a couple good photos already of the shoot and the fight in La Momia. Nobody was upset with him for initiating the brutal combat. They didn’t seem to realize he had done anything and he was going to write it like he wasn’t involved.
The King of Swords and Animal Gutierrez moved cornhole boards and patio furniture to create a lane in which they could face off. A great, howling sob came from inside the restaurant, louder than the background rasp of the still-crying baby. The Journalist heard it as though from far away and realized his hearing was recovering from the gunfire and the scouring wind before.
This photo would cap the piece. The King with his blade and the challenger with his revolver and the sunset behind. Namond put down the frozen margarita poached from the machine behind the bar and fiddled with his camera.
The King of Swords hadn’t considered the Redcoats or their auxiliaries to be subjects under his protection, but he realized after the brawl that it was so. His people paid the price for his transgression against the Comte and it tipped his usual flat affect into melancholy. It didn’t help that the woman who had taken his clothes and cursed him had snuck out afterward with the possessed gunslinger. The shootist may have still been possessed or she may have returned to her body and been pleased to find her hand on the soft hip of the partially clothed dealer as they kissed under the faro table.
But he was about to fight again. If he won he’d feel another momentary high of conquest and domination. If he lost then it would be someone else’s problem.
Animal wasn’t thrilled with the circumstances of the duel.
“Aw hell, ken someone git him some paints?”
He grumbled and broke open his revolver to replace the one cartridge he had fired in the Roadhouse.
“If I win they’ll say I didn’t give ‘em a fair shake. An’ if I get kilt they’ll say it was a nekkid man done it an’ I’ll never live it down.”
The King sniffed.
“That’s not an option. Unless you’d care to join me for a game of cards.”
Animal scowled.
“Aw alright, but I asked. Yew all saw it!”
He pointed to Namond and the frycook who had come out on the balcony to smoke, after being told by those inside that they really appreciated his offered help but his anxious hovering and attempts to render first aid were only getting in the way.
Animal and the King argued over the terms of the duel. Animal wanted a quick draw contest at point blank range, with him reaching for his pistol and the King unsheathing his sword. But the King couldn’t wear his belt or baldrick because they counted as clothing, and both were still out in the car by the great gun. So they agreed the King would start at a distance with his blade in hand and close the gap. But then they had to haggle over the distance. Animal wanted to stand just out of reach of the King’s extended sword arm, so nobody could say he gunned down the swordmaster Indiana Jones style before he got within spitting distance. The King insisted he start further away, to give the Fulminaturge a chance before inevitably being cut down.
They had to compromise because neither of them wanted to argue for so long that the sun went down. They agreed on a number of feet that the King should stand away from the gunsel. Namond wrote it down in his notebook and underlined it.
They asked the frycook to initiate the monomachy. He hadn’t landed any blows on the Roman soldier and felt useless and was happy to have something to do, although that impulse itself made him feel like a child. His role was simple. He’d flick his cigarette and they’d go when it hit the earth.
The King gave his blade a couple test flicks in a figure eight pattern and declared himself ready. Animal snapped the action of his revolver shut and sheathed it with the hammer down, leaving the holster unbuttoned, and likewise declared himself fit for combat.
The smoker tossed his cigarette. The men with swords and guns followed it with their eyes and tamed their urge to act before it hit the ground.
The pterodactyl had no such restraint. It swooped and caught Animal in its claws so fast that by the time the King realized what had happened it was already out of reach of his blade. In an instant it was so high the Fulminaturge couldn’t simply shoot it with his handgun for fear of a fatal fall. Couldn’t do anything. He had accepted the day’s violence and mind bending weirdness with equanimity but this was a step too far. He dangled helplessly in its grasp like a card on a piece of string. The monster made a sound like the bellowing of an alligator and the shriek of an eagle combined.
Namond rushed forward with his camera, hoping to capture in the same shot the King of Swords naked and cranberry red looking up at the likewise bloodred quetzal and victim in the moment before the light was too dim and the thief to far away to track with the eye.
But by the time he dialed in the focus it was too late. He too was denied catharsis.
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