Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

John had been shot in the gut, he had fought to survive for three days. She prays every night that he was Chosen. He was so brave, so strong, the Choosers of the Slain had to have picked him, they just had to have.

She is all alone in the cold and in the dark. Her husband is the only family she has. Was. Was the only family she had. Their home, now her prison, soon her tomb. Winter set in, and though she put her every effort into it, she hadn’t secured enough firewood, the larder only had a third of what she needed for just herself. She didn’t know she was pregnant when John died.

Mr. Tolliver had offered her a job as a whore at his hotel in Whitby. Maybe she should’ve taken it. The Railway men who had accidentally shot her John when they were arguing with Mr Wilson in town, had offered her three hundred dollars. Three Hundred Dollars, and not even as an insulting recompense, they felt they were doing her a favor by offering to buy her land. Maybe she should’ve taken it. Pride. Pride told her she could work the farm herself. Pride told her she would be damned if they would buy his memory. No, it wasn’t pride, it was anger, and pain, and loss. She would keep their home and in that way, keep him alive. That was so many months ago, before she knew.

She had gotten sick that fall. Sickness had kept her out of the fields, malnutrition made her weak, weakness had made her efforts marginal. Winter came early. She was all alone, in the cold and in the dark. She wished she didn’t know. She wished she didn’t know so many things that she knew. Maybe it was for the best that John never knew. She had settled his gambling debts with Tolliver. She knew that it was not her John’s child inside her. She knew that neither her nor the child would survive the winter. She knew that the child would be here soon. She knew she could not, would not have this child in John’s home.

All alone, in the cold and in the dark, driven by the strength only a woman can know, fueled by the pain only a wife and a mother can feel, she walked out their home and along the fence line, as far as her bare swollen feet would carry her. The last thing she would come to know is the keening wail of a infant. All alone. In the cold. In the dark.

—–

Charlie hated talking to widows, it was like chewing horseshoes. Strong as iron, nothing you could do to bend them, and you were probably going to loose a few teeth for your effort. He’d been with the Pinkertons for too damned many years now, and he’d rather arm-wrestle a Troll than try to browbeat a widow, they were forged on the anvil of pain. He’d set out from Whitby with young Tom, they were on the hunt for some missing Railmen. The word was they had made an offer in the fall and were back at first thaw, trying to purchase land from some widow up on the prairie. She’d probably shot them. Serves them right. He knows he would have, if he was her.

They had made it about half way to the farm when the clouds rolled in and the sky opened with a vengeance. The rain so heavy they lost the trail twice, it would be night by the time they made it the widow’s place. Dangerous that, arriving in the dark, unknown and unwelcome. On top of that, they were there to harass a widow about some damned railmen that were probably buried behind her barn.

If it wasn’t for the lightning, they might have missed the house entirely. No fire. No lanterns. Just a small house out on the prairie all alone, in the cold, and in the dark. They rode cautiously, Charlie having shared his concerns and opinions about widows with young Tom.

The door was open, the house was dark. Tom dug a lantern out of his saddle bags and managed to get it lit. They stepped into the home, Tom holding his lantern high. The bones in the center of room glowed under the orange light.

“What in the hell?” Tom whispered.

Charlie scanned to room quickly, his mind racing as he took in the scene. Coyote skull, various bones, claw marks on the floor. human skulls. Bear? He thought as he stepped back. Widow! It hit him like a slap in the face.

“Utburd!” he hissed, as turned and ran. Ran for all he was worth. There was silence behind him, and he knew that young Tom was already dead. When exhaustion finally caught up with him and he knew he couldn’t run any further, he hunkered down behind a rocky outcrop, his gun shaking wildly as he pointed it frantically all around him.

The wind carried a voice to his ears as he huddled in the rain, all alone, in the cold, and in the dark.

Móðir mín í kví, kví
kvíddu ekki því, því;
ég skal ljá þér duluna mína
duluna mína að dansa í,
ég skal ljá þér duluna mína
duluna mína að dansa í