UnAnimal

The route 50 is much lonelier than Craig ever imagined. It has been 2 weeks through Utah, with a stop in a shady saloon halfway, and another 3 weeks from Colorado before that. This is his general assumption anyway, from counting sunsets. He brought his old flip phone with him (Craig was never interested in technology on the ranch) but it has no signal, so it stays at the bottom of his saddlebag.

Craig likes to think of himself as a mysterious, lonely cowboy in this isolation, but he cannot deny that he has been talking to his sorrel quarter horse, Stripe, the whole journey.

‘Stripe, how come you never banged that pretty mare back at the stables?’

‘Oh, my bad, that’s kinda personal coming from your da.’

‘Stripe, am I going mad?’

Craig hasn’t seen another human since Utah, so he keeps himself busy with humming Marty Robbins songs, missing his family, and animal-watching. He sets up camp each night far off the road (you never know who’s driving out here, he tells himself), so in the mornings on his way back to the asphalt he often passes mule deer grazing, or coyotes on the hunt, and the occasional cottontail dashing through the sagebrush. At least he’s not alone.

Now, the sun is setting in front of him once more, ‘Stripe, I shoulda brought sunglasses,’ and Craig is squinting against it to direct Stripe off the road for the night. They walk to the right for a while, finding a generally open area to set up tonight’s respite. He dismounts Stripe, giving him a thankful scratch on the namesake white-stripe on his nose and unpacks from the saddlebag. Craig has had a lot of practice by now, spending plentiful evenings setting up a somewhat-decent place to sleep overnight, and so each night he gets faster.

He digs a small pit for the campfire, using kindling from dry brushes, and lets Stripe graze to his heart’s content. The canvas tarp packed in the saddlebag has a few holes, but he still uses it for a little shelter overnight, stretching it between rocks and the saddle to create a lean-to. He then takes off his cattleman hat, resting it on his chest as he lies, like every night, and watches the stars while the campfire burns to a stop. Like every night, he wonders if Tricia is watching the same sky, back home.

Guilt wrings at his gut, Craig cannot let himself move on from what he did. The day he left, he upped and went whilst Tricia was working - how could I be so cruel? Despite this, he repeats to himself it was for the best, if he tried to say goodbye to her, he wouldn’t have ever been able to leave. So now, he cannot share his travels with her, but they still share blood, and they still share this sky.

The celestial mosaic above him, paired with Stripe’s snores, settles him to sleep. It’s cold at night, but the glowing warmth from the campfire ash, and Stripe’s body heat make it all a bit more bearable.

Craig wakes up, it’s a bright morning, and his family run to greet him. Tricia is younger now, about 10, and she reminds Craig of when he was just a boy. She forgives him with a hug. The sun beams onto his face, and he is well and truly happy. Stripe is galloping around the open space, enjoying the lush pasture that has grown overnight. His Nana joins them, handing Craig a fresh slice of her famous Colorado peach pie. But, before he can take a bite, a lizard steals it away. Craig tries to chase it, but his legs are weighed down to the ground, his boots have been bolted. The lizard taunts him by making a familiar rattling noise.

Craig wakes up, devastated, he was so close. He scrunches his eyes against the pre-sunrise sky and reminds himself it was just a dream. The familiar pang of guilt hits his chest again after seeing his baby sister. Despite this, his legs still feel weighed down, is it Stripe leaning on him again? Surely not, this isn’t heavy enough. Craig looks down, moving the cattleman off his chest. He hears the familiar rattling again.

‘SHIT!’ He stands up – or jumps up – and tries to kick the snake away. It snaps at him, but to no avail (thank the lord for cowboy boots), so he runs and waves his arms to scare it off. Bad idea. The rattling turns into a loud, agitated buzzing, and the snake begins to raise its head, growing to a height he couldn’t have prepared himself for.

Craig, what are you doing!? Be calm, goddammit.

He freezes, holding his breath to slow his breathing. The snake mirrors him, still in its raised intimidation position. For a moment, Craig is grateful that Stripe couldn’t care less (grazing a few yards away), to save him from being bitten.

The stillness seems to somewhat work, as the rattlesnake begins to lower again. Craig takes a few painfully slow steps back, and it slithers off into the sagebrush.

‘Great work, Stripe. Much obliged.’ Craig huffs, finally relaxing. He now steps carefully with the harsh reminder that it’s not just jackrabbits out in the desert.

Once camp is packed back up, Craig relights the campfire with a match and fresh kindling and cooks some canned beans. Now he really misses his Nana’s cooking; the peach pie, sourdough bread, bison jerky, bear claw pastries filled with almond paste, empanadas...

He shakes away the hungry thoughts and stuffs down the beans.

Another day of ambling down route 50, and it’s time for another night of camping. Sweat prickles at Craig’s forehead beneath his hat, so he takes it off for the night, resting it in front of the saddle horn.

He steers Stripe off the road, and they walk on the basin terrain for an hour before the sun begins to set. ‘It’s too hot by the road, tomorrow we’ll travel on real ground.’

A figure in the distance stands about 100 yards away, next to a big sagebrush. From this distance, Craig can’t tell if it’s moving slightly, or if the rising heat is playing tricks on his eyes again. If it is human, which he half-hopes for and half-dreads, he assumes they stand at about six feet. He curses the sun for placing itself behind this man, as his face is shadowed. Craig assumes it’s a man.

The man is still, so he assumes it would be best to pull Stripe to a stop. He rests his hand on his Ruger Vaquero, ready. Maybe it’s from being raised in a small town, with a tight-knit community, or from hearing the outlaw stories of Gilman from his grandpa, but Craig can’t help feeling his guard shoot up at the sight of another human out in the wilderness like this. Neither men move, and Stripe is growing impatient, he whinnies.

‘Howdy!’ Craig yells to the stranger. They start to walk towards him, which is somewhat of a relief, but no response. ‘You speak English?’ He adds, maybe they’re lost? Deaf? Whatever they are, they’re gaining speed.

It all happens in a blink of an eye, a gunshot sounds, from somewhere to his left, knocking the figure down - dead? Stripe is unusually spooked by the sudden noise, and bucks. Craig loses his grip out of pure shock and falls off, hitting his head hard on a rock.

His vision blurs over like a curtain, with white stars dancing in his eyes. He’s just vigilant enough to notice the orange dusk sky above him and hear human footsteps going with Stripe’s, above the drumming sound of his own heartbeat. The pain shoots through his skull, piercing and shattering. Unconsciousness seeps in, but he just manages to realize that he’s probably about to die.

All is dark before his mind begins to run through memories...

Craig held his whiskey close in his left hand, and a quirly in his right. The night was still young, 8pm on the clock behind the bar, so he was sat alone and sober.

He had been travelling for 20 days, taking a few rests stops and camping each night with his horse, Stripe. Further west, he noticed the days getting warmer, and nights colder in contrast.

The neat whiskey burned his throat, it’d been a while since Craig visited a saloon for a drink other than water. The cigarette was a relief, though: he hadn’t had access to a lighter for weeks. He knew that smoking in bars was illegal in Utah, just like at home in Colorado, but he figured he’d get away with it since the visibly young boy a few stools from him got served.

The bar itself gave such signs, the dim lighting and hushed corners of gambling reminded Craig of his grandfather’s saloon back home. God, he missed home.

‘Craig Thomas Tucker,’ His grandmother told him before he set off, ‘you’re a grown man now. Granda is proud. We all are.’

‘Thanks, Nana.’ He shrugged her hands off his shoulders, uncomfortable with the lump building in his throat from the goodbyes.

’Listen here now. When your Granda left Gilman back in ’60, he was searchin' for a place to make himself into somethin'. Now you’re 25 too, that’s what you got to do. T’is tradition for us Tuckers. When you’re ready you can come back and show us what you done, eh?’

‘Alright Nana. I’d best get going before noon.’ He relished one last look at his Nana’s green eyes that crinkled at the corners and had read his mind since birth.

‘Godspeed Buck, happy trails and all.’

With the end of his travels far out of sight, Craig couldn’t help but consider that was the last time he would ever see his dear grandmother again.

His reminiscence was knocked out of his mind when a stool scraped loud against the sticky bar floor next to him. Frowning to the culprit, Craig’s eyes met a pair of mirrored sunglasses with his own reflection – hell, do I look that rough?

‘My bad,’ The girl said, giving him a polite nod as she settled into her spot and took off the shades. She seemed familiar.

‘All’s fine, you took me outta my mind-wandering, it’s for the best.’ Craig looked back to his quirly, that was nearing the end of its burning lifespan then.

‘Ah. Can’t blame you, it’s all low-down in here.’ The lifted tune of her voice rung through Craig’s memory, bringing him back to his days on the ranch as a boy. He gave her a once-over, taking in the plaits of black hair, dark eyes and pale skin. Her jacket had tassels, just like Craig’s. In fact, with a quick look of comparison, he realized they were almost exactly the same.

‘This might sound crazy n’ all, but did you used to live in Colorado? Park county?’

‘God, who’s asking?’

‘Tucker. Who’s answering?’

‘Testaburger. I know that name, you’re Thomas’s boy, ain’t you?’ She relaxed a little, likely not seeing Craig as a threat any longer.

‘That’s right. I knew I recognized your voice. You were the ranch hand when I was a teenager, you always sung when cleaning the paddock.’

‘Damn, well someone’s got a good memory. That’s right. I’m not a ranch hand no more though.’

‘I’ll bet you ain’t, Wendy. What brings you to Utah, anyway?’ He took a swig from his whiskey, the warmth returning to his chest from the alcohol.

‘Could say the same to you, Craig. All work. Lookin' for someone.’

‘Lookin'? And I’m just travelling, you know how my family is.’

‘I’m getting paid to hunt down this criminal. He’d been a right trouble back home for months. Violent type.’ She frowned, almost absent.

‘Bounty hunting, eh? Didn’t expect that from you, Wendy. Good luck, though. Suppose you don’t know where the varmint is?’

‘No damned clue. He supposedly left state with a bunch of others a month or so back. I’ll die before I let him get away, I need that bounty.’ Her gaze darkened, he knew that she meant it.

Back on the ranch, Wendy was known as a struggler, along with the rest of her family. Craig’s father, Thomas Tucker, was kind and wealthy enough to employ most of them on the ranch. He could use the help anyway, her family were more eager than others to do the tough work cleaning animals, paddocks and scaring off wild dogs.

When Craig was fourteen, he’d take young (4-year-old) Stripe out for daily rides and return to see little Wendy doing chores much bigger than her. He never once heard her complain, she’d be too busy singing. In the evenings the ranch hands and buckaroos would return to their bunkhouse, and the ranch would be quiet once more.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll get him. You work hard.’ Craig gave her a nod of approval.

‘I will, I know. Thanks, Craig.’

Wendy left soon after, mounting a chestnut Breton outside the saloon. For a moment, Craig regretted not asking her which direction she was heading, perhaps West, like him? He mourned the idea of having some company along the route 50 but knew that he’d likely creep her out or grow suspicion with the request. He bought some matches from the bar before continuing his travels.

Craig’s head is throbbing heat when he wakes up, still laid out on the Nevada desert floor. Stripe leans over him, licking slobber on his stomach, which tickles despite the pain.

‘God, Stripe,’ Craig laughs, but winces, ‘give me a minute.’ He gently pushes Stripe’s head away and starts to catch up with what happened. A gunshot: nothing about that is good news. He cranes his neck, it’s dusk now, so he must squint to force his eyes to adjust to the fresh darkness. As he guessed, a man stands a yard or so away from him. His arms are crossed, seemingly annoyed, but he doesn’t seem much of a threat, despite the two guns strapped to his legs.

’Beretta 92s? You’re fancy.’

‘You’re finally awake.’ He says indifferently. The man takes a step forward and offers a hand to help Craig up. He notices a collection of scars about his arms, exposed by the rolled sleeves of his green-camo utility jacket.

‘Yeah, I’m awake. And you are?’ Craig takes his hand and leans against a welcoming Stripe once he’s up. He’s a little disorientated from the bump, but he’s otherwise alright.

‘You took quite a fall there. Don’t worry, we have a first aider.’ The man grazes his eyes over Craig, ignoring his question. He seems absent, calculating. Craig isn’t used to this type of interaction and feels his guard inevitably rising again.

‘We? Who’s we?’ He frowns.

‘You’ll see. What’s your name?’ The man pushes his dusty blonde hair out of his face, growing impatient.

‘Craig.’ He answers reluctantly. Craig isn’t pleased with the situation, but he can’t even mount Stripe with this dizziness, and the stranger would most definitely have a faster hand on his pair of handguns than Craig with his little Ruger vaquero.

‘Craig what?’ He gives him a look.

‘Craig Tucker.’

‘Follow me, Craig Tucker.’ With that, the man turns on his heel and begins walking, and Craig hasn’t much choice but to follow, holding a ring on Stripe’s saddle for a little support. They walk and walk, and it only grows darker. Craig can’t get the image of the figure falling to the ground out of his mind – what else could be out here? Did this blonde guy shoot it?

Gunshots sound every few minutes, it’s strange, they’re never close together. Whoever is behind the gun seems to be damn good at aiming it. Craig asks about them, to which the man simply replies; ‘Don’t worry, they’re ours.’

His other questions stay unanswered:

‘Ours? Who are you people?’

‘What was that thing running at me?’

‘Where are we going?’

’What’s your name?’

‘Are you going to kill me? You know I got a family back home, right?’

Craig eventually gives up, and he stumbles along behind, greeted only with the occasional glance back.

‘Fancy ass guns and jacket but no damned flashlight.’ He mutters to himself.

A collection of lights comes into sight, orange from flames, that illuminate the silhouette of a large construction that spreads across the area like a huge pile of rocks. They get closer, and Craig realises it’s a fort, or base of some kind. He doesn’t get long to take it in, though. The blonde stops walking and steps aside, then the thud of Stripe’s unconscious body collapsing to the ground is closely followed by dreariness taking over Craig’s.

Once more, all is dark.