THE VULTURE CRIES
The frantic and heavy breathing of the running man.
The dust being kicked up by the running man’s boots.
From a distance the man is just a small ant, moving through the canyon, clouded by the dust that is the giveaway to his position.
The man who seeks him spots him from atop the canyon.
The running man looks back and spots his pursuer and the worry on his face is revealed to us. He is young – probably no older than twenty-five, drenched in sweat which makes the short dark stubbly hairs on his dirty face seem oily and unclean. He keeps looking back as he runs.
The man who seeks him is no longer atop the canyon.
The worry on the running man’s face has just multiplied.
He hangs a right turn and stops in the shade. Just for a moment. Vultures circle and we hear the greedy cries of one of the birds which pretty much makes the only sound other than the running man’s breathing in the canyon.
He takes the water skin that was hanging from his left shoulder across his body and takes a gulp, gasping for air as he finishes his greedy gulp and a few drops run down his blue shirt that has now turned a dusty grey from the pursuit.
The lonely and rhythmical sound of the man’s breathing is suddenly halted as he hears something. His eyes show us the fear that consumes the man.
He slowly peers around the corner, moving his head into the sun as he spies for his enemy.
Silence now, save for another cry from the vulture that is heard.
The silence and tranquility of the canyon is broken as a few pebbles from around another giant rock tumble into view. The sound makes an echo that makes him think for a split second that he is outnumbered.
No. Not outnumbered. Just one man.
Then why so scared, running man?
He puts his head back round the corner back into the shade and reaches for his left pocket where he pulls out a stick of dynamite. He then pulls out a match from his chest pocket.
He pauses for one more moment and listens once again.
Another tumble of pebbles is heard.
He strikes the match and then lights the stick of TNT in his left hand. He waits for just a few seconds as the fuse slowly burns down.
He throws the dynamite towards the direction of the noise.
It barely makes a shadow.
When the dynamite hits the ground it explodes instantly as if commanded to do so. A terrible sound is made as shards of rock and sand are blasted all over the place.
From afar the smoke from the explosion can be seen for miles. He waits for the carnage to end and for the dust to settle.
He peers round once more and smiles at the blood that has been splattered across the surface of the canyon, leading from where the noise was heard.
He sighs relief. It’s the length of the sigh that actually shows us just how frightened this man was. His breathing steadies and his eyes close. A few moments of silence pass. Even the vultures can’t be seen or heard.
"Get up"
His eyes snap open and the fear is back. He instantly looks around and sees the figure. Only a silhouette. But nonetheless a silhouette he knows too well. The hat, the duster jacket, even his posture is recognised by the running man.
The fear is well and truly back.
"I said get up"
He slowly does as the man says. Standing up which seems to take all the effort in the world. All the time he never takes his frightened eyes off the silhouette.
He takes a few steps forward, reluctant, frightened steps.
The vultures return.
The two men face each other. Around twenty feet from each other but that doesn’t stop the running man’s fear being smelled by the man who seeks him.
"Want to apologise fer all the trouble?"
"It make a difference?", the running man replies
The man slowly and slightly shakes his head from left to right. We can barely see his weather beaten, weary yet terrifying face. Intense eyes half covered by graying eyebrows. A slightly wrinkled mouth that looks as though it has never passed a smile in a lifetime. His face tells us that he has seen a lot, and that he is not to be crossed.
"Then let’s just get it over with."
They stare at each other for what seems like months. The running mans’ fear can still be seen in his eyes.
His heavy breathing has returned but this time not from fatigue.
The other mans’ face doesn’t change at all. Not even when a gust of wind blows sand and dust across the canyon, blowing his long duster jacket about.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Both men have their hands by their waists, ready to make their move. The only difference is that the running man has a pistol on his right thigh, whereas his seeker is carrying two, one on each thigh.
The inevitable happens. The running man makes his move.
He has barely gotten his gun out of his holster when the dual sound of the other man’s pistols is heard. The long, silver pistols gripped in the seeker’s hands. Something intriguing comes into view as we see the seekers’ chest. A Silver Star that shines intensely in the desert sun. Below hang the intriguing words that accompany the star.
‘U.S. Marshall’
Bang, bang
The sound would be heard for miles around, if only there were someone around to hear it.
The running man stands for as long as his trembling legs permit him. blood is seen dripping from his chest. His pistol is already discarded on the floor. The un-fired bullet, still in the barrel.
He joins the gun on the floor.
The vulture cries once more.
The running man gargles for life on the floor. The seeker approaches him. guns holstered.
The running man gargles for life on the floor. No heavy breathing now just a desperate gasping that is cut short by blood that escapes through his mouth every time he exhales.
The seeker stands now just a few feet away from his felled enemy with guns holstered. He takes off his hat, wipes his sweaty brow and replaces the hat. He then reaches for something from behind his back. Something that strikes even more terror into the already dying running mans’ heart.
A long, jagged scalping knife.
The seeker slowly approaches the running man with his blade.
Death will not come as swiftly as the running man had hoped.
The vulture cries once more.
copyright Jonathan Bonner 2009
The dust being kicked up by the running man’s boots.
From a distance the man is just a small ant, moving through the canyon, clouded by the dust that is the giveaway to his position.
The man who seeks him spots him from atop the canyon.
The running man looks back and spots his pursuer and the worry on his face is revealed to us. He is young – probably no older than twenty-five, drenched in sweat which makes the short dark stubbly hairs on his dirty face seem oily and unclean. He keeps looking back as he runs.
The man who seeks him is no longer atop the canyon.
The worry on the running man’s face has just multiplied.
He hangs a right turn and stops in the shade. Just for a moment. Vultures circle and we hear the greedy cries of one of the birds which pretty much makes the only sound other than the running man’s breathing in the canyon.
He takes the water skin that was hanging from his left shoulder across his body and takes a gulp, gasping for air as he finishes his greedy gulp and a few drops run down his blue shirt that has now turned a dusty grey from the pursuit.
The lonely and rhythmical sound of the man’s breathing is suddenly halted as he hears something. His eyes show us the fear that consumes the man.
He slowly peers around the corner, moving his head into the sun as he spies for his enemy.
Silence now, save for another cry from the vulture that is heard.
The silence and tranquility of the canyon is broken as a few pebbles from around another giant rock tumble into view. The sound makes an echo that makes him think for a split second that he is outnumbered.
No. Not outnumbered. Just one man.
Then why so scared, running man?
He puts his head back round the corner back into the shade and reaches for his left pocket where he pulls out a stick of dynamite. He then pulls out a match from his chest pocket.
He pauses for one more moment and listens once again.
Another tumble of pebbles is heard.
He strikes the match and then lights the stick of TNT in his left hand. He waits for just a few seconds as the fuse slowly burns down.
He throws the dynamite towards the direction of the noise.
It barely makes a shadow.
When the dynamite hits the ground it explodes instantly as if commanded to do so. A terrible sound is made as shards of rock and sand are blasted all over the place.
From afar the smoke from the explosion can be seen for miles. He waits for the carnage to end and for the dust to settle.
He peers round once more and smiles at the blood that has been splattered across the surface of the canyon, leading from where the noise was heard.
He sighs relief. It’s the length of the sigh that actually shows us just how frightened this man was. His breathing steadies and his eyes close. A few moments of silence pass. Even the vultures can’t be seen or heard.
"Get up"
His eyes snap open and the fear is back. He instantly looks around and sees the figure. Only a silhouette. But nonetheless a silhouette he knows too well. The hat, the duster jacket, even his posture is recognised by the running man.
The fear is well and truly back.
"I said get up"
He slowly does as the man says. Standing up which seems to take all the effort in the world. All the time he never takes his frightened eyes off the silhouette.
He takes a few steps forward, reluctant, frightened steps.
The vultures return.
The two men face each other. Around twenty feet from each other but that doesn’t stop the running man’s fear being smelled by the man who seeks him.
"Want to apologise fer all the trouble?"
"It make a difference?", the running man replies
The man slowly and slightly shakes his head from left to right. We can barely see his weather beaten, weary yet terrifying face. Intense eyes half covered by graying eyebrows. A slightly wrinkled mouth that looks as though it has never passed a smile in a lifetime. His face tells us that he has seen a lot, and that he is not to be crossed.
"Then let’s just get it over with."
They stare at each other for what seems like months. The running mans’ fear can still be seen in his eyes.
His heavy breathing has returned but this time not from fatigue.
The other mans’ face doesn’t change at all. Not even when a gust of wind blows sand and dust across the canyon, blowing his long duster jacket about.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Both men have their hands by their waists, ready to make their move. The only difference is that the running man has a pistol on his right thigh, whereas his seeker is carrying two, one on each thigh.
The inevitable happens. The running man makes his move.
He has barely gotten his gun out of his holster when the dual sound of the other man’s pistols is heard. The long, silver pistols gripped in the seeker’s hands. Something intriguing comes into view as we see the seekers’ chest. A Silver Star that shines intensely in the desert sun. Below hang the intriguing words that accompany the star.
‘U.S. Marshall’
Bang, bang
The sound would be heard for miles around, if only there were someone around to hear it.
The running man stands for as long as his trembling legs permit him. blood is seen dripping from his chest. His pistol is already discarded on the floor. The un-fired bullet, still in the barrel.
He joins the gun on the floor.
The vulture cries once more.
The running man gargles for life on the floor. The seeker approaches him. guns holstered.
The running man gargles for life on the floor. No heavy breathing now just a desperate gasping that is cut short by blood that escapes through his mouth every time he exhales.
The seeker stands now just a few feet away from his felled enemy with guns holstered. He takes off his hat, wipes his sweaty brow and replaces the hat. He then reaches for something from behind his back. Something that strikes even more terror into the already dying running mans’ heart.
A long, jagged scalping knife.
The seeker slowly approaches the running man with his blade.
Death will not come as swiftly as the running man had hoped.
The vulture cries once more.
copyright Jonathan Bonner 2009