Fierce Eye of Blinded Justice………………………………………………………………………………………….Mac Bobo, V

Fierce Eye of Blinded Justice

Mac Bobo '23

The screeching of a hawk overhead permeated the thick, muggy air, startling me back into reality. My lips, cracked and bloody, throbbed with pain; my throat was as dry and battered as the jagged rock I was sitting up against. The heavy breeze shaped the movement of the sands like an invisible hand. The sun, an idol sitting atop its golden seat of judgment in the sky, beat down on my face and the dust around me, making no distinction between the two. I reached down and placed my finger on my side. My body convulsed, and I involuntarily let out a loud, pain-filled groan, as my finger met warm flesh. The noise broke the omnipresent silence of the Texas canyon. Don’t look. It’ll only make it worse, I thought. My vision started to blur, and the world was spinning uncontrollably. I closed my eyes, hoping it would just go away.

I’m working past sunset for the third time this week. Several more unexpected requests have come in, and I refuse to put out an imperfect piece just to go home early. It’s just a busy week, I tell myself. She’ll forget all about it next week. I get to work sanding down the last of the tables. The rough sandpaper grinds into the grain of the wood, producing dust that jumps into the dark air, illuminated by the nearby lamp. I grab the brush resting on the ground and dip the bristles into the viscous varnish and slap it onto the table, turning the nearly-white wood into a sullen, dark brown. Once the whole table is covered in the glistening polish, I grab my coat without wiping my hands. The cool night breeze hits me as I walk out the door, and I turn left, walking down the road leading to our house. I don’t make it five steps before I hear quick footsteps behind me. Turning around, I see a disheveled man, on the younger side, and big – at least six foot five inches. In his right hand, he grasps several pearl necklaces, dangling low through the cracks between his fingers. In his left is a large sack, filled to the brim but not weighing too much. I step aside to let him pass, and he looks at me with the confidence of a man who knows that there are no consequences - at least not in this town. “You didn’ see nuthin’,” he says, glaring at me. I stand still as I watch him turn the corner and vanish.

It felt like time didn’t exist. It could have been minutes, hours, days before I woke up again. My head had stopped spinning, but it pulsated and ached, desperate for water. My body, broken and tired, longed for rest, and for once I decided to listen to it. As I closed my eyes, I saw Sarah, the subject of a portrait in my mind. She looked like she did the first time I saw her, not as she looked the last night. I saw flowing dark hair, dark brown eyes, a smile as bright as the sun’s reflection off a glass. She didn’t hold back. That’s what I loved most.

I’m waiting for you, I heard her say. I lifted my head off the rock, and the world started spinning again. Slowly, I got my feet under me and took a step. My leg couldn’t hold the weight, and I fell face-first into the dirt, causing a cloud of dust to rise around me. Coughing, I got back up again and took a deep breath before taking my next step. With wobbling knees, I started off across the desert, a man alone without direction. The immense cliffs on each side looked down upon me as I traversed the dusty landscape. I no longer felt the aching in my legs, as they had gone numb at some point I no longer remembered. I didn’t know how much longer I could go, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before my legs gave up supporting the rest of my body. I wasn’t sure what I would do then. Give up, maybe. Lie there on the ground. Die slowly without seeing her again. But I kept moving, looking for something, anything. —

“How are we going to start a family when you’re never here, Jackson?” she asks. “How are we going to start a family if I give up on every order that comes in?” I reply. She looks into my eyes; disappointment and sadness are etched into the wrinkles which appeared only recently. The image of the man holding the pearls on my walk home appears in my mind. How are we doing to start a family in a town like this? I think to myself. —

I had given up without realizing it. At one moment I was walking, and the next, the sound of hooves and men caused me to stir. I slowly lifted my head and saw a stampede of horses rushing towards me. I closed my eyes again, hoping for a death without pain. I didn’t even flinch or grimace, wince or cover my head. Silence soon followed, and I was sure the end had come. I looked up and saw the mammoth horses standing over me, blocking out the sun. “Y’aren’t lookin’ real spry, there, fella,” a voice uttered. I could only muster a groan in reply. “‘Way I see it, you can either hop on one of these horses ‘ere, or we could leave you out ‘ere to die.” I tried to stand with wobbling knees, but as soon as I got up, I fell back to the baking, cracked ground. They seemed to take this as a request to join them, and I soon felt strong arms lifting me up and into the back of a wagon and onto a bench running along the side. I heard someone else hop into the back and sit down across from me.

“Glad we found ya in time. Couldn’a been much longer ‘fore you died out ‘ere.” said the same voice from before. I looked up and saw him looking right at me. Long silvery hair flowed from the back of his wide-brimmed hat. A long, gray beard slightly blocked his mouth, but a hint of a warm smile poked out from the mangy mass. Underneath his hair-covered, inviting face lived a menacing black bandana with a sharp white pattern.

“Why don’t we get goin’, ‘ere, Clyde,” he said, tapping the back of the man with the reins at the front of the wagon. Clyde whipped the reins, and the wagon started its slow, lurching march. The man with the black bandana sat back, stretched his arms along the side of the wagon, and crossed his legs. He still

looked intently at me, and no matter where I turned, I felt his eyesight burning into my face. Horses on each side of the wagon trotted slowly along, ridden by the men who had lifted me into the wagon.

“D’ya got somewhere to be?” he asked after several minutes of silence. I wanted to say, away from that town, but thought better of it.

“Back to Fort Bliss, after visiting my parents in Odessa,” I said.

“Well, wudda nice surprise, we’re headed’n that direction too,” he said. “Lucky fer you. I dunno what you were thinkin’, tryna get to Freeport on foot. Couldn’t gedda wagon?” he asked, with a smile on his face. I felt a sudden moment of panic. He’s onto me. He knows I’m running from something. I felt the sudden urge to escape. The smile that seemed inviting at first suddenly became jagged and cold.

“What’s yer name, anyways? Pardon me, not askin’ before. No manners!” he said with a full laugh.

“Luke Davidson,” I said, without showing any signs of reciprocating his amusement.

“Well, Luke, I sure am glad to have some comp’ny fer the journey,” he said. “It gets a little lonely on the long trips, yunno. Ain’t that right, Clyde!” he shouted to the man in the front. Clyde only nodded in response.

“What’s your business, being out here?” I asked, hoping to get the conversation away from me.

“Well, yunno, a little bitta this, little bitta that,” he said. For a moment, he shifted his sight away from me, surveying the land around us like a hawk – or a hunter. “We mainly help out some guys, get some shit done for them, yunno. Just some favors, here an’ there.” Now his gaze was again intensely focused on me.

“Yunno, been doin’ this for a while now. Clyde, Jim, Clint, ever since we was young. Gettin’ perdy good at it too!” I was squirming in my seat. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought he could see how uncomfortable I was, and it was making him smile all the more. “Use’ta be in uniform, yunno. All official, the four of’fus. Nobody shows off’sers any ‘spect, these days,” he put special emphasis on the last two words. “Couldn’ get anythin’ done. Now we like to do more under tha table type stuff, yunno. Unofficial, but we get shit done!” He threw his head in laughter, and Clyde started to chuckle a little too.

“Ya musta heard ‘bout the sheriff in Pecos?” he asked. I pretended to think for a little.

“No, doesn’t come to mind. Must’ve been after I left Odessa,” I said. He eyes me questioningly.

“Well, f***er done killed the sheriff!” he exclaimed, making me jump. “Coulda told ya it was comin’, way folks be treating off’sers these days. Guy by the name of Jackson, if I remember right.” His eyes ventured outside of the wagon once again.

“Damn shame,” I said. The wagon wheels turned slowly as he turned back to me. I looked down at the bottom of the wagon beneath his feet.

After what seemed like an hour passed but was probably just a couple of minutes, I said, “Well, I probably don’t need to get all the way to Bliss. If you can drop me off at the nearest town, that would be great. I can probably catch a ride–”

“Now, why wouldja wanna do that when you can ride with me an’ Clyde, ‘ere, aye Clyde?” he asked. Again Clyde only groaned in response. “To be honest, I’m feelin’ a little hurt thatchu would wanna leave us,” he said with a smile. Without moving the rest of his body, his right hand slowly moved his coat back, exposing a holster with a revolver that reflected the hot, blazing sun.

As I looked outside the wagon, I started to recognize much of the landscape. We are going west, I realized. We’re going back. I looked back at the man, a sudden wave of dread paralyzing me.

“When I saw ya, collapsed on the ground, I knew it was you,” he said. “Scum always tryta escape, but they never make it out ‘ere.” He looked right into my eyes. “An’ yer real scum, Jackson. What I wouldn’t give to kill ya right now, slowly, watchin’ the life drain from those there eyes. But we got our orders, and I been doin’ this long ‘nuf to know what I gotta do.”

The wagon continued its march, and I realized why the others were riding alongside it. It didn’t make sense that a landscape so vast could close around me so tightly. I knew what they would do to a sheriffkiller. Hanging, probably. Not before a long deal of torture, though.

I looked up and was met by the barrel of a revolver. I looked into his eyes, meeting his gaze – those cold eyes matching the cool white pattern of his black bandana.

“You think yer gonna escape, don’tcha? Well, that ain’t gonna happen, Jackson.”

He swung the revolver, hitting me square in the jaw, knocking me right to the ground. —

I’m walking home from the shop, just like any other evening. The house we share is just around the corner, and it only takes me turning this corner to hear the wailing. I start to jog, hoping it’s not my wife. Dust flies up around me as I approach the house, and as I get closer, I hear the sobs and the almost animalistic groans. I throw open the front door and find her sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tears streaming down her face as if they wanted to escape the suffering embedded in her mind. She tells me the story, struggling to do so even to her husband of five years.

The sheriff’s office is just down the road, as is everything. I throw open the front door of our house and head in that direction, with no real plan having formed in my mind. The sun just finished its descent below the horizon, leaving only the mask of darkness. Once I get to the station, I enter through the front door and see him sitting at his desk in the corner. I remember making that desk. I worked hard for such a beloved figure. Only a town as shitty as this one would worship a man like this, I think.

He’s the only one there. Everyone else has gone home for the night. He asks me what he can do for me, but I don’t reply. I go over to his desk, grab him by the collar, lift him up and shove him against the wall. There’s fear in his eyes. I can see it.

He asks what the hell I’m doing, and I say that I think he knows what I’m doing. I see his revolver on that desk, and I let him drop to the wooden floor as I grab the revolver and pull back the hammer with my thumb. Looking away, I pull the trigger. The loud bang is followed by silence. I walk out of the station and look in both directions. The gravity of what I just did hasn’t hit me yet. That would come later. I run back to our house and see her still sitting in the kitchen, no longer crying. She looks up at me with horror. She asks what I did, and I tell her. She breaks down. There are shouts and screams down the road, and I look back into her face, knowing it will probably be the last time. I turn back and head out the door, hearing her screams from behind me, pleading for me to come back.