The Hollow Hunter

IV.

The hunter rides until the sagebrush and switchgrasses give way to a forest of stunted poplar and willow trees. As the mountains loom closer and the forest grows denser, the hunter dips off the main path and discovers a dried out creekbed that looks to have been formed by the surges of ice melt that flow down from the mountains in spring. He pickets his horse in the depression and pulls the heavy black rifle from his saddle holster. He disengages the magazine, ensuring it's full before re-slotting it. Then he slings the rifle over his shoulder and scrambles up the embankment.

He moves through the wood quiet as a wraith. When he hears the clatter of hoofbeats he stops and crouches behind a desiccated log several yards off the path. He sets his rifle in a notch along the dead bark and trains his sights on the path just as his five armed pursuers ride into view. Through the brush he watches as the lead rider pulls on his reins and leans down to study the path.

"Looks like he headed this way, C'mon, let's g—" a shot rings out. Several nesting birds take flight as the lead rider collapses off his horse, bleeding and choking from the hole punched through his neck. The other riders hold their panicking steeds and cock their weapons, scanning the trees. The second rider is shot in the chest. He topples from his horse but his foot gets caught in the stirrup. The panicking horse drags his dying body away.

"There!" The third rider yells and shoots into the tree line.

The bullet splinters the bark right next to the hunter but he does not flinch. He levers in the next round and checks his breath. His third bullet takes his would-be shooter right between the eyes.

The final two riders, having seen three of their comrades fall in as many seconds, elect to take a different approach. They hop off their horses and seek refuge in the trees.

The hunter removes his rifle from the groove and rests his back against the log. He ejects the empty shell before crouching and sprinting away. Bullets pepper the ground behind his footsteps. He takes shelter behind a trunk and fires back. Misses.

"He went behind that tree. Flank the bastard!" He hears one of them say.

"Shit," he mutters to himself as he sets down his rifle and begins to fiddle with his clasp.

The two remaining posse members circle through the woods and approach the tree from opposite sides. They both can see the hunter's flapping cloak flickering in and out of cover. Together, they round the tree's gnarled bough and shoot several rounds into the swaying figure. The bullets shred the fabric and rip it from the branch it had been placed on. It drifts on the wind and crumples into a heap on the ground. Another shot rings out and one of the two attackers topples forward. The final man screams and fires blindly into the trees as he scrambles for cover. The hunter shoots him in the shoulder and the man spins off his feet and falls.

The hunter emerges from his hiding place, an outcropping of rocks four yards from the tree where he'd placed his cloak. He keeps his rifle trained on the wailing man who is scrabbling after the pistol he lost in the fall. The hunter crosses the distance quickly and rests his boot on the pistol just as the man reaches for it.

"Well, well, well, fancy seein you here," the hunter says as he juts his rifle barrel into the cheek of the last surviving deputy of Black Bellows. "Waylan, ain't it?"

"P-Please," the deputy stutters, raising his arm to ward off a blow. "Please, they made me come. They told me if I didn't avenge my comrades they'd feed me to the hollows. I swear I didn't want to, I swear!" His left eye is swollen purple from where the hunter pistol-whipped him. Tears begin to brim and flow down his cheeks. "Please don't kill me!"

"You recall what I told you before? About what'd happen if you chose to come after me?"

The deputy doesn't reply, just continues sobbing. "Please, I'll do anything, give you anythi—" the hunter fires and the deputy jerks still. Blood and brains spurt from the hole in his head, splaying out through the maze of dead leaves and fallen sticks like tributaries flowing from a sea.

"I warned you," the hunter says to the silent form. He inspects the carnage for a moment. Then he shoulders his rifle, and turns back to collect his cloak.

His horse knickers in greeting when he approaches. He nods back and slots the rifle back into his saddle holster.

"Why is everyone so keen to test me?" He asks the beast. The horse snorts accusingly and tosses its head in reply.