THE VIOLET HOUR, OR... A FEW GOOD MEN.
The western heat oppressed the soldiers and they did all they could to stave off the deadly sun; they tore their sleeves and unbuttoned their butternut blouses and turned their heavy trousers into knee-length shorts in a vain attempt to bribe the sun. Two men had already fell prey to the natural predator high in the sky and their markers read:
“These who died here, they were good.”
They all did their best to adapt to the terrain of the western states; the men were all green recruits from big cities on the coast like Castalia and Beulah. They had no understanding of true suffering, exhaustion or dehydration and they were quick to curse their commanders for the assignment that had them now trekking up forgotten bluffs and marching through canyons and valleys only few, brave men dared to look for.
There were only thirteen men now and they all climbed up the last gorge in a rough, undisciplined manner, excited to finally reach the end of their long journey to the undisclosed location far beyond any real civilization.
It happened to be midday when they all reached the summit of the famous Mexican Hat and from their high perch they saw a grand scene unfold around them, as if the velvet curtains had opened onto a beautiful set. They all sat in awe as their vision had stretched to nearly a quarter-mile and they could see colors and shapes they’d never previously known.
At the head of the column was an older man, the Flag Sergeant (the only one on the expedition, he was about 44 years of age.) whose name was Virgil Heap; he was a regular army veteran of 20 years and spent much of his life taming the savages of Gondwana-Nyarubuye. He was now a flag sergeant and in charge of the young men that lounged on the hard rock and mud behind him. “The map says the outpost is just there, on the Fox River. See it, boys?”
Unenthusiastic, they grunted their acknowledgement and the old man frowned before stowing the map away and adjusting his bray and brown slouch hat. “let’s hop to it then, sun’s nearly dead.” that aroused a weak cheer from them while they shouldered their packs and slung their rifles over their shoulders and joined their descending leader. One-by-one they slid down the treacherous path that wound down the face as erratically as an angry rattlesnake.
The first man after the flag sergeant shrieked “shit! Fuck!” he lost his footing on a sharp turn just as the sun began to fall out of the sky. “grab him! Fucking grab him!” the old man said as he tossed his hat aside and dove to grab the hands of the falling private. He gripped his hand tightly as the young soldier dangled precariously over the edge. By now his green eyes were stained red with tears and his cheeks were the shade of ripe tomatoes. His home-made shorts fared the worst and were doused in a fresh golden shower that began to stain the dry desert air.
His compatriots were more still than ancient statues and didn’t respond as the flag sergeant barked up to them: “don’t just stand there, you bastards, lift us up, now!” it took what felt like hours to the man dangling off the cliff for them to spur into action and drag the sergeant up and onto the ledge, “thanks boys… let’s get going— we’ve gotta meet the rangers by night-fall.” as if nothing had happened and as if the man that sat embarrassed next to him hadn’t just nearly died the flag sergeant sprang to his feet and went to pick up and dust off his slouch hat.
“Don’t make me say it twice now.” the threat was enough to make the men move an entire mountain and they jumped into line behind him after collecting their friend’s things and setting him on a straight and safe path behind the sergeant and down the mountain. As they went, the flag sergeant began singing a tune and the soldiers behind him parroted him with their cracking voices as best they could. It helped the men stay in step and in no time at all they had reached the base of the Mexican Hat and could see billowy white smoke very clearly now in front of them. It rose slowly and was clearly from a long-dead fire.
“Double time it!”
And he was off like a sprinter leaving the young soldiers behind as they stumbled into a tired run. “God I fucking hate running,” one soldier said while trying to keep his rifle from falling off his shoulder, “yeah, I didn’t join up to run through a desert or climb a fucking mountain,“ said another.
The white smoke blended in with the pastel colored sky and their darkening clouds blotting out the view of the setting sun and cast down a faint pink and red shadow that painted the land as far as the eye could see. When the group reached the ranger outpost however, the pretty light was replaced with harsh crimson and charcoal black.
Dead horses lay strewn about (some missing their feet and others missing their heads or guts) and polka-dotting the burned landscape were the dead rangers; all with the same distinctive marks on the tops of their heads. They’d all been scalped and brutally murdered in their sleep the night before. Their skin was flayed and their eyes were torn out slowly with flint. Organs were wound tightly on nearby banana yucca, half-eaten and scorched by a campfire.
By the time the rest of the squad was upon the site, the flag sergeant had dropped to his knees, as if giving up or praying to god that he was dreaming atop the mexican hat. The young soldier he had saved shook him until he blinked again and helped him to his feet, “who did this, sergeant? Who coulda done this?” they whispered together. He looked around and then walked towards a bloody corpse. “they flayed these men and ate their insides. Has to be—“
A loud coughing interrupted the sergeant and he immediately drew his ivory handled six-shooter he wore on his hip, “show yourself, savage!” he shouted, scowling at the soldiers, “draw your weapons and search the camp for that noise.” they nodded and set out in all corners, stepping respecfully over dead rangers and horses alike. “shit! Goddamn it…”a soldier bellowed as he slipped in the bloody entrails of a nearby horse. He fell face first into the mix of mud and organs and threw his head back, throwing off his cap and frantically pulling his knife out to knock off the maggots and larvae that gladly stuck to his brown shirt, “get ‘em off me! Get ‘em off me… fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The other men stopped their search and rushed over to help. The flag sergeant did his best to ignore them and continued to search (which had brought him down to the banks of the mighty Fox River). He heard the cough again— louder now— and pointed his revolver towards a boulder (behind which the sergeant saw a bloody leg) “who goes there? Answer me!” there was no response for a long while and it began to grow dark when, finally: “i’m a ranger… i’m a ranger, don’t shoot…” the flag sergeant sighed in relief and whistled for his men to find him as he holstered his revolver and rounded the boulder with a hand outstretched for the wounded ranger. “you’re a damned sight for sore eyes, sergeant. I thought i was rattler bait out here all alone.” happily the sergeant replied, “you’re damn welcome, son, i was beginning to think you’d all been killed.”
The sun slid down past the horizon and the world around them was embraced by night. A new campfire was alive and burning well and a spit roast turned round-and-round with two freshly skinned fur-bearing trout and a the fattest rabbit the young soldiers had ever seen. While they ate the sergeant took his time asking the wounded man (Who’d said his name was Whitley) as much as he could about the night before and the identity of the attackers The Sergeant wasn’t surprised to hear that the rangers were attacked and dragged away by Tonkaway braves) “Fuckin’ savages just wouldn’t quit,” Whitley started while tearing a bite off a freshly cooked fish.
“They followed us for days until we camped here— we’d thought they’d left us by then— and when we slept they took to us in numbers and killed most of us. I was lucky enough to be shitting when they came and i was only wounded,” the Sergeant picked at his half of the squirrel and took his time to wait for the ranger to gather himself, “They took a fair amount, my captain and his second, as well as eight others. I would have followed but they mutilated our horses and burned the truck.”
The Flag Sergeant nodded and took a bite of the meat before saying, “My men found tracks leaving the campsite. Tomorrow when you’re well enough we can head out after them,” he pointed to Whitley’s wrapped leg, “You up for a chase?” the ranger took no time at all to answer with a firm, “Hell yes!” and then said, “I know a place down the river— Doc Penfield’s ranch. We can get horses and I can get some more wrappings for my leg in the morning.” a coyote cried out at the full moon above them as the sergeant stood up to unfurl his blanket.
“Sounds like a good plan, Whitley, we’ll set out at first light.” he took his slouch hat off and laid his pack under his head, returning the hat to his head and covering his face with it. He pointed to the soldiers by the fire. “Collier! You take first watch.”
