Summary:  The grim reaper makes an appearance at the Ponderosa to carry off a Cartwright.  Now, if only he could remember which one…

don’t worry – it’s NOT a death fic; all C’s will be returned in fine working order at the end of it.  

Rated: K (5,920 words)

 

Death Warmed Over

 

The grim reaper makes an appearance at the Ponderosa to carry off a Cartwright.

Now, if only he could remember which one…

 

Once again, he sat on his pale horse high on the ridge and watched the ranch house below. Oh, sure, he’d been here before. He’d been here quite a few times before, but always he had left empty-handed. Sometimes, he’d patiently waited from a distance; at other times, he’d been down there sneaking around the corners of the house. He’d peeked through windows and listened at keyholes. A few times, he remembered glumly as he nudged his horse down the hill, he had been seconds away from knocking on the door, only to be called back at the last moment. The occupants of that house had slipped through his grasp on too many occasions. Mocked him, cheated him, dodged his scythe and hopped off his shovel. Hah! But not today. Today, one of them would be his prize.

 

The snow was whirling thicker now; high above more clouds were gathering darkly, but from the peaceful house below he sensed no foreboding of the suffering to come. There was only contentment there, and peace. The man he had come to carry away was just now sitting down for his evening meal, bantering good-naturedly with his family, unaware that his time had come to leave the physical world.

 

Ah yes, pain and suffering. That is what human beings felt in their hearts whenever they whispered his name. But how unfair! he thought as he pulled his black cape around him against the cold. How unfair to say that he was a bringer of pain – not at all: he never brought pain to the ones he took. Rather, he ended their pain, and always the ones who had suffered the most were the ones who followed him most willingly. It was to those who were left behind that he caused pain. And those were the ones who had given him his bad name.

 

His big gray horse, ears pricked forward, carefully picked his way down the slope through the snowdrifts. Of course, his rider mused while gazing at the gray sky, the man he would take today was not ill or suffering, but was strong and hale and in the thick of his life. Those were the hardest jobs, he thought with some regret. He didn’t like taking people unprepared or against their will. He much preferred to come bringing relief after an illness or a long, full life. He liked to arrive like a spring thaw after a long winter, welcomed and expected. But alas, it wasn’t up to him to make these decisions. That was the privilege of the Other One, The Boss, The One Who Calls All The Shots, from whom he took his orders. And so, sometimes, he was destined to come like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky, or like a leaf blown unnoticed through a crack in the door.

 

It happened so fast. He felt the horse falter underneath him, slip on the steep icy grade, go down on its knees. Before he could brace himself, he was in a cloud of snow, whirling, rolling. He heard his horse scream in pain, then the animal’s great gray mass rolled over him, crushed him. A sudden burst of colors behind his eyes, another scream – his own? – then there was silence.

 

For a long while, there was nothing.

 

Gradually, the world around him returned. A light flicked in front of his eyes, and he heard voices, human voices. He groaned. His head felt huge, thick, and there was a new sensation in it, like a great red noise. How strange. How profoundly unpleasant. Was that what humans called ‘pain’?

 

“Easy there, fella,” said the voice above him, “looks like you done bonked your noggin something awful. Here, lemme help you sit up.”

 

The light went dim again for a moment as the human loomed over him, then flickered back when a bulky form knelt in the snow next to him. It was a very large human, he noticed as he blinked up into the kind, blue-eyed face. The human was holding up an oil lantern with his mittened hand.

 

“There ya go. How’s them other parts? Nothin’ broke?”

 

He cleared his throat. “Fffine…,” he croaked carefully, appalled at how rusty it sounded. It must have been centuries since he had used his voice.

 

“You don’t look so fine, friend. Jus’ take it real slow now. That’s a pretty good tumble you two took. We heard your horse scream and came right out to see what was happenin’.”

 

He sat up a bit straighter, remembering. “The Gray…,” he huffed.

 

“Looks like your horse hurt his leg a bit. Don’t look too serious, though.” The human called over his massive shoulder, “how’s the critter doin’, Adam?”

 

Another human, not as wide but almost as tall as the first, and dressed in black, emerged from the snow, leading the limping horse by the bridle. “He’s real sore at the stifle. Probably pulled some muscle, but I don’t think anything’s torn or broke.” The human leaned down a bit and tipped his black hat, smiling. “Howdy mister. Your horse’ll be good as new with a bit of rest. That’s a real fine lookin’ animal you got there. Got some thoroughbred in him, I bet.”

 

Now they both smiled down at him, nodding. He realized they expected him to say something in return. “Fine looking…animal.” he said slowly. “Yes. I’ve had him…a very long time.”

 

Snow crunched behind the two humans, and a third one stepped into the light. This one was much smaller than the first two. He carried the Tool that had spilled from the saddle into the snow during the fall and eyed it with curiosity. Then he looked up and nodded a greeting.

 

“Howdy, mister. Glad to see you’re alive.”

 

There was another pause during which all three stared at him. The smallest one cleared his throat. “Uh…I’m Joe Cartwright, and these are my brothers, Hoss and Adam. That’s our ranch house over there.”

 

They all looked down at him expectantly. He stared at them, wondering what else they wanted.

 

“What’s your name, friend?” the big one asked gently.

 

“My name?” he echoed dully. A name? Did he have a name, other than the many ugly ones humans had given him? Did he need one? “M…Mortis,” he heard himself say.

 

They nodded, still looking at him.

 

What else? Maybe they wanted another name, he guessed. Humans usually had two names. “R…Richard,” he blurted out, remembering his last job in this town, a fat man in a velvet bathrobe whom he had to pull off the laundry girl, “called R…Ricky.”

 

The three humans exchanged a glance. “Mister Ricky Mortis?” the black-hatted one asked with a lifted eyebrow.

 

He nodded. “Yes…”

 

The humans looked at each other again and shrugged. Then, the little one waved to the other two and beckoned them a few paces away. They stood, their heads bowed together, and whispered to each other, the way humans did when they believed nobody else could hear them. Of course, he understood every word.

 

“What you make o’ that feller, brothers?”

 

The black one shrugged lazily. “Strange bird. I doubt he’s got all his pigeons under one roof.”

 

The big one nodded slowly. “Mebbe so, but it could be that bonk on the head. Anyways, we cain’t jus’ let him set there in the snow. Poor devil looks like death warmed over. And we gotta see to his horse.”

 

The small one held the Tool he had picked out of the snow into the light from the lantern. He frowned.  “Look at this, brothers! This ain’t no saber, it’s a scythe. Maybe he’s a farmer, then? ‘Cept, what’s a feller need with a scythe in the middle of winter?”  He frowned some more.

 

The black one snorted oddly through his nose, but the big one shook his head and said, “Let’s jus’ get’im inside and set’em in front o’ the fire. Mebbe he’ll tell us all about it when he’s warmed up a tad.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m gonna keep an eyeball on him,” said the small one, still frowning at the Tool. “Ain’t sure I like him. I’d like to know what he was doing out here anyways, in this weather.”

 

Yes, indeed – what was he doing here? He frowned.

 

Well, of course. He was on a job, what else would he do here? He had come to take one of the dwellers of the ranch house. Yes, that was it! He had come to take – but which one? The three humans stood there, observing him – one frowning, one with a lifted eyebrow, one with concern. He looked slowly from one to another, searching for some kind of memory inside his skull. But all he found there was that dull, annoying ache. He could not remember. He had forgotten. What a mess.

 

This was an awful dilemma. He groaned and rubbed the bump on his head. A bump? He’d never had a bump. He’d never fallen off his horse; he’d never forgotten a job – and he’d been in this line of work for HOW long?  He could, of course, ask. But the Other One didn’t like to repeat Himself. Surely, He would be very angry – He did have a bit of a temper. Then again, the Other One authorized everything that was happening – or else, it wouldn’t be happening. Falling off his horse, forgetting his job – maybe this, too, was the Other One’s doing.

 

He was stirred out of his troubled musings by the footsteps of the three humans, and then two strong hands reached for his arms and pulled him to his feet.

 

“Careful now, nice ‘n slow,” said the big one gently. “We’ll take it one step at a time.” It was a good thing they were holding him up, because as soon as he was on his feet, he felt an awful whirling and swirling in his head and, more troubling, his belly, like a great snow storm on the inside of his body.

 

“He’s gonna go, Hoss,” said the black one with sudden alarm, and both of them stopped and awkwardly positioned him on his knees with his face pointed at the snow. Thus they held him for a while, as if waiting for something important to happen.

 

He was about to protest, when suddenly, without warning, the inside of his body jumped upwards, into his throat, trying to escape. He heard himself make a horrendous noise, and another, and another. How alarming! Was this what dying felt like? No, he realized, he wasn’t dying – what an absurd thought anyways – he was trying to vomit. He had seen humans do it often the moment he appeared to them. Usually, a great deal of stuff came out, but not in his case.  That wasn’t surprising, since in order for stuff to come out, it had to go in first, and he hadn’t eaten in  – well, actually, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten.

 

“There ya go, friend. That ain’t so bad, huh? Done?” asked the big one kindly.

 

“Gakh,” he protested and was pulled back to his feet.

 

Slowly, they proceeded through the snow, the big one and the black one prodding him up on each side, and the small one following with the horse and the Tool. At the house, the small one turned towards the barn, saying, “You go ahead, brothers, I’ll put the horse up in the guest stall,” while the other two escorted him toward the front door.

 

The door of the ranch house opened and a warm light flooded out. A fourth man stood in the light, an older, gray haired man. As they approached, he felt the older man’s eyes scrutinize him. He looked the man in the face. The eyes were dark and troubled, and as they studied him he saw something settle in the man’s face; something he could not read.

 

Then he was inside the house. There was a flurry of activity, during which his cloak was removed, his boots pulled off, something cool put on his head, something warm and steaming placed in his hands, a large leather chair shoved in front of a huge roaring fire, and he was wrapped in a number of scratchy woolen blankets and planted into the chair. Throughout all this, the fourth man, the gray one, watched him silently, lending a hand here and there, bringing a mug, adjusting a blanket, but never taking his sad dark eyes off him. Then he said, “I’ll get you something to eat,” and left.

 

“And I’ll have a look at that horse o’ yourn,” said the big one and smiled at him. “Just you relax and sit here and warm up a bit.” The other two left as well, and he was alone.

 

As he sat in the big leather chair, he tried to comprehend what had happened. He had come here to do a job. Somehow, he had screwed up royally, as a human might put it, and forgotten his job. His head hurt, his horse was lame and his boots were wet. Now, he sat in a human house, by the fire, wrapped in a couple of woolen blankets. A cool towel rested against the noisy spot on his head. His hands were folded around a mug of steaming liquid. His naked feet were stretched out towards the soothing flames. He wriggled his long, gaunt toes and watched them move in fascination. He couldn’t remember if he had ever wriggled his toes before. An odd, but pleasant sensation. He’d barely been aware that he even had toes. Hadn’t taken his boots off in eons…well, possibly never before. He sighed. He really did work too much.

 

He felt a movement and looked up. The silent gray one had reappeared carrying a plate with a brown lump and a fork on it. “Please, Mr…ah… Mortis. You must be hungry.”

 

He looked uncertainly at the pot roast. Yes, he remembered that sow. Like all animals, it had followed him trustingly and without looking back. Humans, on the other hand, could be so difficult. Too often he had to drag them away kicking and spitting, bargaining and pleading, like that Ricky fellow he had pried off the laundry girl with his pajamas around his ankles. This is why he preferred to carry off animals. They were wiser creatures than humans, or at least humbler ones. They never questioned his wisdom, and they never peddled for time. And for the Other One’s sake, they never asked him to sit down for a poker game.

 

“Please, try at least a bite,” said the gray-haired one, and he felt that man’s dark, probing gaze on him. He impaled a piece of meat and lifted his fork to examine it.

 

He cautiously nibbled a bit. It tasted stale, he found, bland. Well, it tasted dead, he would have to say. Then again, maybe everything tasted that way. How would he know? He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything. He swallowed the morsel – it went down reluctantly and fell into his belly like a small stone – and then handed the plate back, shaking his head a little. The gray-haired man nodded kindly, took the plate and left.

 

He was alone now. The room was silent except for the prattle of the flames. His weariness and the warmth of the fire settled upon him like a heavy blanket. He felt himself sink deeply into the welcoming depth of the leather chair. The room grew dim as his eyelids closed.

 

He was still in the chair, but it was different. His body felt different. He looked down and saw that the woolen blankets were gone and in their stead he wore a velvet bathrobe. At the end of the robe, two small, chubby feet stuck out. He was a human. A small, fat human child named Ricky.

 

There was a knock on the door. Even before the door opened, an iron-cold weight fell into his stomach, so heavy that he felt himself pressed deeper into the chair. He couldn’t breathe. The door opened slowly, and Death stepped in, tall, pale and terrible. The Tool was in his hand, and Ricky the child felt that it looked large and sharp and dangerous, and a great surge of that cold, hard pain went through him.

 

He knew that the one in the doorway was himself – but he was also the one sitting in the chair, the human child in a velvet bathrobe named Ricky. As Death, he stood over the human child and became aware of all those sweaty, smelly, sticky sensations; all those little aches and pains humans live with every moment of their lives. How glad they must be to finally be rid of them! And yet, as Ricky the child, sitting in the chair staring up at the dark figure, he felt no gladness. There was only that ice-cold grip on his insides, and a feeling of great sadness and loss. Death flung his black cloak over him, and Ricky the child was gone.

 

When the room and the fire and the woolen blankets came back, he sat for a long time and thought how sad it was that humans feared him so much. But he couldn’t fault them. He understood now that this sweaty, scratching existence was all they knew, and that no matter how much they talked of heaven or eternal life, in their hearts, they were never certain there would be anything better.

 

However, he decided that he could work on his appearance. The black cloak and hood were so forbidding. And he had not realized how much fear the sight of the Tool inspired in humans. Maybe, in the future, he should choose a friendlier item for his Tool, something that evoked less of an air of violence and finality – a feather duster, maybe, or a nice flowerpot.

 

Slowly, he became aware of one of the humans, who was watching him intently from his perch on a high-backed blue chair. It was the youngest of the humans, the one who was most suspicious of him. He knew this one well. Most of the times he had slunk around the house, waiting, he had come for this one. This young one had a way of meeting with bullets and falling off his horse – ‘like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky’ – but the Other One had always changed his mind just as Ricky was about to unsheathe the Tool. He couldn’t remember another human across the eons who had caused him so many false alarms.

 

“You had a nice nap?” asked the human. He had his legs drawn up on the chair and was hugging his knees. His eyes were slightly narrowed and his head tilted.

 

“Yes, thank you,” said Ricky.

 

“Good to hear it,” said the human. He shifted a bit in his chair “So. Where you from?”

 

Ricky thought about it and realized that he had no answer. “I…travel,” he said and shrugged his shoulders.

 

The human nodded, but his body and face did not relax. They sat quietly for a while.

 

“So, you a farmer?” the human said abruptly.

 

“No.”

 

“But you got a scythe.”

 

“Yes.”

 

There was another silence, during which the human began to chew on his fingernails.

 

“What for?”

 

Ricky sat still for a while, not quite sure how to say it. “I…cut. I harvest.”

 

“What…what do you cut?”

 

“Crops. Sometimes weeds.”

 

“In winter?”

 

Ricky nodded. “In all seasons.”

 

The human looked more puzzled. “You cut crops but you’re not a farmer?”

 

“I do not plant. I only harvest,” Ricky said. And he had always felt that was kind of a pity. The Other One kept all the Planting to himself.

 

The human did not look any happier. In fact, he was frowning now and drew a heavy breath for another question. A voice cut him off.

 

“Joseph, that’s enough. Our guest has had quite an ordeal and needs to rest.” The older, gray-haired man had appeared behind the blue chair and was laying a hand on the young one’s shoulder. He steered the smaller human to the door, saying, “Why don’t you go to the barn, son, and cut tomorrow’s firewood.”

 

The young one slipped out the door, and the older one, with a nod to Ricky, sat in one of the other chairs, produced a pipe from his pocket and began stuffing it.

 

After some time of pleasant silence, during which the room filled up with fragrant pipe smoke, one of the other men entered from the barn. He pulled a chair from the table and with a flourish swung it around and sat on it in front of Ricky with his arms crossed over the backrest. It was the oldest of the three younger men, the argumentative one, the one with the attitude. The one who wore black like he invented it. Ricky saw that his thumb stuck out stiffly, and he could sense the dull throbbing from a small cut that the man was barely aware of. ‘Hah! Like a leaf blown unnoticed through a crack in the door.’

 

“Well, Mister…ah…Mortis. You look better. How do you feel?”

 

“Better,” Ricky echoed carefully. It seemed to have been the right answer, for the human nodded approvingly.

 

“Well, then, is it too early to ask what you were doing out there at this time of night?”

 

“It is not,” Ricky guessed.

 

“Adam,” interrupted the gray-haired man from his chair, “I think Mr…ah…Mortis wants his rest.”

 

But Ricky shook his head. “It is fine. Please. Continue.”

 

The black-clad human lifted an eyebrow, and Ricky decided that he wanted an answer to the second part of his question.

 

“I was…visiting.”

 

“I see. That’s nice of you. And what earns us the honor of your visit on a pitch-dark, stormy December night?”

 

“I …don’t remember,” Ricky said. Well – it was true enough.

 

The black one nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Well, maybe you’re just the kind of fellow who visits total strangers late at night in the middle of a blizzard.”

 

What had this one called him before? Some kind of bird under a roof? “I’m a…a strange pigeon,” he explained, hoping it would satisfy.

 

The eyebrow climbed again in the black one’s face. “I’ll say.” He studied Ricky for a while and then said, “Well. I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.” He rose smoothly from his chair.

 

“Wait,” Ricky called. The black one turned around. Ricky pointed with one pale, bony finger. “Your thumb.”

 

The black one looked at him in surprise, then studied his thumb as if seeing it for the first time in his life. “That? That’s just a scratch.”

 

“How?”

 

The black one smiled. “On your scythe, actually, when I hung it up in the barn. You sure keep it good and sharp. Really, it’s nothing.”

 

“It is dangerous,” said Ricky.

 

“You’re probably right,” the black one said and shrugged. “I should clean and bandage it. Suppose I could catch something.”

 

“You could catch your death,” Ricky said and attempted a smile, thinking that maybe he had made a joke. 

 

The black one snorted with amusement and left towards the kitchen. After another period of silence, during which Ricky felt the questioning gaze of the gray-haired man on him, the front door opened again and the head of the large man poked in. “You asleep, friend?”

 

“No,” said Ricky.

 

Encouraged, the man pushed his large frame into the house. “Your horse ain’t so bad. Pulled a muscle, I reckon. I made him a warm wrap and put him under a nice blanket. He’ll be all right tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you. You are kind.”

 

The man frowned at Ricky. “You still lookin’ a bit pale, friend. Lemme get you some more tea.” He disappeared toward the kitchen and returned a minute later with another steaming mug.

 

“Here ya go,” he said and handed the mug to Ricky, “that’ll warm you up some more on the insides.”

 

Ricky took the mug and sipped. He was getting quite used to the stuff. He thought that the man would leave now, but instead he just stood there, chewing his lip. Suddenly, he slipped into the chair left by the black one and looked at Ricky with his wide blue eyes.

 

“Where you been headed, friend?”

 

“Headed?” asked Ricky, puzzled.

 

“Yeah. I mean, travelin’ in this weather ‘n all. Was there a warm hearth someplace, people waitin’ for you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t you have any family?” he said.

 

Ricky took a second to recover from his surprise at this question. “No. Of course not.”

 

“No friends, either?”

 

Ricky thought about this for a while, and finally shook his head.

 

The big face in front of him frowned. “Ain’t there no one at all who cares about you?”

 

He thought about that. “My horse?” he guessed, and when the big one’s face didn’t show any relief, he added, “humans don’t welcome me.”

 

“Humans?” The big one looked puzzled. “Well, friend, lemme tell you something: I’m human, far as I know, and I welcome you jus’ fine.”

 

Ricky sat very still. Few humans had ever said that to him. He had no idea what to say, so he took a swig from his mug instead. The hot tea went down into his belly and spread out there, warm and soothing. He looked up and studied the man before him. Some day he would come for this one. He looked forward to that job. This one, he knew, would be like the sow: he would follow freely, even gratefully, and without making a fuss or wanting to play poker. ‘Like a spring thaw after a long winter’.

 

The evening passed quietly. The large and the gray-headed men were reading. The small one returned from the barn and the black one from the kitchen, his thumb bandaged. The two of them set up a game of chess and played, laughing quietly. They had offered Ricky a turn at the game, which he had declined – poker and chess were games he despised. Humans played so many games, but always it had to be poker or chess. Why was it, Ricky mused, that he was never invited to a nice game of tennis?

 

From his perch on the leather chair by the fire, Ricky quietly watched all of them: the black one with his sliced thumb that he was so stubbornly determined to ignore; the small one, who always moved too fast and too carelessly; the big one, who loved life more than any of them and yet would give it up without complaint; and the gray one, who was watching Ricky so carefully with his dark hooded eyes. Ricky knew that this was the moment; if he was to take one of them, he had to do it now. Once more he searched his skull for a hint, but found only whirling snow there. He would have to make a guess. He looked at each of them in turn, made his decision and sighed deeply.

 

“I am tired,” he said. “I wish to go to bed.”

 

 “There’s a guest room upstairs,” the older man said to Ricky, “I’ll show you up and help you settle for the night.”

 

The room was warm and cozy, and the bed soft. The gray-haired man softly padded out of the room, and Ricky lay on the bed and felt his eyelids grow heavy again. Soon, he fell into a dreamless, bottomless sleep – the first time in eons he had slept like this, or maybe the very first time at all.

 

“Adam! Hey, Adam,” said a voice into the blackness of his sleep.

 

“What, Joe? Go to bed,” said another voice. Ricky drifted to the surface of his sleep, realizing that two of the humans were talking. He opened his eyes. The door to his room was slightly ajar. Through it, he could look across the hallway into the opposite room. The black-clad human, now in a nightshirt, was on the bed, reading a book by candlelight, and the small human, in another nightshirt, pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. The conversation was kept in hushed tones, not meant to travel all the way across the hallway – but Ricky did not have human ears and heard every word.

 

“It’s about …about him.” The small human said, nodding towards Ricky’s door.

 

“What about him?” asked the black one without taking his eyes off his book.

 

“He’s odd. Weird. I just ain’t sure about him.”

 

The black one turned another page of his book. “Get to the point, Joe. You’re not sure about what?”

 

“You know. Don’t it look…I mean, don’t it look odd to you?”

 

The black one laid his book in his lap and produced a patient sigh. “Doesn’t what look odd to me, Joe?”

 

“You know. You’ve seen the fella. All tall and skinny and hollow-cheeked. And then the black cape, the pale horse…” his voice lowered conspiratorially, “and he’s got a scythe, for Pete’s sake. I mean, don’t you think…don’t it look like…”

 

“Yes, little brother?”

 

“Couldn’t he be…I mean…you think maybe he’s…remember that book you had about the plague? Remember the picture it had of…” his voices petered off meekly when he met the black one’s pitying gaze. 

 

The black one sighed once more, a long, suffering, saintly sigh, and stuck his nose back behind his book. “What I think, little brother, is that our guest either got lost on his way home from Millie Halburn’s Halloween party or that he’s sprung from the booby hatch in Carson City. Other than that I’m convinced he’s perfectly harmless.” He lowered the book a fraction to eye the small one across the bed. “No more bed-time stories for you, younger brother.”

 

The small one threw up his hands and rose from his chair. “Never mind, Mister High-and-Mighty. Shouldn’t have asked.” He shuffled out of the room and down the hallway, mumbling quietly to himself. Ricky heard him close a door behind him, and after a minute the mumbling subsided.

 

Once more that night Ricky was stirred from his sleep by muffled human voices. This time, they came through the wall behind his head.

 

“Figured you ain’t sleeping, Pa.” It was the voice of the large man.

 

“Oh, hello Hoss. How did you figure that?”

 

“It’s our visitor. He’s troublin’ you, Pa. I watched you ever since you laid eyes on him.”

 

“You’re perceptive, son. And why do you think he’s troubling me?”

 

“I reckon you met him before someplace.”

 

“Yes, I have. Yes and no. I’ve met him before, but not…not the way he is now. And yet, I recognized him. I knew him the moment he walked in the door. But I don’t understand why he is here now…like this.”

 

“What did he do to you, Pa?”

 

“He took from me, Hoss.” The gray one said softly. ”He took from me three times before. I feared he had come to take again.”

 

“You wanna tell me about it?”

 

“No, Hoss. No, I won’t.” the gray one said very quietly.

 

Ricky heard the big man take a deep breath. “Alright. But tell me jus’ this: is he here to stir up some trouble?”

 

“Hoss,” said the gray one gravely, and Ricky could tell from the tone of his voice that he was smiling, “you know people better than any man I know. What does your gut tell you about our visitor?”

 

The man called Hoss paused for a while, then said slowly, “He’s lost, dog-tired, confused, sad somehow…but I sense no malice in him. I ain’t worried about him, Pa. I don’t think he’s here to hurt us.”

 

“Then, my son,” said the older man, “I will no longer worry about him, either. Why don’t we get some sleep?’

 

He heard them say their good nights, and then the big man quietly – astoundingly quietly for such a large man – went back to his own room. Yes, Ricky remembered those three times, and the pain he had brought to this man. But it is not my choice, he wanted to shout. Instead, he was silent. He had indeed come here to take again, but he knew that whichever one he had come for, it was now too late. The moment had come and gone. He would leave empty-handed, again. And strangely, he was glad about it.

 ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ricky awoke in the morning, feeling stronger and more rested than he had felt in millions of years. He had seen his reflection in the mirror, and he thought that he looked a little less pale, his skin a little less wrinkly, his cheeks a little fuller, his eyes a little less sunken. But then, how would he know the difference? He hadn’t looked in a mirror since…oh, what did it matter?

 

They offered him a breakfast of meat and eggs and fruit and toast and tea, and he sampled everything. Then, they accompanied him out into the yard, where the big man, Hoss, had already groomed and saddled the Gray. The storm had passed, and the sun was bright and warm and made the fresh virgin blanket of snow sparkle. The Gray, too, looked livelier and was prancing like a young colt, something he hadn’t done since before the crusades. There was no sign of stiffness in his stifle, just as Ricky perceived no sign of hurt in his own head, and when he touched his hand to his skull, he could not find the place where the bump had been.

 

They all stood at the door and saw him off. The big one, Hoss, smiled and waved and said, ”Come back and visit any time, friend. You’re always welcome here,” and the gray one flinched a little at those words, but all the same gave the big one’s shoulder a gentle pat. Ricky turned in his saddle and waved his scrawny hand at them. He’d be back, for sure. When their time came, he would be there to guide them. Not that he was in a hurry. Today, next week, a hundred years from now – it was all the same to him.

 

He understood now. Of course it had all been the Other One’s doing; it always was. He had indeed grown weary of his work in recent eons, and the Other One must have surmised wisely that he needed a break – some time to sniff the roses, humans might call it. And who was he to question the wisdom of the Other One. He raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky and tipped a bony finger to his hood. “Thanks, Boss,” he said, just the way a human might have said it.

 

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