The sun hung sadly on the horizon as Norwood Lyle paced along the front porch. A crooked hand rolled cigar stuck between his lips with a Spencer 1860 Saddle Ring Carbine slung over his shoulder, and a Starr 1858 Army revolver tucked in a holster wrapped around his waist. He paces impatiently along the porch scared about the fight that is coming; he can hear the others laughing away from inside the cabin. Lyle’s nerves shake as he thinks of all the nightmares he has had since the day they found themselves stuck at this cabin.
The dreams all start the same: breakfast, that he had prepared. Racist jokes and comments that usually involve him being called a nigger which angers Shelby. It then goes to them all being killed in one way or another. The one from a fortnight ago that has stuck with him and has caused him to jump at the sound of the cabin door shutting, or the banging from the shots they fired at quail; the dream felt too real and he remembers what his mother told him when he was a young boy “dreams are a glimpse into the past, present, and future and shan’t be ignored. Know tha signs an’ do somethin’ when they show tha cards of ya future.”
The dreams have been going on for months, but after that particular one had he awoke with his mother’s words echoing throughout his mind. A dream that even in the rising sun and the cool smell of frozen air he can’t escape.
It started with the scent of coffee as it filled a small one roomed cabin. Lyle stood over a cast iron stove as the grease from bacon splattered singeing the hair on his arm. The smell of burning flesh filled the room as he leaves the bacon sizzling on the pan and heads to the door of the cabin to try and call in the rest of the gang.
The door opened and he was greeted by a sweet Tennessee summer and the white of the cotton fields instead of the cold unforgiving prairies: he wanted to run, but his feet carried him to the field as the cabin faded into a soft white cloud and floated to the sky. The field was empty; no slaves, nor any sign of the overseer, but Lyle began his picking.
The sun grew larger and larger as he made his down through the rows of cotton filling his bag as fast as his calloused hand could move. The sun blinded him but he continued to pick cotton. He could hear the sound of whistling flutes and pounding drums amongst the stamping of a thousand boots. Cannon fire echoed through the plantation and Lyle looked up to watch the sun explode blackening the field. He goes back to picking the cotton the and silence is momentarily returned to the field only to be interrupted by the soft galloping of a horse that now stood in Lyle’s way. Atop the pure white stead sat his master, Tom.
“Masta, I ain’t gonna get this done if ya standin’ in my way!”
“This that nigger that ya looking for right here,” Tom screamed without taking his eyes off Lyle who stared up at the white oppressor.
A whip cracked down across his eyes and his dream turned red. He could hear the muffled sound of voices speaking, but the blood poured into his ears. He screamed, but even his own voice sounded like a distant yelp of a dying coyote.
When the blood finally cleared a second man stood in front of him. The man was Marshal Cummings donning the gray uniform of a Confederate officer, he had a sword pressed upon Lyle’s black neck.
“Yes, this is that filthy animal I have been searching for.” The Marshal lifted his sword high ready to strike down and sever Norwood Lyle’s head from the rest of his body when he was interrupted by gunfire coming from the other end of the cotton field.
Bullets ripped into Tom turning the cotton a deep red, yet his horse remained pristine glowing white against the sunless Tennessee morning. Lyle turned around and watched as the Kindel Gang stood in the field firing at the Marshal, but their bullets seemed to scatter all around him destroying the crops and the body of Tom who sat lifelessly, yet upright, on the horse; bullets entering his body without ever leaving, blood pouring out without ever touching the angelic stead he sat upon.
With quicker draw than any man he had ever seen, the old graying Marshal lifted his peacemaker from a holster putting a bullet in the head of every Kindel gang member; saving Shelby for last. Shelby begged for his life raising his hands high in the sky; they continue to stretch up to the blackness where the heavens should have been when the Marshal takes a single shot ripping Shelby’s face clean off revealing his black skull; a black so heavy it stood out even against the dark sky. The dead gang leader’s extended arms floated slowly to the ground piling on top of his headless corpse.
Marshal Cummings then turned his attention back to his sword which was once again high above Lyle’s neck. The field vanishes and is replaced by all white; the sky evaporates and is replaced with one giant white cloud that engulfs everything. The bodies vanish and those too are replaced by white. Just Lyle, the Marshal, and the white horse so white and pure only it’s brown eyes stood out against the whiteness of the scene, and Tom still atop it sitting up straight, but still covered in his own blood.
“You have done evil things, my son,” it was the Marshal’s mouth that was moving, but it was a deeper richer voice than that of Cummings, “and your sins in this world will be paid for in the next.” The blade began its descent down from high above; it began to move in slow motion. Lyle was frozen like he had been many times before the whip cracked and slashed against his once scar free back; the other slaves looked at as a sign of Lyle’s courage when in reality it was his cowardice that kept him from running or screaming as the whip rushed down. This time his cowardice of all he had done since leaving that Tennessee plantation froze him. The sword starts to rip through his neck when Lyle awakes from the dream.
A cool breeze rushes through the plains causing the old home to creak and sway slightly as the door to the cabin swings open.
“Everythin’ good Lyle?” Shelby’s voice echoed from the front door, “Ya don’t seem to be here in this world.”
“Yas boss, I’m fine.” Lyle takes a deep breath and feels Shelby’s right hand grasp his shoulder.
“Lyle, you’re a good man.”
“Thank ya boss.” a tear begins to run down his cheek. “I’m scared here, boss. Been havin’ nightmares.
The laughter of the other members of the gang is carried over the air with another strong gust of wind then all the sounds dropout and an eerie silence crept in with a thick gray cloud that blocks out the sun.
“Me too,” Shelby says softly, “Me too.”
