Out-Foxed
Chapter 1: Reflections Chugging through the vast expanse of the great American West, the Number 309 Locomotive came into a long straightaway and accelerated to a breathtaking forty-one miles per hour. Under an endless sky of twinkling stars the '309' blazed a trail through the rocky desert of Arizona, headed west towards California. Jordan Fox checked his pocket-watch. It was almost 9:45 pm on a Sunday in late August, 1886. Jordan had turned 18 years old just a few months ago. It now seemed unlikely he would see 19. But that’s the reality of living a fast life in the wild west, he mused. He looked up at the star-dotted expanse of space above, lost in reverie. He wondered…if he had lived long enough, could he one day have ridden a train to the moon…or even beyond? Nothing seemed impossible anymore. Almost 10:00, now. Tucked between two rattling train cars, casually hanging on to a steel ladder rung with one arm, Jordan checked his equipment one last time: two revolvers--different styles but the same caliber--with twelve bullets in the chambers; leather hip pack, 36 bullets in there; leather knapsack with some clothes, matches, water and jerky inside. And, more importantly...three sticks of dynamite. Not much else was needed, he thought, since tonight was probably going to be his last. Just one other thing: a little pouch he obtained in Mexico. Dyed on the outside was the pattern of the sacred mushroom. Inside the cabin of the third car of the 309, eight men were gathered. Two sat in luxurious seats near the front, smoking cigars and sipping brandy on the rocks from crystal tumblers, discussing at length the success of their latest business venture. The other men were dispersed throughout the rail car. Three were playing cards on a round table near the back, drinking whiskey from a flask they passed around. Two sat on benches near the middle; one man was cleaning his revolver while the other was intently reading a worn Bible through small spectacles. The final man stood near the window in the side door of the car, looking out occasionally. His eyes were piercing, black. No man there had ever heard him speak a word. Jordan opened his pouch and felt inside with a finger. There they were: the five dried mushrooms the Mexican shaman Quetz’Alaman had given him after his spirit journey on his eighteenth birthday. Jordan was told he was the first gringo to receive the sacrament. He regarded them with a dreamy respect--honor even--recalling where they had come from. The previous year, Jordan had traveled in Mexico for two months, chasing an outlaw bank robber to claim the bounty on his head. He finally caught up with that man in a small Mexican village and shot him dead in a gunfight. It was his first kill, at age 17. He claimed the outlaw’s pistol, and later, the bounty. As it turned out, that outlaw had been ruthlessly harassing the local Mexican farmers and had killed several men. And so, after the duel Jordan was invited to stay as a guest of honor in a special ceremony. It seemed rude to turn down what seemed like an important invitation, so Jordan agreed to attend. During the ceremony, a very old man stood and called for the attention of the villagers. He then began to speak in a surprisingly powerful voice, given seeming frailty of his old body. As he spoke, a Mexican trader explained to Jordan in choppy English that the shaman was named "Quetz’Alaman", and that he was an honored spiritual warrior that had been summoned by the villagers to help rid them of the outlaw's destructive presence. Although he arrived in the town after Jordan's duel with the outlaw, the shaman's presence was generally considered to be the cause of the outlaw's death. According to the trader's explanation, Quetz’Alaman had recently gone to the spirit world and was shown a powerful vision which he was describing to the villagers. Apparently, from what Jordan could understand of the trader's translation, in the shaman's vision a venomous spider appeared from the darkness of space and ensnared the world within its web, prepared to strike a killing blow. Suddenly, a man appeared within the vision and transformed into a great white fox with twelve fangs, six on the top and six on the bottom. There was a horrible battle and, although he was fatally struck by the spider's venom, the great white fox managed to overcome and finally devour the spider. Upon his arrival to the village, Quetz’Alaman was told of the dual and the death of the outlaw. When hearing that the name of the town's hero was Jordan Fox, he was immediately convinced that the twelve fangs of the fox in his vision symbolized the twelve bullets in Jordan's revolvers. And although to Jordan's educated mind it seemed like a fairly common coincidence that his name matched the shaman's vision, clearly the sheer weight of the name-association could not be denied by the villagers. So the shaman asked to prepare a spirit journey for Jordan. When Jordan managed to convey that he agreed to take part as a celebration of his eighteenth birthday (which was only a few days away), it was seen as yet another clear sign that fate agreed with the shaman and the villagers. Jordan was still less than impressed, but he accepted the invitation anyway. It seemed very important to everyone else, after all, and it was certainly a rare opportunity. On the night of his spirit journey, however, Jordan's initial skepticism of the shaman's visions was completely abandoned and it became obvious that the shaman's magic powers were a real phenomenon. Sitting before a fire, Jordan was presented with an extremely heavy golden plate, and upon it sat a mound of dried mushrooms. Following the shaman's lead, Jordan began to eat. Soon after consuming the mushrooms, which tasted awful, Jordan's vision began to become more vibrant. Before long he was completely lost in a colorful wonderland of swirling images. And then, out of the chaos of images he saw huge buildings of steel, taller than the tallest redwoods of the Northwest. He saw visions of space and serpents, and singing birds swirled all around him. Lost and confused, Jordan grew panicked. Then, suddenly, Quetz’Alaman was there in front of him. Far from looking like a frail old man, in this light the shaman looked like an ancient dancing god-figure, adorned with colorful feathers and holding sacred and mystical objects too alien to be clearly understood. All around, the villagers drummed and chanted. The bonfire suddenly swelled into a towering pillar of light, more massive and intense than any fire Jordan had ever seen—it swallowed everything he saw. In this place of fire, only Jordan and the shaman remained. The shaman drew a deep lungful of tobacco smoke from his long pipe and blew a thick cloud over Jordan's head. On the edge of sanity, Jordan looked up at the cloud of smoke as it billowed from the shaman's lungs. It didn't look like normal smoke...it looked more than anything like a giant gray mushroom bursting forth from the surface of Earth and spreading into the darkness of space. Jordan's heartbeat was racing uncontrollably and sweat was pouring down his face. Quetz’Alaman's face grew larger and larger in his vision, until all Jordan could see was his wizened, dark visage, his mouth chanting strange sounds that it seemed no man had ever before uttered. Then, reaching out, Quetz’Alaman pressed his hand on Jordan's forehead. Darkness overtook Jordan's sight, and he lost consciousness. The next morning, the shaman was gone. The villagers told Jordan that he had gone into retreat to reflect upon the meaning of his visions, but had left a small pouch. Apparently, Quetz’Alaman had left these instructions with them, which were to be given to Jordan along with the pouch: that when he chose in his heart to embrace his future as the fox with twelve fangs that he should eat the mushrooms inside. And Quetz’Alaman also left a warning with the villagers: that if Jordan did decide to embrace that destiny, then his transformation would be permanent. It seemed like a heavy warning, especially after the intensity of the experience he had had only the night before. Jordan didn’t think he’d be trying that any time soon. But he was wrong. Tonight, Jordan was prepared to make his transformation. His twelve fangs were sharp, his appetite insatiable. He knew the names of the men who arranged his father’s murder; he knew why they did it. And now, he knew where they were: car three of the 309. Jordan, himself, was perched between cars five and six. He checked his pocket-watch one last time. 10:13 pm. He emptied the pouch into his mouth, and chewed. Washing down the sacred mushrooms with water from his canteen, he climbed to the top of car six, and sat cross-legged. And waited. “Good show all around, I say!” cheered William Buckley inside car three of the 309, as he refilled his brandy. “The chaps on the board of directors in London will be most impressed, most impressed indeed. For years now, they’ve been hounding me to make such a sizable bank purchase. Blokes in the East generally won’t have it. Perhaps we’ll have more luck in the West, eh?” “Maybe you just needed a new form of persuasion, William,” countered Ed Mitchell. Ed understood persuasion better than most. He knew that every man had a soft spot, and he knew how to find it. And how to make it hurt. On the rare occasions where no soft spot could be found, Ed knew that every man had one final soft spot: his heart—a spot that bullets had no trouble reaching. “Indeed,” said William, “But then, it’s not often that the finances of my backers in London fail to hit the mark. However, on certain occasions, your style of…negotiation...certainly fills the bill.” “Indeed,” mimicked Ed, disinterestedly. The man with the black eyes glanced over at Ed. Their eyes momentarily met, and locked. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then both men had thick curtains over those windows—no expressions were offered, no information was exchanged. Casually, the man with black eyes looked back out the window of car three as the moonlit desert slipped past. That's called a cliffhanger, ladies and gentlemen. The epic fight that's coming up spans a whole chapter. To be honest, I'm excited about it, too. |
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