Henri Ville

By M. Chris Benner

Relentlessly pursued by crooked marshals, idiot bounty hunters, and a psychotic one-eyed pastor, follow as infamous gunfighter Henri Ville takes the first steps in her epic journey home. With gunfights and mysterious tornadoes around every corner, Henri must come face-to-face with a force much greater than herself to reclaim her freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Chris Benner
• Release date: Sep 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301622627

M. Chris Benner

M. Chris Benner is an author from the east coast somewhere, possibly Maine - then again, I might be confusing him with a good writer. He's had a bunch of children and the man seems to gather professions like shot glasses: massage therapist, avionics technician, biography exaggerator, astronaut, Nobel laureate, dinosaur, etc. Also, he's balding.

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THE DARKNESS SKY

I

Coulson and his friend Nashua sat side-by-side in wooden chairs; Nashua with the rifle and Coulson drinking heartily from a long, unmarked glass jug. The glass had been blown by an acquaintance named Emerson, who lived in the city and worked for the mill. The jug had been passed to Coulson in exchange for deer meat a couple years back. He kept it and, when he distilled enough drab , he’d fill up the jars and save just enough for his long, brown, unmarked jug. He loved filling it past the top so he could lick the outer edge of the rim and feel the sting of alcohol on the sensitive tissue between his lip and tongue.

Nashua caressed the cavalry rifle that rested across his lap. The gun had been handed down to him by his father when he’d passed the year before. His father hadn’t said much about the rifle, but Nashua knew it meant something to him; his father wasn’t a man of words, but one of idiosyncratic actions – and he polished that rifle every night. He didn’t even polish his Colt that often, despite always having it loaded up against his hip.

Coulson passed the bottle to Nashua, who took a large sip, keeping the tips of his left-hand fingers on the wood butt of the rifle as if it would disappear if he were to let go. The drab was beginning to dwindle, as were the two men. It was early afternoon and they’d consumed a full jar before their hunt had even begun. So far, they had seen neither hide nor hare.

They slouched in their wood chairs, shifting occasionally.

Silence.

A cough to clear a throat.

More silence.

Suddenly, a noise in the distance caught their attention. There was a rustle against the ground, atop the white leaves and brush fallen from the hawthorn trees. The forest had a far-sighted visibility as the trees were long and thin, stretched up and only a bit outward with white blossoms. The pat-pat sound was approaching their spot, but they still couldn’t make out the source.

Something bluish in the...

Nashua raised his rifle to eye level and waited.

It’s a woman! Coulson said in disbelief.

It was, in fact, a woman, and she was approaching.

There were many details the men could have noticed first, including her thin, curvy body or the dirt-strewn hair (straw-like and corn-colored) poking out from beneath the cusp of a gray woolen cap. As she moved closer, the threads of her blonde hair soaked in and reflected the brief, scattered rays of sunlight that filtered through the trees. Her blue-and-white plaid and button-up fit tight against her chest. The top buttons were undone and there was a dirt-smeared white shirt underneath. Her sweat-covered bust was visible through a tear down the neckline. The men noticed none of this and instead gawked at her face. The woman had a bandana tied around her head and it covered the lower half of her face in a tan cloth with bright, hand-drawn red lips across the area atop her actual mouth, as if it were substituting for the bottom half of her face. She had an air of menace – narrowed, tired eyes, downturned head – and the bandana tied across her face gave the initial impression of a bank robber, but she was ultimately seen as nonthreatening, which was solely due to the quaint, warm smile on her crudely painted lips (if you looked closely you would see that the chin line had also been shadowed, the neck defined, and even the tan of the bandana matched her skin tone). The expression on the cloth was gentle and good natured, almost comical.

Nashua dropped the aim but kept it toward her general area.

The woman’s pace was steady towards them.

The men talked about her as if she weren’t within earshot, even after she arrived.

What’n you think a woman’s doing back there? Coulson asked Nashua.

No bother with that. What’s she got ‘round her face? She done looks like half a cartoon, Nashua answered Coulson.

The woman loudly groaned at the two men as she stood over them.

Well you look like an idiot, she snapped, half-heartedly. Her exhaustion was audible.

Nashua looked over at Coulson with half-open, slovenly eyes before nodding in agreement that Coulson did, in fact, look like an idiot.

Coulson took an extra sip of drab, unfettered.

Nashua continued to stroke the butt of his gun.

She let out an exasperated sigh.

Where’s the nearest saloon? Where’s that shit-hole... Henri Ville’s dour voice was low through the bandana mask. She paused trying to remember the name of a dank, pitiless pub in the center of the nearby town. She had been there a few times before, always searching for the same thing.

Neither man responded.

Coulson’s eyes migrated south to Henri’s tight blue jeans. He’d never seen such a thing. It fit and accentuated the curvature of her hips and legs – but just as he began to admire the craftsmanship, a red/black smudge caught him. It looked like half a dirty, bloody handprint, one that had clawed at her backside from the ground.

Nashua had his eyes on her two leather belts, each lined with crisp, sparkly bullets. On her left hip was a .38 Smith & Wesson – this caught his attention more than the Colt on her right hip (one similar to his father’s, except hers had a one-piece leather grip): That particular model .38 Smith & Wesson was used by the Sheriffs in the next town over, called Saintstown. Nashua knew this because he was escorted by two deputies from the saloon during a particularly rapacious speech about how he had been cheated and robbed while playing poker. As the two men walked behind and Nashua stumbled along in front, Nashua became pleasant once more, asking questions about the location of the store in which they bought their .38s, the ammo they used, and so on. The two men could barely understand the drunken, front-ward spoken words, and answered only, Sheriff says we’re to use these S&W and these are all he ever stocks up. Says they shoot straight.

Ma’am, you got some blood on your britches there… Coulson said while, at the same time, Nashua spoke, Where’d you get that revolver, ma’am?

The men hadn’t answered her question so thoroughly that she momentarily questioned whether they heard her at all, so she repeated it, followed by, I’m lookin’ for a man named Anson Sharpe—

At that, both men lit up.

Anson, yeah, he’s a character, Coulson recollected fondly.

Yeah, yer a safe bet to find’im in Coopers, Nashua nodded.

Prolly getting’ drunk.

Yeah, scoffed Nashua, he’s always gettin’ drunk.

Coulson and Nashua laughed.

Nashua sipped off the bottle and passed it.

The cloth blew out over Henri’s mouth as she spoke.

Coopers, Henri exhaled. It had been nagging on her; the name of that shadowy bar Anson always ran to. As she went to move on, there was a hesitation, and she found herself saying something so familiar that the words were automatic:

If I were you two, I’d leave this area.

The men craned their necks and stared at her.

Nobody moved.

Didn’t think so, Henri mumbled before heading in the direction of town.

No one ever listened.

II

The short stretch of town was empty.

The boardwalk led down both sides of the only road in, dead ending in a cul-de-sac, like an open-ended rectangle. The dirt was a thin brown powder and Henri could see that it had been kicked up recently, as if a large group of men on horseback had only just let out. The road was one lane wide, narrower than most. The wind in the air was dry and still, kindred to the vacant town. The saloon sat idle at the end, occupying the far-right corner. Several stores lined either side, no more necessary than the next.

Henri pushed in past the wooden slats of the saloon doorway at a quarter past noon and found Anson Sharpe’s hang-dog face looming over an empty mug. There wasn’t another breathing soul in there except for him and a barmaid in the back, cleaning broken glass on the floor.

Henri could hear his faint muttering.

And then we…what do we—what day is it?

His voice was low like his face. His skin was a slight shade darker than average, as Anson’s mother had been a Hindu from India; lucky for him, his father had been American, giving his features an average appearance and his skin an odd shade of brown, one like sun-bleached leather. He appeared American and could blend easily even though he had been raised in a palace…in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. His voice was casual and without accent, although a bit nerdy and high-pitched.

Henri crossed and was behind him well before he heard the doorway slats swooshing shut. When he turned to look, as the lower half of his face was cowering behind his shoulder, his eyes lit up and he glared.

Heard you was a town over… he grumbled into the rumpled, stained pit of his tee-shirt.

Get up. We need to go.

The harsh pitch caught Anson in a startling static jolt. Henri’s voice was stern and had grown less feminine since their abandonment in the west. Her eyes had a glaze to them that wasn’t there before, making them simultaneously passionless and intense.

His full face emerged, and Anson’s lips moved as if about to say something.

There was a pause.

A look crossed his face, displaying something like grief.

Take off that stupid bandana, he said.

There was a moment’s pause before she did as he asked.

The bandana colored to mimic a beautiful, smiling mouth; Henri’s real mouth was rougher, unsmiling, and her frowning lips had subtle hints of rouge.

How much time? asked Anson, the hint of urgency in his voice.

Fifteen minutes. Maybe back sooner.

Back door?

Got a horse back there?

They both knew the disappointing answers.

Plus, Henri nodded her head toward the barmaid cleaning in back, the one bent and scrubbing the same piece of floor pretending not to listen.

Anson’s wobbly head shook a moment.

Henri leaned in with an acute stare into Anson’s eyes. He stared back, inquisitively. Her right hand, which had been lifeless at her side, suddenly lifted up and out, crossing the front of Anson’s face in a hard smack. He recovered quickly and she continued her edged stare into his eyes, slapping him right-ways again for good measure. He recovered the second time. She studied him as one might with poor handwriting on a note.

Sober? inquired Henri.

Yer eyes are’a beautiful blue, answered Anson and, while his lips moved, his left eye half-shut in a drunken salute. Then both eyes were open.

She’d have to settle for him in this condition.

There was a ruckus outside the saloon, the sound of thud-thud-thud as horse feet trampled the narrow passage into town, maybe a dozen horses in all.

Goddamnit.

Henri’s single word caused a shiver of terror to pass through Anson.

Get your— she started but Anson was already standing.

I got it up in my room, he acknowledged, sadly.

Center to left, she reminded him as he stumbled onto the first stair on his way up to the second-floor rooms that lined the upstairs front wall. And don’t hit me, she called as he disappeared.

The barmaid had stood frozen to the sound of approaching horses. Her eyes found Henri directly for the first time since she entered. The barmaid had known of her presence and heard her speaking but was uneasy and too nervous to meet Henri’s gaze. There was a moment where their eyes met. Henri’s eyes narrowed in displeasure before nodding in the direction that the barmaid should run, which was out the back door. The barmaid gently tossed the towel she’d used to clean onto a nearby table, then passed Henri on her way out the front door. There was ire in her glare.

Henri shook her head.

Once the woman was on the other side of the front doorway, her call could be heard:

She’s in the saloon! Buck—Buck, she’s in the saloon!

Horses cried out as their riders pulled hard and dismounted.

Henri took an extra moment to sit alone at the bar, peacefully. It was quiet. No hassle, not just yet. So, she sat there alone, taking the final swallow from Anson’s mug. It was warm and so awful that she couldn’t be sure if it was beer or whiskey, but it didn’t matter and she winced, nonetheless. One more second of silence was all she wanted…then she wrapped the bandana back around her face, arranging the luscious smile over her own rigid frown.

A moment later Henri walked out the front door.

III

There were a dozen men dismounting, some reaching under their saddle bags for their rifles; all of them had a six-gun strapped to their sides. They had been hurrying until, as a group, they’d heard the call and saw Henri exit through the front of the saloon. The group’s movements became more labored and cautious as she walked off the boardwalk and into the center of the inlet, facing them. The men had their guns and were forming a line in two rows, more gunslingers than there was room to stand side-by-side in the single lane of the inlet.

Ma’am, could you remove the bandana? the man at the head asked.

Henri had returned the bandana to the front of her face.

You don’t want me to do that, she answered.

Ma’am, I will shoot you where you stand if you do not remove it, he called back.

She let a moment pass.

Against her better judgment, Henri Ville removed the bandana from around her face entirely – her beautiful features were clear to the air. It felt good as she so seldom showed her full face to the light of day.

Missus, you come from Saintstown? the leader asked, calling from a distance of 10 meters. They had been tying the horses to posts at the sheriff’s but only some had finished, leaving a few horses left to mull around. The man who spoke, in dark pants and a dark vest with a fine Italian shirt beneath, was not the sheriff. The sheriff was somewhat hidden a ways out to the side, with a rifle clutched to his chest and the barrel pointed up into the sky. The man speaking had a darkness-like aura to him. The skin on his face was mostly hidden by black stubble and longer, straight black greasy hair. He had a rotund belly protruding from under his vest and shirt at the nexus of his bellybutton with enough skin visible to see that it, too, was coated in dark hair. The clothes had obviously been purchased when the man possessed a skinnier build.

Yes, Henri called back. Her eyes weren’t only searching the men but the sky beyond the town. It was an open day; one inconspicuous cloud in an otherwise clear blue sky.

The men had yet to point their guns at her but, with this news, they held their rifles a bit tighter, steadied their hands a bit nearer their holstered weapons…

There’s a massacre back there, ma’am.

Henri nodded.

What’n you know about it? he called back.

I know that them men should’ve listened to me. Now, we don’t have to do this… And at that, the dark-haired man lifted his hand and positioned it over his firearm. Henri did the same, her right hand over the .38 Smith and Wesson while her left hand hung over the Colt. …but you need to hear me when I say… her voice was measured, …that this town is going to be destroyed. If y’all got young’uns, better head off and keep ‘em outta town and safe. Anyone still here in the next few minutes is gonna—

The dark-haired man drew at what he thought was the beginning of a threat and not a warning. The resulting firefight was short.

Some of the men tried to run. There was a hail of fire from above, along with Henri’s own torrent of blaze. She hit the dark-haired man first, with the .38; drew on him as quick as he drew on her but in a heartless quarter-second faster. His shot fired wildly as he fell back into the rain of lead erupting from the second-floor window of the saloon. Henri’s remaining shots, from both guns now raised and pointed to the group, joined the onslaught, and their destinations were lost amid the chaos, aimed center-to-right. An eruption of dust, mingling and swirling in its wickshire dance above the men, had now fallen and nothing else was moving. Most of the men fell in place while a few nearly made it to cover but they too, ended up limp on the ground. Two of the mulling horses had been wounded. One half laid on its front knees. The other ran off with a wound in its side and his full gallop played on for an extra moment in the silence after the gunfire, a short farewell as it disappeared into the distance. Next came the sound of empty shells hitting the dirt and pieces of metal bouncing off one another as Henri reloaded. From the saloon’s second story window came a heavy, mechanical clicking noise, another (similar) sound, and then the unmistakable unlock-and-lock of a slide bolt pulling back on a very thick-sounding rifle.

Henri finished stuffing the empty chambers of her revolver with fresh bullets while she spoke, her voice, eyes, and chin pointing toward the faces in the surrounding windows, many of them now widows and father-less children.

You all need to VACATE this town… she yelled out, emphasizing the one word, …or my friends and I are gonna come into every STORE and BEDROOM and we’re going to SHOOT every one of YOU. Out of town, you have FIVE MINUTES.

She hated plan number two, the one where she had to scare everyone out of town. It only worked half the time anyway and even then, the stubborn ones stayed and fought; most people didn’t listen, no matter the tactic.

As if the Earth heard her warning and decided time was up, a foreign, ominous wind began to stir a dustbowl outside the town. The stir of wind and dirt spun up, higher and higher, rising from the ground and funneling toward the sky in the vacant plot out yonder. The scattered forest from which she’d come was considerably distant, off to the far right of the inlet. To the left horizon appeared the entrance of a vast, open flatland, long and suffering under the heat of the sun. But in the vacant plot just outside the town, for all to see, a windstorm was taking shape.

I can’t— Henri choked, grief-stricken.

A tear formed in the edge of her eye.

You ASSHOLE! she finally screamed out, but this was different than her earlier heeding. Aside from the added infliction of anger – a passionate cross between outright frustration and pain in her voice – her words this time seemed to be directed at the sky, gathering clouds, and the darkening blue. This was neither warning nor threat to the town’s people but an outright condemnation of God.

Anson was behind her. He had come out with his gear, a knapsack and a long, stained guitar case that weighed heavily on his shoulder. She turned around to glance at the guitar case and then back at the growing wall of dust forming just outside the town.

There’s...there’s nothin’ we can do.

Anson’s voice had the same choke of angst as Henri’s.

What about the horses? she asked, then turned quickly, pushing Anson out of the way for a good look at the front to the saloon. She pointed, her finger remaining in the air an extra second while her body had already begun a sprint to the horses tied at the sheriff’s post.

I’m not riding into that— Anson began but Henri cut him off.

Neither am I. We’re going through the saloon.

She untied the reins to free a brown quarter horse, which reluctantly turned its head in her direction. She pulled; it refused a step in any direction. There were other horses, several growing panicked from the growing dark of the sky and the loud swish of the gathering storm.

Law of Unintended Consequence, sweetie. You’re wasting your time… Anson hollered to be heard over the air as it filled with the sound of rushing wind. She could hear him but, when she