Retribution
Chapter 3
The stampede of horse flesh thundered to a dusty swirling
halt. Makawela dismounted his horse, his angular face shadowed
by a dark layer of fine red grit, the whites of his eyes ravaged by
jagged streaks of red. His nostrils still flared with the rage he held
within since the confrontation with his wickedly pure nephew and
the haole bitch he had so wanted to possess. He yanked at his
horse’s reins, cutting the poor beast’s quivering lips. It reared in
response to the biting pain.
In his agitated state Makawela pulled his pistol, the last
rays of the dying sun glinting off it’s shiny nickel surface, and
squeezed the trigger. The panting steed fell with bitter heaviness
and was dead before it hit the ground.
“That bullet was Neki’s,” Maka growled with hateful
outrage, his voice low and sinister. His men knew to keep away
when his state was as such, and they did.
He held the gun up toward his face and fixed his glare on
the cold hard steel. Such love he felt for this destructive
instrument as his eyes widened in reverence.
“This is the only thing I love!” he fumed with sudden force,
immediately casting a wicked glance over his shoulder toward his
men. All eyes stared at the ground. Oh they had heard well
enough. Heard him fawning over the seductive sculpture of forged
steel which he held with carressing tenderness. But none dared
stare. He shifted his gaze toward his fallen horse and whispered a
thoughtful prayer, his eyes saddened by the breathless heap.
He lifted his gaze to the dusk veiled sky and decided that
another would have to fall. They were now, one horse short. He
lowered his eyes and swung his piercing glare slowly toward his
silent fold, a sadistic grin stretching slowly across his cinder caked
face as he considered which one of his loyal aikanes he would send
to meet their maker in the chill of the descending night shadows.
Great dark, heavy clouds rolled ominously overhead. All
the men could sense the palpable evil rising all around them.
Makawela meant to kill one of them, of that they were sure. Their
hearts and minds pleaded for flight, but their legs would not, or
could not, respond. Makawela held them in an evil grip that none
could break. He possessed their thoughts and robbed them of their
will.
His eyes flashed again with frothing rage, and they knew
that he had made his choice. The time of death was at hand.
With nimble speed he raised his hand. The flash was
brilliant, and the bullet looked as if it floated upon dusk’s thin veil
until it’s intended victim consumed it’s glowing illuminance. And
it was done. The deed had been fulfilled, the clouds parting as if
by some miraculous directive, the beaming moon spilling it’s pale
glow upon the chilling scene.
A collective gasp rose as all who were still alive realized
the truth of their premonition. One of their confederates had taken
the fatal lead deep into his chest. The blood poured from the
wound like thickened molasses, though it’s sour stench marked it
for what it was.
“Now we have the correct count of horse to rider,”
Makawela offered, holstering his weapon and walking
remorselessly past the dead soldier. “Leave him for the boars,” he
ordered. “No sense tiring ourselves with a burial.” He walked
torward Kakaio, the same young man who had excitedly waved the
cash bags outside the train.
The youthful outlaw swallowed breathlessly as Maka
approached him. The evil spell that had held them moments
before beginning to subside, but he still could not move.
Makawela snatched the cash sacks which staddled
Kakaio’s left shoulder, stumping past the trembling young man.
But not before his dark black eyes had locked with those of the
younger man. Kakaio shuddered when he realized what evil
lurked behind the burning glare. He watched as the darkness
silently swallowed his dangerous boss.
“We are all dead man,” he whispered conspiratorially.
“Shut-up boy!” warned one of the others. “If your words
were to be heard we will surely all be dead. Right now!” The
older man’s glare immediately silenced Kakaio.
Some ways away, far from the chattering of his men,
Makawela stood within the hugging gloom. He grasped at the bags
of money as if he were trying to crush the life from an enemy.
“The filth of this money sickens me...” he murmurred, eyes
cast upward toward a miraculously clear and starry night sky. He
dropped both sacks and rubbed harshly at his stinging eyes. He
swallowed a deep breath which filled his lungs as a fleeting calm
spread over his weary body.
He shrugged at the heavens as he spoke quietly. “I need the
strength of such wicked deeds which lead to the theft of such,” he
gestured down at the sagging bags of money. “Yet the hunger for
more persists.” He stood and gazed at the endless black above. A
black sprinkled with flashing jewels. “I can feel the corruption
within my soul, yet I am powerless to deny it!” His voice had risen
to an agonized shout. “Yet my brother breaths the air of a
contented and glorious man.” His tone was almost subdued now.
Sad in fact, as envy poisoned his thoughts. It was envy that drove
this unholy man.
“Only his death will satisfy my cravings. This I know!”
He flailed at the glowing orb of the moon. “But I can’t. Not even
the seed of his manhood can I dispatch...” His eyes widened as he
pictured Neki in his mind’s eye. “Neki...” he murmurred. “The
son that should have been mine. But I was not allowe, and yet I
feel for the boy as if he were mine.” He cringed with the thought,
the sound of it biting at his soul. The warmth of his affections
collided with the venom that otherwise coursed through his veins.
And Levi... What did he feel for Levi? Hate for sure. But not
enough it seemed to kil the bastard. Still he longed for an
existence free of the burden that was his brother.
Suddenly! there came a shout. “Boss! Hey boos!”
Makawela turned toward the call, his hand instantly drawing his
weapon from it’s holster. The voice sanf out again.
“Don’t shoot boss! It’s me,” pleaded the formless voice.
“May I strike a match se we can see?”
“Do what you want,” Maka replied, holstering the gun. He
shuddered as the match struck. The hissing of the torch caught his
attention and he turned toward the blazing rag-tipped stick, it’s
head having been saoked in lamp oil.
“B-Boss,” began the nervous, tentative man standing in the
growing glow of the golden torchlight. “The boys were wondering
if we should start a supper fire?”
“I’ve already said to do what you want!” Maka snapped,
turning from the firce glow. “Leave me!” he ordered.
“You want some food, boss?” inquired the cautious
underling. “W e got a lot of good stuff out of that train’s dining
car while you were with Neki earlier today.”
Makawela spun around and locked his glare upon the
suddenly gawking man. The menace that spread across his face
froze the terrified paniolo. He said no more. With torch firmly
grasped between clenching fingers he turned and walked swiftly
back toward the others.
Makawela sat himself gingerly, alone again in the peaceful
darkness that surrounded him.
. . .
Miles away, sitting quietly at his koa desk, was Makainui
(Sherriff) Potter. Makainui Reginal T. Potter that is. The “law” in
Hilo town. The territorial law in fact. Although the Hawaiian
monarchy was still in place it wielded little power, if any, over the
day to day businss in any but the most rural areas of the island.
The rural folk still held fast to the old ways, the ancient ways. But
modern times, and the long arm of colonialism, had taken it’s toll.
It was only a matter of time before the old ways would cease to
exist in the mines of the many. Assimilation was rampant.
“Sheriff..!” demanded Herbert Bishup, owner of Bishup
Railroad. The same rail company that Makawela and his boys had
help-up only a few hours before.
“If the law in this god forsaken town isn’t going to deal
with this Makawela problem than perhaps you should leave it to
men who would do the job quickly, and with no remorse or regard
for the so called territorial law.” His tone was heated. And why
not? Makawela had robbed him of thousands of dollars over the
last several years. At first it seemed only a nuisance that would
soon disappear. But over time it had grown to be a major bone of
contention between Bishup and Potter.
The Makainui turned in his wooden swivel chair, it’s dark
polished finish glowing richly as the amber radiance of the
hanging oil lamps spread their clinging illuminance through the
musky little jail house.
“You thinking of becoming one of those vegilantes?”
inquired Potter, his brow furrowing ominously.
“Perhaps that’s what is needed to get control over
Makawela and his bunch of cut throats?” Bishup’s tone was
forceful, but tinged by a hint of fear. Indeed Makainui Potter was
not a man to be triffled with. His reputation was that of a hard,
mean lawman who on occasion would think nothing of breaking a
few heads if the need was there. And in the case of Bishup, who
he disliked anyway, the urge was almost to strong to quell. Lickily
Bishup knew enough not to push too far with his demands.
“In any case,” he continued, shaking-off Potter’s incessant
glare. “I will put my men at your disposal if that is the problem.”
“My only problem at the moment,” glowered Potter. “Is
you Mr. Bishup! You and your bellyaching.” He swallowed a
deep breath, calming himself, at least trying to. “So you got
robbed,” he continued. “People get robbed all the time. Everyday
in fact. And most of ‘em are poor, honest folk who truly suffer
from the loss.” He leaned back in his chair, the old thing creaking
under his weight. “Tell me Mr. Bishup,” he quiried. “Will you be
missing a meal tonight because of this robbery? Will you lose the
lortgage on your house or your land because of it? Will you have
to deal with sending your kids to bed hungry tonight because of
it?”
Bishuo knew he was being setup, bi=ut could not keep
himself from responding.
“No I will not,” he answered. “But...”
“But nothing!” roared Potter, bounding forward with the
swing of his swivel chair and pounding the desktop with his fist.
“Then tell me why should I spend my time tracking down your
loot, when I could better serve our little community by going after
the son’s of bitches who stole from those who really couldn’t
afford to be stole from!?”
Bishup’s face flushed red with anger. He knew he was
walking into just such a morass, and still he had allowed himself to
be led down the path.
“You’re the law!” he exclaimed, his eyes wild with anger
and fear. “You are sworn to represent all the people. Rich as well
as poor.” He narrowed his pale gray eyes. “Am I not a citizen of
this community?” he asked, composed again in his tailored pin
striped suit.
Potter exhaled with indifference. “You are,” he agreed.
“But as sheriff I must set my priorities as I see fit.” He sat himself
again and grinned with satisfaction.
“You won’t get away with this!” Bishup warned as he
headed for the door, swinging it open. He stopped and turned
toward Potter just as he stepped over the threshold. “You force me
to take matters into my own hands,” he sneered. “If I must, I will
do your job. But only because you lack the ability or courage, to
do it yourself.”
“You’ve been warned Bishup,” shrugged Potter. “If you
persist on this course of action I will have no choice but to make
your prosecution my most pressing priority.” He smiled a most
smug smile. Bishup’s expression twisted bitterly and he stormed
away, muttering viciously.
. . .
“You are a terrible,” came a voice from out of the thick
shadows to the right of the barred cells. “Why do you take such
pleasure in tormenting that poor man?”
“It helps calm my nerves to see such a man squirm,” Potter
replied, opening the top drawer of his desk and pulling out a small
bottle of whiskey. “You want some of this?” he offered toward the
shadows.
“Yeah,” came the reply as the shrouded figure emerged. It
was a woman. A woman dressed like a man, but with a certain
flare about the hips and chest that left no doubt that she was a
woman. Her long black hair glistened even in the dull light of the
dusty jailhouse as it’s shinning strands rippled all the way down to
the ripeness of her shapely behind.
Potter, even at his somewhat advanced age, could still
appreciate such a fine build. He smiled as Lehua, Lei for short,
came full into the grasp of the oil lamp’s glow.
“My but your a fine looking woman,” he proclaimed,
taking a long swip from the bottle, then handing it to Lei.
“Control yourself old man,” she warned. “There’s more
under these jeans than the likes of you could handle.”
Potter roared with laughter as she took the bottle from him,
nodding his head in total agreement.
“You ain’t shitting,” he agreed. “I doubt that there’s a man
in this whole territory that could handle what you got under there.”
He stared directly at her middle. She blushed at his leering, the
dim glow of the room covering the red that spread across her
perfect face.
“Get your mind back on business Pot,” she admonished.
“You know there’s only one man who could satisfy all my needs.”
She took a hard pull on the gurgling whiskey bottle. “Only one
man in this entire world could get from that which no other could.”
She bent over playfully and kissed Potter on his forehead. His
indisgressions were harmless. A source of entertainment for an
otherwise dreary existence.
“Look Lei,” he advised, suddenly serious. “Levi still ain’t
over the loss of his wife. He’s been widowed now for quite a few
years, but he tortures himself still. You ain’t doing the man no
favors by throwing yourself at him. He ain’t ready yet. I don’t
know if he’ll ever be ready for another woman?”
She sucked at the bottle again, sitting herself in a chair
across the desk from Potter. “You know something Pot,” she
mumbled, the whiskey taking hold.
“What’s that beautiful?” he inquired honestly. Lehua
smiled and handed the bottle back to him.
“Sometimes you can be a real son of a bitch, you know,”
she snapped.
“You outta know,” replied Potter. Lehua laughed this
timne
They sat together in silence for a while, staring at the fire,
which she had started earlier. They were alone, the cell doors
open and the caverns beyond devoid of customers at the moment.
“so...” she finally offered, breaking the clinging silence.
“What are you planning on doing about Bishup’s complaints,” she
asked, the fire crackling in the back ground.
“Plans?” Potter mumbled, the whiskey mottling his
thoughts.
“About Bishup’s complaints you old drunkard.”
Potter stretched, leaning back in the hard wooden swivel
chair. “I wish I knew,” he chuckled. “Who the hell knows what to
do about a demon like Makawela?”
“Levi would know how to handle him.” she offered
seriously.
“But with your help I suppose,” Potter sniffed.
“Yeah, with my help,” she snarled. “You got a problem
with that? You got any doubt about my ability to back him up?”
“I ain’t got no doubts about you Lei. Not a one.” He
opened another desk drawer and pulled out a second bottle, the
first having been drained dry.
“You are without question the toughest wahine I’ve ever
had the misfortune of knowing, although a good attribute this
toughness be for a Deputy Sheriff.:”
“Yeah...that’s me alright, a tough old deputy sheriff.” She
sniffed with mock disgust as she hoisted her booted feet up on the
desk, crossing them at the ankles. She leaned back in the chair.
“Seriously Pot,” she continued. “Perhaps Levi could do
something. I heard about what happened on that train today. How
Kalani would have killed that innocent girl if Neki hadn’t been
there to stop him. And why in the world a bastard like Maka
would concede his wanton ways even for the likes of his own
nephew is hard for me to understand. It’s common knowledge that
he hates Levi. You’d of thought he’d jump at a chance to get at
him through his son.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Potter replied, shaking his
skinny finger knowingly. “Kalani’s always had a soft spot when it
comes to Neki. I think he truly cares about the kid.”
“You’re nuts!” spat Lei. “That son of a bitch don’t care
about anyone or anything but himself and money!”
“And Neki,” Potter assured her with a nod.
“Nah...No way. You’re crazy old man.”
:No more so than you, you young filly...”
“Shit, I hate when you call me that!” she glared.
“Oh...!” flared Potter. “And I suppose you think it thrills
me when you call me an old man?”
“But you are old,” she retorted, smiling.
“Don’t remind me,” he grumbled, taking yet another swig
off the gurgling bottle.
“Hey Pot,” Lei chimed after a few silent moments.
“Yeah, whatta you want,” he mumbled drunkenly.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Yeah, me too,” he replied, bursting into a gurgled chuckle.
“You young filly you...”
Lehua laughed jerkily, her body numb with drink. As their
laughter subsided they slowly drifted into an alcohol induced
sleep, snoring and gurgling like a pair of run down nags.
Just another routine night at old man Potter’s jailhouse
saloon...
End of Chapter 3
Unpublished Works © 1997 GJB
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