Arena Roja: Part One
Western Short Story
“Arena Roja” was originally published in Frontier Tales back in February of 2020. Check out the original publication here. My plan is to send Part Two out this Friday, February 11th.
Dust kicked up around the boy as he rode into the canyon. The red noon sun blazed down on him as the horizon simmered, baking in the heat.
KOOOOOF!
At the sound of the gunshot, the horse whinnied and reared, bucking the boy. He landed on the hard-packed ground as his mount galloped off in the opposite direction. The boy clawed toward the cover of a nearby boulder.
KOOOOOF! the Winchester bellowed again, a thunderclap that tore through stillness. The shot ricocheted wide. The boy reached for the revolver at his side before he was another pile of bones without a story, but it was to no avail. The third bullet ripped through his right bicep. He howled on the ground and seized his blood-soaked arm.
"Had enough yet?" a smoky voice called out from the bluffs, echoing off canyon wall to wall.
"I'm leaving!" the boy cried in hysterics. "I'm leavin' your town behind me!"
"Well, now you have a parting gift," the voice yelled in response. "And if you ever come back, I swear I'll blow your head clean off!"
A scorpion scuttled toward the boy. He swatted it away. Tears streaked down his face and scarlet swam between his fingers.
"You hear me, dammit? I was savin' her, you son of a bitch!" A flock of birds flew overhead. "Did you think I was just goin' to let you go?"
The boy choked on dust. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and gritted his teeth.
"Enjoy the vultures . . . they'll be peckin' out your eyes soon enough."
The boy didn't dare look at the vicious man whom he'd come to know all too well this past month. Hooves clattered over the reddened earth. When silence settled, he knew he was safe: Roy Olsen was gone.
The boy stood up and kicked a nearby rock, cursing himself. "Damn it, Jamie. You fool." Then, he whistled for Mae.
* * *
Love had blinded Jamie. He had meant to simply pass through Arena Roja, but when he first laid eyes on the girl, he knew his plan would have to be put on hold.
Her name was Maricela Ortega and she had stolen his heart. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Her hair was dark as obsidian and so thick you could get tangled up in it, lost in a world of lilac. The r's rolled off her tongue like a gentle river—the way water tickled stones and flirted with the banks.
Jamie stayed in town longer than he intended to. Much longer. He ended up working alongside a rancher named Mr. Roy Olsen who at the time seemed desperate for a hand. But time always revealed the inner workings of a man's mind and his intentions.
Maricela knew not of her family. She was an orphan girl who lived with an elderly, wrinkled woman whom everyone called Nana (or Baba, depending on who you talked to). Nana looked after several girls, all displaced for one reason or another. Her residence was the ramshackle dwelling on the outskirts of town, beyond the well.
Maricela spoke a few dozen words in English, but it didn't matter. Eyes spoke deeper and truer than words ever could. Besides, body language was universal. Maricela proved this true.
As Jamie tightly wrapped his wound with a piece of cloth from his bindle, he thought about the way she had first looked at him. Sure, she was only fifteen and he only a couple of years older, but he knew that her unwavering eyes, her penetrating gaze, was one of love—and lust.
Several days before the incident in the canyon, the two hid out in a hovel—a work shed used to store harnesses, saddles, and the like—for the better part of an hour, exploring every inch of each other's bodies. They inhaled and exhaled the same air, taking in dust and each other's stale breath. The world could have ended and they would have been the last to know.
After they made love atop a pile of straw, they plotted out their future together: what they would do, where they would go, and how they would live. Jamie pantomimed when Maricela couldn't understand, and she the same for him. Jamie drew a map in the dirt with a broom handle as Maricela wiped her inner thighs with a tattered cloth that lay discarded on the floor.
"Leave. Run away with me."
Maricela cocked an eyebrow.
Jamie smiled, leaned in, and kissed her. He stood and pretended to run toward the door. She giggled and tilted her head.
"No entiendo," she murmured, shrugging.
Jamie pointed at her, then himself. He nodded at the door and galloped around the rickety, run-down room as if he was riding a horse. Dust followed him where he went, swirling in the rays of light that crept in from the cracks in the flimsy wooden walls.
Her eyes widened. "Ohhh." She laughed and stood up to join him. "Ahora?"
It was Jamie's turn to cock an eyebrow and tilt his head. "Huh?"
Maricela threw her head back and laughed.
* * *
"Here, Mae. Good girl." Jamie patted his horse on her hindquarters and then rubbed her mane. She was spooked for a good five or ten minutes after the gunshots, but she eventually found her way back to him. Roy Olsen was halfway to town, he presumed.
The mare nuzzled into Jamie.
"We're going back," he said matter-of-factly. Sweat dribbled from his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.
Mae gazed into his eyes. Her muscles rippled with every breath she drew in.
"What? You think that's a bad idea?"
Mae snorted.
Jamie hesitated for a moment. "Hell with it." With his good arm, good hand, he gripped the reins and hoisted himself up into the saddle. He swung his leg around Mae, then slid his feet into the stirrups.
He knew he was lucky that the bullet had missed his major arteries. The blood still seeped from the hole in his arm, but it would congeal in time—he hoped. He'd have to get it treated soon, but there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Adrenaline flowed through his veins as he spurred Mae toward Arena Roja. His arm throbbed, but his heart was shattered: he couldn't believe he almost left her behind. He didn't know if he'd ever get her back, but he knew he had to try.
"Come on, Mae," Jamie said as he drove his heels into her sides. She picked up speed as they raced toward town, slicing through the lonely wind.
"Better shoot sharper, Roy." His breaths were steady despite his hammering heart. In his gut, he knew that more than one person would be waiting for him.
He checked the bandage on his right arm a final time to make sure it was secure, then patted the revolver at his hip.
Luckily, he shot with his left.
Thanks for reading Part One of “Arena Roja” — I hope you enjoyed it. Be sure to revisit Micro 2 Go on Friday to read Part Two.
Please feel free to leave a comment or some feedback below. It’s always appreciated!
I remember this one, Justin!!! So beautifully written.
Yes, definitely a good one.