The Final Hunt

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He was a bounty hunter, trying to make his way through life. Hulbert E. Fairchild, that was his name. He lived to be 19, but he started his carrier at the age of 17. He arrested wanted men and even creatures of European Mythology. Turns out that the mythologies weren't myths at all, but true. Not in the sense of “vampires sucking blood” and “werewolves”, but vampires were actually cannibals that Englishmen thought were possessed, they may as well been. And werewolves were either madmen dressed like wolves or oversized coyotes or, well, wolves. He had killed mountain lions, bears, men, women, and even his own horse. At that time, a man's horse was his life. Killing your own was like committing suicide.

His life story was just that. When he was born he had a twin brother. He didn't know for he was two when his brother was kidnapped by marauders and his parents never told him of his long lost kin. I guess they figured it's best not to tell him something that's not of importance. They thought that James (his twin) was dead, and that made complete sense. When Hulbert was 17 his family was killed in a fire in their house.


It's 1858 when he left to find a new life, and the murderers of his old one. The only possessions he owned still left from the fire was his horse and some bread his mother packed for him and his father when they left to go hunting. When they came back to the house it was blazing, it looked like a tree in autumn, red, yellow, brown. The air was filled with screams of his mother and little sister, Sofia. They were still in the house. The bandits watched them approach as they ran to save the two innocents. When his father ran to save the two, he had gotten caught under some ruble of the roof of the house. When Hulbert went to help, the bandits knocked him unconscious. As he collapsed to the ground with blood coming from the back of his skull, his vision started to blur and go dark. When he finally came to the entire building was ash, and the only thing left in the remains was the skeletons of his family.


He still had his hunting rifle. He walked towards the scene a single tear fell as he saw a glint in the ash. He went to it only to find it was the to revolvers his father cherished more than anything. The reason for this is because they were the only two of their kind in the world. He put them across his waist in an X pattern. He mounted his horse as he went on the beginning of his journey, his last one. This would be remembered to him as his last great hunt that would eventually take his life.


As he made his way north, he had to fight through maniacs, psychopaths, and creatures that a normal man would only have a chance to take two steps before being torn apart. One example of these creatures were bears. A normal man may have been taken and pulled apart, but his father taught him how to kill a bear and to protect himself. He survived a mountain lion when he was asleep. He was resting for the day when a mountain lion walked into his small camp. What woke him up was his horse, kicking and screaming like a child. He got up with his rifle and opened his tent just a little bit. Not even two seconds later he found himself under the lion with it hissing in his face and smacking his head. To his luck his horse was very loyal and kicked the lion of him. He jumped up and threw his rifle up and take a shot. The ring of the fire echoed as he watched the animal drop to the ground. He touched his body to see if he had any injuries, none yet. But when he got to his face he felt a sharp deleterious pain as his hand went wet. He felt the crevice of the deep scar in his cheek, blood dripping into the dirt. He bandaged it with some clothe he found hanging from a tree. It may have been from his sock or other article of clothing.


After a week he found himself in a small town. It seemed like a very calm town with hardly any residence except for some horses, drag weed, and the drunks in the saloon. All the buildings were greyish brown from old age and weathering. The signs from the shops all swayed as if they were being rocked to sleep. The only one that seemed lively was the saloon, but it was no surprise to him. He remembered from the attack to his family that the bandits had an emblem on their shoulders, all of them had it. It was a circle with some sort of script in it, Latin he believed. When Hulbert got in town, he saw that symbol on the wall of one the buildings. It was one with no windows and a heavy wooden door. He tried to kick it in and did so. He scouted the entire building, making sure to leave no room unchecked. The entire building was empty, aggravated he went to the local saloon to find out if anyone knew of their were abouts. There he found several strange people, alcoholics, conmen, and several other kinds of men. He grabbed the shadiest character he could find, grabbed him, and lifted him out of his chair. Hulbert shouted as his cigarette fell to the ground and barked, “Where are they!?”
The man said, “I don't know who you're talking about.”
Hulbert pushed his duster back as he grabbed one of his revolvers and put it under the man's chin and said, “The people that were in that building.” pointing to the small box of a building, “ Where did they go?”
The strange man said in a panicky voice, “They left about a week ago after a murder and fire.”
Furious, Hulbert stormed out of the small shelter leaving a cloud of agitated dust in the air.


He looked for this strange symbol for two years, until he was 19, the last days of his life. He found himself in Batesville Arkansas, south from his original home. When he finally found that emblem again branded horse that was put in front of a saloon. He was so happy, but outrageously angry. He pushed the door open just so calmly and looked around. He pulled his hat down as he was looking for the man that owned the horse. He waited there for a few hours and found the man. He went to consult him but right before he touched him, the man said, “I knew this day would come.”
Confused and dumbstruck, Hulbert said, “How do you know me?”
The man turned as he pulled out a revolver from under his own duster and put in ever so harshly under Hulbert's chin. At this time Hulbert was even more confused then ever. This man look exactly like him. The man then said, “Hello brother.”


A gunshot rang for miles, like the sound of a twister crushing through buildings like they were twigs. Like the sound of the mighty ocean's waters hurling at astronomical speeds towards the banks of the land. Like the sound of rage, alleviation, and peace all at once colliding into a colossal vibration.


As James buried Hulbert, he said to his corpse, “Mark the perfect man and behold the upright for the end of that man is peace.” After that day James was gone forever, never to be found again. Even today Hubert's grave still lies there waiting for judgment day upon his family's betrayal from their own flesh and blood.





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