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It was the end of June. I had finally managed to visit Southern Texas. There was something I had to try there, at a place belonging to my uncle’s family.
I was on my motorbike, making my way through the seemingly endless desert of the American South towards a place which hadn’t been immortalised on any map I know. I had never been there, and every person who told me about it said I’d ‘know it when I see it’. Vague, yet it did make me feel prepared. I had my eyes pinned to the horizon ahead, looking for my destination. It took a long while for me to finally see it – a black dot in the distance. As I continued heading that way, the image became clear: I was heading towards a seemingly-derelict ranch, complete with a large family house. They were right; I knew that that was exactly where I wanted to be.
I then finally reached the domicile. Having killed the motorcycle’s engine, I took off my helmet and dismounted the vehicle. I looked over the structures with my own two unobstructed eyes. Besides the family house, there was a large horse pen as well as a stable akin in form to a barn – from what I had been told, the ranch had a focus on raising horses. The wood out of which those buildings were built had since decayed and withered; no one cared to do maintanance on it in a good few years. The scene stimulated my imagination, bringing visions of a time when there was life in those parts. As I approached, I noticed a lonely mailbox with a faded red flag; it was inscribed with a surname: McCormick.
I proceeded to enter the perimeter, the shade from the large house providing an escape from the scorching Sourhern sun. The porch’s wooden boards creaked in a concerning manner as I stepped on them; I hesitated, fearing the notion of something breaking. I pushed through and approached the front door, which made way with little resistance, revealing itself to had been left unlocked. The house greeted me with gray dust hanging in the air. It was truly abandoned.
Somewhat intimidated, I continued, inspecting the interior of the building. The majority of furniture had been taken away in the process of moving, however I found a number of non-salvagable elements: the plumbing, electrical connections, and central brick furnace were still there. Looking at the ashes left in the fireplace, I shuddered, realising that, for the first time in a long while, I found myself far away from the rest of society. I focused my attention on my curiosity and took to identifying the layout of the house. The ground level contained the living room, kitchen and dining room, while the first floor hosted two bedrooms: a smaller one and a larger one. From what I knew, they last belonged to my uncle and his parents, respectively. The peculiar atmosphere was getting to me, filling my head with scenes which had possibly happened in that house. Scenes of daily life filled with joy, tears, sweat, or maybe blood.
At last, some of the dust in the air made its way to my nose, causing me to sneeze. It reminded me of my original objective. I left the house and instead searched the land inside the plot. There, I found the object of my intrigue: a lonely grave in the backyard. It was equally rustic – only the gravestone hadn’t decayed like the buildings did. I moved close, wiped the dust off of its surface, and read the matte golden inscryption:
Here Lies
Hank Ferguson McCormick
1846-1874
May He Rest In Peace At Last
The inclusion of the phrase ‘at last’ confirmed my suspicions. That kernel of truth in the story of an U.S Marshall who cheated death and came back for revenge in 1955 popped in my mind. That was what I came to see: whether his lust for blood had been satisfied, whether he had the hate in his soul to come back for a second time. I stood up to retrieve the shovel I had brought from my motorcycle.
Upon coming back to the grave, I took a moment to swallow my spit – prepare for whatever I was to witness upon reaching the buried casket. With that, I displaced the first shovelful of dirt. The exhuming of my ancestor entered its monotone phase, as all I had to do was dig. I turned my mind inward, exercising my imagination; I wanted to predict the state of the body inside. The more it wandered, the deeper the hole became. The sun’s position in the sky shifted from slightly to heavily leaning west; it was very close to approaching sunset when I reached the bottom of the grave. There, I indeed saw an ornate wooden casket. I was surprised to see it locked shut with large, rusted padlocks – I hadn’t managed to imagine that part. Luckily, they each gave up after one precise strike with the edge of the shovel head. Just like that, the contents had been made available to me.
I slowly, gently gripped the lid of the coffin and tried to lift it. Unoiled hinges kept one of the sides touching as I continued the motion until the body laid exposed. I looked at it up and down, barely believing my eyes: Great-Great-Granduncle Hank looked alive. The red and white-furred border collie showed no signs of decomposition. His resting place was similarly pristine, unchanged by time. It was as though he got buried the day before. I looked closely at his chest, half-expecting to see movement, yet he was perfectly still. Leaning over, I caught a hint of the particular smell of embalming oils which had seeped into the deceased’s oufit; he was clad in a brown two-piece suit complimented by a crimson vest and a beige cotton shirt; his cowhide riding boots were still glistening somehow, as though freshly polished; I couldn’t ignore his hat, which was resting on his chest over the heart. I recalled my uncle’s stories about the fabled prototype, the hat that went on to become the classic Stetson headpiece. The late canine cowboy had a mystical aura around him, as though I was looking at an ancient artifact. I found myself in utter disbelief.
An idea suddenly came to me. I leaned in once more and extended my arm, reaching for Great-Great-Granduncle Hank’s mouth with the intent of pulling back his lip. I managed to do so to find that the gums looked healthy and seemed covered in a thin layer of saliva. That discovery took me aback. There was no more doubt in my mind: he had returned.
Abruptly, I was knocked back by a painful impact to the stomach. Upon looking forward again, I saw the border collie stand up and climb out of the coffin. I turned around and hastily climbed up the slope I created over the course of digging open the grave, resurfacing and getting back onto my feet. Behind me, I heard a gentle jingling; as I turned around, the cowboy left the ditch as well, walking slightly hunched with clenched fists.
„You people just don’t respect the dead no more.” He began in a thick local accent, staring me down from under his hat, trying to assert authority over me. „First it were the lovebirds at the graveyard, now I got a different joker botherin’ me. You’re lucky I ain’t got my gun.”
He spat on the ground as a pause.
„The hell do you want from a sleeping dog, boy?”
I didn’t expect him to give me a chance to speak. I had to come up with a persuasive reason for my visit.
„Your great-grandson, Hank Howard...” I began my thought that way to reassure him of my alliance with his family. „...wanted to see whether you’d come back again.”
The cowboy’s expression softened. „My great-grandson?”
„He was wondering whether he could move your grave to a cemetary.”
He took off his hat, further letting down his guard. „And... You’re my great-great-grandson?”
„Great-great-grandnephew,” I corrected him. „Adopted, at that. It’s a long story.”
He closed the distance between us. Despite my fears, I stood still, looking him in his brown eyes.
„What’s your name, boy?” He asked, having seen the details of my body.
„Newmaker.”
„Newmaker, I’ll tell you this right now: I still got them murder urges within. You don’t know the kinda hellfire you’re playin’ with.”
I stood in silence, intentionally defying his words, making him furrow his brow.
„God didn’t want me and the Devil never claimed me, son, you think I’m gonna be gentle now? Y’all ought’a have forgotten this damned place. I’m warnin’ you, I’m nothing but trouble...”
I took a deep breath and asked decisively, hoping to get my point through: „Do you want to see your family or not?”
Silence befell the backyard as he stared at me, pondering the notion. I felt a cool breeze on my body – another respite from the sun’s heat.
Finally, the border collie answered my question: „I do, boy. If you really are who you say you are... Take me to ‘em.”
I sighed in relief before asking: „Are you ready to go?”
He pat himself down, checking his pockets and body. „Yeaup, ready.”
I nodded, then retrieved my shovel and turned around to head back to my motorcycle. Great-Great-Uncle Hank seemed confused at the sight of it.
„The hell is this beast?”
„A motorbike. Two wheels, goes really fast, uses gasoline.”
„Oh, Lord, help me... Can you use that thing for certain?”
„How else do you think I got here? Just hold onto me and we’ll be fine.”
With some hesitation, he sat down with me on the vehicle. I fastened my helmet onto my head and gently put his right hand on my stomach before I made the engine roar again. The border collie growled nervously, then yelped in surprise as we took off. He held onto his hat with his left hand while hugging me tightly.
„W-What is this demonic machine?!” He yelled over the loud purr of the engine after recovering from the initial shock.
„You’ll get used to it! Just... Enjoy the view!”
In the corner of my visor, I saw him looking ahead, past me, to witness the sunset. I also took a moment to appreciate the visage: the fiery ball was slowly darkening, turning from orange to crimson while painting the clouds above magenta; simultaneously, the ground was becoming darker and darker.
„Where’re we goin’?!” Asked Great-Great-Granduncle Hank.
„San Antonio! Your family moved there decades ago!”
„Why?! The ranch’s a perfectly good place! I built it with my own two hands, dammit!”
„Look, times changed, it became expensive. Shit happens-!”
I suddenly felt a light blunt impact on the back of my head. „Language, boy!” The cowboy reprimended me. „Else you’ll end up like me!”
I shook my head to recover and responded calmly: „Fine, fine, just don’t make us crash, please.”
He huffed and continued looking around to distract himself. We started to cruise.
„Does nobody ride horses no more?”
„People do ride horses! For fun!”
„And the rest of y’all use these things?”
„Most people use cars – they’re like carriages, but big, metal, and also run on gasoline.”
He huffed again and allowed a pause. I had a feeling he had even more questions. I turned on the headlights and continued to drive onwards, finally entering a paved road leading to the aforementioned city. Time passed slowly as I remained vigilant of the police – I had a haunting anxiety about being stopped and interrogated about my ancestor. Eventually, a car did pass us; I thought to make the moment a teachable one:
„Now that was a car.”
„I couldn’t see nothing! Just a light in the dark! Nearly burned out my eyes tryin’ to see!”
„That does happen. Just watch out next time.”
He growled. „Didn’t want to see no stinking car anyways...”
Pushing on, I noticed many small lights on the horizon coming together to illuminate the cityscape of San Antonio. The notion of reentering an urban environment provided me a little bit of relief. Great-Great-Granduncle, however, remained wary. His agitation grew as we rode into the suburbs, then headed for the city center. I slowed down and joined the road traffic; he seemed quite overwhelmed by the noise, lights and stench of the busy streets. I empathised with him – a man pushed into the modern world with barely any warning, made to take a leap of faith for someone related only legally. I started to feel remorse for exhuming him, even if there was no guarantee that he would actually awaken. Only then did I realise why we were heading to the city center rather than the suburbs, where my uncle actually lived – I wanted to introduce the cowboy to a safe space where he could make plans in peace. That space was to be the apartment I had rented for the duration of my stay in Texas. With a specific goal in mind, I focused on navigating the urban sprawl. We soon arrived at the tall building containing a large number of apartments similar to my own; I parked my motorcycle at the adjacent parking lot and killed the engine again. I then turned around to check on Great-Great-Granduncle Hank. He looked on edge, anxious – he was about to start loudly growling at the city itself as though it was a chihuahua barking in his ear.
„Hey...” I said, trying to get his attention. „We can spend the night here.”
„Get me away from this hellscape...” He commanded in a low, agitated voice.
I retrieved the keys from the ignition port and dismounted the vehicle. Together, we entered the building and soldiered onto the third floor. There, I approached the door to my apartment and unlocked it. Having introduced the border collie inside, I closed the door behind him and locked it again for safety.
The inside wasn’t very impressive – the apartment I’d rented was a cheap, small one, just enough for one person. It consisted of just three rooms – a kitchen-living room hybrid, a bedroom and a bathroom. I hadn’t a need for any more than that.
I let out a sigh of relief. „Here’s my humble abode,” I announced to the cowboy. „We’re safe here.”
He huffed, but also calmed down notably. „Better than nothin’. Now where’s my family?”
„We’ll visit them first thing in the morning. I don’t wanna bother them after dark.”
He huffs again in discontent. „Alright. What now?”
„You can just... Sit down and relax.”
„I don’t ‘relax’, boy. Don’t need sleep, food or water either. I’m a God damn undead, awoken only to kill.”
„You haven’t killed anyone yet. Maybe if we spend the night together, it can stay that way?”
„You think so?” He crossed his arms, speaking with disbelief. „What can you do?”
„I wanna take a shower first. After that... Maybe we can cuddle?”
He sneered at the notion: „To Hell with that! I’m a grown man, I don’t do cuddles.”
„How about we try, then see how you feel about it?”
He leaned on a nearby wall and looked away, thinking. The marshall shortly agreed begrugingly: „Alright, fine, you damn baby.”
My spirits got slightly lifted by his acceptance. I proceeded to allow myself to take a lukewarm shower and change into my pajamas. I was looking forward to tomorrow, trying to imagine what my uncle’s reaction could be to the myth coming true. Finally, I reemerged from the bathroom, having cleaned myself from the dirt accumulated over the course of that day. Great-Great-Granduncle was still there, patiently waiting; I assumed that he wanted to distance himself mentally from the situation he found himself in.
„Do you want to clean yourself too?” I asked as I approached him.
„No, thank you. I’m not dirty and I don’t sweat. I’ll be alright.”
I headed to the bedroom, looking behind me intermittently to see whether the cowboy actually followed behind. To my pleasant surprise, he did. We entered the bedroom together.
It was a small, condensed chamber with one bed for a person and a half. The sheets remained on it in a slightly messy manner as I hadn’t made my bed after getting up in the morning; to me, it was a non-issue. I sprawled out on it, enjoying the softness of the mattress. As I looked to Great-Great-Granduncle, I saw him taking off his hat, jacket and vest, before he joined me on the bed. I scooted aside, allowing him to sink into the mattress with a grunt followed by a relieved sigh.
„It’s soft, I’ll give you that... Dear Lord, I missed laying in a bed.”
I gently attached my body on his and wrapped my arms around his torso. Despite being undead, he radiated heat as though alive. I gently nuzzled his neck to gauge the softness of his fur, only to find it well-groomed and pleasant to the touch. The border collie felt uneasy at first, but seemed to warm up to the idea – he shortly gathered the courage to pat my head reassuringly. I wanted to take his mind off of the irritating hustle and bustle of the city.
I decided to ask a bold, abstract question: „Where do you want to go after you meet your family?”
He rested his hand on my head, engulfed in thought. It seemed to me that he had no answer ready at all. „I want to try to live again,” he finally said. „God keeps givin’ me chances and I kept wastin’ ‘em... But I can’t no more. I’ll pick my battles better than I did in my first life, and I’ll try not to murder like I did in my second life.” I looked up at him to see his saddened, remorseful expression. „Lord willing, I’ll get to fix the trouble I caused for the McCormick name...”
I found myself moved by his words. I nuzzled his neck again, trying to reassure him. „If there’s anything I can do to help... You can count on me.”
„No, son. It ain’t your trouble. Your soul ain’t tainted like mine... And y’can’t wash my soul clean either; that’s God’s job.”
I felt doubt well up within me, coming from my innate skepticism towards religious faith. However, I found it admirable how the cowboy is willing to redeem himself.
He then posed a question to me: „Why’d you dig me up?”
„I wanted to see if the stories were true,” I replied. „If you didn’t wake up, then we’d just call up the right people to move your grave to a cemetery nearby.”
„So what I’m hearin’ is that you were just curious.”
„That’s the gist of it.”
He shook his head. „You people just don’t respect the dead no more...”
„Can you blame me? These things don’t happen often.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but only huffed in the end. „I guess I can’t.”
„I know this is just... Insane.” I said, trying to empathise, as I climbed up to rub my cheek on his. „But we can help you get used to this new reality. We’ll just take things one step at a time, and... You might get a happy ending, still.”
He sighed. I felt that he wanted to argue, but he was out of energy. „Thanks, son.”
At last, we both found ourselves fully engaged in the cuddle. Great-Great-Granduncle Hank had his arms wrapped tightly around my abdomen while I hugged his head, my legs embracing his chest. I rested my cheek on his combed-back hair; it surprised me just how quickly he agreed to entertain my strange idea for an evening. I allowed myself to revel in his soft border collie fur. I felt my grip on conscioussness falter... Hoping that I hadn’t troubled the cowboy too much, I fell into dreamland, comforted by his almost-fatherly warmth.
The night came and went without a single disturbance. I slowly opened my eyes in the morning after sunrise to discover that my position hadn’t changed – I was still almost smothering Great-Great-Granduncle Hank with my body, my cheek resting on the crown of his head. He seemed to be unconscious, but I recalled him claiming to be unable to sleep...
I raised my body and gently touched his cheek. His eyes opened smoothly and met my gaze.
„Good morning, heheh...” I greeted him sheepishly.
He put his hands behind his head, resting on them with a quiet grunt. „Mornin’, boy.”
„Did you sleep at all?”
„I tried to. Lotsa noises outside – y’all don’t get no peace.”
„You get used to it. I’m hoping it wasn’t too bad?”
„No... I’m alright.”
I slid off him and stretched loudly while he got up. The cowboy instinctively went on to put his vest, jacket and hat on. He touched his holster with an inkling of hope to find his six-shooter there, but it was to no avail. He sighed in frustration – I guessed that he hated being disarmed. I finally got up as well and asked the border collie: „Are you ready to meet your great-grandson?”
„Been waitin’ the whole night,” he responded with a huff.
I continued the morning ritual, proceeding to go to the bathroom to freshen up and then change into the outfit from yesterday. I gathered the items I always carry: my smartphone, wallet, keychain, document holder, all stashed safely in a small satchel resting on my right hip. I turned to Great-Great-Granduncle Hank and announced:
„Time to go.”
He followed behind me closely as we made our way back outside. The daytime has brought with it significantly more traffic and many noises foreign to the Marshall. I noticed him getting uncomfortable again – his ears fell back, his lips retracted to show the sharp fangs hidden behind them. I beckoned him onto my motorbike and used the key to activate the engine, which came to life with its signature roar. The cowboy wasted no time in mounting the vehicle just like me.
With that, we departed for the suburbs of San Antonio, where my uncle lived.
We made more distance from the busy streets of city center, leaving behind the hustle and bustle. Instead, we found ourselves scouring an endless hedge of identical houses, looking for one with the right number.
„Looks a bit like the town I used to go to...” The border collie commented. I couldn’t help but agree.
I suddenly stopped the motorbike. There it was – house number 770; my uncle’s house. I parked the machine in the driveway, behind a large, vintage, red pickup truck.
„This is it,” I announced. „Hank Graham McCormick’s home.”
I looked to him. He seemed oddly nervous, apprehensive. I tried to encourage him by taking the first step towards the front door, which seemed to work, as he followed behind. Finally, we both found ourselves right in front of the entrance like a pair of salesmen. I took a deep breath, preparing to explain this bizarre occurence, then pressed the button which triggered the doorbell. A low, muffled chime rang out.
It only took a few moments for the door to give way. On the other side was none other than my uncle – also a border collie with a similar fur pattern, who was slightly taller and a decade older than Great-Great-Granduncle; he also wore a western outfit consisting of a pink cotton button-up, a pair of dark blue jeans and tall, leather riding boots. A pale yellow neckerchief rested on his upper chest. He put no hat on to see us. Uncle Hank smirked gently upon seeing me and went in for a hug.
„Welcome back, sport,” he greeted me with a notably different accent as he pat me on the back. He then let me go and looked to the other cowboy. His smirk faded.
„...is this who I think it is?”
I stepped in, responding to the strong tension in the air: „It is – but! He’s been really nice so far. We even managed to cuddle! He’s a different person, really, I think he deserves another chance!”
Great-Great-Granduncle took his hat off and held it to his chest, his eyes full of remorse and sorrow. However, Hank Graham McCormick was having none of it – he crossed his arms and furrowed his brow sternly.
„I ain’t risking it,” he declared. „Who knows if he’s not about to get possessed by the Devil and cause another slaughter?”
I looked between the two identical cowboys. A paralysing silence filled the air.
„...sorry, but no.” He shook his head, eyes directed elsewhere, as though full of pain. „I just ain’t risking it.”
The U.S Marshall stepped forward, startling my uncle. He kneeled down in front of him, holding his hand gently, to the shock of both of us, and spoke in a shaky voice:
„Please forgive me. I-I’ll make things right. The McCormicks’ll be good people again, I promise...”
„I forgive you,” he responded. „But I don’t know if God will. I’ll be prayin’, but... The rest is up to you.”
The undead border collie stood back up and put his hat back on. He looked at us both before suddenly turning away and beginning to walk away from the house. I surged forward.
„Where are you going?!” I called out in mild panic. To me, the decision was most irrational.
He stopped and looked back at me before replying: „Forward. Wherever my boots take me. If God wants to see me repent... He’ll take me to where I gotta be.”
I wanted to protest, not believing in the faith-based rhetoric, but I stopped myself. I thought that, perhaps, the kindness he deserved was that of... Trust.
We stared into eachother’s eyes in the standoff for a good five seconds before I finally relented. The best send-off I could master were two most genuine words:
„Good luck.”
He proceeded to tip his hat at me with a thankful, determined expression, before turning away and taking calm, even steps in the direction opposite of ours. He then turned to walk along the empty street.
Wishing him the best in my heart, I wondered just where he could go with nothing but his burial outfit, an empty holster, and a pair of rusted spurs.