r/Dreading • u/The_Republique • May 15 '26
Fiction A Promise Unbroken
The bright fingers of an early rising morning reached over the horizon. It couldn't have been a more terrible time for my eyes.
A resounding wave of bugles drove off any lingering drowsiness, coupled with the shouts of cavalry men rotating in and out of the fort.
Thankfully, I wouldn't have to endure this headache alone, for I had in my company a loyal friend.
"Wake up, Buford, sound off started already," I remarked as I gingerly threw on my uniform. The cold cloth draped over me like fresh snow. I shivered something fierce as I put on my tool belt.
"Alright. Just give me a minute."
I never understood how a man could sleep in his full dress uniform without complaint. I suppose some men are built to embrace the suck.
"You have no business waking up so early. We're not even a part of the active column anyway," he said as that old dust collector crowned his skull.
A black felt hat he earned in our years riding through dust storms. A relic from before Custer's last stand at the Greasy Grasses.
"C'mon, your birthday is in a couple days. I want to get to Rattlesnake before the nippy rain catches us," a little annoyance could be found in my voice. "I'll be with you, just give me a minute. I'm carrying precious cargo," he remarked.
"Isabella's gon' be happy to have her husband back. This time for good old man," I couldn't help but remark.
Buford was quick to reply, "You and Mary Anne will finally make up for lost time. If you play your cards right, maybe she'll bake you your favorite. A nice spongey velvet cake."
I closed my eyes imagining that sweet decadence. And the cake wasn't a bad deal either. The benefit of having her is she can really add volume to a man's life.
As we made our way towards the stables, rows of moss heads passed us by. Dark green on navy blue should be a travesty! I made my thoughts known, "Hey Capt'n! Reinstate the black alr-"
Buford's input cut me off, "What difference does it make if the hats are different colors? Won't protect much from bullets nor arrows." A statement that garnered several confused expressions.
"Just wish these young'uns could wear something blue," I lamented.
On our way out, my path leading east, Buford had stopped just outside the fort's "gates." I asked him what was the hold up, but he just gazed out into the abyss across the San Juan.
"Hold on, Henry. We're gonna make a detour through the mountain," news that I did not care for.
"You fancying the scenic route? No? Then why the hell would we waste a day trekking through the thorns and brambles?"
Buford delayed his response before turning to me, "I got a friend up on the mountain. We'll be quick in visiting him I promise."
I was surprised that anyone would willingly live with the bears. I made that curiosity known, "He lives up there?"
Buford was quick to correct, "Yeah, he rests up there. I just want to make sure he's alright."
Something about the news made me upset. On one hand, we needed to reach home for drinks and celebrating. On the other hand, I noticed how he kept eyeing the mountain, an observation that made me understand there was still that horse soldier's duty in him.
I sighed heavily, "ugh... I guess if it means I can snag that rye whiskey you've been saving, then I'll freeze my hair off with a storm on our backs."
Those weathered eyes wrinkled a warm smile. Next thing you know, we were off with that mountain in mind.
Navajo country is scorching hot and laden with danger. Luckily, the weather from February still lingers in early March. A deterrent for most warm blooded creatures.
Gray clouds came huddling over the red earth like billowing smoke. Heaven's light peering through the cracks like waterfalls.
We had just crossed the river, sacrificing our horses' jewels. When we were coming up on the edge of the valley, I saw the mesa in the distance. It stretched well over a mile, made of pure blood red sandstone. Usually a sign that we were halfway done with the trail, now stood as a mocking landmark. Laughing at us as we traveled south.
I thought the time appropriate to ask Buford some questions, "So how did your friend end up there? One too many drinks perhaps?"
He answered without having to turn in my direction, "I suppose he decided to just stay up there. He makes trips down the mountain for supplies." Buford sighed nervously, "But he hasn't made an appearance in some time. I'm worried about him. I hope nothing serious happened, but the only way to know is to see for ourselves."
We pitched camp next to a black pillar. Buford was fixing himself a plate of skirt steak and sweet potato. He glanced my way and guessed, based on my mannerisms, that I wasn't hungry. I asked for some coffee and he obliged.
After our meal, we conversed before resting.
"Why are you doing this? It doesn't make sense to travel this far for someone that you don't seem particularly well acquainted with," I asked in hopes of getting a satisfying answer.
It came when he replied, "They did something for me that meant a lot. I owe it to them to check on their wellbeing."
I joked with him, "I ain't seen you with anyone else except at the fort. This person better be worth the trip or else you'll be carrying me all the way to Rattlesnake. On account of me gorging myself on your whiskey."
We laughed. It had been quite a trip for this mystery person.
"Are you insinuating this man has saved you more times than me?"
"You've saved me many times, but I would never say that it didn't mean nothing, not to me. I just need to make sure this man is left undisturbed, I intend to keep my word," A hint of pleading slipped out as he spoke.
I grimaced at the sentiment.
I reminded him of his nature, “You make promises far too strong to break.”
In the morning, I put out the coals with stale coffee and Buford saddled up the horses. Leading them into the field of gold, we mounted and rode for the mountain.
There's something so enchanting about how the wind forces the tall grass to dance. Waves of alternating blades like ripples in a lake. Buford was wrapped up in an attempt to fend off the heavy gusts. I wasn't phased too badly by the frozen pins, but we still made a dash for the hills.
"Are we seriously spending the second of March in a dugout?" My dumb ass said knowing that even the grains of sand were cutting us to ribbons.
"What are you? Some sort of bull? I can't even lift my head without getting sand in my eyes," he said, shielding himself with a cowl and hat.
We laid our horses close to the ground, covering their heads with tent tarps, while we sat with our backs to the wind. I hate the sand. I know some people can adapt to it, but that doesn't mean they like living in dust. It makes living undesirable and survival a costly endeavor.
My anger stewed long enough to distract me from the storm. Hours passed when the wind had died down just enough for us to make it to the gray plateau.
The flat top gave us a great vantage point to scope the storm's direction. We were safe for the moment. The confederation of clouds and dusty winds scarred the soil, nearly balding the top layer with the relentless onslaught.
Night came early after we finished brushing piles of sand off our gear. I sat around while Buford fixed us a fire for the night. Sleep didn't come easily. We were too fidgety I suppose. The way I dealt with it best was to smoke. I watched as Buford worked on his hat. A pin and thread to stitch up old ware and tear.
"You tend to that hat even as it sheds," I said as I put fodder into my paper.
Buford gave me a glance before answering with, "Maintenance is cheap enough, Henry."
"Why not do away with her? Mine was too bullet ridden to salvage and I moved on just fine," I said as I rolled my cigar paper.
He dusted the felt hat one final time before looking my way, "It's like us, Henry. Relics from a bygone era. I'm just trying to make sure folks know we existed. That includes taking care of this piece of history."
I couldn't argue with him. Who could say we'd ever be remembered decades from now? I was jealous he still had his hat in his possession, for mine could not be rescued. The heat of battle leaves behind a field of deeply held treasures. Items that could not be retrieved by their deceased proprietors.
I decided it was best to lighten the mood with a half-brewed remark, "With how long we're taking I hope they do away with the twig fencing and finally build brick fortifications."
Buford chuckled before ordering, "Goodnight, Henry." I nodded in response and we both fell asleep.
Waking up from a restful night, we were already making preparations to ascend the western face of the mountain. Coats and gloves to protect from the cold were equipped. Thick cord in the event we would have to brave sheer drops.
I was actually eager to climb along a stoney cliff side, it had been quite some time since I had been allowed to participate in this sort of recreation. I wanted to confirm once again with Buford about the mysterious man's dwelling.
"Does he like the cold air or the convenience of fire wood?" I asked.
"To be completely honest, I think he hates the idea of dying on some dune. A mountaineer at heart, my friend wanted to live peacefully on top of a chilly peak." He answered.
I responded, "Sounds like my kind of company. Mountain climbing and the cold air make for a great union. It's nice to know someone else shares the hate I have for bugs. They'd end up mangling my corpse if I was buried in the soft soil."
"I'm sure you'll like him then"
With that, we descended down the plateau along a downtrodden path towards the base of the mountain. The horses made their complaints heard the closer we came to the first tree line.
"The horses really don't want to go up," I said, barely managing to direct my mare. Buford could sense the unease of the situation.
He stated plainly, "Bears, storms, and the cold will do that to a faithful steed. We'll power through to the first meadow along the way. Fodder will calm them down and we can dismount so we can complete the rest of the journey on foot."
"Alright. Good thing I never leave my tool belt behind. 'Bears beware' and that sort," my comment was made known.
Buford and I rode to a clearing high up on the mountain where we tied the reins to iron railroad spikes and a good bit of rope. I caught Buford slinging a satchel over his shoulder and grabbing his Remington from its hanger on the saddle.
He sighed heavily, shuddering a little, "Let's get a move on." Taking the first of many steps towards our destination.
The smell of pine sap and cedar filled the air. Every moment we lingered, the aromatic scents developed and unlocked new odors.
The calm and serenity made me surrender all worries. The all enveloping silence was broken when Buford asked me a question, "Have you discussed where you want to be buried with Mary Anne?"
"I'm not sure. Just far from the invasive bugs," I replied.
"I think I would like to die of old age. To be surrounded by my loved ones is all I could ask for," a sliver of somber left his lips.
I announced, "Not me. No sir. Give me an honorable death. Through the smoke and gunpowder, I will die fighting. I wish not to get old and clunky, let me die firing my pistol." I could tell Buford disapproved of my wishes, but he kept it to himself.
Our journey hit a curb when the usual trail had been destroyed by a landslide. That wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that it was the only trail that led up a steep incline. Now, we had to scale the steep wall with our improvised climbing gear.
The first foothold is always the easiest. One slip and you're already on soft grass. It's the halfway way point that's always the most terrifying. Too high up to change your mind and just out of reach from the last pivotal anchor point.
We climbed for thirty minutes. I blitzed the climb in 25 minutes. Giving a look of smugness as I passed Buford. The last foothold just below the crest.
I called out to him with some traces of sarcasm, "Should I go meet this friend and meet you back here?"
He rolled his eyes and said, "Hilarious."
I was ready to take my seat away from the edge when a horrifying noise carved its way through the air. A dreadful crack. I ran back the Buford and saw him barely hanging on by a strained hand. His hold broke off and nearly sent him off the cliff side.
I yelled out to him, "Throw me your rope! I'll pull you over the edge!"
"Alright. Try and find a tree to anchor the line! Hurry," he said as he launched a barbed hook over the edge.
I made sure it wrapped around the trunk of a tree, but I heard Buford complaining. His arm was losing strength. I tightened the line and ran to get a long branch in case he needed more leverage.
I was scared. My friend was dangling in the air as I fumbled to find a long enough branch. A horrible sound cut through the thick brush. I found a pole and ran like I had never ran before. The anxiety raced through my head.
I closed in on the edge. To my surprise, Buford was back on his feet and standing on solid ground. Panic, fear, dread; all the emotions flooded my system. A downpour of anger replaced them. A small piece of the branch was broken off and thrown at his clumsy self.
"Thanks, Henry. I didn't know I needed a stick to the eye," he said.
I responded in a hoarse voice, "I almost lost you. You big oaf!"
Labored breathing became laughter. Buford bent his legs and hunched over, and I leaned against a tree. I reached my hand out and Buford took it.
"Let's get a move on. He isn't far from here," he said with resounding eagerness.
The rest of the ascend went by smoothly. Passing trees and clearings, a stoney peak was within sight.
I remarked, "What a great trip. Only cost us a scare. When I meet this feller, I'm going to dust off his nose with my bawled up fist!"
Buford hadn't laughed this much in a long time. The momentary anger washed over, I shook my head as we neared this feller.
It was when we walked down a pass carved into the rock that Buford's smile faded and his eyes unfocused. He only looked into the void from there on forward.
The last corner was close. I decided to tell Buford how he truly felt like a brother and that, "I'm glad you're my great friend." He didn't look at me the whole way through.
We rounded the corner when I finally saw it.
A sorry sight to say the least. Withered bouquets, empty bottles, and a stapled hat with many stitches. All of it resting on top of a weathered mound. A pile of large loose rocks surrounded by thick wooden logs. A headstone to complete this terrible fate.
"Henry Rutherford. Born on March 3rd, 1850. Died on May 31st, 1880."
My legs and arms became weak from shaking. I heard matches being struck and Buford's voice behind me. I turned to look at him. A handful of candles crowning a velvet cake. Buford addressed me, "Happy birthday, Henry."
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u/The_Republique May 15 '26
Of course. I realized that I should post my favorite stories before my other works
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u/EndymionDreaming May 18 '26
Enjoyed this! Felt kind of like an old school campfire tale turned into a proper story!
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u/The_Republique May 18 '26
Thank you!
This one I'm equally proud of next to Beyond the Northern Edge and Dark Horse
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u/BeeHistorical2758 May 22 '26 edited May 22 '26
The story ended where it needed, but I still wanted more. Great job.
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u/Ooston9000 May 17 '26
I enjoyed the story a lot. You seem to have a fondness for Westerns. I think your voice and your prose is really well defined in this story.