Josh Jones

Dusty Ford has been hired to round up a monstrous heela that is terrorizing a small town, but persistent wrangling with his addiction is keeping him from doing the job. Between his shameful habit, and the meddling of the town’s mayor and an excitable kid, he has more distractions than he can keep up with. When Dusty has to make a tough choice, he is torn. What's best for the heela, and for himself, may spell disaster for the town folk.

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• The Heela Wrangler

About Josh Jones

Josh Jones was born at the witching hour on Hallowe’en in 1973. He caught the reading bug at an early age, when his mom convinced him to pick out a book instead of a toy during a fateful trip to the grocery store. It was a choose your own adventure book about being an interplanetary spy, and it blew this small town kid’s mind. He learned that there were vast worlds inside the pages of the smallest books, and he spent the rest of his childhood being the weird kid who hid in the back bedroom at family gatherings, reading his newest fantasy novel.His favorite authors in those days were J. R. R. Tolkein, C. S. Lewis, Lloyd Alexander, and Terry Brooks. Just your average, exciting epic fantasy for this young lad! Now that he's all grown up, he enjoys commiserating with the poor souls who live and die in much grimmer worlds. His character driven works are largely influenced by Joe Abercrombie, George R. R. Martin, Robin Hobb, Larry McMurtry, Pierce Brown, and Stephen King.His characters wished they lived in the light-hearted imagination of his youth, but some things just can't be helped.Josh travels full-time in an RV with his wife, Lynn, and his dog, Arya. They can be found in Durango, Colorado in the summer, southern Arizona in the winter, and traveling the Four Corners states during the seasons between.

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The Heela Wrangler

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Dusty hadn’t much of an appetite, but he did agree it was past time for Mr. Merchan to get back to town. He needed time to think, alone. Needed more than that, and he squeezed his satchel, aching to reach inside. At the same time, he found himself intrigued by the antics of this heela. Destroying orchards was strange enough, but a red not eating his kills was stranger yet. Dusty had never seen one eat just a part of anything. You throw a goat in a red’s pen at chow time, every bit of that goat is gone next morning. Dusty didn’t know what to make of it, but he reckoned he wouldn’t learn much more from this man.
“I will meet the governor in due time. I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Merchan, and your grandson’s.”
“But the bounty negotiations, Mr. Ford, and the dinner-”
“Mr. Merchan, I’m here on army business, and they like things done their certain way. I will report to the governor after I’ve had my own look around, but there will be no negotiation, as the bounty is already settled.” Dusty turned back toward the beach, as if he were taking another long look at it, hoping that would end the conversation. He felt light-headed, and a little twitchy. He resisted the urge to scratch at the crook of his arm.
“It’s best not to keep the governor waiting, Mr. Ford. All I can do is recommend you reconsider. Come along now, Quinton.”
“But--“ Quin protested.
“No arguments, now. We’ve dallied long enough as it is, and I don’t want to hear from your aunt about unfinished chores.”
Dusty glanced over his shoulder to watch them follow the path. Soon as they entered the forest, he swayed and dropped onto the log Merchan had been sitting on. He started to sweat, so he peeled off his jacket, and then put it right back on again when he took to shivering. He could think of nothing else but the little bundle buried in the bottom of his poke. He fumbled it open and started to reach for it, but fished out his flask instead. Took a long pull from it. The whiskey burned his throat, and the fire of it somewhat settled his dizziness, but didn’t improve his mood. Liquor didn’t do the trick lately. Nothing really worked for him anymore except for that little bundle. He wanted a jab, badly. Needed one. Hadn’t had a taste of it since yesterday.
He’d been trying to cut back on using bloodthorn for some time now. He could make it a couple days when he had to, and had even gone a fortnight without earlier in the year, when he couldn’t get his hands on a vial. Worst days of his life. Worst since that day on the ranch, anyhow. Now he had gotten to the point where he couldn’t do without anymore. A little taste in the morning, a red jab at night. Biggest problem was he couldn’t figure out what he hated more. Have a jab at night, and wake up the next morning with the shakes and a terrible need for more. Skip a jab, and he could hardly sleep. When he did finally nod off those nights, he would wake up feeling worked, like he needed to just keep on sleeping straight through for the rest of the week. And worst still about the nights without bloodthorn was waking up from dreams of pawing through coals.
He was plain tired of wrangling with his own self, about if he should or shouldn’t have a jab. Why not just stick it in his arm morning and night, keep that fog going until he just faded away? But then, that was a lot of work, wasn’t it? Just dying at a turtle’s pace. Why take so long to do the job, when it would be easiest just to wrap it all up, once and for all? Drink up a whole vial, or a neat cut with his knife in the right place, or hell, simply take a step off the edge he was sitting near right now. Dark thoughts as these always made him reach for his little bundle the fastest.
Instead, Dusty drank his whiskey down. He only had a couple jabs left. Three maybe, if he was careful. Hadn’t seen a single bloodthorn bush in these parts, and had yet to entertain the notion of what he was going to do when he finally did run out. He dropped the empty flask into his poke, reaching further in to grasp the bloodthorn kit that was bundled up in burlap. He held it tight, just for a second, just to remind himself it wasn’t gone yet.
At least today he had the job in front of him. Work is the best cure for grief, that’s what Old Levi had told him. He’d helped Dusty get a job with the army, as a field veterinarian, after Dusty told him that he meant to leave the ranch. He had hated his boss for his advice, as if he knew anything of grief. The only thing Old Levi had lost that day was his damned house, for which he had been recompensed. There was no cure for Dusty’s grief, far as he figured. Just distractions.
He stood himself up and took another look at the beach below. He meant to make quick work of wrangling up this heela, get paid, and get the hell out of this damp neck of the woods. And then get somewhere he could lay his hands on a fresh vial. And if this heela did need putting down, he’d follow army procedure and wait for his accompaniment to do that job. He’d be damned if he’d participate in some trophy hunt for this damned governor.
The path to the beach was steep and slippery. Dusty stumbled down it in his whiskey haze, somehow managing to keep his feet. The tide was low, and waves were foaming a ways off shore. Sheets of glassy water occasionally got pushed up the beach, making him retreat up to the hinterlands to avoid getting his boots soaked. He got to the stretch that the kid had pointed out earlier. If there had been any tracks here, they had been scrubbed away by the tidewaters.
Beyond the far end of the beach was a harbor. A modest dock was packed with fishing boats that bobbed gently in the water. He filled his water skin from the river that fed into this estuary, and took a long drink, cooling his whiskey mouth. He still couldn’t get over how easy it was to come by water up in these parts. Couldn’t walk a mile without finding a creek or stream to wet your whistle. There was once a time when he would’ve set up camp by a river like this, linger for a spell, pull fish out of it all day long. But he’d lost his fishing rod just a few days before the fire, and had never gotten another one. Just didn’t feel right enjoying a nice day by the river any more. Hurt to even think about. But, he had a notion the heela might enjoy a river like this one. The red had likely found a nice pool somewhere upstream. Something with steep sides, maybe some rocks to hide out in when he was sleeping.
Dusty pushed into the bushes, brushing aside ferns and shrubs, skirting the occasional dense grove of young hardwoods. Soft moss covered pretty much everything, from the rocks on the ground to the trunks of trees. It even dangled like green ropes from the high canopies of spruce, hemlock, and fir. The dense forest was every shade of green and brown, and it crowded him. It was as beautiful as it was suffocating.
The flat riverbank soon gave way to the sloping sides of a deep valley, and Dusty found the going slow and tough. It wasn’t long before he heard the tumble of a waterfall. He headed upslope to avoid getting boxed in, and found a ledge that overlooked a pool of blue water. The falls were splashing on a jumble of boulders, kicking up gentle waves that shoaled onto a pebbled shore.
Dusty froze. The heela was sprawled right there in the middle of it all, half sunk into the pool of water. His hindquarters were stretched out on the little beach, thick tail flattening a hedge of ferns. His forelegs and head were submerged, and all that poked out were black horns and the tip of his snout. He truly was a monster, just like the kid had said. One of the biggest bull-lizards he had ever seen, old enough for his scaly hide to have molted into a red blaze that seemed to brighten the box canyon, like a campfire in a cave.

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Dusty lowered himself into a crouch, slowly. He waited for a long spell. Neither he nor the red moved. He waited some more, and watched. After some time the heela shifted his rear, affording Dusty a better look at his far haunch, where he thought he might spy the old boy’s ranch brand. A bull-lizard of this size had to be clutched out of an older ranch, he was too old to be from one of the newer norther ranches, that much Dusty was certain of. He produced a modest spyglass from his poke, extended it to full length, and trained it on the heela’s hind end.
And there it was, just as he reckoned. He saw a horizontal line with a half of a circle sitting on top of it. Three small lines jutted up from the half circle, and above all of that floated two diagonal lines that came together in a peak. They were markings he recognized, and he called them out under his breath, “Half Diamond Sunrise.” It was the brand of Sunrise Ranch, one that bred stock in the Mesoli tradition. One of the last big ranches that went belly up when the northers started buying everything and running its competition out of business. What Dusty had here was a fine specimen of a Mesoli red, not some norther nag. The damned bull looked to have seen a mess of battles and a mess of years. He was big and old, and he was weathered.
Dusty studied him some more, from tail to snout. His upper back was worn smooth from years of being saddled. He was all covered up in ugly scars. They looked to have been doctored right, which meant he’d had a good vet looking after him. Sword slashes striped his rear haunch, and it looked like the nib of his tail had been cut clean off. Gunshot scars peppered his body here and there, and a lumpy swell puckered from his front flank, probably from a spear that had poked him straight on. Dusty reckoned the poor bastard who did the poking had got a mouthful of pointy teeth poking him right back. No place more dangerous than within snapping range of a pissed off red.
This bull-lizard had seen his fair share of fighting, and was likely trained well to have lasted so long. Good Mesoli stock like this boy hardly ever go wild. They are generally easy to heel, and no matter how south a battle might go, a Mesoli red will usually come back home to his handlers, assuming he didn’t get himself killed protecting a fallen rider. So why was this old boy wandering about, causing such a ruckus? Dusty just couldn’t suss it.
He took a pull from his water skin and waited some more. His head was starting to feel soft as the whiskey wore off. He wished he had more. He felt that itch in his arm, a needy tickle up his spine. He’d been hoping to see the red shift around some more, get a better feel for the fella before making his acquaintance, but the bull-lizard hadn’t moved hardly at all since Dusty had started watching. He rubbed his thumbs across the inside of his fingers, his scarred palms rasping like sandpaper, trying to think, trying to ignore the painful need slinking around inside him.
Maybe that was it. Maybe the heela had some pain of his own, something in his jaw maybe, a wound or a bad tooth. Could explain his prolonged soaking in the cool water, and the delicate eating of Fern Chaver’s goats. He nodded to himself and stowed his spyglass. Whatever it was, he needed to take some sort of action, to keep his mind off his little bundle. He’d doctored up plenty of bull-lizards in his day, and had no worry about one needing some dentistry. He’d go ahead down there and say hello, see what was ailing the old red.
He backtracked his way downslope and worked slowly upstream until he could see the heela’s rear haunch. They were on opposite sides of the stream, still a good couple hundred paces away from each other. Dusty was coming up right behind him, and stopped short to think about his options. He knew better than to sneak up on any large animal, well trained or not. He might could sidle on around the pool opposite where the heela was laid up, and hope the heela would see him, but it wouldn’t do to trap himself in the canyon, in case things went south. He figured he just might as well introduce himself.
“Hoya ai! Hoya ai hai!” He called. Now, Dusty Ford was generally a quiet man, but when it came to dealing with large stock, he could pitch his voice like a field general in battle. The words echoed around the narrow gorge, and the heela gave a sharp jerk. A scaly head rose slowly out of the pool, an eye as black as charred wood trained straight at the wrangler. Dusty waited a beat, and took some slow steps closer. The old bull just kept laying there, half a head out of the water, watching. He started hissing, spraying water from his snout as bubbles roiled under that black eye. Dusty stuck his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle, clapped his hands a few times, and called out again.
“Selu nu! Selu nu! Rigard amin!” And with a blowout of water, the heela reared his head, jumped to his feet, and spun around to face off with Dusty, quick as lightning. He wagged his head back and forth, jaw clenched shut, hiss rising, rising, becoming a raspy moan. He paced forward a few steps, away from his peaceful pool. The rusted remnants of a bridle were jangling loosely around his jaw.
“Selu! Establo sindo!” Dusty raised both arms high above his head and lowered them to his waist, up and down, up and down. The heela went down into a half crouch, looking like he might almost heel. If he could just get the red to sit and stay, he’d be well on his way to getting this thing done.
“Establo sindo! Establo sindo!” He repeated, but the heela only watched him, stubbornly digging his claws into the ground.
“Okay then, mister. We can do it the hard way,” said Dusty, and reached for the lasso that hung from his belt. Didn’t look like this ornery one was ready to heel just yet, so he reckoned he would help out with some rope work. He started spinning the lasso low to the ground and took a step closer, figuring he could nab this bull by the horns pretty easily.
The heela gave his head a jingling shake. A low keen rumbled up from deep down in the old boy’s chest, and he leaped out of his half-crouch, let out a gurgling scream, baring rows of teeth that looked like rusty barbed wire, yellow foam frothing from his maw like a dog gone rabid. A rotten stench hit Dusty square in the face, and he got a good long look inside the red’s mouth. Saw what was ailing this poor bull, and figured he might have just landed himself in a heap of trouble. He knew better than to turn his back on the heela, so he raised both arms high, tried to look a lot bigger than his lean frame had any business being, and back-pedaled as fast he could. The heela sucked in a wet breath of air.
“Nai nai nai!” Dusty hollered, pretty sure it wouldn’t do a lick of good, and decided turning his back on the heela might not be such a bad idea after all. But just as he was about to turn tail and run, he tripped over a tree root and fell ass backwards into the creek, just as the heela hucked a wad of spit right where he had been standing. It splattered against a tree behind him.
Dusty floundered and flailed in the water, trying to regain his footing. The red was huffing and puffing and shaking his scaly head, flinging globs of yellow all around. He belted out another scream that turned into a retching cough, which finished in a sad little squeak. Dusty came crawling up the bank, slipping and sliding around in the mud. He managed to stand up, slipped in the mud, and cracked his forehead on the very root that had tripped him.
“Nai narg,” he tried, frantically wiping mud and blood from his eyes. He heard splashing as the heela crossed the stream over to his side, and he rolled over, crawled up the bank again, struggled to his feet.
The red was hissing and snapping, and his mouth was overflowing with foam. He coughed again, and retched, splattering yellow onto the mud that Dusty had churned up, turning the water a sickly green color. He squared off on the wrangler, and heaved another soggy breath. Dusty covered his face with both arms, as if that would protect him from a point blank shot of the heela’s venom.
“Selu nu! Selu nu! Rigard amin!” The call was high and clear, and echoed around the gorge. The red froze, Dusty lowered his arms, and they both cocked their heads, trying to figure out exactly where it came from. The heela spun around toward the waterfall. His tail cracked around like a whip, and came within an inch of taking Dusty’s head clean off. He staggered backwards like a drunk losing a bar fight, glad that in some fray somewhere a soldier had cut off the tip of the bull-lizard’s tail.
“Selu nu! Selu nu! Rigard amin,” came the call again, followed by a shrill whistle. Dusty looked up to the top of the falls and spied young Quinton Jack, hands cupped around his mouth, saving this fool wrangler’s life.

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