Harlon and the Potmers by Daniel Cloyd

Harlon and the Potmers by Daniel Cloyd

Harlon busied himself by stacking the firewood, striking flint to kindling until the flames licked up, spitting and crackling in the cold night air. He settled onto a pile of furs, his ragged coat barely keeping the chill out. His clothes weren’t his—they were stolen, and the blood on them wasn’t his either. The Potmer brothers had been gone a while. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. They were cruel bastards, but in this stretch of wild country, there were worse things than bad company. Harlon had grown up around criminals, but the thieves and killers he knew had some kind of code. These two didn’t. Stick, the lanky older brother, had driven his bayonet into the belly of a sleeping wagonman without so much as a blink. Fat, the younger, rounder one, had done worse—skewering the poor man’s kid like a pig on a spit. Harlon had puked after that. The brothers thought that was funny. He hadn’t cracked a joke around them since. They weren’t the type to take one well.

Stick had a bit of a brain, but it was all mean, and Fat was dumber than a sack of wet grain with twice the temper. The only thing they were good for was their guns. Dishonorable discharge or not, they could shoot like hell. Hunting should’ve been easy—except they didn’t like clean kills. They’d cripple a deer just to watch it bleed.

The sound of boots crunching on loose stone pulled him from his thoughts. They were back, their voices sharp and slurred with anger. Stick was the first to step into the firelight, his face twisted in a scowl. Fat trailed behind him, red-faced and panting.

“Would’a kicked yer sorry ass off the cliff if ya hadn’t got that deadwood,” Stick muttered, yanking off his coat and throwing it down.

“Lazy fuckin’ shit,” Fat wheezed. “And a gutless fuck. Pukin’ like a goddamn sow the other night.”

Harlon smirked and stretched out his legs. “Ain’t denyin’ it. Just payin’ my respects. Ain’t every day a man sees a babe gutted like a Sunday hog.”

Fat let out a snorting laugh, but Stick just shot Harlon a look. He was the type to always be sizing a man up, figuring how much he could take before he snapped.

Harlon glanced at their empty hands. “Well, shit, boys. Y’all come back empty? Don’t tell me some big bad rabbit ran ya off.”

Fat’s lip curled. “Wouldn’t you like to know, fat boy?”

Before Harlon could get a word in, Stick smacked his brother in the gut, making his rolls jiggle.

“Yer the fat boy! Let that big juicy fuckin’ thing get away—how the hell d’ya do that?”

Fat’s face went redder than a fresh gut wound. “I can shoot, ya twiggy fuck! Least I don’t shake like a bitch when I pull the trigger!”

Stick barked a laugh. “Oh yeah? Betcha can’t shoot for shit. Let’s see who can!”

Before Harlon could move, Stick grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet like he weighed nothin’. His stomach lurched as Stick shoved an apple into his hands.

“Put that on yer goddamn head,” Stick ordered, stepping back and drawing his pistol.

Harlon raised a brow. “Aw, hell, Stick. If ya wanted me dead, all ya had to do was ask. No need to dress it up all fancy.”

“Shut up and do it.”

Sighing, Harlon set the apple on his bald head. “If ya miss, I’m hauntin’ you and mama. Gonna whisper sweet things in yer ear while ya sleep.”

Stick didn’t react, but Fat wheezed out a chuckle.

The gunshot cracked the air. Harlon flinched. Something wet splattered against his forehead. When he opened his eyes, the apple was gone, blown apart into a sticky mess.

“Bet yer fat ass can’t do that,” Stick sneered, twirling the pistol.

Fat scowled, then lunged, tackling his brother to the ground. The pistol flew from Stick’s hand, clattering against the rocks. The two rolled in the dirt, swinging fists and cursing each other.

Harlon exhaled slow, rubbing his temple as the Potmers fumed, both still too riled up from their scuffle to think straight. Stick wiped the blood from his lip, that ugly grin still curling his face, while Fat cracked his knuckles, his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge.

“We got them goddamn Tezos to worry about,” Stick muttered, spitting into the fire. “They’s the reason we ain’t got no game.”

Fat’s face darkened. “Those bastards ran us off our land like we’s nothin’! Ain’t got no right!”

Harlon sat up, careful to keep his expression light. Inside, though, his gut twisted. Hot-headed, armed, and looking for a fight. Ain’t a worse combination in the world.

“Our land, huh?” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Y’all buy it legal, or just figure claimin’ it with a gun makes it yours?”

Stick shot him a glare, and Fat’s fingers curled into fists. Harlon could feel the shift, that invisible line of patience wearing thin. His mouth had a bad habit of digging his grave, and right now wasn’t the time.

He raised his hands, palms open, like he was cooling things down. “Now, now, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ against claimin’ a thing with a gun. Hell, half the folks in Palisada got their land the same way.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I just figure y’all got done in by numbers, is all.”

That soothed Stick a little, but Fat still looked like he wanted to punch something—preferably Harlon.

“If this lazy sack’a shit came with us, we’d’a had a chance!” Fat spat. “Three to eight’s better than two to eight!”

Harlon sighed through his nose, making sure he didn’t roll his eyes. Yeah, ‘cause me standin’ there with my rifle woulda scared ‘em off. But he knew better than to let that thought slip past his lips.

Instead, he grinned, shaking his head. “Hell, boys, the way y’all carry on, I’d wager ya got every state trooper in the Great States after you already. Figure the Tezos did the law a favor runnin’ you off.”

The fire cracked. Stick’s grin twitched, and Fat’s nostrils flared like a spooked hog.

“The fuck you say?” Fat snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Harlon chuckled easy, shifting just enough to put himself a little farther from them. “C’mon now, don’t tell me y’all ain’t thought of it. A couple’a killers, deserters, and bastards with not a speck’a sense between ya? Hell, I bet the state troopers whisper y’all’s names to their kids at night to keep ‘em from sneakin’ out after dark.”

Stick let out a low chuckle, but his eyes stayed sharp. He was weighing Harlon, figuring out if he was making fun of them or just shootin’ the breeze.

Fat, on the other hand, wasn’t taking it so well. He looked about two seconds from swinging.

Harlon saw it coming and shifted again, keeping his tone easy. “I mean, think about it—y’all that good at killin’, that good at shootin’, and still got run off?” He shook his head, whistling low. “Must’a been one hell of a group. Ain’t shame in it. Just means you live to get even, right?”

Fat’s glare flickered, and his fists loosened slightly. Stick seemed more amused now, like he’d been waiting to hear those words.

“Ain’t nothin’ for the law to find if we kill them Tezos first,” Stick murmured, turning his gun over in his hands.

Fat grinned, liking the sound of that. “Damn right. We find them, we gut them. String ‘em up for every other shit-stain in these woods to see.”

Harlon forced a smirk, though his stomach churned. He kept his face steady, but his mind was already working on a way out.

Harlon grabbed his musket from his horse. The smooth ebony stock was familiar, but damn near worthless in his hands. He had used it plenty in robberies—pressing it to backs, waving it around to make folks compliant. But firing one? That was different. His aim was piss-poor, and he knew it.

They rode through the rugged backcountry of Palisada, the land stretching wide and wild. Hills rolled like great, sleeping beasts, and gullies cut through the dirt like scars from old wars. The mesquites twisted and gnarled, their branches like skeletal fingers. The night air smelled of dust and pine.

They entered The Bleeding Hills, named for its rust-colored earth and the blood that had soaked into it over years of conflict. This was where the Potmers had been hunting before the Tezos ran them off, and now, they were dead-set on payback.

Stick lit a lantern, its flickering glow barely cutting through the thick dark. They followed footprints south until Stick suddenly cursed.

“Shit. They must’ve packed up.” His grip tightened on his musket.

Harlon exhaled, hoping this would be the end of it. “Well, boys, seems like they’s gone. Best we head back and—”

He regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

Both brothers turned to him, eyes colder than a gun barrel at dawn. Fat’s beady little eyes looked ready to pop from his thick skull, and Stick’s grin had vanished completely.

Before Harlon could backpedal, Fat suddenly jabbed a thick finger forward. “Smoke.”

A thin plume drifted above the treetops in the distance.

Stick muttered, his voice edged with excitement. “That’s them.”

They rode toward the homestead, the trail sloping into a quiet clearing. The place was modest—one wooden house with a stone chimney, a few sheds, and a fenced-off pen for livestock. Wisps of smoke curled from the chimney, and the warm, orange glow of a lantern flickered through a window.

Inside, voices murmured in an unintelligible tongue—deep and steady. The sound of men relaxed after a long day.

Harlon adjusted his grip on his musket. He had already decided—when the shooting started, he’d ride the hell out of here. He didn’t much care for the Tezos, but he sure as hell wasn’t risking his neck over some Potmer grudge.

Harlon felt the wind rip his cap away as he yanked the reins and spurred his horse forward, heart hammering. The cold air slapped against his exposed scalp, but he didn’t dare slow down.

Behind him, the night exploded into chaos—cursing, gunfire, shouting. He didn’t look back. He just rode.

The hills and twisted mesquites blurred past, the rough terrain jolting through his bones as he clung to the saddle. He pushed the horse harder, faster, the beast’s labored breaths matching his own.

Only when the gunfire faded to nothing did he dare slow down.

Sweat slicked his back despite the cold, and his limbs ached from the rough ride. He pulled the horse into a copse of trees, dismounting with shaky legs. Leaning against a thick oak, he gulped down the crisp night air, grinning despite himself.

I did it. I’m free of those crazy bastards.

The Potmers were done for. Either the Tezos cut them down, or they’d die running. It didn’t matter.

The Palisada River ain’t but a mile or two from here.

His plan was simple—steal a boat, row downriver, disappear into Yorkford. That was it. That was freedom.

His chest pumped with adrenaline, and his limbs felt light as he forced himself to move. He gathered sticks, scraping together firewood, setting up a small camp beneath the trees.

Once the flames flickered to life, licking hungrily at the dry kindling, he sank onto his stolen coat.

The night stretched silent. Too silent.

No gunfire. No screams.

Just eerie stillness.

He swallowed. How bad did the Tezos tear those bastards up?

He had heard the stories—Tezos of Old cutting the tongues out of Palisadians to stop their screaming as their heart was ripped out and sacrificed—but he didn’t know how much was true.

Maybe I should have checked. Maybe I should’ve—

Hoofbeats.

Loud. Fast.

Then—a wet groan.

Harlon’s stomach turned to ice. He whipped his head around, dread pooling in his gut.

Through the firelight, the Potmer Brothers rode toward him, their faces twisted in bloodied, feral rage.

Stick’s wild eyes burned with fury, his musket aimed dead at Harlon’s head. Fat sat hunched in his saddle, his breath ragged, an axe clutched tight in his meaty hands.

And behind them, strapped to their horses, two Tezos were barely alive—their legs missing, their ghost limbs wagging gruesomely with every jolt.

“You left us!” Stick roared, his voice hoarse with fury. “Goddamn traitor! You fucking left us!”

Harlon’s mouth went dry. His legs shook as he forced himself to stand, brush off the dirt, act casual.

“I’m a shit aim—I knew y’all could handle it!” he said, forcing a chuckle.

Stick’s face twisted. “Bullshit! You betrayed us!”

Fat’s grip on the axe tightened until his knuckles went white.

Harlon felt panic claw up his throat.

“Aw hell, what do y’all want me to do?” he blurted, his voice gaining a thin, brittle confidence.

Stick’s lip curled. “I want you to die.”

Harlon barely had time to open his mouth for a wordless scream before the shot hit him—

It cracked behind his eyes—white, hot, blinding pain.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Daniel Cloyd 2025