Unicorn Western

by Sean Platt

  Ten minutes later, they found themselves standing in front of the town hall, which they wouldn’t have recognized as such if Parson Willick hadn’t told them exactly where it was.

  The town hall had pillars and official-looking architecture, but beyond that, it seemed nothing like a house of government. The building gave off an intimidating odor of decay, and it looked as if it had been burned in a fire that hadn’t managed to destroy a plank of the actual structure. Its facade was black, covered in what appeared to be soot. And, Clint thought, that soot had come from a peculiar sort of non-fire, because the structures to each side — a bank and the courthouse, which Clint used to confirm it was indeed the building Willick had described — were dusty but otherwise untouched by whatever had struck the town hall.

  “This looks promising, for a church,” said Edward. “I’d totally worship here.”

  Clint rubbed his forefinger along a column at the building’s front. His finger came away black, and the lighter hue of the building’s wood grew visible in a streak where the gunslinger had wiped it clean. Clint sniffed it.

  “This is what’s creating the odor we smell,” he said. “It smells burnt, but a fire would have destroyed the building.”

  Edward made a disgusted face. “I think the fire killed a million eggs.”

  “Sulfur,” said Clint.

  “Brimstone,” said a third voice.

  Clint looked up, his hand flying toward his right gun, and saw a tall, gaunt stranger standing in the town hall’s doorway. Clint hadn’t seen or heard him approach, yet he was only fifteen feet off. Clint’s eyes went to Edward and the unicorn gave a silent reply: I didn’t know he was there either. Clint didn’t like to be sneaked up on and hadn’t been often, seeing as doing so was nearly impossible.

  “Brimstone,” the man repeated. “The dark rider’s curse did it, to brand us with a black mark.”

  He was dressed in a long white robe much like Parson Willick’s, though he was unlike Willick in every other way. Willick was short and bald. This man was tall, with a full head of wavy gray hair. Willick was fat, and the man in the doorway rail thin. Willick was young with a rosy, water-fat complexion. This man was older and dried out, like he’d been left in the sun.

  “Parson Jarmusch?” said Clint.

  “Yar,” the man said, then made no further measure of greeting. He simply stood in the doorway, gazing more directly into Clint’s eyes than a gunslinger would normally tolerate from a man who wished to keep breathing. His gaze was an assessing one. It seemed as if he didn’t like Clint and resented his presence, but hadn’t yet reckoned how to wipe him away.

  “We’d like a palaver,” said Clint.

  “Fine,” said Jarmusch, unmoving. Clint could see past him through the open door. The entire entranceway was covered with soot, as was the front of the hall, yet there wasn’t so much as a smudge on Jarmusch’s pristine white robe. Clint wondered how he could possibly move around inside a building so covered in grime without soiling a garment so white.

  “May we come in?” said Clint.

  “Nar. This is a holy place.”

  “You mean ‘Holy c…’” Edward started to say.

  Clint cut him off. “But this is the town hall. It’s a public building, is it not?”

  “It is not,” said Jarmusch. “We’ve not had law in Precipice for decades. The town hall and courthouse have invited the elements for years. When I was cast from the church along with my flock, we were forced to find a new place for our work and our worship. We settled here, where only the faithful may enter.”

  “I’m plenty faithful, Parson,” said Clint.

  “New days require new degrees of faithfulness,” said Jarmusch. He said nothing more, still staring directly at Clint with wide-open eyes before shifting his gaze to Edward.

  “You have fantastic stage presence,” said Edward. “Have you ever considered a career in puppetry?”

  Clint let it go, relieved that the unicorn hadn’t gone for the more obvious joke of offering the parson a tithe, then pooping in the street as his offering.

  “No offense, Parson,” said Clint, “but we’ve heard around town that you’ve been conducting black mass over here. People fear you.”

  “Might they should,” said Jarmusch. “In the old books, Providence was vengeful and full of wrath. My old church — Willick’s now — was soft. We tried things that way for years, and in answer, we watched as Dean Dylan took what he wanted from this town. Tell me, Marshal,” he said, looking at Clint’s twin guns, “what would you do in my shoes? Would you continue to preach pacifism, promising lies, saying Providence would protect the flock if they remained weak? Or would you take up arms and do what had to be done?”

  It was a good question. Clint found himself unable to disagree with the parson’s direction.

  “A dark rider came into town a few weeks back,” Jarmusch continued. “I know you know that. I could feel you behind him before you were separated by a time slip, as sure as I could feel the dark rider himself. He is evil incarnate, and his mount is a wellspring of the darkest magic. This was once a holy place, this town, and there’s something in it that they want. That something has long been lost, but the rider enchanted Dylan and his men, and they now all seek it without knowing why. They will find it, and when they do, it will be the end of days for all of us. So I ask you: am I so troublesome and frightening in my desire to prevent the end, even if I’m willing to do it by any means necessary?”

  Clint chewed his cheek, looking at Edward. “So do it,” he finally said.

  “Do what?”

  “Storm the Rancho Encantato. Do what’s necessary. Take out Dean and his men. You say you want to fight evil, but according to what we’ve heard and seen, all you’ve done is bunker into a black building and keep on with your preaching.”

  “And you’re incredibly creepy,” Edward added.

  Jarmusch, not softening, shook his head. “They’re too many, and they have the dark rider behind them. Even you couldn’t defeat the dark marshal and his unicorn of a different color.”

  It was true. The best Clint and Edward could hope against Cerberus and Kold would be a stalemate, and that was their best-case scenario. But then Clint remembered something: for the time being, Cerberus and Kold were gone from the picture. He saw an opening.

  “The dark rider is out of town, searching an old mine,” he told Jarmusch.

  “There are still too many men.”

  “Not for us,” said Edward.

  Jarmusch seemed to consider. He looked from the gunslinger to the unicorn, thoughtful.

  “You would help our righteous cause? You would help to vanquish evil with your white magic, and protect the object the dark rider seeks?”

  “Of course,” said Clint, his head slightly tilted. “For a price.”

  CHAPTER NINE:

  MOVING PIECES

  After leaving Parson Jarmusch, Clint insisted on detouring by Willick’s church. When they arrived, Clint knocked on the large doors, but no one came to answer. Shrugging, he pulled the yellow envelope Jarmusch had given him from an inside pocket and transferred its contents to the much larger envelope of cash that Dylan had given him. He took enough money from the ponderous stack to buy himself and Edward vittles for a few weeks, tucked the spare cash deep into his bag, and shoved the bulging envelope through a slot beneath the church door for Willick to find later.

  This done — and with stunningly little commentary from Edward on the futility of charity — they retraced their path back to the Rancho Encantato.

  They found Dylan on the front porch, his massive form crammed into a tiny rocking chair. He had a drink by his side as if he had been spending his day in an idyllic paradise sipping lemonsweet. Dylan had removed his gun to squeeze into the chair and was spinning it idly on his finger when Clint arrived on Edward’s back.

  “What color smoke comes from those guns?” said Clint when he saw them.

  “White,” said Dylan, setting his gun on the
chair’s arm. “Is that a serious question?”

  “I’ve not done research on the matter, and was curious,” said Clint. “I seldom see gunsmoke other than my own.” He hopped to the dirt, but didn’t approach.

  “Have you done your job?” said Dylan.

  “Not yet. We must wait for the parson to return from an errand. We’ll be waiting when he does.”

  Dylan stood. He’d been wedged quite tightly into the small chair, so the chair rose with him, only falling back into place on the deck once Dylan was mostly standing. The chair was heavy, and a leg broke when it struck the deck’s planking.

  “His errand?” Dylan said.

  To see what it felt like, Clint unholstered one of his own guns and twirled it on his finger. Despite his dexterity with a pistol, the motion felt clunky and uncomfortable. His guns also didn’t have safeties, and he feared pressure on the trigger might cause the gun to fire. He put it back.

  “We arrived at his little black church to find it empty,” said Clint. “The Parson and his army of fanatics were gone. But don’t worry. They’ll be back. Edward sniffed out their magic trail. He could tell where they went, and when they were likely to return.”

  This was pure fabrication. Edward couldn’t trail people’s intentions like a magic bloodhound, but Dylan and his men didn’t know that. Clint could make up whatever he wanted. When they’d rehearsed earlier, Edward kept petitioning to insert a “boogie boogie” into the conversation to demonstrate how mystical and magical he was, but Clint struck it down, insisting that it was over the top.

  Dylan’s face appeared disturbed. “Where did they go?”

  “It’s nar a problem,” said Clint, attempting to twirl his second gun with his other hand with no better luck. “They’ll be back tomorrow. Edward could read their… intention?” He looked at Edward, who nodded subtly. “… on the sand. And it’s a quick thing that Jarmusch is doing. Boom-boom-boom — almost literally, seeing as their intention involves violence. Nar that we care. The more of ‘em die out there, the fewer we have to kill back here. Maybe the Parson himself will lay killt by sundown. Chop off the head and you kill the body, and all that.”

  “Sands,” Dylan muttered. He turned and pressed keys on a small alloy pad near the ranch entrance. The door opened, and Dylan yelled for someone inside to come out. He turned to Clint and repeated his question: “Where did they go?”

  “An old mine outside of town. He found a foe out there, or something. Edward reads… wrath? … in the sand.”

  “Boogie boogie,” said Edward.

  Clint shot the unicorn a look, then turned back to Dylan. “He doesn’t know the what or the why of the errand, but he does know that there was an awful hurry behind it, and an equal hurry to return.”

  “And when they do, we will be waiting,” said Edward, to put a finer point on the matter.

  Dylan spun himself into a tizzy on the rancho’s long porch, checking and holstering his weapon several times as if by compulsion. One of his men emerged from the house (a man Clint hadn’t seen before), and Dylan shouted for the new man to rally the others. He shouted that they had five minutes to ready themselves, and that any man who failed to get ready in that time would be shot.

  “What’s going on?” said Clint.

  “Copper mine out by the old magic-sifter, right?”

  Clint shrugged.

  Dylan looked furious and panicked. He stabbed a finger into the distance, past the ranch. “That way, dagnit! Is that where he’s going?”

  Edward’s horn glowed. He followed Dylan’s finger, then feigned a magical sort of trance and took his time to reply. Dylan’s eyes remained fixed on the unicorn.

  Finally, his voice heavy with drama, Edward said, “Yar. A copper mine. And I see a magic-sifter that was abandoned before.”

  “SANDS!” Dylan roared.

  “What?” said Clint.

  “Look, all you need to know is that there’s going to be a scuffle. I paid you well, Marshal. Are you a man of your word?”

  “Of course,” said Clint.

  “Then ride. Follow your unicorn’s… sense. Ride fast. If you see the parson or his men, start killing them. No need to be picky over who you shoot.”

  “But they’ll be back tomorrow,” said Clint. Even spreading his naiveté thick, Dylan was too panicked about a potential Kold/Jarmusch dust-up over the Orb to see through Clint’s lie. Men poured from the rancho and streamed toward the barn, pulling horses from stalls already saddled and swinging onto their backs. Dylan ran around rallying them with big circles of his right arm.

  He turned to Clint. “Just ride!” he screamed.

  Clint’s eyes followed Dylan’s finger. Then Edward complied, and began running as fast as he could.

  Once they were out of sight, the unicorn stopped, caught his breath, and said, “Hold onto your hat, Mary.”

  His horn started sparking and popping as if pressed against a spinning grindstone. The world went black, and when the darkness cleared, they were once again in front of the town hall. Edward collapsed. Clint managed to avoid being crushed by his falling bulk, having hopped deftly to the side.

  Jarmusch was on the porch and saw it all happen — the unicorn and gunslinger arriving from nowhere with Edward in a heap. They hadn’t staged the collapse; Edward was simply fried, as always occurred after a folding. But watching the big white unicorn fall had a nice effect on the parson, whose creepy and disinterested expression fell from his face as Clint ran toward him.

  “They’ve found it!” Clint gasped, making long, clumsy strides toward the steps of the town hall, staring up at Jarmusch with what he hoped was a desperate expression. The gunslinger didn’t have much experience in the dramatic arts, so it was possible he might simply appear constipated.

  “Found what?” said the parson.

  “What they’ve been searching for!” Clint yelled up at the man in white. Then, because his story required validation, he ad-libbed something the parson hadn’t mentioned the last time they’d spoken. “I heard them say something about an orb. ‘He’s found the orb,’ Dylan shouted to a group of men as they rode off. We arrived right as the house was going empty. The men were leaping onto horses and storming off —” The gunslinger looked around for his bearings, then pointed. “— in that direction.”

  Jarmusch jumped. It satisfied Clint to see him react after so much posturing.

  “The mine!” Jarmusch blurted. “That’s the direction of the old mine where the dark rider has been searching!” Jarmusch ran into the town hall, then back out. Just as had happened at the rancho, activity swarmed behind him. People began to rise and run inside of what Clint had suspected might be an entirely empty hall. But it wasn’t empty at all. Based on the stirring crowds he could see, Clint figured there might be fifty or more armed people inside.

  As Jarmusch’s followers poured into the street — all of them with sallow, drugged expressions painting their faces — Clint saw that there were both men and women among them. One woman, probably in her seventies, had a giant gray hairdo. She was stooped and held a shotgun, a downright terrifying expression across her wrinkled features.

  “How long ago did they leave?” said Jarmusch.

  “Seconds,” gasped Edward from the dirt, still recovering. “I can travel instantly between spots a certain distance apart, but I pay a price to do so. We just left them.”

  The parson looked off in the direction of the mine, then in the direction of the rancho. His eyes dilated with calculation. The mine was more or less straight out from where they were standing, but Dylan’s men would need to take an angled approach to reach the same spot from the rancho. If both posses left at the same time and rode at the same speed, the group leaving from the town hall would get there first.

  Edward lay motionless in the dirt. Clint stood at the foot of the steps, affecting an air of concern. The parson ran inside and grabbed a gun belt, which he strapped over top of his clergy robe in what had to be the most ridiculous display of gunfighter
ship Clint had ever seen. Still, the pistol in his holster gleamed as if it had been polished to a sheen, had been well-oiled, and had been fired regularly.

  The parson’s dull-eyed followers began to flow around them, finding mounts to ride off into battle. They even looked like churchgoers — some of the women in flowered hats — but all of them carried or wore guns. It was a hard and determined-looking group, unforgiving despite their finery.

  A man in dusty slacks and a pressed shirt brought a brown horse to Jarmusch. The parson mounted and, from the saddle, called to Clint.

  “You will follow?” he said.

  “As soon as my unicorn has recovered,” Clint replied.

  “I need pie,” Edward gasped. Clint looked over. The gunslinger had dropped his pack as he’d leapt from the unicorn’s back, and there had been a slice of turkey pie near the top of the bag. Clint could no longer see the pie. He suspected Edward had eaten it, was already mostly recovered, and was now doing a poor impression of a swooning dramatic actor.

  Jarmusch looked for a moment as if he wasn’t sure whether Clint and Edward were speaking true. But then he spurred his mount and the horse and rider ran off, Jarmusch holding the reins with surprising competence for a church man in his sixties.

  CHAPTER TEN:

  ZAP!

  They found Parson Willick at the church, exactly where he was supposed to be. This time, Clint didn’t have to knock. They were barely at the steps when the doors swung wide and the short, bald preacher greeted them with what Clint suspected was the first genuine smile the man had worn for years.

  “I saw you coming,” he said.

  “And you heard the hooves of Jarmusch’s others as they rode out to the mine?” said Clint.

  “Yar. And I stand ready now to do what I can.”