by Scott Connor
Hugh frowned. Every sign on the main road stated this town’s name.
‘Hopetown, sir.’
The man strode into the stable. A scar ran the length of his right cheek, the wound angry in the reddened light.
Outside, a row of horses fanned across the road, mounted by hunched men in identical yellow slickers.
Hugh rubbed his hands as much-needed custom arrived late in the day. He’d be awake half the night caring for this many horses and might need to use the corral outside for the friskier ones.
The scarred man strode two paces closer to Hugh.
‘How far to Dust Creek?’
As a wave of foul breath washed over Hugh’s face, his eyes watered. He bit his lip, determined to give this customer courtesy, even if he turned his stomach.
‘Seven or eight miles out east. Although you can go north, if you know the turning past this old shack.’
‘Thank you kindly, horse man.’
The scarred man nodded and turned from Hugh.
Hugh gulped as the custom faded as soon as it had arrived.
‘But there’s no need to go.’
The scarred man stopped in the doorway and looked into the reddened sky.
‘Get there easily before dark.’
‘Yeah, but no one goes to Dust Creek any more.’
The scarred man swirled round and flashed his wide, white eyes. He spat on the ground.
‘We are.’
‘True, but I’d take your business there another day.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘Hardly anyone lives in Dust Creek, not since the lumber business came to Hopetown.’
With his brow knotted, the scarred man scratched his chin, then smiled.
Another man emerged from the shadows to stand in the stable doorway, his shining white face displayed first, his clothes as black as night.
‘What’s the delay, Cody?’ this man asked.
‘Mason, this horse man says Dust Creek is a ghost town. We must’ve heard wrong.’
Hugh rubbed his hands. ‘Not a ghost town, yet. A saloon is there for anyone who gets lost, and that’s it. Depends what your business there is.’
The black-clad man, Mason, swaggered into the stable. Three feet from Hugh he swayed to a halt and examined him from head to toe with his clear green eyes.
He pulled his low-crowned Stetson over his face so that only his gleaming white teeth were visible.
‘What do you care about our business in Dust Creek?’ he muttered.
Hugh gulped. These men were making him wish he’d had an early night, but the prospect of business just outweighed the fear that rose from deep in his gut.
‘Nothing, sir, nothing at all, but Dust Creek’s no use to anyone who’s been on the trail. Hopetown has everything a traveling man could want.’
Mason batted his sleeves, although they lacked the dust that covered everyone who rode through Hopetown.
‘This here area is nothing like I remember it.’
‘Like I say, Dust Creek is going downhill. In fact, it’s slipped down the hill and fell into the creek. If you catch my meaning.’
Mason lifted his hat and brushed fingers through his lacquered hair.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Sorry,’ Hugh mumbled. ‘I just wanted to help you.’
Mason flashed Hugh a white smile. ‘And get custom too, I guess.’
For the first time, Hugh heard his thudding heartbeat. He rubbed his hands and forced a smile.
‘You got me there, but I mean it. You won’t find much in Dust Creek.’ Hugh looked at Mason and took a deep breath. ‘And if you tell me what your business there is, I might be able to help you.’
Mason widened his eyes. In an instant his gloved hand clamped on Hugh’s throat.
Hugh threw both hands to the hand at his neck and tried to open Mason’s grip, but the fingers were of iron. They squeezed, closing his windpipe. Blank, green eyes cocked to one side glared at him.
‘You aren’t interested in our business, are you?’
Hugh fought for breath, but his throat wouldn’t work. Motes of light danced around him. A buzzing built in his ears. Hugh thumped his hands on Mason’s arms, but he gripped tighter.
Then Mason snapped his hand open and the pressure disappeared.
Hugh tumbled back against a stall and dragged in long racking breaths. The stable lightened.
Mason still had his head cocked to one side.
‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ he said. ‘Are you still interested in our business?’
Hugh gulped and rubbed his neck.
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, gasping. ‘If you catch my meaning.’
‘I do. Glad we have an understanding.’ Mason wiped his hand on his jacket and turned to Cody. ‘Come on, Cody. We have business.’
Both men strode from the stable and mounted their horses.
As the troop of riders filed past, Hugh paced into the doorway. Aside from Mason each rider was dust-coated, their cold eyes peering out from under their hats.
When Hugh counted ten horses, his heart thudded as he calculated the money he could have made tonight. When he’d counted twenty, Hugh was frowning.
At thirty, Hugh decided that today wasn’t his lucky day.
Chapter Two
With Whiskey Bob stumbling along behind him, Adam raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the dust cloud that engulfed him. From the cloud, hoofs clattered as a file of horses rushed by.
The lead rider was clad in black. His following riders wore yellow slickers, which the wind pressed flat against their bodies.
At least thirty riders hurtled by. It was rare for so many to visit Dust Creek.
Adam glanced over his shoulder.
With his shoulders hunched, Whiskey Bob faced the direction from which the riders had come, not the direction to which they were heading. His red-lined eyes darted back and forth in the weathered slab of grime, matted hair and unhealed cuts and bruises that passed for his face.
‘Come on,’ Adam said. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘What?’
Whiskey Bob tottered two steps, then fell backwards against Adam.
Adam grabbed Whiskey Bob’s shoulders. He pointed at the dust cloud that closed on Dust Creek and pushed Whiskey Bob to a standing stoop.
‘The men have passed. We can go now.’
With his mouth slack, Whiskey Bob tottered.
‘What?’
‘We can get whiskey at Patrick’s,’ Adam said, settling for an answer Whiskey Bob would understand.
For a second Whiskey Bob’s red-lined eyes gleamed. He pushed Adam from him and marched in a snaking line towards Dust Creek.
Adam trotted after Whiskey Bob. He slipped to his left-hand side to avoid walking downwind of him.
Although he often had to wake Whiskey Bob with a bucket of water, he’d yet to clean him this summer. He usually waited until his scratching became too insistent, then disinfected him in a tub of carbolic and burnt his bedding. He needed to do this twice during the year.
The second time approached fast.
Situated a mile from Dust Creek, their rough, half-sod, half-timber shack sufficed for his and Whiskey Bob’s needs. As Whiskey Bob couldn’t stay upright on a horse, they’d sold their horses long ago but recently, the distance was becoming hard for Whiskey Bob to walk.
Before too long Whiskey Bob wouldn’t be able to stagger to the saloon, then Adam guessed that he’d give up the remnants of his life. For the last few years his nickname was all that had kept him alive.
Adam hunched and scuffed his feet through the dunes of dust on the rutted trail. The dust permeated everything these days – cracks in the walls, fissures in the road, and every body crease.
Aside from caring for Whiskey Bob, Adam reckoned his only function was to watch as Dust Creek disappeared under a dune of dust.
Bare fields flanked them. Once, when the townsfolk had first cleared away the trees, farmers had filled the fields with wheat and barley, but now, no one farme
d them. Scrubby vegetation fought to fill the space, but was losing to the dry, swirling dust.
When they walked into Dust Creek, Whiskey Bob wheezed dangerously. They’d already stopped three times and the grating noise was worse than his snoring after their drinking bouts.
Adam stood on Dust Creek’s only road, searching for the riders. He shielded his eyes from the dust that swirled down the main road and glanced at Patrick’s saloon and hardware store. The riders hadn’t tied their horses to the rotting rail outside.
On the opposite side of the road stood a disintegrated lumber store and an equally disintegrated stable. From the open stable doors muted conversation drifted outside.
Many years ago, Adam ran the stable, but now he left the doors open for anyone to use. Rain butts behind the stable provided water sometimes. Horses could feed from the plains, but only by waiting for hours for them to fill their bellies on the barren scrubland.
Adam couldn’t remember the last time anyone bothered when Hopetown and proper facilities were close.
These three buildings were the extent of Dust Creek. Each building had long since fallen into disrepair, their crumbling remains left to fall down, rather than anyone taking the effort of stealing the wood or pulling them down.
Whiskey Bob staggered on to the saloon boardwalk.
Adam trotted to pass him. He needed to reach the bar first. For the last year Patrick had watered their whiskey, and Whiskey Bob had survived for longer than he probably would have done on full strength whiskey.
The further he kept Whiskey Bob from the bar, the more easily he could maintain the deception.
Inside the saloon, Adam shook his head and stomped his feet, adding another pile of dust to the drift that surrounded the door.
‘Howdy, Adam,’ Patrick said. With a clean towel, he dried glasses. His ruddy face beamed with health. ‘It’s a fine day.’
‘Mighty fine indeed,’ Adam said, smiling at Patrick’s newly discovered sunny disposition and the clean towel.
‘Whiskey,’ Whiskey Bob said as he staggered to the corner of the bar to stand by his stool.
‘Whiskey it is, Whiskey Bob,’ Patrick said. ‘You sit and Adam will bring it over.’
Adam batted a layer of sawdust off the bar and flopped on Patrick’s other barstool. He threw two dollars on to the bar.
The money disappeared into Patrick’s podgy grip.
Adam didn’t worry about how much he was in debt to Patrick. Whenever the whiskey stopped coming, he paid more.
He didn’t worry how Patrick survived with so little custom, but he guessed that his money was the main contributor.
‘What’s new, Patrick?’ he asked.
Patrick grinned. ‘Nothing at all, but as I say, today is a mighty fine day. Don’t even mind about the dust.’
‘You reckon business might take an upturn?’
‘Sure do.’ Patrick nodded over Adam’s shoulder. ‘And round about now.’
Adam turned to Patrick’s moldering batwings.
A man stood in the doorway, his battered yellow slicker swaying in the wind. The reddening sun broke through the dust a moment to cast a long ruddy shadow across the grime-filled saloon.
Behind him were further men, their shapes indistinct in a severe dust cloud that swirled and arced down the road.
The man pushed open the doors and strode inside. The doors squeaked and protested as the man swaggered to a halt. With his eyes narrowed to slits, he glanced around the saloon.
Adam had seen his type ride through before. Hopetown was full of them.
The man strode to the rear of the saloon and glanced into Patrick’s small lumber workshop at the back.
Adam bit back a smile. The back way was the only exit, but where he planned to go if he needed to leave in a hurry, Adam didn’t know. He’d only find foul smelling bushes out there.
The man strode to the batwings and nodded. A file of men strode in, their yellow slickers grimed with age and hard riding.
‘Howdy, gentlemen,’ Patrick said. ‘What’ll you be having? Do you want a whiskey or perhaps a beer? It’ll wash the dust clean away faster than you can order.’
Patrick rummaged beneath the bar and produced a bottle of full strength whiskey and old beer bottles.
Adam didn’t know that Patrick stocked anything but whiskey.
‘Whiskey,’ a voice said from the back of the group.
The men parted to reveal a man clad in black. Patterned brocade marked each leg. His short coat swung back to reveal a black waistcoat.
If this man had ridden as hard as the other men had, Adam couldn’t tell. He seemed to have stepped off a barber’s stool.
The man fingered his black necktie. He brushed a damp lock of hair beneath his dark Stetson and strode to the bar. As he walked he threw out each leg with a slight kick, as if he clicked non-existent spurs.
Patrick bustled his towel along the dusty bar.
‘That’s – let me see now – ten, twelve, no fifteen whiskeys for you and your men. My oh my, and more are outside I believe. Bring everyone inside. I don’t often meet so many new friends. My name’s Patrick. I am at your service, yes sir. I’ll get you anything you want.’
The black-clad man leaned on a rare clean length of bar.
‘Mason Black, and I want whiskey.’
From under the bar Patrick dragged out two glasses, clanking them together in his haste to serve. For the first time in years each glass sparkled clean. Patrick poured generous measures into each glass.
‘So Black by name and black clothes. Is that black by nature too?’
Mason grabbed his glass and sipped his whiskey. His green eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Maybe.’
‘Whiskey,’ Whiskey Bob whined.
Adam backed down the bar and laid a hand on Whiskey Bob’s shoulder. He gripped it tight.
‘So, are you passing through to Hopetown?’ Patrick asked. ‘Or maybe you’re traveling to Abilene? Many people head there.’
Mason knocked back his head and poured his whiskey down his throat in a continuous motion.
‘What do you know about people heading to Abilene?’ he muttered.
‘Nothing, nothing. Just making conversation.’
Patrick refilled Mason’s whiskey glass to the brim.
‘So,’ Mason said, considering Patrick with a measured gaze, ‘no one passed through here heading to Abilene recently?’
Patrick filled another glass. ‘Maybe recently.’
With a resounding slap, Mason slammed his hand on Patrick’s arm.
‘How recently, bartender?’
Patrick gulped and glanced at his arm. ‘Two, maybe three months.’
Mason laughed. ‘Get your whiskey, Cody.’
He lifted his hand from Patrick’s arm. He wiped his fingers on his jacket and strode to the back of the saloon. With a short sigh, he batted dust from the chair, using the back of his hand, then sat. He rocked back on two chair legs and leaned against the wall.
Cody took his whiskey. He wiped his stubbled chin and forehead, cleaning away a layer of grime. A long scar ran down his cheek.
‘You ask too many questions, drink man,’ he murmured.
As a wave of bad breath surged from Cody’s mouth, Adam’s stomach churned even ten feet away down the bar.
Patrick just smiled, but he’d coped with Whiskey Bob for many a year.
‘Just making friendly conversation.’
‘Whiskey, where me whiskey?’ Whiskey Bob whined.
Adam nudged Whiskey Bob in the stomach, as Cody sniffed with his nose in the air.
‘What’s that smell? Something must’ve died round here.’
Whiskey Bob stumbled a pace closer to Cody.
‘Whiskey, give me whiskey.’
Cody revealed two long rows of yellow teeth.
As another wave of bad breath wafted over him, Adam cringed. The smell masked even Whiskey Bob’s ripe odor.
Cody slammed his glass on the bar, sending a cloud of
dust into the air. He grinned.
‘You heard the smell man. He wants whiskey. We should collect our drinks and move aside.’
Cody beckoned the men to the bar, and they filed past him and took their own glasses.
Adam sighed. Perhaps Cody wouldn’t drag fun out of Whiskey Bob. Precious little of that was available.
Once the men had their whiskeys, Patrick rummaged under the bar and dragged out a bottle of Whiskey Bob’s watered whiskey. Patrick poured and held out a glass of muddy liquid.
‘Here you are, Whiskey Bob.’
‘Whoa,’ Cody shouted. ‘What’s this, then? Regulars get better drink.’
With lightning speed, Cody dragged the glass from Patrick’s grip. Whiskey Bob’s palsied lunge closed on air.
‘No, he likes something different,’ Patrick said, his eyes wide. ‘This isn’t what it seems.’
Cody lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed the whiskey.
‘Smells like whiskey.’ Cody gulped a mouthful, then spat the whiskey on the floor. ‘But it sure don’t taste like anything I know.’
‘Whiskey.’
‘You want whiskey, do you, smell man?’
Whiskey Bob nodded, his red-lined eyes bright.
Cody grabbed his own whiskey from the bar and threw it in Whiskey Bob’s face.
Rivulets of cleanliness streamed down Whiskey Bob’s cheeks to reveal the sallow skin beneath. Whiskey Bob wiped his tongue in a wide circle and sponged the liquid that he could reach.
Cody grinned. ‘You’ve had your fill, smell man. Now get out. You’re turning my stomach.’
Cody swung his foot in a long kick. His boot connected with Whiskey Bob’s backside and sent him in a straight dive to the floor.
As Whiskey Bob landed like a sack of beans, Adam flinched, but these days his brother never hurt himself when he fell.
Cody threw back his head and laughed. The other men echoed the laugh.
Whiskey Bob rolled to his knees, then tottered to his feet.
‘Whiskey.’
‘You’ve had it. Now go. I smell my horse all day. Don’t want to smell you too.’
With his hands outstretched, Whiskey Bob staggered towards Cody, a gap-toothed grin on his grizzled face.
‘Give me whiskey, now.’
Cody kicked Whiskey Bob’s shins, bundling him to the floor again.
