by Scott Connor
‘Don’t,’ Adam whispered. ‘He’s harmless.’
‘Now what do we have here?’ Cody turned to Adam, grinning. He looked Adam up and down, his eyes cold. He cracked his knuckles. ‘I reckon this is the smell man’s friend.’
Chapter Three
Inside the swaying coach, Marshal Lincoln Hawk stretched his long legs and arched his back. The effort didn’t help. He’d been sitting for too long.
‘Like the mission yet, Frank?’ he asked.
Deputy Frank Taylor struck a match on the sole of his boot and set the flickering ember to his seventh cheroot of the day. With his free hand, he massaged his sleek, black hair.
‘Reckon we’ll have more fun with this mission than an Apache squaw with a new tipi.’
Lincoln winced. He glanced at the carpetbag sitting on the opposite seat.
Two weeks ago, Marshal Conrad had finally tracked down and killed the corrupt lawman Marshal Curt Polanski. He’d recovered this carpetbag from Curt.
As the shooting occurred within Sheriff Harold Steadman’s jurisdiction, Lincoln had expected him to give the bag to Steadman, but instead, he told Lincoln to deliver it to Abilene so that the proper authorities could examine the contents.
To avoid another puff of smoke from Frank, Lincoln leaned from the window. The refreshing chill wind rushed through his hair.
‘How much further, Dave?’ he shouted.
‘Five miles to Dust Creek,’ Dave hollered.
As Lincoln swung his head into the coach, Frank puffed out another cloud of smoke.
‘Hopetown was the obvious place to stop for the night,’ Frank said. ‘I still don’t see why you want us to stop in Dust Creek.’
Lincoln snorted and flopped on his seat.
‘I don’t want to stop there, but our orders are to avoid trouble.’
Yet again the carpetbag drew Lincoln’s gaze. Something about it hinted at an old half-forgotten memory.
He shrugged and closed his eyes.
Adam forced a wide smile, trying to look harmless.
‘We’re leaving,’ Adam said and paced towards Whiskey Bob, who floundered on the floor from the second kick.
‘Don’t turn your back on me, smell man’s friend,’ Cody muttered.
Adam winced. In a fair fight, he fancied his chances, but a sea of grimed faces set over battered slickers surrounded Cody.
‘Hey! Come on,’ Patrick said. ‘We’re all friends here. Let’s have a whiskey and a chat. Where did you say you were going? Abilene? I hear it’s a mighty fine place.’
Adam sighed and silently thanked Patrick. He shuffled back through the dirt to stand two paces closer to the door.
‘Dust Creek is fine, drink man,’ Cody said.
‘It is. Some say Hopetown was lucky to get the big lumber contract. If this place had been closer to the creek, we could have been as grand, but I say Dust Creek is all right the way it is.’
Cody slammed his empty glass on the bar, sending a wave of dust into the air.
‘Drink man, you talk too much.’
‘That I do, but I run a friendly saloon.’
As Adam edged back another pace, Cody slammed his hands on his hips. He rolled his head to the side and smirked at the surrounding men, then turned to Adam.
‘That’s as maybe,’ he said. ‘But I say your friend smells like a mule. What do you say to that?’
Adam snorted. ‘I say you’re wrong.’
Cody narrowed his eyes to slits. His yellow grin broke his face.
‘Oh?’
For the right number of seconds, Adam glared at Cody. Then he smiled.
‘He smells like a dead mule.’
All the men laughed, one even slapped Adam on the back.
Cody’s scar screwed up as he winced. ‘You calling me a liar?’
‘Nope. You just haven’t smelt him as long as I have.’
Cody widened his yellow grin. Foul breath seeped towards Adam.
‘And I don’t want to.’
Adam nodded. ‘All right. We’ll go. Let you drink in comfort.’
Adam grabbed Whiskey Bob. He hauled him to his knees and dragged him scrabbling on hands and feet. His body ploughed a furrow of dirt in a sticky trail to the door.
‘Whiskey, want whiskey,’ Whiskey Bob wailed.
‘Later, Whiskey Bob, later, much later.’
‘Wait!’ Mason said from his tipped-back chair. He pushed from the wall. His chair clattered to the floor.
‘It’s all right,’ Adam mumbled, staring at Mason’s polished boots. ‘We were leaving to give you some peace.’
Mason stood and swaggered to Whiskey Bob. He wrinkled his nose as he extended a long arm to hold Whiskey Bob’s chin.
‘Bob, Bob, Bob. You say?’
‘Bob, Whiskey Bob,’ Whiskey Bob said, his rheumy eyes rolling.
‘Why do I recognize you?’
‘This is Whiskey Bob,’ Adam said, his heart pounding. ‘He’s harmless and he’s leaving.’
Mason shrugged. ‘Whiskey Bob, tell me how I know you.’
Mason dragged Whiskey Bob’s head back and forth, glaring down into his red-lined eyes.
Adam sighed. It had been years since he had last worried that someone might recognize him. But for once, Whiskey Bob’s liquidated brain would help him.
Mason turned and looked at Adam.
‘Who is he?’ Mason asked. ‘He’s not always been Whiskey Bob.’
‘He’s always been that,’ Adam said, trying to keep his voice calm as his guts somersaulted. ‘He’s the town drunkard.’
Mason threw Whiskey Bob back to the floor and wiped his hand on the table. He adjusted his necktie, a smile playing on his lips.
‘You will tell me.’
With his feet set wide, Adam provided what he hoped was an honest stare.
‘There’s nothing to tell. We should go.’
Mason swirled round. ‘Tell me, bartender. Who is this piece of filth?’
Patrick picked up his towel. ‘Like Adam says, he’s the town drunkard. No one interesting.’
‘That so? What’s his surname?’
Patrick swept his towel along the bar. ‘He doesn’t have one. Well, not one he can remember.’
‘Everyone has a surname.’ Mason swirled to Adam. ‘Tell me yours, Whiskey Bob’s brother.’
Adam gulped. ‘I’m not his brother.’
‘I think you are.’ With a slow lick of his lips, Mason glanced at Cody. ‘Throw me your gunbelt.’
From his place by the bar, Cody peeled off his gunbelt and threw it to him.
Mason grabbed the flying belt from the air. He hefted it a moment, then tossed it to the floor at Adam’s feet.
The belt clattered before Adam, but he didn’t move for it. He’d never fired a gun in his life.
‘I don’t know what he’s done in the past.’
‘Don’t care about that. Take the gun, or I’ll kill you, right now.’
Adam sighed at the inevitability of this confrontation. He bent and picked up the belt. He let it dangle from an outstretched hand.
‘I know nothing.’
‘Put on the belt.’
Adam fumbled the belt around his hips and rubbed a shaking hand over his damp forehead.
‘He’s lived here for some time, but I don’t know who he is. We should go.’
As Mason stared at Adam, the setting sun’s rays shrouded his green eyes in redness.
‘You are going nowhere until you answer my question – who is this creature?’
Adam glanced at Whiskey Bob, who staggered to his feet and stood with his legs splayed out and his head hung. A festoon of dribble dangled from his slack mouth. Adam took a deep breath.
‘He’s a drunkard. I look after him. That’s it.’
‘There’s more. Tell me who he is, or I kill the bartender.’
Cody grabbed Patrick’s collar and half-pulled him over the bar. Patrick screamed, his ruddy face reddening further.
‘Do it, Mason. Do it,’ Cody
gibbered.
Mason drew his gun. He held a shining, long-barreled weapon unlike any Adam had seen – not that he was an expert. Mason weighed the glinting weapon in the palm of his hand.
‘So, what’s it to be? Tell me, or see someone die.’
‘I think he lived near here before I looked after him. I’m sure you’ve never met him.’
Mason grinned. Before Adam realized what he’d done, Mason twitched his hand and a gunshot echoed round the saloon. The smell of gunpowder wafted over Adam, as Patrick’s lifeless body clattered on to the bar.
Adam’s stomach turned to ice. He’d known Patrick for years. He was the nearest he had to a friend.
‘Great shot, Mason,’ Cody said. ‘Right between the eyes. Do him the same.’
Mason turned to Adam. ‘So, shall I do you the same?’
‘Please . . .’ Adam murmured.
Mason smiled. ‘If you tell me who Whiskey Bob is, you can go. Otherwise, go for your gun.’
The ice in Adam’s stomach spread into his legs, a creeping numbness threatening to engulf him.
‘I can’t. I’ve never fired a gun.’
‘I suggest you learn. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a chance.’ Mason twirled his gunbelt round his waist and holstered his gun on his left hip. ‘I’m right handed, so the gun’s sitting all wrong. This isn’t easy to draw, so you have a chance, if you know how to use it.’
Adam sighed. Mason could be blindfolded and have his hands tied behind his back, and he’d still win this duel. Ice filled Adam’s chest, his breathing ragged and damp.
‘I don’t know who he is.’
Mason smirked. ‘Tell me.’
An acrid smell filled Adam’s nostrils as Whiskey Bob swayed over a spreading pool of foul smelling urine.
‘For God’s sake look at him,’ Adam said, his hands shaking, his numb fingers clammy and aching. ‘He’s not worth killing me for.’
Mason narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘Last chance.’
Adam tried to pace backward, but his legs ignored him.
‘I can’t.’
Mason smiled, with his right hand poised across his chest.
‘Go on. Die like a man.’
Mentally Adam rehearsed the action of drawing and firing his gun. Then he glanced at the back door.
Mason feinted to look over his shoulder.
Adam forced his arm to move, the joints creaking as he moved in an unfamiliar action. In a smooth motion he forced his damp fingers around the stock, but as he lifted the gun, it plummeted from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Mason snarled his upper lip. ‘You’re right. You don’t know how to fire a gun.’
Adam shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Mason whirled his hand and his fancy gun came to hand.
‘That’s how you draw.’ Mason grinned. ‘This is how you fire.’
Gunfire sounded and an explosion of hot pain ripped into Adam’s right leg. He slumped to the floor, clutching his leg, warmth spreading between his fingers.
‘I don’t know anything,’ Adam whimpered. He grabbed his knee. His leg was on fire.
‘This is also how you fire.’
Gunfire exploded again and more fire burned through Adam’s hip.
‘Don’t know . . .’
‘Your last chance. Tell me who he is, or I show you how to kill.’
Adam sprawled on the floor and glanced at Whiskey Bob, hoping he’d do something.
Whiskey Bob’s eyes roved in wild circles. His lips opened and closed, mouthing one word.
‘Whiskey.’
Adam shook his head and looked down the barrel of Mason’s gun.
Chapter Four
Using his shirt corner Deputy Frank Taylor polished his gun barrel, then threw his feet on to the opposite seat of the swaying coach.
‘Ever been to Dust Creek, Lincoln?’ he asked.
‘Yup.’ Lincoln rubbed his chin. ‘Not much to the place.’
‘Why did you go to Dust Creek before?’
Lincoln frowned. Every town conjured memories. Some were good and some were bad, but Dust Creek was one place he avoided thinking about.
His only visit had been on his first assignment as a marshal, fifteen years ago.
The assignment was simple enough. The town marshal had ignored a protection racket with which an organized gang terrorized Dust Creek.
In a wave of rightful vengeance Lincoln’s men rode through Dust Creek and when they’d finished, every outlaw was either dead or roped and dragged to Abilene.
The mission was a success, except for the marshal. He turned in his gun and claimed innocence of everything that had happened.
Although Lincoln had arrested him, the evidence he needed had disappeared. Lincoln knew the marshal’s guilt, but that counted for nothing without proof, and he had to wait another fifteen years before another lawman provided the justice Dust Creek’s townsfolk deserved.
Lincoln sighed. ‘I removed the corrupt Marshal Curt Polanski.’
Lincoln glanced through the window. The sun hung above the horizon, the reddened orb beating down the last of its heat on the stubby plains. Broken wheels and old rotted coaches outside a rough, sod-laden shack passed by.
Lincoln leaned from the window. Grit-filled wind battered his face. They approached a huddle of derelict buildings.
‘Where are we staying tonight?’ Frank asked, leaning from the other window. ‘This place is deader than a coyote with a broken leg.’
‘Nothing fancy. Doubt you’ll get the latest bathing facilities here.’
Frank sniffed and slumped back in the coach.
‘Dust Creek,’ Dave shouted. He thumped on the coach roof as the coach stopped.
Lincoln threw open the door and grabbed his Winchester. He slung his carpetbag over his shoulder and stepped down to the rutted road. He turned his face from a dust cloud that blasted down the road.
Frank paced down and flattened his hat to his head.
‘Can see why they called this place Dust Creek.’
Lincoln noted the rotted exterior of a warehouse, where inside, piles of broken wood festered in rough heaps.
‘Try Termite Creek, Frank.’
Fifty yards down the rutted sea of swirling dust stood another rotting building patched with rough wood. The building was only identifiable as a stable from the faint horse smells, which emerged from the dark interior.
Lincoln turned on his heel.
A rough shack with a half-boarded window framing piles of yellowing bags confronted him. The faded lettering on the bags hinted that they had long ago passed for food. Beside the window, two broken batwings indicated a saloon. Above the batwings a remnant of a sign dangled, the name lost to decay.
Lincoln remembered the Dust Creek of fifteen years ago, but this wasn’t familiar. If he wasn’t sure of his memory, this could be a different Dust Creek.
Then, farmers, lumbermen and cattlemen rolled into Dust Creek in a continuous stream. Even under the control of Marshal Curt Polanski, Dust Creek had vitality.
Time could heal, but here, time was wiping the disgrace from the map. Soon the dust would bury everything and only bad memories would remain.
Lincoln waved his rifle at Frank and his other men, to call them into a huddle.
‘Sam and Dave, check out the stable,’ Lincoln shouted over a raging dust storm. ‘See if you can rustle up grain for the horses. Me, Frank and Jed will try the saloon.’
‘Whoa,’ Sam cried. ‘We get the horses and you get the whiskey.’
Lincoln frowned. Sam wouldn’t rest until the horses had been cared for, but letting him have a whiskey beforehand wouldn’t take long.
‘All right, Sam. You can join us.’
‘Hey, that isn’t fair,’ Dave said. ‘What about me?’
Lincoln patted Dave’s shoulder. ‘Too late. Sam complained first.’
As Dave slouched towards the stable, Lincoln led his men to the saloon. There, dust had piled outside the buildin
g in long dunes, half burying the remnants of a boardwalk.
He turned his head from another grit-filled burst of wind and threw back the batwings. The doors squeaked dangerously.
While letting his eyes accustom to the gloom inside, Lincoln rested a hand on a door, ignoring the people inside.
Three tables and a handful of chairs rotted along one side of the wall. A map and a faded picture hung on the side wall. A broken mirror festered at the back. At the back of the saloon, a door opened on to a log pile and rusted tools.
Then Lincoln considered the inhabitants. At a table a dandified man dressed in black dealt out poker hands to himself.
Two rough-clad cowhands sprawled against the bar. Their dark yellow slickers were as dusty as everything was around here.
A ragged drunkard was slumped over the bar and, from the rancid smell and snoring, was clearly worse for drink even this early in the evening.
With a firm stride, Lincoln paced to the bar. Several odors assailed him. The most foul came from the drunkard. The flies that buzzed above his head had found plenty to interest them, but Lincoln smelt something else.
He sniffed again and ignored the whiff of evil breath, which emanated from the scar-faced bartender. A metallic odor coupled with smoke wafted by him. He kept his face stern, a tension in his right hand.
He dropped his carpetbag on the bar. The bag landed with a thud. Dust clouded in a white puff.
While flexing his fingers, Lincoln leaned on the dust-covered bar. With his rifle rested in his right hand, he leaned back to see Jed and Sam move closer, their gait slow, their gazes darting between each occupant of the saloon.
Frank stayed by the door, his hand raised, shielding his eyes from the low sun and the swirls of dust that twined around the doorframe. The flies’ insistent hum drowned the squeak of the batwings.
Lincoln had visited hundreds of dead-end saloons, but the atmosphere here was different. This place couldn’t receive that many visitors, not to invoke something more than silence.
While glancing at the well-dressed man, Lincoln saw a sticky patch of floor muddied with dust at the man’s feet, gleaming red in the intermittent shafts of light from the setting sun.
Lincoln turned before anyone noticed his interest.
