TWO
The air of the autumnal dawn was chill. The stallion sucked it greedily through flaring nostrils, robbing it of its oxygen before its strong lungs forced it back into the atmosphere in translucent whisps of white. The resulting steam trailed past its matching white coat as it was spurred onwards by its rider. The journey had been long and hard, and the lips of the steed parted at frequent intervals to show its huge teeth and powerful jaw as it continued down the trail descending into Bleak Valley. No-one was walking the streets at that early hour and so no-one saw the dust clouds kicked up from huge hooves as both horse and rider approached. Only the lights of the saloon were still lit – a burning beacon of orange nestled within the darkness of the outlying buildings. It gave both man and mount renewed vigour, the thoroughbred continuing at a strong gallop until the rider pulled up hard on the reins and stepped down from the saddle. In the distance the sun had begun to rise.
The rider was tall and well built. His hat and trench coat of thick charcoal material struggled against the size of his frame, but served their purpose in shielding him from the heat, the wind and the cold of the trail as he forged ahead towards his destination. At that moment, outside the saloon, his journey came to its end. As he led his steed to the trough outside the saloon, the monochromatic tones of both man and horse shielded their approach from those dwelling within. The occupants could not be seen from street and so their presence was signalled by their voices alone;
“We have been fighting for your freedom and this is how we are treated?”
The rider calmly and deliberately tied his reins through the trough and the mount took a moment to steady its breathing before lapping furiously at the surface of the water with an outstretched tongue. Several strong pats on its neck and shoulder signalled that its journey, too, was at an end. The rider’s spurs rang with a delicate and dull metallic chime as he stepped up onto the wooden planks of the veranda and entered through the open doorway beyond.
“Mr Cohen, please, put down the-“
“Drop the gun Cohen.”
The pleas of the bewildered bartender were interrupted by the new arrival. His voice was low; resonant; commanding. Far from dulcet, his tones were rough as gravel and he spoke them in a manner unaffected by the situation into which he had found himself. Bill Cohen’s fingers remained tight on the grip of the Colt but he hesitated – and shot an icy stare and a curt remark at the source of the voice;
“What the hell do you want?”
The faces of the four deserters lost their rosy vigour as their drunken and blurred vision picked out an object on the rider’s chest, partially hidden beneath his trench coat. A star of battered bronze, two of the points bent slightly outwards and with a scratch across its centre, shone against the dark backing of the fabric to which it was pinned. Glimmering with authority in the dying glow of the oil lamps, it read ‘US Marshal’. Four pistols were holstered tight against his waist and upper thighs. The first gun belt sat level at the rider’s waist, the two guns holstered on it facing butt-backwards in the conventional style. The second belt sat slightly lower and dropped by roughly two inches as it wrapped around to the Marshal’s left side. The guns on that belt hung the opposite way around, in an arrangement preferred by the riders of the Union cavalry. Both were crafted from tough, well-worn leather – and both looked as though the rider had been wearing them since the day he was born. The four guns were identical; all were large calibre Colt Navy revolvers with metallic frames and wooden grips. They were tried and tested weapons, designed with the specific purpose of blowing holes a mile wide through anyone who got in their way. The Marshal, as his appearance betrayed, was well versed in using them for exactly such a purpose. With his hands on his waist, hovering dangerously close to the arsenal at his disposal, he waited. Cohen spoke again;
“You’re here for us, Marshal? For four fellows, here for a quiet drink? Ain’t no law against it is there? Besides, if I were you I would be showing a little more respect. We here are soldiers of the great Union army, on leave to summon our strength before returning to the front lines.”
“You’ve got two choices Cohen. And I will not waste my breath to tell you what they are.”
Cohen’s face contorted into a snarl and his cheeks flushed a shade of crimson deeper than even the excessive consumption of spirits could achieve. His three comrades looked to him for guidance and their fear was clearly visible in their expressions of their eyes. His mind made up, Cohen addressed the bartender while keeping his unblinking stare on the Marshal;
“You there, go and get the priest. And the undertaker.”
The Marshal raised his right hand from his waist, his palm facing outwards while his own icy eyes remained fixed on his quarry;
“There’ll be no need for that, barkeep. But you would do well to fetch a doctor.”
“You think you can draw on us all Marshal?”
The Marshal spoke grimly through tightly gritted teeth;
“Well I guess I’m about to find out.”
No sooner had the words left the Marshal’s lips than Cohen began to raise his arm. The Marshal snatched up the higher of the pistols on his right side, firing into Cohen’s shin bone while his free hand slammed down onto the hammer to chamber the next round. The remainder of the group barely had the time to take to their feet or reach for their own guns before judgement bore down on them too. The Navy lined up on the second man, the Marshal’s bicep flush with his side and his elbow bent to keep his forearm at a near-perfect right angle. A second explosion from the tip of the barrel caused the man to fall, the fabric of his trouser leg flapping wildly and his kneecap distorted by the force of the impact. He yelped as he went to ground, spinning to his left as he did so. The Marshal once more knocked the hammer back into a firing position with the edge of his free hand.
The barkeep was frozen by fear behind the bar. He could do nothing but watch on as the third man fell in a similar fashion, his thigh yielding to the lead and powder. The final member of the group, who had been the one to instigate the remarks about the women of the saloon, found himself fortunate that he had been granted sufficient time to dive clear of the table. He attempted to make a scramble for the gun at his side but as the revolver came free from the leather he lifted his eyes and was paralysed into inaction by a searing sensation in the collarbone above his shooting arm. His vision blurring, he made out the silhouette of the Marshal, who stood with his right arm at his side and his left hand outstretched, a second Colt Navy held with a tight grip and emitting gun smoke from the tip of the barrel. The cavalry holster on the Marshal’s right side was empty.
The deserter’s last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was that the Marshal hadn’t even turned to face him.
The bodies lay on the wooden floor of the saloon, the new-found silence interrupted only by occasional groans of agony from those who had been dropped to the layers of filth which robbed the sheen from the varnished surface beneath. The barkeep was the first to speak. His ears were ringing and so his voice sounded higher and brighter in his own head as the words left him. At the same moment he became aware of a stinging in his eyes. He was well practiced in watching over patrons for long hours through thick clouds of tobacco smoke, but the air in the saloon that dawn was far more volatile;
“Are these men really that important Marshal?”
“No. They aren’t important at all.”
“Well it’s… It’s just that you didn’t kill any of them is all. Are they supposed to testify or somethin’?”
“I don’t kill men so drunk they can’t shoot straight. It’s merciless.”
“So what now?”
“They will stand trial at Judge Newman’s convenience. I’m sure you have a family here. Go to them. Tell them that they need not worry any longer. And then go and get that doctor I called for.”
The tremor in the bartender’s hands remained apparent as he hobbled into action, moving towards the door leading to the residential tenement. As he reached it he turned one final time;
“Can I get you anything Marshal? Food? Water? Brandy?”
“Just somewhere to lay my head, if you please. And a good stable for my horse.”
J D SIMPSON 