Somewhere, date unimportant
The saloon was hot; the desert sun beat down on it, and there was no breeze.
Inside, the place was empty, save for four haunted lawmen - gunslingers, reallly, who just happened to have taken straight jobs at some point recently - who sat around a table drinking whiskey and playing cards. To say 'haunted' in this situation is not a metaphor, as we shall see shortly. The room was silent, save for the flipping of cards and the creak of the floorboards as one of them would, from time to time, go to the bar to refill his glass. The rules said that there were to be no bottles at the table, and these four were (at the moment) rule-abiding men...To whom I shall introduce you:
Hank was from out East, but nobody held it against him, for he was a good man in a tight spot. Hank was haunted by the ghost of his mustache. He had, once upon a time, a glorious handlebar mustache of the sort to make Wyatt Earp weep. But it had been stolen many years ago, and all that was left was its unquiet shade. Hank said he deplored violence, but this was the only time in his life he had lied.
Abner was from across the sea. He obstensibly spoke English, but he could not be understood most of the time. He had brought his ghost with him from the old world, a weeping young lady who, when roused, became a holy terror, and struck men dead with her screams. For the most part, she merely stood behind him as he played cards. Ghosts have patience; they take the long view. Abner had no livelihood after things went bust, and no remaining skills save that of the fist and the pistol. So he became a lawman who was occasionally a bandit, and on rare occasions a train robber.
Virgil was from...Well, that was sort of unclear. Virgil had always been here. It was he who welcomed the rest of this small group, Virgil who showed them where the booze was, and explained the rules to them, in what seemed like the distant past. Virgil was haunted by his left hand, which had been shot off back during the war. The fact that he wore two guns when he had but one hand surprised many people, some terminally. Nevertheless, the others agreed he was a good host - though he denied owning the place - and they decided that none of them needed to learn more about his admittedly bizarre arrangement.
And then, of course, there was the kid. No story of this type is complete without him; he is a Western archetype. The kid was perhaps - being generous - Nineteen years old. Blessedly, he had none of the rudeness and impetuous manners of youth; he in fact insisted on being polite on the few times he spoke, and woe to the man that was rude in his presence. He had no courtly manners, but rather a rough sense of elan. A tip of the hat to the ladies - should any ladies be encountered - a handshake and a look in the eye for the menfolk. He, too, was haunted, his ghost being that of his younger brother, dead these 5 years. His ghost was not present. If the kid had to guess, Kyle (his brother) would be out by the stables, admiring the horses.
They were playing for matchsticks, the last payday they had being quite some time before. As the other three threw down their hands in disgust, as The Kid raked in the pile of matchsticks, there was a footstep on the boardwalk outside of the salloon. The players looked up, somehow hoping not to see the only man that it could be. And it was. The undertaker stood in the door, holding a rolled up piece of paper...Their next job. It is worth noting that the town's undertaker was also its judge, and that he was not opposed in the least to allowing the right hand to wash the left. Let us be frank: The town had a gallows, but no jail.
The Kid, who had never been bothered by the undertaker's sallow smile or his reptillian eyes, walked up and took the paper from the undertaker. He unrolled it, and read it carefully, his lips silently following along. The looked up at the group. "Five hundred dollars," he said, "Alive. No reward dead."
The other three spat. The undertaker would have his sport.
One by one, they grabbed their pistol belts and hats, and headed for the door. The undertaker was already gone.
Somewhere else
The preacher stood over his dead mount. He was, in spite his calling, an Earthy man, and so he swore under his breath as he snagged up his canteens, placing them in his saddlebags, which he detached from the saddle proper. He knew the law would be after him soon, and now he was on foot. Of course, being a preacher, he was required to go armed; they would not take him without a fight, and he would save the last bullet for himself. He didn't want to die, but he was even more opposed to doing so at the end of a rope. And, given the nature of his crimes, that was the only possible outcome of capture. Clemency was a fool's dream, no governor had issued such in living memory.
Laughing at the very idea, the preacher hefted his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked West, into the dying sun, the ghost of his faith drifting along behind him.
To be continued
