Chapter 2
The Desert, South of TownThe Preacher inspected the nag's hoof. Sure enough, it had an old crack in it. He'd seen this game before...Hire out a crippled horse to a man in a hurry, then when it pulls up lame an hour later, the guy abandons it and it - being trained to do so - returns to the stable to wait for the next sucker.
Well, not today. The preacher drew his pistol and shot the crippled horse between the eyes. It dropped like it had been poleaxed. The preacher grunted in satisfaction...The poor beast never felt a thing.
He started walking.
In TownThe bartender stood with is his derby in his hands, moving his fingers around the brim nervously. "It's like I said, isn't it? He shot Pastor Williams, then stole my horse and rode off."
The four horsemen stared at him.
"But the joke's on him, ha ha," the bartender babbled, "that horse is lame. He can't have gone far."
"Why do you keep a lame horse, mister?" The Kid said, leaning back in his saddle and stretching.
"Sentimentality, young sir," the bartender began, "I've had that horse for a long..."
"He 'sellls' it to travellers", Virgil said, "Then it wanders back to him when the rider quits it in disgust."
"Well, that hardly seems like fair dealing." The Kid responded, "You might even call it cheating. Or even horse-thieving."
"Which is a hanging offense", Hank drawled.
"Now wait just a minute," the bartender said, "I got robbed. He stole that horse. You can check my cashbox...There ain't near enough money in it for me having sold a horse."
"Do it," said Hank. The Kid hopped off of his horse and went inside the bar. A moment later, he came out. "He has ten dollars in his cashbox."
"Not enough for a horse, like I said", the bartender gasped.
"He coulda hid it somewhere else", The Kid opined.
"Gentlemen", Abner said in his thick accent, "This has nothing to do with the job. We need to go."
"Count yourself lucky, thief", Virgil said, "But don't think we won't be keeping an eye on you."
The four horsemen wheeled their horses and rode South, in the direction the preacher had travelled. The bartender sighed in relief, and went back into his bar.
Maybe it's time for a change, he thought,
Someplace new, and far, far away. Presently, he went to bed.
Later that nightThe bartender woke from a terrible dream, wheezing as if he'd run a marathon. The ghost of the piano player sat in the armchair across from the bed, as always...But tonight, there was something strange about her. She seemed bulky. She was wearing boots. She wasn't his ghost, in fact, she was..."
"Remember me?" The preacher smiled unpleasantly.
"How'd you get here?"
"Oh, after I shot that swayback you sold me, I just doubled back. They'd have caught me, otherwise."
"Listen, mister..."
"Nothing to listen to," the preacher said, drawing his pistol, "I ain't even mad at you for the trick you pulled. I saw it coming, I was just hoping I was wrong."
"Listen, listen, I don't..."
"Shut up. I AM mad at you for subjecting that poor animal to the rocky deserts on a bad hoof, everytime you felt like cheating someone."
"Where's my ghost. Wait, where's my ghost?"
"You'll see her soon enough", the preacher said, and tossed a pair of coins in the air.
The bartender's looked up at the coins. The preacher shot him in the throat, and caught the coins on the way down. He walked over to the bed, and placed one coin on each of the bartender's staring eyes.
Musing on how hard it was to stay on the straight and narrow, the preacher walked out of the room and down the stairs. The ghost of his faith followed him, snickering all the way.
To be continued.
