Chapter Seven
Duster and a Gun: Reaper
Gregory Blackman
Strangers All
I swung open the shutter doors to the Rusty Nail tavern. It was crammed with people and the aromas of manure and sweat. This was a working man’s saloon. It looked as if the other half of the village had been in the fields. I couldn’t tell one of them from the other, save the differences between the men and the women, they were all dressed head to toe in the most basic white attire. Not a single face turned to greet me with their eyes, and yet not a single person turned to look away.
“Now that’s a pleasant surprise,” I grumbled. “It’s mighty nice to meet you, too.”
Usually, a crowd would take one hard look at a gunslinger like me and turn away, and the few that didn’t were likely looking for trouble. This lot was something else entirely, completely willing to go about their business and let me do the same.
I looked around at the townsfolk, glued to their meals and not a single person made an attempt at conversation. The entire room, packed to the brim, was as hushed as a rundown library.
Like all these remote settlements that time forgot, Janestown was stuck in the 1800’s and not expected to come out of it anytime soon. It was far removed from the reach of modern advancements and higher education. Strangely, I’d always felt more comfortable around these parts, walking among these people and partaking in their customs. This was not one of those times, however, and I felt a shiver trickle down my spine.
I searched around the corners of the room looking for a place to sit and was immediately drawn to a single piece of modern technology in the corner.
“Holographic dancing girls,” I said with an agreeable grunt. “Well, now I reckon I’ve seen every damn thing.”
The girls, slightly translucent and flickering, were nothing but a projection of light and sound, but you’d never get a complaint from the men huddled around, slipping dollars into the slot for another minute of cheap thrills, but then I’d presume a town like this doesn’t offer much in the way of entertainment.
“Kick up a seat an’ stay awhile,” the bartender announced.
“I love it,” I said, taking a stool at the bar. “There’s not an automobile in a hundred square miles, but you’ve got holographic ladies shaking their stuff, and an enormous electric bill.”
“Aye, they’re lovely ladies, aren’t they?” he said, grinning wildly. “I picked them up on my last trip back home to Houston. Their made in Dodge City… so you know they’ve been made by true-blue Americans.”
The bartender was a rough looking son of a bitch with a disfiguring scar running from his left cheek down his neck and god knows where else. He was bald as a coot, face full of wrinkles and the stink of rum on his breath. Finally, this was a man I could talk to.
“Yeah, I bet. You’re from Houston, then?” I said, pointing to the bottle of Jack Daniels on the wall. “It’s nice to meet a fellow Texan.”
“That so?” the bartender asked as he poured me a shot. “Where are you from, pal?”
“Austin… though I haven’t been home in a very long time.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “It’s a beautiful city. You should be real proud of the folks back home.”
“That I am,” I said, pounding the shot back and savoring the slow burn, “Real good people there, lots of good memories.”
“So what brings you to town?” the bartender asked as he promptly poured me another. “It can’t be for the lively entertainment. These are good people, but I can’t say they’re good company.”
“Yeah, what’s with the clothes?”
“You mean the white, holier than thou attire” he replied, “nothing a traveler like you need concern yourself with, they are devout people, is all.”
“How’s that explain the church?” I asked, finishing off the next shot and motioning for another. “It looks like it hasn’t been used in years.”
“That it hasn’t,” he said with a look of shame. “The town’s full of sin and we’re all degenerates, apparently. We’re not fit to appreciate it or some garbage like that.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t ask me how a preacher’s mind works,” he said. “They’re on a different realm than the rest of us… and it’s not always a holy place, no matter what they claim.”
“Well, not like it matters or anything, but this traveler’s opinion couldn’t be further from the preacher’s—.”
“Yeh stole me goddamn turn, yeh half wit!” shouted a red-headed man over by the holo-dancers. “I swear, yer brain cavity wouldn't make a drinkin' cup for a canary.”
“Oh, is that so?” another man asked with a shove. “Ya better sit down, pipsqueak.”
They couldn’t have been more dissimilar; one a scrappy little Irishman with red hair, and the other was a mountain of meat, an enormous seven footer with golden locks and a bad temper. The only thing they had in common was the whisky in their gut. I knew where this was going, and by the looks of the bartender who was removing all the glasses from the countertop, he knew what was going to happen, as well.
“Look at this, boys,” said the giant as he knocked the cap off the Irishman. “He’s uglier than—.”
That’s all it took for the Irishman, who threw a right hook to the other’s jaw.
“Ah shit,” the bartender said as we watched the carnage unfold. “Someone’s always gotta crap in the pool.”
I probably should have stopped them, but I wasn’t going to do that. This looked like the only entertainment in town. A man bares his soul in the heat of a fight, and you can see what hidden evil lurks in them.
“Yeah, I’m going to need another shot,” I said, waving my hand to the bar behind me, “and make it a double.”
The two drunks rolled around on the floor, punching and kicking their way from table to table. It wasn’t much of a fight, mostly insults and glancing blows.
“Who’s this?” I asked, noticing a group at the saloon’s door. “It looks like the bully patrol is here to make the joint safer… and less interesting.”
I could see the Sheriff’s bronzed star and matching uniforms which made them stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of white. They never were any good for a laugh, too caught up with the crooked laws they were meant to impose.
The Sheriff of Janestown was a scruffy looking man, head cocked sideways and chewing some dip. His kind weren’t too fond of us gunslingers, regardless of our cause. They only wanted to see us run out of town—us and the problems that brought us there.
“All right, that’s quite enough!” the Sheriff bellowed as he pushed his way through the saloon, “control yourselves or I’ll get my boys to do it for you.”
The barfly’s made no attempt to cease their brawl until the Sheriff ordered them clubbed black and blue. No one liked to see a man beat down by a group of thugs, except men like the good Sheriff, who only seemed to smile at the sight of another’s plight. It was a sick kind of man that took enjoyment from that, but I was in no position to remind him of that.
“Jaysus, please!” the Irishman screamed out in agony. “We didn’t realize what we were doin’!”
“Forgive us, Sheriff Madsen,” the other man cried. “We didn’t mean to upset the order of things!”
“Well la dee da,” the Sheriff mocked. “You’re sorry… yeah, right. You’re only sorry you got caught, but I tell ya, you’re going to be real sorry, soon enough.”
He ordered the drunks dragged out of the bar. They kicked and screamed like school girls, anything to keep from going through the door.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I whispered to the bartender. “I’ve never seen two men so afraid to spend the night in the drunk tank.”
“You’ve never seen a drunk tank like this one, I reckon,” he replied. “Like I said… we’re nothing but sinners, the whole lot of us.”
“This is the second incident this month, barkeep,” the Sheriff stated as he looked down his oversized aviator
glasses at the man. “One more time and I’ll have this establishment shut down.”
“You’ve got my apologies,” the bartender answered. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” Sheriff Madsen said. “I won’t be nearly as tolerant next time.”
The Sheriff kicked over a stool on his way out and gave one look back to show his seriousness. Like any one of these folks would stand up to him. This wasn’t my battle; I repeated over and over again in my head. There’s nothing I could do for them. I had much bigger problems than some puissant Sheriff.
“That’s your second incident this month?” I asked. “Dear lord, man, that’s a slow day even in the tightest knit communities and backwater shitholes.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Sheriff Madsen’s a real stick in my craw, but there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.”
“I feel for you,” I said, sliding my glass towards the edge of the counter.
He poured another shot and pulled out another glass and filled that one too. It was as if he was a mind reader, or that I was just another lush in his bar. Whatever it was, I liked the man and guzzled the shots.
“Get to sleep, Horace,” said a familiar voice swirling around in my subconscious. “You should really get to sleep.”
I suddenly became aware of the fact that I’d been traveling nonstop for over six months now and I hadn’t gotten one good night’s sleep in all that time. Not that a good night’s sleep would be possible with a gut full of Jack, but a bed was better than I was used to.
“The kid in the stables said to come to you for my room key.”
“Yup,” the bartender replied as he reached underneath the counter and pulled out a key. “It’s upstairs, third door on your left.”
“Thanks,” I said, slowly rising to my feet. “I hope it’s a big meal tomorrow. Lord knows I’m going to need the energy.”
I was teetering on the brink of collapse, but I didn’t get more than five feet before the bartender hollered for my return.
“I think you forgot something, pal,” said the bartender as he wiped down the counter. “That’ll be ten bucks for the drinks.”
“Put it on my tab.”
“No can do,” he stated. “Ain’t a tab in the Rusty Nail.”
“All right,” I stammered. “This outta cover it.”
I tossed the bartender a bill, whatever was in my pocket and by the gleam in his eye, it was probably a twenty. I was ready to pass out here and now, third door on the left he had said, so that’s where I headed.