Chapter 11 – A Game Played by Ghosts...
Randolph Harlington gnawed upon his cigar. His teeth chomped on the leaf as his frustration lacked anything else upon which to direct its ire. It was late into the night. Morning would soon betray itself. Still, Randolph heard no news regarding his posse. No rider sped his horse into town to dismount and enter Esther's saloon to inform Randolph that the Turners were no more. The posse did not return to Dry Acre with their guns roaring celebration into the sky. None of the posse returned to Dry Acre with the bodies of the Turners dragging behind their horses.
Randolph's teeth tore at his cigar. He could not believe his bad luck. After the events that followed Gabe Henderson's killing of Samuel Turner, he feared he might be forced to believe everything. He had never before believed a woman could be as ugly as Maggie Turner. He had never before believed a girl's curses could hold any kind of power. He had never before believed such a swarm of flies could fall upon his ranch to devour his livestock and horses. He had never before believed that Emma's seizures would grow any worse. But that week, filled with wild rumors of the Turners' awful power, forced Randolph to consider the possibility of a power that was darker and more undeniable than anything his coins could approach.
Randolph sat alone at his favorite table in Esther's saloon and lamented his poor fortune. His agitated hands shuffled the stiff, new deck of playing cards. He always carried his own deck to Esther's saloon whenever he visited for pleasure and sport, and he visited often. Golden dollars heaped upon the table. Many a coin spilled over the table's edge and chimed upon the floor. He offered his coin to anyone who would simply sit next to him, accept a dealt hand of cards and play through rounds of Poker. He offered to pay anyone's ante. He would not ask for any of his coin to be returned if a player's luck proved poor. Yet no one would sit at his table and share a round of Poker with Randolph no matter that the rancher offered new players the chance to win gold without risking a single dollar of their own.
So Randolph dealt still another round of cards to the ghost players he imagined filled his table's empty chairs. His hands spilled the cards into neat piles of five. He tossed the cards across the table as carefully as he always had whenever he had played against competent players. Not one errant card landed face-up. Not one card landed in the space between each ghost player's pile. Randolph's anxiety prevented him from doing nothing, from idly waiting for word from his posse. So he chewed harder on his cigar the more his anxiety rose, dealing cards to ghosts and wishing someone in Dry Acre had the desire, or the courage, to join him in games of chance.
Randolph finished his dealing and eyed his cards. A pair of kings and a set of three nines greeted his eyes, a full house assembled for him without any need to exchange cards with the dealer. Randolph grunted. Leaning over the table, he turned over the hands of his ghost opponents. None of those hands defeated the one dealt to him. He played out the competing ghost hands, exchanging cards as he felt best for each imaginary player. He wished that ghosts could better bluff. Randolph played all the hands the best he could, and once more, as with every previous round of Poker, it was Randolph's hand that claimed the coins heaped upon his table.
Randolph shook his head and chomped harder on his wet cigar. The game was cruel. Randolph hated that such luck was wasted during a week brimming with such misfortune.
“You still nursing that whiskey, Randolph?”
Randolph failed to notice the saloon's matron hover to his table. Esther's establishment was nearly empty. Only Dry Acre's most dutiful drinkers assembled at sporadic tables. Randolph Harlington was not the only resident suffering from anxiety following the swarm that descended upon his ranch. Much of the town had witnessed Gabe Henderson gun down Samuel Turner, and they had heard that albino girl's curse against any who grasped whatever coin Harlington offered. Then, they had brushed those curses aside with laughter as Maggie dragged her brother's body away. No one laughed anymore. Dry Acre's residents barricaded themselves into their homes. Even those devoted drinkers of Esther's saloon sipped, tepidly, at their shots of whiskey, moonshine and gin.
Randolph shook his head. “I won't take my first drink until that posse rides into town. I'll stay thirsty until I see whatever horses I could find for that posse drag what's left of the Turners back to town.”
A hard drinker only a few tables away tapped an empty shot glass against his table. “Seems your hired horses would've been back by now. Morning's not far off.”
Randolph was so annoyed as to remove the cigar from his mouth. “You thinking to finally play a hand of cards with me, Cameron McShae?”
Cameron hiccuped and turned away from Randolph.
“Then keep your son-of-a-bitch mouth shut,” Randolph jammed the cigar back between his lips. “The only time I want to see you open your mouth is when you bend back a drink. You get me, you good for nothing coward?”
Esther rested a soft hand on Randolph's shoulder. “Don't pay him any attention. Brave men composed your posse. There are plenty reasons to make that posse late. Those Turners probably figured that posse was coming. Your men might've needed to track them down.”
Randolph paused his chomping of his cigar. For that moment, Esther comforted him.
But Randolph's hands soon returned to working the deck's cards. “Hell, Esther, where could those Turners go? This is wide-open land. Next to nothing to hide behind. And those Turners never owned a single horse. No way they could've gotten far.”
“Another round!” Lyle Standish, hard drinker occupying the table furthest from Randolph Harlington, shattered his empty glass across the floor. “That posse is only out there drinking. Hard to wash all that dust out of one's throat.”
Esther noticed movement beyond a window's curtain before she could admonish Lyle for destroying another glass. She stepped quickly to the window and pulled a corner of the curtain aside to peek down Dry Acre's single street. Her drinking patrons gathered behind her to peer over her shoulder.
Randolph's hands ceased dealing cards to ghostly competitors. The rancher did not look up from his table. He did not hear the sound of his posse returning with pounding hooves. He kept his eye on the coins stacked at his table and held his breath.
“What is it?” Wilbur Stutts, who had done nothing but drink since the swarm descended upon the Harlington ranch, slurred as a strange contraption slowly worked its way down Dry Acre's single street.
Esther's eyes widened. “Not sure what it is. But I know who it is.”
Cameron McShae opened his mouth for something other than drink regardless of Randolph's warning. “Jesus. Those are what's left of the Turner boys carrying that thing. And that's ugly Maggie trailing behind them.”
The Turner litter crawled up Dry Acre's street. Only three brothers remained to bear the litter upon their shoulders. The absence of a fourth forced one corner to go unattended, and the curtained litter built upon the framework supported by three pairs of shoulders leaned precariously towards the ground. The curtained litter jostled as the brothers struggled to maintain a synchronized gait. The litter almost toppled several times before the brothers paused to regather the litter's balance. With the litter again secured, the brothers groaned and rebuilt their momentum to move forward before again pausing as the litter again jostled and teetered towards the dust. Such locomotion was clumsy and slow.
Dry Acre watched the litter's tedious progress from the anonymity of their dark windows. None dared to leave their shelter to accost the litter. No one wanted to stare too long at the ugly, albino girl following in the rear.
Randolph's legs turned to stone. Esther walked behind the bar and armed herself with the long barrel of her shotgun. She had always preferred the savagery of the weapon, yet she found herself unsure if its cruel pattern of shot would prove effective against the Turners should that foul family threaten her. Dry Acre's best guns had been sent with that posse to blaze bullets at the surviving Turners. Yet the Turners strode clumsily into town with a strange litter perched atop
their shoulders instead of a posse of horses. The residents of Dry Acre held their breath.
“You better come over here to the window, Randolph.”
Randolph ignored Esther and placed a new cigar into his mouth.
Cameron clutched his bottle. “I don't see any sign of the posse behind them.”
Randolph continued chewing on his cigar, but his mouth remained dry.
Dry Acre kept silent as the Turner brothers bore their father's litter down the street. The brothers stopped at the foot of Esther's saloon steps, groaning as they bent their knees to lower their litter onto the dust. Maggie paced behind her father's curtained enclosure, glancing many times over her shoulder and trembling at the sounds of latching windows and doors. She had betrayed no fear the day she cradled Samuel's shattered head in her lap. Then, she had displayed such anger. But Maggie Turner's posture emanated fear as those brothers set their father's litter upon the ground.
“Maybe the posse is on their heels,” Lyle whispered through chattering teeth. “Something sure has that Maggie Turner spooked. She keeps looking behind her. Something's following her that has her scared stiff.”
“Damn, drunk fools,” Randolph Harlington growled. He looked at his pile of coins stacked on the table and felt ruined. “There's no way those Turners could have made it back to Dry Acre before my posse.”
Esther pushed her window open enough to point her shotgun's barrel into the street towards the Turner litter. “He's right, Lyle. No way those Turners should have made it back to town before all of the posse's horses.”
The litter swayed, and a hand of pale fingers pulled the curtains aside to reveal the face of Thaddeus Turner, never before seen in dusty Dry Acre. Those huddled behind the window curtains shuddered at the sight. Thaddeus drew a long bullhorn that looked carved from ivory or bone from the inside of his litter. Putting the trumpet to his lips and gathering what breath he might, Thaddeus Turner addressed the crowd he knew to be hidden behind the walls of their homes.
“Dry Acre is lost to the dead,” though aided by the bullhorn, Thaddeus's words lifted only slightly above the wind. “I arrived at Dry Acre with seven living sons. I leave with only three. Dry Acre has heaped hate and hurt upon my kin. And so my daughter has shared a curse with you all. She has promised vengeance upon those who have accepted Randolph Harlington's coin. My daughter summoned the swarm that devoured beast and man. She called the flies that still make all of you shudder. Yet her curses and flies are only a fraction of the powers I have risen upon this land. I have summoned the dead so that they will have the justice they deserve, and already they smell the taint of Harlington gold in the air. Already, they shamble through the dust towards this town that has done them such harm.
“So I stop and warn you all that death follows my litter. I show you a mercy to tell you this. Gold will not appease my risen. My risen will not hear argument nor cries. My risen will not be appeased before they devour all those tainted by Harlington's wicked gold. Leave Dry Acre. Dry Acre now belongs to the dead.”
Thaddeus took the bullhorn away from his cracked lips and retreated back behind his litter's dark curtains. Dutifully, the three surviving Turner brothers lifted their burden and accepted their father's weight upon their shoulders. Built to be supported by four brothers, the litter swayed in its crooked progress down Dry Acre's single, dusty street. Maggie trailed behind. She did not look towards any of the surrounding windows. She scowled at none of the timid faces regarding her. Maggie repeatedly looked over her shoulder while Thaddeus Turner's litter shambled down the street as a hint of the coming morning's light bloomed on the eastern horizon.
Those timid faces stared from their windows until the Turners moved far into the horizon. They waited a little longer, but Randolph Harlinton's posse never followed that litter into Dry Acre. The town kept silent when morning arrrived. By afternoon, those residents completed packing their coaches and wagons. They began riding out of Dry Acre as the sun started to fall close to the western horizon. They left much behind, for too few horses and mules remained to saddle with bags. Many were forced to march through the dust as a fear in them of something wicked coming by night sprouted deep within them. None in Dry Acre considered themselves untainted by the Harlington coin.
Randolph Harlington remained at his table throughout that day. He never gave himself the pleasure of that drink he had reserved to celebrate his posse's success. He dealt cards to his ghostly competitors and wondered about the wickedness that had stolen his coin's luster.
Randolph Harlington did not organize Dry Acre's final posse. He did not remove the cigar from his mouth as Dry Acre sent its last vigilantes against the rancher. Though the stream of Harlington gold had afforded the lumber and brick that erected Dry Acre, Thaddeus Turner's magic had turned such wealth into a perversion that could not be forgiven by those citizens who fled before the night. Randolph Harlington's crusade against the Turners brought a foul curse upon them. Randolph Harlington's greed had summoned wicked things that approached Dry Acre by night.
Though none of those residents fleeing Dry Acre knew exactly what to expect following Thaddeus Turner's warning, their bones felt the vibration of terrible things shambling towards their community through the dust. Each felt in his or her spine the danger that neared them. And so, Dry Acre's final posse was gathered and sent to Esther's saloon to drag Randolph Harlington away from his table. That final posse dragged him through the street and hung the rancher from a scaffold hastily erected at the entrance to town.
Those residents emptying Dry Acre prayed to their god that the rancher's swaying corpse would be enough to appease the vengeance Thaddeus Turner had promised would fall upon them.