To Die In Glory

OneThree men in long, drab dustcoats, faces obscured by the shadow of their broad-brimmed hats, rode into the town of Glory at the start of a new day, the sky iron-grey like everyone's mood. Grim. Winter bit deep, forcing townsfolk, when they braved the elements, to scurry from door to door, hunched up, swathed in thick coats, scarves, gloves and hats, memories of the long, dry summer almost forgotten. The rains, when they did finally come, brought a deluge, causing flash floods, catching ranchers unawares, inundating land, sweeping away cattle and other livestock. Soon blizzards and snow followed. Now everything from tiny field mice to the largest, strongest residents shivered and cursed behind closed doors. Except for the three men who arrived, rigid in the saddle, their eyes set straight ahead, faces hard, chiselled from granite. Or ice. Cold as the air they breathed. Across the street Old Man Dempsey, who had seen many things in his eighty-odd years, tipped his rocking chair forward and studied the men keenly. Their demeanour seized his attention; their expressions, the way they wore their guns. Men on a mission. He watched them turn as if responding to some silent order, dismount and tie their horse reins to the hitching rail outside the Golden Nugget saloon. The lead man gave a cursory glance down one end of the street to the other before motioning to his companions. Together they mounted the steps, clumped across the raised boardwalk, spurs singing, and disappeared through the double-swing doors. Dempsey leaned over to his left and sent a trail of tobacco juice into the dirt. He scratched his armpit, grunting loudly as he stood up, and hobbled over the hard, impacted ground towards the Golden Nugget to satisfy his curiosity. Within, the depressive mood hung thick like a cloud. At this time of day customers were few. A couple of businessmen sporting Derby hats and tweed suits ate their breakfast in the corner whilst Wilmer Bryant, the pot-boy, looking half-asleep, swept the floor with a wide broom. Lester Tomms, the barkeeper, polished a glass before filling it with whisky then slid it over to the stranger leaning against the counter. The other two strangers were standing some distance apart, one at each end of the long bar. The leader sampled the whisky, smacked his lips in appreciation and downed the whole drink. He indicated another needed pouring and flicked his fingers to the other men. Tomms took the hint, poured out three more whiskies and went to either end with the drink. When he returned to the centre, he stood back, never allowing his eyes to settle too long on any of them. By now, the tension had developed into a palpable thing, broken momentarily when Dempsey came wandering through the doors. No one spoke. Looking up from another round of polishing, Tomms cracked his face in a forced attempt at a smile and, relieved, beckoned for the old-timer to move closer. As Dempsey went to take his first step, the stranger in the middle threw the second whisky down and turned. He arched a single eyebrow towards Dempsey, who stopped, mouth dropping open. “You know where the sheriff is?” The man's voice was low, deep, bereft of emotion. Hunching his shoulders, Dempsey tried to look away but the stranger's eyes seemed to lock him up tight, with nowhere to go. He swallowed loudly, “I reckon he's in his office.” “Fetch him.” And the stranger turned again to Tomms and motioned with his glass for a refill. Dempsey tried another swallow, but his throat was now dry. He could do with a drink himself and he gave a little jig, somewhat unconsciously, licking his lips as he tasted the imaginary shot of good whisky sliding down to simmer in his stomach. “Best do it now, boy,” said the stranger closest to him, leaning against the counter, one foot propped up on the rail running along its lower edge. Dempsey jumped, snapped his head to the owner of the voice, tipped his hat and rushed outside. The cold hit him like a punch, but he didn't care a fig for any of that. His rickety old legs propelled him down into the street as fast as he could manage. Something wasn't right with those boys, he felt it in his water.