To Die In Glory

Three

ThreeOld Man Dempsey was half jogging alongside the sheriff, who took enormous steps on his walk through Glory towards the saloon. He held a loaded carbine in the crook of his arm, and a holstered Colt Dragoon at his hip. He chewed tobacco but, other than that, his face remained hard and focused.

“There was three of them,” rattled Dempsey, out of breath, fighting hard to keep up with the sheriff. “They seemed mean.”

“You said that.”

They passed Stockton's Livery Stable, with Stockton in the doorway, arms folded across his barrel chest. “You want some help there, sheriff?”

“I reckon not,” came the reply, but Dempsey, panting, close to his limit, veered away from the lawman and staggered over to where the big horse-trader stood.

“I think there's gonna be trouble.”

Stockton frowned, “I can see he is resolute. What has riled him so?”

“Three strangers, gunslingers I reckon. They look like avenging angels, and from the way they spoke I reckon they is on some sort of mission.”

“Avenging angels? Why in the hell do you say that?”

“Just an inkling. They appear single-minded, hard. The one who spoke to me, he put the fear of God into me.”

“You're old, with a tendency to exaggerate, Dempsey. The whole town knows it.”

Shaking his head, Dempsey turned his eyes towards the swiftly diminishing figure of the sheriff. “There's gonna be trouble. I knows it.”

Stockton grunted. “And to think I was gonna go and visit my niece today, partake of tea and cream cakes.” He leaned forward, hawked and spat into the dirt. “I'll get my shotgun.”

The saloon crackled with tension as the sheriff pushed open the twin swing doors and stepped inside. He met the wild eyes of the two businessmen sitting in the far corner, white as sheets, twiddling their thumbs, before taking in the men positioned along the counter. To his left stood the first, foot on the rail, grey coat pulled back to reveal the big Dragoon at his hip. In the centre, the tallest, rolling a tumbler of whisky between his palms and, over at the far end, the third, eyes locked in on the sheriff's. No one moved; the seconds ticked by.

“Dylan,” said the barkeep, clearing his throat, flat up against the wall, long mirror to his back, “these gentlemen …”

The tall one chuckled, pushed the glass away and turned. He wore two guns, but the smile he wore struck Dylan as far more deadly. “Is that what they call you now?”

The sheriff frowned. “Do I know you?”

“You should.”

“My name is Dylan Forbes and I'm sheriff of this town. I hear—”

“Dylan Forbes … Must have taken you a fair time to think that one up.”

“Mister, I don't know who you are, but I think you should—”

“Oh, you know all right. And I know you.” The smile transformed into a sneer. “Thing is, when last we met, you went by the name of Lance. Lance Sinclair.”

The air froze. Everything froze. No one breathed. Dylan felt his stomach turn, becoming liquid, horrible, sickening. Fear, total, gripped him, causing limbs to grow heavy and useless. He struggled to remain steady on legs which no longer had the strength to support him. A low moan escaped from his lips.

“I see it's all coming back to you, Lance.”

Stepping away from the counter, the man at the far end crossed to the businessmen and laid his hand on the shoulder of the closest, whose eyes, like those of a puppy dog, looked up. “Please,” he said, voice a whimper.

“You're both witnesses to this.”

The sheriff forced a swallow, shooting his glance from the tall one to the one to his left. “I …”

“Sure you remember. Of course you do, Lance.” A smile, as slick as an eel, spread ever wider across his face. “You knew this day would come.”

“No, no, I never …”

“Sure you did.”

“Your Day of Judgement,” said the one to his left.

The sheriff shot him a look and watched the way the man's hand drifted closer to the butt of his revolver.

Dylan moved, swinging up the carbine, but the tall man was faster and the two bullets from his revolver hit the sheriff in the chest, throwing him back out into the street with the force of their impact.

The nearest businessman let out a whine and the barkeep slid down the wall, face in hands, whimpering like a small child.

“Do shut him up,” said the killer, stepping towards the doors. The one at the end leaned across the counter and put two bullets into Tomms's chest. The whining stopped.

“Oh God Almighty,” wailed the businessman, knocking away the third stranger's hand from his shoulder. He stood up with such a violent jerk he sent his chair backwards to the floor. “You murdering bastards!”

“Oh s**t …” The stranger beside him put his own revolver to the smaller businessman's head and blew the back of his skull off, sending a shower of blood and brains behind him.

The second businessman turned white and collapsed in a dead faint, next to his murdered friend.

“Well, at least we can have some quiet now,” and the stranger caught the amused expression of the one by the door just as Dylan's killer went outside into the sunlight.

Coming around the corner at a run, Stockton ground to a halt as he watched the sheriff's body come blasting out through the doors to land on his back in the street, arms thrown out, blood pumping from the two holes close to his heart. “Oh sweet Jesus,” Stockton moaned, moving forward towards the stricken lawman as if in a dream. He pulled up again as the swing doors opened and a tall stranger in a long grey coat stepped out onto the boardwalk, a smoking revolver in his fist.

Their eyes met.

Stockton, not remembering he held a twin-barrelled shotgun in his hand, whirled around and made as if to run. He didn't make the first step.

The tall stranger shot him with a well-aimed shot in the back of his head.

Then, a short while later, the three strangers put a rope around the dead sheriff's neck and hanged him from a telegraph post just off the main street of the small, rundown town of Glory.