It's been two week since the doc told me I could leave my bed and walk on my own, and already I'm halfway across the state. My horse, two skins of water, my Big-Iron, Black Jack's old sawed off, a carton a cigarettes, the clothes on my back, and $45 to my name. This is definitely not like to books make it seem. It seems my goal every day is to find somewhere to sleep and drink, usually under the stars. It's been 4 days since I've seen another person and I'm ready to stop anywhere that has a saloon and a real bed.
As the sun beats down into the dust, baking the cracked high collar on my duster, I peer from under the large brown rim of my hat into the distance. A silver sheen like a far-off lake exhausts any sliver of hope I held, the mirage drying my tongue until I swear it's coated in fine sand. Small boulders, shrubs, and low rolling hills span as far as my hazy eyes can make out, any chance for shade and fresh water gone from my mind. I finally can't take it, pulling the reigns of my chocolate colored mare to a stop and pulling myself up and out of my saddle, the creak from the old leather complaining like an old man. The dirt cracks and breaks away into dust under my boots, and I start walking alongside my horse, talking as I pull a skin of water from the saddle bags.
"Y'know, I'd bet anything you had dreams before I bought ya off the doc, didn' ya?" My voice surprises me for a second, and I clear my throat, filling my mouth with dry gunky saliva before spitting it out. Even as I continue to speak, my voice is the same. Dark and rough as a javelinas face and twice as mean. "Bet ya thought a politician would ride yer back. Get ta sleep in a waterproof barn with a bunch'a big jealous stallions. Get fed'n’watered every day at least twice, brushed and trimmed up mane, polished shoes fer even yer ugly feet." It made me chuckle to see this mare actually cough at my comments, and I apologized. No sense in making the only company I got mad at me.
The water skin is lighter than I hoped, and as I take a swig I have to hold back gagging and coughing up the stale hot water that tasted like my own horses rear end. But even as my eyes shut in disgust, I can feel the liquid soaking into my innards and making my head light with relief. Just as my body begins to feel rejuvenated, my tongue soaks up the last drop in my dry mouth, provoking another gulp of the rancid brew.
As I cork the skin, once more slipping it into the largest bag on my saddle, I can't help but scratch at the hot irritated skin under my left ear. Even as I see my fur falling from the scratches, I can't stop, letting my fur shed into yet another balding spot on my god-forsaken body. I swear my spots would be matched by bald spots if I ever made it out of this hell alive.
My eyes are still blurry and hazed, but I take another look over the silver-lined horizon, trying to make out anything but dirt and rocks. I almost choke on my own tongue when I think I see a boulder flattening before my eyes, but as I hold my hand like a tunnel to my eye I can see that I’m actually looking at the side of a building. As I look from side to side, I start to see more. I howl into the sky, raising my voice enough to startle my horse, but I can't help my utter salvation in finding a settlement after so long. I jump back with new found energy onto my horse, kicking her to a solid run right into town.
~~~
My mind is already in the saloon as I almost fall off of my horse, catching a few looks in my direction. I can't care less, however, and toss the reins around a sturdy looking hitching post, letting my mare dip her head into the trough in front of her. As I pull my fire-arms off her saddle, I think that I’ll have to buy her a feed bag once I’ve had my own food. Slipping my Big-Iron in its holster on my hip, I stumble towards the classic swing-doors of any good saloon, the sound of loud voices and an out-of-tune piano like love itself caressing my lonely ears. I feel Black Jack's gun stuffed tightly into the inner side of my coat, but without thinking I take the heavy duster off and hang it by the door as soon as I push through, feeling the cool shaded room filled with the smell of healthy sweat, booze, and smoke. Finally free of my thick leather duster, my fur can breathe through the light blue shirt underneath, sweat and dust stains drenched down the cloth all the way into the brown denim pants.
Strangers stare at me, thankful that they're strangers, but I'm not here to make impressions. Shrugging off un-wanted eyes, I grab the first barstool I find and take a seat, feeling my thighs burn and my tail quake from the days of riding. My hat falls to the ground as I lay my cheek against the cool wooden bar, letting out a heavy sigh as my tongue rolls out onto the roughly warped wood. I don't pay attention to what the bartender says, and just ask him for a mug of water and a shot of whiskey, telling him I can pay. As the man behind the counter, a fattening house cat if I ever saw one, went off to fill a mug from the back, I slowly turn my head to look at what kind of place I'm in. Darker furred folk sat all around in small chairs around large tables, spilt drinks and half smokes cigarettes covered where there weren't cards and chips. The fellow at the piano seemed professional enough, not taking more than a look at me before he went back to playing his little tunes for chump change. Women in night gowns crowded the upstairs railings, winking down at me, hoping I’d have a few extra dollars to spend on some company for the night. Honestly, if I could pay one to give me a bath and brush me down, I think I would, but the chances of that were pretty slim.
The bartender was back, and once again I didn't listen to his words, stealing the mug from his hand and gulping down half the mug in one go. It was a mistake, I know, and my gut twisted from the instant unknown cold, but in my mind I knew it was so good, especially followed by the searing bite from the whiskey I pop down my throat next. A double whammy in my drink, now all I need is a bed and I can die happy, but the world isn't as kind and gentle as to let me do that.
Apparently the bartender had been telling me from the moment I sat down that I was sitting in someone else's seat. Some tough-talking fast-swinging mutt from his own world who stood enough over 6 feet to know not to get in a fight without a bit of iron on your side. Before I could care enough to listen to the warnings I had already met good ol' Mr. Barstone, and I was introduced to his fist well before his manners. The tap on my shoulder seemed friendly but persistent, so I had turned to grant my attention to whoever it was, and now the ringing in my ear is the only thing I can rightfully hear.
I usually don't question this, but I'm curious if this guy was lucky as hell to be left handed, or clocked my right side on purpose. My friend's have told me my deaf ear slumps more than my good one, but most people couldn't tell just by looking. Now that my right ear is ringing, the thick mouth fluttering in front of me doesn't do any good. I try to apologize like a good boy, but it's harder to speak when you can't hear yourself. I don't know exactly what the big guy heard, but it wasn't something he took kindly, and his size 13 boot left a fine print in my stained shirt, leaving me on the ground in more pain than I cared for.
Normally, the good salesman knows when to stop and stay on the ground to wait for bad things to walk on by, but hell if I didn’t feel stubborn. It must have been the heat stroke kicking in that made me stand back up and crack my neck to the side in that bored fashion, waiting for him to come at me for more. I already knew I was a dead man when I saw the lumbering fool swing his right arm, which I already figured to be his weak, in a wide hook, but I didn't want to go down again. I was thirsty. His full weight hurt like a buffalo smashing my arm as I raised to defend my jaw, and I don't think I’ll ever forget the feeling of bone cracking against my knuckles as I pushed myself straight through the man's muzzle. I felt his teeth on my skin, his spit and blood slashing up my clothed arm as he stumbled back. His nose looked almost as crooked as his front teeth, and his eyes crossed before stumbling on a barstool and falling back with a thud I felt through my legs.
I raised my hand to slap myself a few times, pulling on my ear and shaking my head until I was sure I was hearing fine again, but the silence was worse than ever as I looked around the room at new stares, surprised and wide. I could feel my jaw and chest were bruised, and my lip was bleeding down my chin, but as the piano started playing again I was relived to hear the full tune well again. I sat back down to my drink, gulping down more water as I waited for the folks around to shut up and start talking again, the silence making me nervous.
Silence was annoying, but it can be a good thing to. A silent crowd lets you hear other more important things, like the steps of a large man getting up from the ground to take back his pride. As I turned and stood again from the barstool, my eyes caught the subtle glint of steel from the giant's belt, and before I could stop myself I was feeling my nostrils flair and eyes widen, the weight of my gun hanging heavily in front of me. Mr. Barstone didn't have his knife half pulled from his belt before the darkness of my gun barrel reflected to me in his shaking eyes. My gun held his gaze steady until the blade was dropped back into his belt. Slowly, I lowered the gun, but never lost my eye contact with the man.
"Do we understand each other, friend?" I felt like I should be shaking in my boots, hell knows I would have been a few years ago. The brute nodded however, and with a short lived hesitation he left the saloon on quickened feet. My gun spun once into its holster, and I once again sat down to my drink. I was surprised to find another shot of whiskey by my glass, and the bartender just nodded slowly when I looked up to him.
"S'on the house..."
I raised my shot glass and turned to my fellow patrons of the bar, who all raised their own drinks before we all kicked back a moment of thirst together.
~~~
I started with $45, and I'm down to $3. The old bartender gave me a free drink, but not a free room. The bed for a week was $20, with another $2 to fill up my water skins and house my horse for a while. Local whore agreed to show me a nice night, and agreed that helping me with a bath and a brush down along with listening to me talk on was considered nice enough for $4. Food was costing a little every day, plus I had to get myself some new clothes and get my guns cleaned. All in all I think I did well, but I needed to earn a little green-back before I could get back on the trail again.
Any town will be full of little jobs that pay if you take the time to look, and being a good neighbor will get you a few favors if you're not in a town of selfish old buzzards. I've never been good at all that much, but some simple heavy lifting for the local store got me a few dollars and a discount on horse feed, keeping fights from breaking out at the saloon got me my fill of whiskey, and I never thought my singing would ever come in any use, but apparently it'll get you a few dollars to sit in with the horses brushing and singing. If I didn't have to pay for each night I slept, I might be one to stay in a little town like this, doing my little jobs. I have to slap myself and remember why I’m where I am and who I’m trying to find every time those thoughts start popping up in my head. Of course I haven't just been sitting on my backside in this town. I've checked with the bank on any new folk coming in, checked the wire office to see on any new news of my two prey.
Hatako and his employer haven't been spotted in months, and when they were seen last it was always in such random places you’d just have to be lucky if you ever wanted to catch them. Hatako is always the one to spot, I hear. Short Akida man, clean ponytail kept under his hat, always has his sword on him. I've always wondered how he kept that thing with him and not be spotted in the blink of an eye, but only a handful of folk had been able to report on him, the rest of them apparently were dead.
My week of stay turned into two, and slowly stretched into three. I started to be known as a local, and one of the kids there began to call me 'Uncle Thomas'. Little terrier boy named Jack; he loved how our ears were similarly marked with big blots of color on our left ears and he claimed we were distant relatives. I wasn't going to spend the time or money finding out, but I'm sure if you looked back far enough, you'd still find nothing. The kid started following me everywhere I went to every job I got, helping clean out a barn, do a night watch for the sheriff, anything. The only thing I could do that the little ball of energy couldn't follow me around for was working in the saloon. I threatened to make him start working himself if he was going to be following. I thought it'd get him to go away, but the brat kept with me, carrying crates or brushing down any horses he could reach. I hated to admit it, but I started liking the little devil.
Apparently if you stay in one spot luck will eventually find you. Work was getting heavy and workers were needed south of the little town I had found about 130 miles. Heavy rains were hitting in the hills over there but never made it this far, so crops were booming enough that the farmers couldn't keep up. I saw some of the local workers loading up tools and crates into a wagon, and I got them to let me ride with them for only $17. Worth the money for putting up with a couple of farmers and two riding guards for a few days. With everything I saved up, I’d still have $20 to get me a bed once we got to the southern farms, and I can finally start my search again.
Jack wanted to come, but I told him to ask his mother. Snowball in hell kind of chance, right? Now I’m stuck riding for days next to this little sap-suckin talkative devil.
