Portent and Silver Pride—A Western Tale

Salem’s Drop, Arizona—1876.  Some ten miles north of the Gila River, nestled in the shadow of the Santa Catalina Mountains, a desperate story of greed and cruelty unfolds in a deserted storehouse. August Staunton, a simple bank clerk from Gunshot got drunk in the Saloon and bragged too loudly about a big shipment of silver he was being trusted with. He had never been given such a big responsibility, and was boastful proud, and too green to know better.

August Staunton was still on the dirty sod floor trying to regain his senses. It was bad this time. They very nearly killed him. They would for certain sure if he didn’t say when the Silver would arrive. Gus Crowley seemed to enjoy giving the beating, well beyond his excitement over getting the information he was after. He strained to push himself up—no good. The bullwhip left deep wounds on his back. No point in fighting. They already won; he was going to die, sure as God made little green apples. Mary was soon to be a 23 year old widow, and Scott would grow up fatherless—how the hell was that fair?

He wondered where he was. He had been bushwhacked coming out of the saloon, and didn’t wake up again until the wagon that bore came to halt, but what was this place. He barely got a glimpse of a bleak ghost town before they wrestled him into this old storehouse. Then the questions and beatings began.

A cool breeze blew past his face. A zephyr from the mountains he glimpsed through an open window, sometime between the fist strikes, and boot stomping.  Straining his neck, he rolled his head over, grinding his bloody chin into the sod floor.  The door was open. The bastards didn’t even bother to close it. They knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He could hear them laughing outside, an unintelligible din of cruel and bloodthirsty voices—vipers all. Their voices became hushed; plodding horse hooves announced the arrival of someone else. The voices sounded surprised…even a little angry. Who was it?

They questioned the new arrival; the voice that responded was raspy and threatening. Though August couldn’t make out what was being said the result was clear. Panic seemed to overtake the lot of them, there were rushing sounds of seats sliding back on the planks and booted feet scrambling quickly to take cover. A crash and splintering wood betrayed the up-ending of a table. Their calls were frantic and dire.

Gus’s voice rose up above the din, “Shoot him boys…” Gunfire erupted on the miniscule end of the statement, but not from them, the traveler was faster on the draw. The horse released an eerie, staggered roar, as the stranger fired, showering Gus and his gang with blazing lead.

Disquieting gurgles and labored moans were the only sounds that emanated from where the gang made their stand, but it didn’t last long. There was an  audible booted footstep and the jangling of a spur as that strange rider dismounted. Additional, slow, steps punctuated by the jingling spurs closed on the open door.

“August Staunton,” intoned a raspy voice as a man appeared, silhouetted in the doorway, his guns were out, balanced against his palms.

Having seen August on the floor, the gunman stepped inside, holstering the weapons as he came. “They burned your barn after they snatched you. Everyone already thinks you are dead.” The stranger pushed August onto his back with a boot.

August moaned as the gunman rolled him over, only to see the stranger clearly for the first time. Whatever this man was, he had a ghastly skull for a face under a black hat, and framed with wild, stringy, black hair. A blue cape was draped over his shoulders fastened by a skull clasp. Another skull adorned the buckle of his gun belt. Like Gus’s gang, August fell silent, his throat paralyzed by disbelief.

The Stranger stood up, towering above August, then leaned down again with an outstretched, gloved hand.

“Are you living, or are you dead?” Questioned the odd benefactor.

After a few brief, terrorfied, moments, August resolved to accept this help, no matter what this man might be. He reached up and accepted the stranger’s hand, who promptly hoisted him up to his feet and assisted him outside.

“We have to hurry,” the Skull faced stranger said. “You need a Doctor and more men will be here soon. Bad men—but I am not in the mood to keep killing today.” The stranger took August out to a black horse, waiting outside, and pushed him up, into the saddle. “Whirlwind will carry you back to Fort Kent. When you get there, tell an officer what happened. Whirlwind will then run off and come back to me. Don’t worry, the men of Kent know him and won’t try and stop him. The ride won’t be comfortable, but you will survive.” He patted the black horse on the shoulder, which responded with a nicker. “Next time, you should be a might more prudent about who you shoot your mouth off to about the bank’s business.  The Silver route details should have remained quietly with you. You were reckless and the beating you took was your prize.”

August finally managed to speak. “What…who are you?”

“No name. You were right the first time. I’m not a who, but rather a what—a portent and a revelation.” With that, he slapped Whirlwind on the rump, who responded by hastening away toward Fort Kent, and safety.

Once the black steed was clear, the weird stranger made his way back to his campsite to await his charger’s return. Once there, Chet Fairchild removed the terrifying face-mask, crouched down, and built a fire. Coffee and beans will be my reward, he thought. Like the passing of scant cloud across the moon, a thin smile materialized across his face, and just as rapidly, vanished.

The End