Doom Town

[Hawkman]

De Maupassant rode easy on Trigger, the Palomino he’d stolen from Margarita, the madam of the cat-house he’d holed up in down in Mexico. It was a mere three hours since he’d left a poet lying dead back at Choking Gulch; some upstart fool who’d tried to ask him for an autograph. De Maupassant had given him one, stitched into his chest with bullet holes. By now the flies would be thick on the corpse and sucking greedily at the rusty brown stain his blood had made on the ground—ground so dry it had absorbed his gore like blotting paper.

The poet had owned nothing worth stealing; his boots had been down at heel, his trousers ragged and threadbare, and of course, he’d had no money. Still, the fool shouldn’t have crept up behind him while he’d been brewing the foul American coffee over his campfire.


The sun was high, just a few minutes shy of noon, and it was hot. His sweat trickled in sticky rivulets through the dust which caked his sunburned face. The poet’s lace handkerchief, which he’d tied over his nose and mouth, did little to filter the fine dirt suspended in the baked air. His nose itched with it and his mouth was dry. He reined in the horse and pulled down the useless foppish rag, then reached for his canteen. It felt light so he shook it and the denuded contents slopped feebly inside. Only a few swallows left, he figured, and still 20 miles or more to Quill Tip Butte with its tiny brackish waterhole, if, that is, he was where he thought he was. He spat and took a swig; just enough to wet the inside of his mouth, then wiped the sweaty grime off his face with his sleeve.

Standing tall in his stirrups he shaded his eyes with his dusty black Stetson and squinted into the distance. Across the scrubby plain, with its litter of static tumbleweeds and surrendering cacti, beyond a low red and yellow streaked rocky outcrop, he saw, high up in the cloudless sky, a column of wheeling buzzards, slowly descending upon a smudge of smoke rising from the ground. A fresh kill, maybe two—three miles off, he estimated; an opportunity for pickings and worth a look. He might even find enough water to get him where he was headed. It was in the right general direction so he couldn’t lose out by stopping by. He shoved the hat back onto his head and slumped back into the saddle, then, with a flick of the reins, he steered Trigger towards the smoke.

Beneath the circling carrion birds and rising smoke, two raggedly dressed women were picking through the scattered goods which had once comprised the load of a burning waggon. It lay on its side, the blackened skinless hoops that had supported the canopy, reminiscent of a dinosaur’s ribs. A third, and equally disreputable-looking woman, stood a little further off, holding the bridles of the horses that had pulled it.

Beside the wreckage, two dead men sprawled face down in the dirt, their shirts proclaiming the manner of their passing through the blossoming red stains on their backs.

“God dammit, they ain’t got nothin’ worth stealin’!” exclaimed the eldest of the women, as she kicked over a box containing nothing more than pristine exercise books.

“Shute, Charlie, this box is just pens and ink,” said the second.

“What say, Emm?”

“I said, this box is jes’ pens and ink. You done had us hold up a stationary waggon, you dumb cluck.”

“You watch your lip little sister, or you’ll wind up getting’ it split with my fist. I s’pose you’d rather we’d held up a stage or taken a consignment for a dress shop!”

“Well, we could do with some new clothes,” piped up the woman holding the horses.

“You keep out of it, Annie,” said Charlie. “We may all be consumptives, but I’m bigger’n meaner than the pair o’ youse and I could lick you both with one hand tied behind my back. I’m the boss, and don’t you forget it.”

“I was just sayin’,” muttered Annie to herself.

“Well, don't.” snapped Charlie.

In the conversational hiatus that followed this ill-tempered exchange, the sound of flames greedily licking at charred wood was unexpectedly accompanied by a descant of soft, masculine moaning.

“Where the hell did that come from?” asked Emm, cocking her Winchester and swinging the barrel to cover the two inert bodies.

“Not from them, that’s for sure,” said Charlie. “Sound came from behind the waggon. Go take a look.”

Emm cautiously walked around the waggon, rifle at the ready, taking care not to get too close to the flames and trying not to breathe the smoke into her weakened lungs. Towards the front she discovered the source of the moaning. It was a young man with sun-bleached hair and the faint traces of blonde stubble around a finely chiselled chin. He’d obviously been trapped by the legs beneath the vehicle as it had rolled over. He was lying on his back. His clean-cut features were contorted with pain and he looked up at the woman with pleading blue eyes.

“Help me…” he gasped.

Emm swung her rifle back against her shoulder and stared down at him with a faint stirring of compassion.

“Hell Charlie, he’s just a kid. The boy’s barely got his first beard.”

“Do what you can for him then,” said Charlie, but she carried on sifting through the scattered boxes, before moving on to the dead men’s pockets.

Emm knelt beside the boy and gave him an appraising look.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he said.

“It’s probably just as well, son. They’m broke pretty bad. Ain’t no way me an’ my sisters could get this waggon off you anyways. I reckon your back’s broke too.”

“How is he?” called Annie from where she stood with the horses.

“He ain’t good,” answered Emm.

“Am I gonna die?”

“Everybody dies son, and you ain’t gonna get better, that’s for sure. I can’t do nothing for you, ’cept ease your pain. You just close your eyes, there’s a good boy.”

Annie jumped at the sound of the gunshot and the horses whinnied and stamped in consternation, but she managed to hold onto them. Charlie just stood up and sighed. She was holding two gun belts with holstered Colts “Well, at least we got the horses out of it, and these always come in handy.”

“I see dust on the horizon. Riders comin’,” said Annie.

“Then we’d best be on our way. If there’s anything you want then pick it up now. I’m fetchin’ our horses.

“There’s nothin’ here ’cept bad memories,” said Emm, emerging from behind the charred waggon. She reloaded her Winchester while they waited for Charlie to come back with their mounts. Annie led the draught animals over to where she stood.

“Was that well done, sis?”

“What’s it matter now?” said Emm. “What’s done is done.”

“I guess…”

They lapsed into silence and listened to the waggon wood burning. A moment later the sounds of three horses’ hooves scuffing the dry ground, together with the tinkling of their harnesses, impinged upon their hearing. Then Charlie reappeared leading their beasts.

“You and Annie hitch them horses to the pommels of your saddles,” she said.

“Where we headed?” asked Emm.

“Moonstone,” said Charlie. “We’ll get a good price for the beasts there.”

The three women mounted up, and spurring their horses into an easy canter, headed southwest with the draught animals following behind.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, De Maupassant pulled up his horse beside the burning waggon. He took a moment to cast his eyes over the scene. About two miles distant he could just make out three mounted figures and a cloud of dust through the heat haze.

He’d only been about a mile away when he’d heard the single rifle shot. He’d considered spurring his horse into a gallop, but thought better of it. The shot had had an air of finality about it, which suggested that any assistance he might have been able to render, had he had the inclination, would have arrived somewhat late. Besides, the person or persons unknown who were responsible for it were obviously still active in the vicinity, and arriving unannounced might have inconvenienced them. This would probably have made them somewhat tetchy, if not positively hostile towards anyone chancing by and not minding their own business. Consequently, he’d inclined towards discretion, and had been in no hurry to broaden his circle of acquaintances.

Dismounting, he took a good look round to see if he could find anything worth salvaging. Discovering what the waggon had been carrying caused him to smile and twitch an eyebrow. He helped himself to a couple of exercise books, a bottle of ink and some pens, which he stowed carefully in his saddlebag, then he returned to examining the wreckage with the distinct goal of finding water. A few moments later he was rewarded with the discovery of a full canteen lying under the corpse of a young blond chap with half his head missing. A barrel, attached to the side of the wagon at the rear, although a little scorched, had proved to be otherwise undamaged and nearly full. He would have liked to be able to take it away with him, but it was too awkward to carry on his horse. So, he’d just refilled his canteen from it and offered what remained to Trigger, who had appreciated it.

With the necessity of visiting Quill Tip Butte negated by the discovery of the water, De Maupassant considered his options. He’d been heading for the riotously notorious frontier town of Moonstone, but his rather rudimentary grasp of the local topography, coupled with the inconvenience of only having a wildly inaccurate map of the territory, had led him astray. This was the reason he’d been so low on water when the itinerant poet had tried to jump him. The fact that this waggon had been conveying the kind of supplies it had, in quantities only likely to be required in some outpost of civilisation and which, at the very least, harboured a substantial store, and quite possibly a schoolhouse, led him to believe that he might not be too far from his goal.

Noting that the horses which had drawn the waggon had been removed, and reasoning that anyone holding up such a waggon would necessarily have come up somewhat short in their expectations, he surmised that the bandits would probably try to convert them into cash at the earliest opportunity. It was therefore highly likely that if he followed in their tracks, he’d hit pay dirt in the form of some kind of town, and if he was really lucky, it might even be the one he was aiming for. Feeling both refreshed and encouraged, he swung himself back into the saddle and headed out, following in the bandits' wake.

To be continued…

[Snowqueen]

It really is a wonderful story, Hawkman! I simply can’t wait to read the next part. The western setting enhances the suspense and the intensity of the story. I felt like reading a chapter from Cormac McCarthy’s novel.

I enjoyed it and I think young Litnet writers should learn from you. :D

Thanks for sharing. :)

[IJustMadeThatUp]

I can't wait to find out what happens next!

[MANICHAEAN]

A good start to this yarn Hawk, though in the beginning I could not get my head around jumping from the exotic name of “De Maupassant,” (images of Balzac) to that of “Trigger,” (images of Del Boy’s associates!)
After that I settled down well into your portrayal of the Western backdrop, apart that is from an absence of beans with the coffee. Remember Rawhide. They always had beans.
Loved the three harridans and the subsequent evolvement of the plot. Well done and look forward with bated breath to more.
Best regards
Deputy M.

[Hawkman]

Thank you Snowqueen, IJMTU & Man :) you'll all be glad to know that I'm working hard on part 2 and it'll be along drectly, as they say around here :D

Man, you will doubtless be aware that Trigger was also Roy Rodger's horse, though there is no reason that you should know it was also the monicker slapped on my brother's trusty steed :) sad, but true :svengo:

I sincerely hope that you'll all enjoy the next instalment as much as you did the first...

Live and be well - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Am I getting mixed up with "Hi Ho Silver" with regards to our equestrian friend?

[Hawkman]

I doubt it! :D

[Hawkman]

Sam Clemens had just set the last paragraph of type, ready for printing the latest edition of The Moonstone Gazette, when he glimpsed the unmistakeable figure of Sherriff Collins casually walking down Blake Street through the window. He wiped his hands on a rag and headed out through the door to catch him before he reached the Palace Saloon. The lawman was only a few yards ahead of him when Sam emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight.

“Howdy, Sherriff,”

“Hey, Sam. How’s it hangin’? asked Collins, turning to greet the newspaper man.

“Swingin’ in the breeze, like always.”

“So, are you just shootin’ it, or is there somethin’ particular on your mind?”

“Well, I’m never averse to shootin’ the breeze; it’s the newsman’s stock in trade, you know that. It’s how we find things out; bein’ conversational an’ all. Sometimes we get to hear things other folks ain’t yet aware of.

“Spit it out, Sam. What you heard?”

“Seen and heard, more like. A man come by my place just now, he was asking for Chuck.

“So?”

“New face in town. Well set up young feller…”

“And?”

“Tied down gun.”

“I see… You figure he’s lookin’ fer trouble?”

“Could be... The man had a mighty critical light in his eye, that’s fer sure. I told him Chuck was out of town.”

“That was probably a good idea. D’you see where he went?”

“He asked me where he might find a room fer a few days. I pointed him to The Silverload. He headed right on over.”

“When was this?”

“Mebbe fifteen minutes ago.”

“I see. So, D’you know where Chuck is?”

“Sure, Sherriff, he’s in the Palace. Where else would he be?”

“Thanks, Sam. I guess I’d better mosey on over and pay our new face a visit; make sure he’s minded to be peaceable.”

“Good luck with that… Like I said, he had a mighty critical light in his eye…”

“So do I,” replied the Sherriff, and he swung on his heel towards the hotel. The six pointed badge of office that was pinned to his leather waistcoat flashed authoritatively as he did so. “So long, Sam,” he called as he stepped out across the street.

“You take care now, Wilkie,” said Sam, heading back into the newspaper office.

“I reckon so,” said the lawman to himself as he eased the six-gun in its holster and walked into the lobby of the Silverload.

As it turned out he’d arrived a mere two minutes after the stranger had clattered down the back stairs and out onto the street behind the hotel. Just as Sherriff Collins was busy asking the hotel clerk what his room number was, the newcomer was emerging from an alley onto Blake Street, and he was currently striding confidently over to the entrance of the Palace Saloon. His spurs chimed with every footfall and his boots kicked up puffs of dry dirt from the road, some of which settled on his trouser legs.

He paused on the threshold outside the batwing doors and attempted to wipe the dust from his boots on the backs of his calves. Then he patted at the light dust on his legs to the sound of the honkytonk piano drifting out from the bar. He didn’t want to look scruffy while he did what he was about to do.

Satisfied with his appearance, he took a moment to familiarise himself with the layout of the dim interior. On the left, behind the bar, there was a great bear of a man wearing some kind of smock. He had a bushy beard that covered half his chest and a high forehead, though what remained of his hair was wild and straggly. The piano was being played by a man with his back to the doorway. He appeared to be wearing a neat suit, which was cut in a way that contrived to make his figure appear somewhat feminine.

On the right, behind a table, a foppish looking young man with long hair was sitting facing the entrance. He was absentmindedly shuffling a deck of cards while he cast his gaze around him with a disparaging sneer. Sighting down his nose with heavily lidded eyes, everything he looked at seemed to fill him with revulsion. The stranger outside could easily understand why. The décor could only be described as “Cat-house Chic,” or at a pinch, “Bell Epoch Bordello.”

Then he saw the man he’d come to Moonstone to find.

A distinguished-looking elderly gent wearing a fashionably cut frock coat walked into the saloon through a back door marked, ‘Private.’ He strolled up to the bar, put his foot upon the rail, then leaned casually on the counter and ordered a whisky. The man sported a trim beard that jutted from his chin like a spurt from a water pipe, and although he was a little thin on top, he wore loose curls at his temples. His eyes had that thousand yard stare that you got from peering into your imagination for too long.

The stranger let out a contented sigh and stroked the butt of his colt with his fingertips. The anticipation made his feet tingle and he felt his heart thumping in his chest. Taking a deep breath he pushed through the batwing doors and strode into the saloon.

At the sound of the squeaking doors the music abruptly ceased and all the occupants turned to observe the new arrival. The clunking of his heels against the wooden floor, together with the ringing of his spurs, sounded loud and ominous in the unexpected silence. The piano player stood up and walked over to him with a welcoming smile.

“Howdy, stranger. The name’s Evans, but you can call me George. This is my place.”

The voice was considerably higher pitched than he’d been expecting, but it explained the feminine figure. George was not a particularly attractive man, but as a woman she’d have been downright ugly. She had a long face and an enormous nose, which even a horse would have considered unattractive, especially in profile. The fact that George was a transvestite was the least of her worries.

“Howdy,” said the stranger with soft menace.

“What’s yer handle mister?” asked George.

“The name’s James.”

“You one of the James boys?” asked the dapper gent at the bar.

“Well I do have a brother, so you’d be accurate in sayin’ so, but even if it weren’t so, it don’t take much imagination to work it out, now, does it…”

“Easy, stranger. So which one are you, Frank or Jessie?”

“I ain’t neither. My first name’s Hank.”

“So what brings you to Moonstone, Hank?” asked George in a good natured attempt to lighten the atmosphere which was settling on the saloon like a sheet of lead.

“I’m lookin’ for a man.”

“Aren’t we all…” commented the languid young man in the corner.

“I’m not,” said the barman in heavily accented English as he polished a smeared beer glass into a semblance of cleanliness.

“Leo, give the man a drink,” said the dapper gent to the barman without taking his eyes off Hank James, “What’ll it be?”

“I buy my own liquor, Mister.”

“I don’t recall offering to pay for it, sonny. I was just askin.”

The old man’s eyes were glittering like adamant and Hank began to feel a little tremor of doubt. He backed down, dropping his eyes, then turned to face the bar, hitching his foot on the rail.

“Whisky,” he said. He figured a couple of good shots would restore his confidence.

“Coming right up,” said Leo, placing a shot glass on the bar and slopping the hard stuff into it. “So much aggression, my friend, just let it go. You should give up eating meat; it burdens the soul.”

“How come you’re so concerned with my soul; are you some kind of preacher?” James reached for the shot glass and gulped down the contents before slamming the empty glass back down on the counter. “Gimme another.”

“No. Not a preacher comrade; just a philosopher. Show me a barman who isn’t,” said Leo, pouring another shot into the glass.

“You sure talk funny fer a barman. Where’re you from?”

“Mother Russia. I am Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, but you can call me Leo. Everybody else does.”

“Count? You’ve kind of come down in the world, ain’t you?”

“I’m philosophical about it,” shrugged the barman.

“So, Mr. James, who wuz it you come to Moonstone to find? You never got around to tellin’ us,” said the dapper Gent, fixing the man with an unnerving stare.

James didn’t answer immediately. Very deliberately he reached for his glass and lifted it to his lips then paused with the glass just beneath his nose. The fumes from the contents almost made his eyes water as he savoured its bouquet. Then he knocked it back in one gulp and slowly put the empty glass back on the counter.

Turning to face his interrogator, he met his stare and said, “I’m lookin’ fer Chuck Dickens.”

“That’d be me,” said the dapper Gent, grimly. “But you knew that, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I knew that.”

“So why wuz you lookin’ fer me, sonny?”

“I wanted to tell you sumthin’,” said James, and despite his shot of Dutch courage he found that his mouth was dry and that he was trembling. “I wanted to tell you that you sir, are the greatest of superficial novelists.”

“Smile when you call me that,” said Dickens with steely resolve, and he stepped away from the bar. Flicking the flap of his frock coat behind his holster, he stood facing his opponent with his hand dangling beside the pearl handle of a beautifully decorated, blue and guilt scrolled Colt.

One glance was enough to tell James that it was no ornament, and very well maintained. Every fibre of his intellect was screaming at him to stop, to back down, to apologise; but his intellect held no sway over his emotions and the power of the alcohol singing in his blood. If it could have, it would have told him that an old gunslinger was a very good gunslinger. But he could no more stop now than he could fly.

“Furthermore,” he continued, beyond the bounds of even the remotest sense of self-preservation, “It is, in my opinion, an offence against humanity to place you among the greatest novelists, for you have created nothin' but figure and have added nothin' to our understandin' of human character!”

The exclamation mark had only just escaped his lips when he had reached for his own gun. His fingertips barely had time to caress its handle when he was astonished to see the speed, fluidity and grace with which Dickens’ hand drew the immaculate colt, both cocking and firing it in less than a split second. The detonation rang in his ears and the cloud of smoke issuing from its muzzle engulfed him as if it were the mists of Avalon. As he sagged to the ground, with the force of the bullet’s impact having knocked all the wind from his lungs, he imagined himself being born away on a boat to the sacred isle, tended by the grieving priestesses of a lost religion. His vision darkened, and he lay, stone dead in a widening pool of his own blood, on the floor of saloon.

Seeing that Dickens was momentarily distracted, the foppish young man at the table almost seized his opportunity to make history. Almost. Rather than simply acting, by drawing the derringer in his inside pocket and shooting, he made the mistake of first declaiming, “You would need to have a heart of stone not to laugh at the death of Little Nell.”

This, coupled with George’s exclamation of, “No, Wilde, don’t be a damned fool!” gave ample warning of his intention, and before he could realize his ambition, Dickens’ ornate colt spoke again, discharging its deadly cargo of lead to embed itself in his vitals. Thus, characteristically, Wilde gave up his life for an epigram.

He fell into George’s arms as Tolstoy declared, “What a senseless waste of human life. Still, they’ll be talking about this for years.”

“There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about,” whispered Wilde as George cradled his head in her arms.

“Hush now son, don’t you fret none,” she said, and Wilde gagged.

He cast one last disgusted look around the interior of the saloon and coughed a little blood. “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do,” he said, then closed his eyes.

The sound of gunplay had brought Sherriff Collins running. He stood now in the doorway, taking in the scene.

“Shute, Chuck, Did you have to kill ‘em?”

“They give me no choice, Sherriff, It were self-defence.”

“Leo?”

I’m afraid it’s true. They both tried to kill him.”

“I reckon so…” said Collins. He sighed and he walked away to find the undertaker.

When Sam Clemens heard about it, all he could say was, “Dang! I missed it.” But that didn’t stop him writing up the incident as though he hadn’t.

By sundown there were two patches of freshly turned earth on Boot Hill and a hundred copies of The Moonstone Extra in circulation, which, from the point of view of those who had witnessed the episode, was wildly inaccurate. But then, what writer ever let the truth get in the way of a good story...

To be continued…

[AuntShecky]

"Trigger" was the mighty steed belonging to Roy Rogers indeed. Roy had him well-trained to the point at which the horse could do simple arithmetic. Roy would ask, "Trigger, how much is two plus two?" whereupon Trigger would stomp one of his hooves four times. When he sadly departed to the Great Corral in the Sky, Roy took Trigger's silky remains to the taxidermist whereupon he was stuffed. (This of course was before modern technology brought us the miracle of cyrogenics, which Mr. Disney allegedly employed to preserve himself for eternity.)

And, a brief word to Manichaean re:

Remember Rawhide. They always had beans.
Yeah, I remember that show with Franklie Laine's stentorian theme song as well as Clint "Rowdy Yates" Eastwood and company, but what's even more memorable is the campfire scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPIP9KXdmO0) in Mel Brooks's Blazing Saddles

Now back to the story. Hawk, I plugged De Maupassant's name into the Google machine to see if the Fr. short story writer actually ever spent time in the Wild Wild West, not unlike the Stateside touring by Mr. Dickens and Mr.Wilde. ( One of our most cherished writers, Mark Twain, whose early career actually began in America's Western regions, returned the favor, comically reported in A Tramp Abroad and other works.)

Maybe your protag. just happens to share the same surname of the French auteur, or --since we've only been regaled with the introductory chapter so far--perhaps the story will explain deM.'s unlikely appearance here. He's no "dude" (like the unfortunate young man w. the lace hankerchief) or greenhorn, since he's got the duds and the western lifestyle down. Added to the mix are three
crones who appear to be the rustic version of the witches in The Scottish Play.

Whatever, we're in for some kind of rip-roarin' yarn. Looking forward to the next installments.

Meanwhile, you might want to clear up some of the questionable spellings, notable double consonants in "wagon," (the noun , not the participle in "waggin' one's tail) and "riders comin'." Also, the type of elevated topography, a small mesa, found out West is spelled "butte" as in "Butte, Montana.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

And thanks for readin' this lil ol' tale. Whilst I hold my hand up to the extra m in comin as a typo, and acknowledge the American word Butte as one which I didn't bother to look up, but spelled phonetically, I feel it incumbent upon me to point out that we Brits actually know how to spell waggon, whereas you Yanks don't :D :D :D :lol: Incidentally, Bute wasn't flagged by my spell checker because there is an Isle of Bute in Scotland. I've corrected the typos, thanks. The identity of the three witches will become somewhat more obvious come the closing episode, that is, if they require further exposition. If you have read episode two, you'll probably have already got the gist. If you have, keep it to yourself until after the final post :D We wouldn't want to spoil it for the knowlessmen, now would we? :D

Live and be well - H

[Calidore]

Yeah, I remember that show with Franklie Laine's stentorian theme song as well as Clint "Rowdy Yates" Eastwood and company, but what's even more memorable is the campfire scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPIP9KXdmO0) in Mel Brooks's Blazing Saddles


Which also had a stentorian theme sung by Frankie Laine (who, according to Mel Brooks, had no idea he was singing for a comedy film, and after that performance they didn't have the heart to tell him).


I feel it incumbent upon me to point out that we Brits actually know how to spell waggon, whereas you Yanks don't

Ahem. As you're writing about the American West, it would make sense to use our more-efficient spelling anyway.

[Hawkman]

"Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,
As that of busy spirits when the portals
Are closing in the west; or that soft humming
We hear around when Hesperus is coming.
Sweet be their sleep."

Nice of you to comment on the converse of these happy mortals, old man, but what do you think of the story so far? :D

Live and be well - H

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Just stumbled on this and so far, looks like a dandy.
I'm chipping away at Part 1 currently.
I'm reminded of Festus and his classic yarns.
Here he is describing how he parted the waters of the Cimarron River...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8363Z3V0Es

"Doc I told you a hundred dozen times, when you start to read read'n, how d'ya know that the feller that wrote the read'n, wrote the read'n right?

[Snowqueen]

I loved the second episode. It’s humorous and witty. I admit I never thought Dickens would be so touchy about his characters. lol
I'll look forward to read the next part of your story.

[Hawkman]

Hi G_G, and thanks for stopping by. Hope you'll drop in again to catch up with the final episode :D Don't think I ever saw Gunsmoke, but I did watch the Virginian, Alias Smith & Jones, and Bonanza of course. I think there were a couple of others, but I kind of got hooked on Spaghetti Westerrns at an early age.

Seems like the character in the clip owed quite a lot to that old Western stalwart, Walter Brennan.

Hi Snowqueen. Delighted that you're enjoying this tale so much :) Hopefully you won't have to wait too long for the next bit.

Live and be well - H

[Calidore]

Nice of you to comment on the converse of these happy mortals, old man, but what do you think of the story so far? :D


I like the idea--classic authors meeting in a Western setting. A proper opinion will have to wait until the end.

You do Western talk okay for a Brit. The exclamation "shute" should still be spelled "shoot," though.

I think the main weakness is a seeming tendency to write to impress, leading to story-halting overwriting sometimes. Part one, fourth paragraph from bottom is a good example. If you're actually wanting to do a pulp-style story, you'll have a lot of fat to trim here. On the other hand, if your aim is to write a pulpish story in a pompous literary style for satirical purposes, then never mind.

Is this going to go on indefinitely until you get tired of it, or is it finite and working toward a set finale?

[Delta40]

Lol. I like the pomp! I wish you had drawn the second instalment out a little more given the extra characters who suddenly emerged compared with the first instalment so I hope the third will do them all justice!

[Hawkman]

Calidore: thanks for your note. I confess that I did wonder about how I should write "Shoot/Shute". I admit that I rather thought it merely an expression of a bowdlerised SH1T, so to be honest, I didn't really think it mattered all that much :D I've never actually seen it written in context, merely heard the word said in old black and white movies and prime-time TV shows. Modern audiences don't seem to suffer so much at the hands of the censors ;)

I'm not writing to impress, merely to entertain, and yes, this includes my own personal spin on narrative style, which I would hope was both informative of character as well as being amusingly at variance with the down home talk of the cowboys and girls, who all happen to be transplanted 19th century novelists and who would all, with the possible exception of Sam Clemens, have written at considerably greater, and more digressive, length.

Doubtless, you will be relieved to learn that there will be a conclusion to the tale.

Hi Delta, and thanks for reading so far. Glad you're enjoying it. :) I will try to live up to your expectations :D

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

I like the idea behind this, of famous authors in the western setting. We always ask ourselves about famous figures, what would they say about this or that or the other. I don't know where you got the idea, I thought eating mushrooms had gone the way of the hairy mammoths, but it makes for a fascinating read!

[Hawkman]

Hi Steven. I can assure you that mushrooms were not required to stimulate the imagination to come up with this idea. All that was actually required was a quick Google. I was doing some background research on De Maupassant and I took one look at his photograph. That was enough. In the picture he was sporting rather a magnificent moustache with a little tuft under his bottom lip, and I thought, stick a cowboy hat on him and he'd not look out of place in the wild west. I then took a look at a load more of my favourite 19th C authors, and lo and behold, they all looked as though they could comfortably fit into one of those souvenir postcards they used to take of dead outlaws, with the Sherriff and his deputies standing around the coffin in front of the general store! Reading Henry James' critique of Dickens seemed ample justification for putting them in a gunfight - lol.

It also rather amused me to think of all those characteristically interminable sentences, with their countless and rambling subordinate clauses, so beloved of the Victorian literary style, being reduced to the grammatically questionable monosyllabic utterances of Clint Eastwood style cowboys. I reckon so...

I think their behaviour in my story has less to do with, "I wonder what they'd have done in this situation," than it has with, "Wouldn't it be great if they did this!" I mean, what could be better than distilling the petty literary and egotistical jealousies down to a gunfight - lol.

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

It also rather amused me to think of all those characteristically interminable sentences, with their countless and rambling subordinate clauses, so beloved of the Victorian literary style, being reduced to the grammatically questionable monosyllabic utterances of Clint Eastwood style cowboys. I reckon so...

I think their behaviour in my story has less to do with, "I wonder what they'd have done in this situation," than it has with, "Wouldn't it be great if they did this!" I mean, what could be better than distilling the petty literary and egotistical jealousies down to a gunfight - lol.



Hey, don't laugh. Literary feuds (http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2010/05/21/the-11-greatest-literary-feuds.html) *can draw a ton of publicity. I can remember tv from the late sixties when Norman Mailer was itching for a fight with anybody who crossed his path. The face-offs between Gore Vidal and Wm F. Buckley were pretty memorable as well. Good thing the parties involved weren't packing heat.

Scenes we'd like to see: a good old-fashioned down-and-dirty, no holds barred catfight as seen on prime time soaps ("Dallas," e.g.) during Sweeps Week. How 'bout a battle between Willa Cather and Edith Wharton? Or a melee between Amy Lowell and Emily D.? And I don't know about you, but one can only imagine how disconcerting it would have been to confront the likes of Edna Ferber in a blind alley.

* That link is a "listicle (http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2013/08/10-paragraphs-about-lists-you-need-in-your-life-right-now.html?mbid=nl_Daily%20(9))."

[Hawkman]

As the sun began setting below the low hills, the poor light made it increasingly difficult for De Maupassant to follow the bandits’ trail. He would have to stop and pick it up again in the morning. Besides, both he and Trigger were tired from the long ride under the blazing sun and they both needed some rest.

It wasn’t a particularly good place to camp, there was no grazing for Trigger, but they’d been riding beside a feeble stream for some ten minutes, so at least the horse would be able to have a drink. There was some dry, scrubby vegetation scattered about, which would provide some dead wood and twigs for a fire, but he’d have to feed Trigger what was left of the oats he was carrying in his saddlebags.

Wearily, he swung himself down from the saddle and winced as his stiff muscles protested at the exercise. He unsaddled the horse and tended to its needs before setting about seeing to his own. After dining on a mess of beans and jerky, washed down with river water coffee, he bedded down for the night beneath the stars and drifted into sleep to the sound of the coyotes’ howling serenade.

Some two miles further on, the three sisters had also pulled up to camp for the night. It was only about five miles to Moonstone but the terrain was not conducive to night riding. They too had had a long day and needed to rest up and eat. Besides, there’d been something that had to be done before trying to sell the liberated horses.

“Annie, did you tend to them two beasts like I told you, an’ check ’em fer brands,” said Charlie as she set down her tin plate by the fire.

“I done the best I could; it was gettin’ dark. I didn’t see nothin’ obvious.”

“Well I hope there ain’t. I don’t want no horse tradin’ to come back on us in Moonstone. Sherriff Collins don’t concern himself none with what goes on out here, but he’s a stickler for the niceties in town.”

“He’s just one man ain’t he? There’s three of us,” said Annie.

“You’re forgettin’, he’s got Chuck Dickens to back him up.”

“That’s still three against two. Mebbe we can take ‘em…”

“Mebbe ain’t good odds.”

“You want me to make sure about them horses?” asked Emm.

“Can’t do no harm,” said Charlie.

“In this light?” retorted Annie with a snort.

“If’n I can scribble stories by candlelight, I can sure find a brand on a horse by firelight,” said Emm.

“That were more’n thirty year ago, Emm. You think your eyes is still up to it?”

“You sayin’ I’m old?”

“I’m sayin’ you ain’t young.”

“Ain’t none of us young,” said Charlie, but it don’t hurt none to be careful. Annie, you do the dishes. I’m gonna take a look around before I turn in.”

“Aww! Why do I always get to do the dishes?”

“’Cuz you’re closer to bein’ young than Emm and me,” said Charlie, picking up her rifle and getting stiffly to her feet. Then she turned and walked out of the circle of firelight to be swallowed by the night.


*****

The next morning dawned bright and clear, though the chill of the night was reluctant to loosen its grip on the arid countryside. The sisters had kept watch in turn during the hours of darkness and their fire had been regularly tended, a welcome bastion against the nocturnal cold, but De Maupassant had woken to a cold hearth. He busied himself collecting more fuel, then kindled a fresh blaze to cook up some warming coffee. It was about two hours past dawn by the time he headed out to take up the bandits’ trail again.

By this time, the three sisters were also on the move. They’d only been riding for about 15 minutes when they came upon a trio of Indians plodding stoically along the trail to Moonstone. As the women approached, the redskins halted and watched them pass, their eyes like stones in their inscrutable brown faces. They just stood, like statues, wrapped in blankets against the early morning chill, the feathers in their hair erect as the pricked ears on hunted beasts.

Neither group spoke; the women cast a wary glance towards the Indians and Charlie gave a curt nod towards them to acknowledge their existence, but none of the statues responded. They just watched in stony silence as the women rode on.

Some thirty minutes later De Maupassant came upon the same group. Again they halted to observe the traveller, but this time the rider pulled up and leaned down from the saddle and addressed them.

“Bonjour messieurs, est-ce la bonne chemin pour Moonstone?”

The lead Indian looked blankly back at him having only understood one word, ‘Moonstone,’ at which he’d narrowed his eyes. After a pause his arm emerged from under his blanket and he pointed down the trail in the direction of the town.

“Quelle distance est-il?”

This enquiry provoked no response at all, but having at least determined that he was heading in the right direction, De Maupassant sighed, then nodded to his informant and moved off down the trail.

By now the weird sisters had reached the outskirts of the town, whose boundary was announced with a bullet-riddled wooden sign which proudly proclaimed:


MOONSTONE
population*
205
204
202
201

Just off to the left was the bleached and half collapsed wooden fence which demarcated the limits of Boot Hill.

“I see there’s been a fresh killin’ since last week,” said Charlie with a grin.

“But there’s two new graves in Boot Hill,” observed Annie.

“I guess one of ‘em musta been a stranger.”

“I wanna see who’s dead.”

“Well go on then, if you must.”

Annie climbed down off her horse, and after handing the reins to Emm, ran over to the cemetery, where she read out the epitaph on the first of the two new grave markers.

“Says here, ‘Here lies Hank James, Shot & Killed by Dickens for his pains.’ I ain’t never heard o’ him. Guess he got what he deserved.”

“So who’s the other one?” called Emm.

“Aww, I don’t believe it! Chuck up an’ went and killed Oscar! What’d he have to go and do that for? “

“Damn!” said Emm.

“Shoot, I really liked him. He was sooo cute. There’s times I just wanted to… Well, you know… get all smoochy an’ all.”

“Annie! What’re you like? Hell, you’d be old enough to be his grandma!” laughed Emm.

“I doubt if you’d’ve been much to his taste even if you weren’t,” chimed in Charlie.

“Well, I thought he was cute,” mumbled Annie as she wiped away a tear and slowly walked back to her horse. “Chuck shouldn’t o’ done it!”

“Aww, stop bein’ so sentimental, Annie. If’n he drew on Chuck, then he must’a been tired o’ livin’. That ain’t murder; it’s natural selection. Now let’s get these horses sold so we can get a drink at the saloon.”

Annie swung herself back into the saddle and the three women headed towards the livery stables by the Knock Out Corral.

Over at the Jailhouse, Sherriff Collins was having a bad day. Not only had he awoken to discover that he’d run out of laudanum, but Doc. Doyle hadn’t been able to fix him up with a fresh supply. He’d just said that he knew where he could score some cocaine. However, Sherriff Collins was not a coke fiend and was currently experiencing the early stages of withdrawal.

On top of this he now had to deal with Mrs’ Gaskell, the schoolteacher, who was complaining that her supply of stationary hadn’t arrived.

“I tell you Sherriff, it isn’t natural. Those supplies should have been here yesterday at the latest. How am I supposed to teach the children without proper writing implements, paper and ink?”

“Well Ma’m, I guess you could try going back to slates and chalk till your order turns up. You’d be better asking at the general store about their deliveries; it’s hardly a legal matter.”

“Well Mr. Kipling hasn’t had any news either,” said Mrs. Gaskell, “What if the carriers have been held up on the road, or just had an accident? Surely that would come under your purview?”

“Well if I hear of such, then I’ll do somethin’ about it. Till then, I guess you’ll have to wait on news.”

“Well I urge you to investigate, Sherriff,” said the schoolteacher, scornfully. “Who knows what could be going on outside of town?” and with that she spun in a rustle of skirts and exited the door, which slammed shut behind her.

Sherriff Collins winced at the noise but hoped for at least a few minutes peace to allow time for the shaking of his hands to ease off. He dabbed at the cold turkey sweat beading on his forehead with his handkerchief and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to calm himself.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sam Clemens burst through the door looking slightly out of breath.

“What is it Sam?”

“You might want to brace yerself, Sherriff.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Cause the Brontë sisters jes’ rode into town.”

“Damn! I ain’t heard no shootin’; are you sure it’s them?”

“Sure I’m sure—I saw ‘em m’sel’, not five minutes ago. They was heading fer the Corral.

Wearily, Sherriff Collins hauled himself out of his swivel chair and walked out from behind his desk to join Sam by the door. “I guess I’d better go talk to ‘em and see they ain’t minded to start no trouble.”

He reached over to the gun belt hanging from a peg by the doorway and strapped it on. Then he opened the door and stepped out towards the Corral with Sam in tow. Sam had missed the gunplay yesterday; he was damned sure he wouldn’t miss anything today.

They found the three women leaning against the corral’s rail, counting the money they’d got from selling the horses. They were all armed. Emm and Annie looked wary, but when Charlie saw the two men approaching she squared up to them and met the Sherrif’s stare with a brazenly sardonic smirk.

“Howdy, Sherriff, Yer lookin’ a mite peaky this mornin’. Not sickenin’ fer somethin’ I hope.”

“Mornin’ Charlie – girls. Looks like you spent the night sleepin’ rough. You all been up to no good or ’ve you all been keepin’ yerselves respectable?”

"Oh, we’s always respectable, Sherriff. Girls like us gotta mind our Ps and Qs so we don’t get into no trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want to think you was lookin’ fer trouble in town, coz if you was, then I’d have to ask you to surrender yer shootin’ irons ‘til you was leavin'.”

“Now that ain’t neighbourly of you, Sherriff—what if trouble was to find us, and we was left with no means of defendin’ ourselves? That don’t sound like an equitable state of affairs to me ’n my sisters.”

“Equitable or not, you cause a ruckus and I’ll be minded to insist.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes and took a firmer grip on her rifle. “You can have my gun when you prize it from my cold dead fingers.”

There was a rather chilly hiatus in the conversation following this remark. Given the Sherriff’s fragile state of health that morning, and considering he was outnumbered three to one, he was disinclined to press the point; after all, Sam couldn’t be relied upon to do more than give him a favourable notice in the obituary column of the Moonstone Gazette.

The atmosphere was tense, so tense that they were all too busy watching each other to notice the arrival of the lone rider who gave them a quizzical glance as he passed by, proceeding up Blake Street towards the Palace Saloon. The sound of the horse’s hooves thudded dully on the road and punctuated the silence like the unheeded ticking of a doomsday clock. As they drew farther off, they faded like a dying man’s heartbeat.

“Well, let’s hope it don’t come to that,” said the Sherriff, eventually. You stayin’ in town long?”

“Mebbe, mebbe not. It kinda Depends,” said Charlie, relaxing as she realised the lawman was not going to try to disarm them.

“Try not to overstay yer welcome,” said Collins, and he gave the women a curt nod and then swung on his heel and headed for the saloon. Sam was busy scribbling furiously in his notebook and missed his cue. Emm snuck around behind him and peered over his shoulder.

“What you writin’ Sam?” she asked in his ear, making him jump, so he dropped his notebook and pencil.

“Hey, Emm, there’s no need to go scarin’ a man like that, creepin’ up behind me an’ all," he said, stooping to pick them up again.

“Aww, Sam, a girl my age has gotta take what pleasures she can, as and when,” she replied with a laugh. “Now you git back ‘n give us a good write-up, you hear?” So saying, she gave him a none too gentle prod in the rear with her rifle butt to speed him on his way. He scurried back to his office with their cackling laughter echoing in his ears.

To be continued…

* If anyone can tell me how to get a Strikethrough font to post on this forum, I'd appreciate it.

[AuntShecky]

Criminey, methinks the surname of the weird sisters is Brontë! So far they're the only famous siblings in this oater. Wonder when Edith, Osbert, and Sacheverell will come riding in with the cavalry? They rode the range until the middle of the 20th c., so the idea probably doesn't "sit well" with you.

[Delta40]

I'm hoping them sisters will hit the saloon and git themselves a damn good time!

[AuntShecky]

I'm hoping them sisters will hit the saloon and git themselves a damn good time!

Darn tootin'! With them showin' satiny red garters while kickin' up their legs in them fancy skirts, as a pianey player bangs on the keys as the bullets fly over his head to break rows and rows of likker bottles!

[glennr25]

I really enjoyed the first part of the story. The only red mark I would give is that you provide a bit too much detail for everything the MC describes, which slows the story down just enough. But then again if this is supposed to be an epic 800 page western, then the detail is warranted. Good start, I'll have to read the rest when I get some time.

[Snowqueen]

Good to see Bronte sisters are back in action again. I guess the days of Chuck in Moonstone are numbered. lol
I enjoyed this part and I hope next is going to be a lot more exciting.

[Hawkman]

Thanks to Auntie, Delta, Glenr & Snowqueen for stopping by. Horrifically busy at the mo. Hope to get this rounded off at the weekend. I'll try to make the finale as exciting as possible for you all - lol

Live and be well - H

[Grit]

Hawkman,

I have greatly enjoyed reading the first three parts of Doom Town. There is a sharp sense of humor but also a fierce reality and emotion as when the sisters finish off the young man with the stationeries.

The parts about writing are funny, including the comment that triggers past owner, a poet, didn't have any money. The offhand way it was written, as if it was obvious that a poet would have no money, made it work.

I also can't go without mentioning the showdown in the saloon with the stranger and Chuck. Hilarious dialogue written in a serious context.

Looking forward to the finale.

[Hawkman]

Hi Grit and thanks for stopping by. Sorry it's taken so long for me to reply. Your comment showed me that I'd been careless of my opening. I was never quite happy with it but I didn't really identify what was wrong until I saw that you had identified Margarita as the dead poet. This couldn't really be the case because the dead poet was both male and had "nothing worth stealing," but the way the second sentence was written, following on from the mention of Margarita, it did read as though the dead poet was Margarita. I've edited the opening to take care of this little problem. It always seems to me that if one is going to make a really bad mistake like this in a story, it is usually going to be right at the beginning, before you get into the swing of the narrative. One should always go back and really read what one has written before posting!

In fact I could probably cut a lot of the preamble and just start at para three, removing all mention of the dead poet. I might yet do so as it would probably be a stronger opening.

Hope to finish the tale today.

Live and be well - H

[Hawkman]

When Sherriff Collins reached the Palace saloon he noted the palomino hitched to the rail outside with its head buried in a nosebag. It was not a horse he recognised, so he figured there had to be another stranger in town. As this usually meant that someone wanted to kill somebody, and considering that the ‘somebody’ was invariably Chuck, he was expecting to find the atmosphere inside the saloon either preternaturally Arctic or heated to the point of inflammatory dissolution. Instead, he found that the regulars were all gathered around the newcomer in friendly conversation and that the bonhomie was being well lubricated by generous libations from the bar.

“Hey Sherriff, come and meet Guy. He’s from France,” shouted George above the hubbub.

“Howdie,” said the Sherriff.

As the crowd parted to include him in the group he got his first look at the stranger. Rather disappointingly he looked just like everyone else, only a bit dustier. He appeared to be a personable enough young man, even with his tied down gun. Actually, Sherriff Collins couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone in pants wearing a gun belt whose holster hadn’t been tied down. Hell, Chuck looked like everyone’s favourite uncle, but to his knowledge he’d killed 15 men and he always wore his gun tied down.

“’Allo.” said Guy, “You are ze famous lawman of Moonstone? Enchante monsieur. I ’ave ’eard so much about you.”

“Already?”

“Mais oui, but of course; you are famous! Everyone ‘ere in Moonstone; zey are all famous!”

“I reckon so,” replied Collins with a wry grin. “So, is there any of us you come here particular to meet?”

“I ’ave come ’ere to meet you all, but I confess, I ’ave a little secret.”

“And what might that be?” asked Chuck with a twinkle.

“Mon dieu, ’ow can I admit my fascination… it is so childish,” said the Frenchman with knowing self-deprecation.

“Oh, come on, Frenchie, you jes blurt it out and get it over and done,” chimed in George with a laugh.

“No, no… I cannot, it is too bizarre!”

“Well now you just gotta,” said Chuck, “We’s all so curious we’s fit to bust!”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Why would we laugh?” asked Collins.

“Mebbe ’cause it’s funny,” said Chuck.

“Well, perhaps a little laughter is good for the soul,” piped up Leo from behind the bar.

“Very well, I tell you. I ’ave come ’ere to meet monsieur Kipling.”

“Kipling!” snorted Chuck, “Haw, haw… Hell, Frenchie, you got a taste fer cake?”

“Mais non, Monsieur Chuck. It is not ’is gateaux I ’ave ’eard about. It is a sing far stranger!”

“I always knew there was something I didn’t like about that Kipling,” muttered Chuck. “So what’s he got that the rest of us don’t have?”

“’e ’as an object incroyable…” breathed De Maupassant in an awed whisper. “A mysterious relic from ze far Indian Sub-Continent.”

“I never figured Kipling for a collector,” said George. “Leo, what say you go an’ roust out Kipling from his store an’ tell him he’s got a visitor wants to see his—what did you call it?”

“Relic of the far—”

“His relic,” concluded George.

“Sure thing boss.”

Leo untied his apron and slipped out while George took over behind the bar. “Time fer a refill boys. Name yer poison.”

With the art of narrative suspense stretched to breaking-point, at least until Leo’s return with Kipling and his mysterious ‘relic’, the business of lubrication was resumed with a vengeance. The occupants of the saloon gathered along the bar while George slopped pure rotgut into shot glasses. Punctuated by wheezing gasps and temporary breathless silences as various drinkers succumbed to the debilitating effects of raw alcohol, a jolly, expectant hubbub prevailed in the saloon, right up to the moment the swing doors slapped back on their hinges as Charlie, Emm and Annie strode into the room carrying their rifles. Charlie and Emm also had gunbelts slung across their chests, which made them look even more belligerent. Every eye in the place watched them in wary silence.

“Hey, George. How about some whiskey fer me an’ m’ sisters?”

“How about you settle your tab Charlie,” said George.

“I can do that,” said Charlie holding up a drawstring purse and tapping the bottom so that it chinked reassuringly. She scanned the other faces at the bar with narrowed eyes, lingering for a moment on the new face in town, then her gaze settled on Chuck, who gave her a dead-eyed stare right back.

“Hey Chuck, How come you went and killed Oscar? Poor Annie was real upset when she found out you shot him.”

“The man made a choice, Charlie. He tried to shoot me in the back while I was occupied with a critic. I was obliged to defend myself.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Charlie with a grim nod. “You hear that, Annie, Chuck din’t have no choice, so you let it be now, y’hear?

“Yeah. I hear,” said Annie sulkily.

“You know I don’t go looking fer trouble,” said Chuck.

“No, but it do have a habit of findin’ you out, don’t it,” said Emm.

“I mind my business. Life’d be more peaceable if other folk did the same.”

“True enough. Sorry I missed the fun, though,” said Charlie.

“Say, who’s yer new friend?” piped up Annie, ogling De Maupassant who was standing next to Chuck by the bar. “He’s cute.”

“This here’s Frenchie,” said Chuck, slapping him on the back and pushing him towards the women. “He’s here ’cause he thinks that our store keeper has a treasure worth seein’. Frenchie, These fine young ladies here is Charlie, Emm and Annie. Annie’s the one what looks like she wants to eat you. They’s the Bronte sisters.”

”Les sœurs Brontë? Merde! J'ai entendu dire vous étiez tous morts,” exclaimed De Maupassant in surprise.

“Yeah, we get that a lot,” said Charlie with a grin, “No sonny, we ain’t dead; we jes come out west fer our health.”

“It sure weren’t fer other people’s,” laughed George from behind the bar. Now girls, you settle up and then you can start runnin’ up a new account.”

“I reckon so…” said Collins, sotto voice, before gulping down his whisky. He had a horrible feeling it was going to be one of those days.

Annie, however, Despite the 30 year age gap, (and perhaps because the late lamented Oscar was no longer available) was fully determined to engage in some seriously coquettish flirting with the exotically foreign young man who had so conveniently wandered into her sights. She sidled up to him, and slipping her arm through his, dragged him back to the bar. Leaning into him, she gazed hungrily into his eyes, and affecting what she fondly supposed to be her most alluring demeanour, conveyed her availability in no uncertain terms.

“Say, Mister, you gonna buy a thirsty girl a drink?” she gurgled, breathlessly.

For his part, De Maupassant, being French, didn’t really object to the attentions of any agreeably disposed female, even one as old as Annie. It wasn’t as if he’d had a better offer. At least she looked female and wore a skirt, which was more than could be said for George, and she was definitely better looking. He smiled indulgently at his new companion.

“But of course, what would you like?”

“They only got whisky and beer and the beer tastes like piss,” confided Annie.

“C’est bon. Deux whiskies, si’l vous plait.”

“Commin’ right up,” shouted George from the other end of the bar where she was haggling over Charlie’s tab.

A moment later, two shot glasses were placed in front of them and George slopped alcohol over them. Where she missed, the spilt liquid fizzed alarmingly on the stained wood of the counter. “Easy now stranger, that’s the good stuff,” she said with a grin before turning to serve someone else.

“Shoot, don’t pay that no mind,” said Annie, noticing Guy’s quizzically raised eyebrow on observing the reaction, “You jes gulp it down quick, then it don’t do so much harm on the way down,” and so saying she demonstrated the technique.

Reluctantly, Guy followed her example. “Wow!” was all he could manage afterwards but, although temporarily robbed of the use of his vocal chords, he did not find the sensational effects upon the rest of his body disagreeable.

“Warms ya right down to the bone, don’t it,” grinned Annie.

The Frenchman couldn’t vocalise a reply but his eyes were watering in agreement.

“What say you we go and let off some steam?” continued Annie with a lascivious smile, and not bothering to wait for a reply, she took him by the hand and almost dragged him out through the door marked ‘Private’ and up the stairs to a bedroom. Their departure went unnoticed in the general free for all around the bar.

It was not until Leo’s return with Mr Kipling that their absence became apparent.

“Well, here I is folks. So who’s this young feller what wants to see m’ relic?” he said, pushing his way through to the bar and plonking a leather drawstring bag down on the counter top with a dull thud.

“Well now, Kipling,” said Chuck, “That’d be Frenchie here:—Say, where’d he go?”

Everyone looked around but the newcomer was conspicuous by his absence.

“Hey! Where’s Annie?” piped up Emm.

At that moment a high pitched, feminine scream of “Ye-haw!” came floating down from upstairs, immediately followed by a quavering masculine exclamation of “Mon Dieu!”

“Well I guess that answers both questions,” said George to a chorus of laughter.

“Damn! That girl don’t waste no time, do she!” said Emm.

“I guess when you got an itch you gotta scratch it,” said Charlie with a resigned sigh, “But she do lack decorum, that’s fer sure.”

“D’you suppose they’s likely to be rejoinin’ us any time soon?” queried Kipling, “I’ve got me a store to run.”

“Aw, don’t you fret none,” said Chuck, sound like they’ll be down in a minute. Meantime, why don’t you oil yer machinery so’s you can tell us the tale of yer relic without seizin’ up.”

“Damn! I thought you was never goin’ t to ask.”

“Steady, Pilgrim. I di’n’t say I was buyin’.”

“Aw, don’t be so mean, Chuck.” Chimed in George. “Hell, I’m buyin’. Drinks on the house till they comes back. Leo, git yer apron on!”

Annie and the Frenchman returned to the fold as inconspicuously as they had slipped away, for everyone had their attention focussed either on the drink they had or the one they were trying to get. Flushed and slightly dishevelled, Annie wore the satisfied smile of a woman who’d had an itch well scratched, whilst Guy just looked drained. He immediately sought a restorative at the bar, where he was greeted with a chorus of cheers from the regulars and furnished with a free drink by George.

“Shoot, Annie, what’re you like?” said Charlie, shaking her head sadly and subjecting her sister to an exasperated stare. “Is that any way fer a parson’s daughter to behave?”

“Aw, Charlie, I’s a growed woman an’ if’n I can, I take what’s on offer. You taught me that.”

“Well, mebbe I did and’ mebbe I didn’t, but hell!

“You only knowed him three minutes!” said Emm, incredulously.

“Well now I knowed him fer twenty, and we’re engaged!” replied Annie firmly.

The words, “we’re engaged,” penetrated De Maupassant’s ear through the fog of conversation and residual post coital glow with the force of the ice-pick, which, in years to come, would find a brief resting place in the head of a certain Leon Trotsky; and with almost the same effect. He choked and spluttered his drink then looked over his shoulder with a hunted expression in his eyes.

“Looks like that’s news to yer boyfriend,” said Charlie.

“Aw… He’ll come round,” said Annie with a grin.

Meanwhile, the store-keeper was manoeuvring his way through the crowd towards Guy, one hand keeping a tight grip on the leather draw-string bag which slid along the bar top through puddles of corrosive liquid. Upon finally getting close enough, he reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Howdie, stranger. The name’s Kipling; I hear you’ve a hankering to see what’s in this here bag.”

“Ah, M Kipling! I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance. I am Guy de Maupassant. You ‘ave, per’aps ‘eard of me?”

“Sorry, Mr, can’t say as I have.”

“Je sui désolé, mais ce n’rien. Is zis thing you ‘ave in your ’and... ze object?”

“Guess it depends on what you mean by ‘the’ object, Mister. But I reckon this here’s the thing you’ve come to see. You want to see it now?”

“Of course!”

“You sure?”

“Please…”

“Yeah, Kipling, show us what you got in the bag.” chimed in Chuck and everyone gathered round to witness the unveiling.

An expectant hush gradually descended on the room and Guy whispered, “Show me.”

“Are you sure you’re ready fer this?” asked Kipling.

“Yes, yes. Show me!” implored the Frenchman.

“Sorry, but I can’t:—”

“What?!”

“Not yet:—”

“Oh Come on,” growled Chuck.

“Not until I’ve told the story of how I come to have it, and will you all quit interrupting so’s I can get it said?”

“Oh, all right. But make it quick will ya?” said Chuck.

“In this bag,” said Kipling with all the dramatic eloquence of the showman, “Is the last relic of a man who travelled to far Kafiristan to become a king; a god even, if only for a while. He came to see me jes before he left and promised to return. He went on foot and traversed the Hindu Kush with his friend Peachy, and there he became the heir to Alexander’s Eastern kingdom and all its wealth!”

“Who’s Alexander?” asked an anonymous voice in the crowd.

“Why, Alexander the Great, of course,” replied Kipling. “Mebbe three years later, only Peachy come back, bringin’ this bag with him. Now look upon this wonder and despair.” He slackened the drawstrings and opened the bag.

There, within, revealed as the sides of the bag slipped down, was the blackened, mummified, eyeless head of a man, and upon its brow was set a golden crown.

“There! See the head of Daniel Dravet!” said Kipling, portentously.

“Who?”

“Daniel Dravet. He’s the man what went,” said Kipling.

“Yuk!” said Annie. You keep that thing in yer house?”

“Sure do.”

“Well shoot,” said Chuck, “That ain’t somethin’ ya see every day.”

“C’est magnifique!” breathed Guy.

“Glad ya like it. That’ll be five dollars please.”

“What?”

“Each,” added Kipling, looking around the room.

“Say!” growled Charlie, “You din’t say nothin’ about chargin’ no fee!”

“You didn’t ask,” said Kipling.

“Well I’m askin’ now, and I ain’t payin. Shoot. It’s jes a head.”

“It ain’t even shrunk none,” said Emm.

“There’s loads o’ heads jes lyin’ about on the prairie, and some of em even got arrows stuck in ‘em. You can jes pick ‘em up fer free!” chimed in Annie.

“Well, they ain’t wearin’ crowns though is they, and they ain’t come all the way from Kafiristan, neither!” reasoned Kipling.

“We don’t care. We ain’t payin’,” said Charlie, holding her rifle in a meaningful way. There was a general backing away from the increasingly isolated storekeeper.

“Can’t say as how I reckon it’s worth five dollars m’self,” said Chuck, turning to look at Mr Kipling with narrowed eyes and casually flicking the flap of his coat behind his holster.

“You sure you want to press the point?” asked Sherriff Collins, casually.

“Well, mebbe not, given the circumstances,” replied the storekeeper, warily.

“Per’aps I can ‘elp M Kipling. You ‘ave shown us your relic, but I too ‘ave a relic which you may find fascinating. I am prepared to share it wiz you all, for no charge… Would you like to see it?”

“Whad’ya say, Kipling? You showed him yours, now he’ll show you his – all square?” asked Collins.

“Ok, I guess,” replied Kipling, sulkily.

“Très bien, wait but a moment and I will fetch my saddlebags.”

When he returned he opened the flap and reached inside and pulled out a bundle wrapped in chamois.

“So what is it?” asked Chuck.

Guy carefully unwrapped it. Within, lay a claw-like mummified hand. It wore a ring on one finger which held a ruby. It glowed dully in the dim light.

“Zis is Daniel Dravet’s ‘and. I recovered it myself as a traveller in distant lands.”

“You fella’s ‘re weird,” said Chuck, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You want to sell that?” asked Kipling.

“Never!” declared de Maupassant. “Would you consider parting wiz ze ‘ead? I could give you a good price…”

“Well, I don’t know. Mebbe, if the price were right… Why don’t you come see me later and we can talk about it.”

“C’est Bon. D’accord. Later we will talk.” So saying, he re wrapped the hand in its cloth and was fumbling with the flap on the saddlebag when he dropped it. The exercise books and pens and inks which he’d salvaged from the wrecked waggon tumbled out onto the floor, right in front of Kipling.

“Say, Mr Where’d you get those?”

“Strange zat you should ask Monsieur. On my way ‘ere I came upon a waggon in flames. Zere ‘ad been sree passangers. All were mort – dead. Ze waggon, it ‘ad been carrying zis stationary. I ‘elped myself – it would only ‘ave gone to waste.”

“Ooops,” said Charlie under her breath, and tugging at her sister’s sleeves she quietly slipped out with them while guy held the floor.

“Is that all?” asked the Sherriff.

“Mais non. Ze ‘orses from ze waggon, zey ‘ad gone and I saw, far off in ze ‘aze, sree figures on ‘orseback. Zey led two ozzers. I followed zem ’ere by zeir trail.”

“Shoot. Three riders, five horses, arrived jes before you. Now who do that sound like?” said Collins with a sigh. “Say, where’d they go?”

“Les soeurs? Non. C’est impossible!”

“Sounds like them, right enough,” said Chuck, “Looks like they’ve got a head start too.”

“I did wonder where they got the money to settle their tab,” added George.

“It’s life…” chimed in Leo from behind the bar with a tone of resignation.

“This time they’ve gone too far. I don’t have no choice. Murder’n horse stealin’—Why’d they have to bring it here? They’ll hang fer sure.”

“You gotta take ‘em first,” said Chuck.

“I reckon so. You in?”

“You askin’?”

“I’m askin’”

“Then I guess I’m in. We could use another gun, though.” Chuck looked pointedly at de Maupassant.

“Oh monsieur, ‘ow can I?”

“It’s either that or hang as an accessory.”

“Zis is too serious! I ‘ave carnal knowledge of la petite, et maintenant I must shoot ‘er! Life is cruel!”

“Ain’t it just!” said Chuck. Still, leastways you ain’t gonna have to remember no anniversaries.”

“Ah! Zis is true. Very well, I am ready!”

All three men checked their guns then walked out onto the street, their spurs ringing with every leaden footfall. The staff and clientele of The Palace gathered by the doorway and watched them march, three abreast, towards the K.O. Corral.

To be continued…

[Snowqueen]

Hi Hawk, I read this part and enjoyed. I thought it might be the concluding episode but I guess you are having fun writing it. I wasn’t expecting to see Kipling to be honest. lol
By the way some tribes from Kafiristan are currently living in Kalash Valley (Chitral). They are famous throughout the country for having a unique polytheistic religion and culture. They also claim to be the descendents of Alexander the Great.

Now looking forward to the finale.

[Hawkman]

Hi Snowqueen. Thanks for sticking with it, and for the enlightening comments about Kafiristan :) - yes, it is dragging on a bit ;) Only got about three more scenes to write, so the next instalment should definitely be the last! More soon (I hope).

Live and be well - H

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Oops, forgot about this, I left off at Part 2.
At this point, I'll wait for the remainder and read it straight through.

[AuntShecky]

Full disclosure: yours fooly doesn't care much for Kipling. Then again, I've never Kippled. (That joke's older than the Dakota hills.)

I was going to point out that some of the gags go on too long (e.g. the dialogue following the tied-down gun), but it occurs to me that this may be a feature of your parody. "Padding" is a trick oft-practiced by resourceful if less than industrious students who, when asked to submit a twelve page paper, set extra wide margins and triple -rather than double- spaced their lines. There was much padding, wasted airtime back in the late Fifties and early Sixties, when westerns dominated the American airwaves; the pace of a typical episode was slower than a citified Eastern librarian attempting to draw a gun. As a matter of fact, Stan Freberg--who produced satirical recordings and radio shows-- did a skit parodying a western in which it took quarter of an hour to determine that "Somebody sure cut through that fence, all right."

". .settle your (not you're) bill."

[Hawkman]

Charlie was leading her horse from its stall when the distinctive sound of a Winchester being cocked gave her a moment’s pause. A second later, Annie’s voice floated through the hay-scented air.

“We got trouble, Charlie.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Looks like the shootin’ kind,” said Emm, calling through the stable door.

“How many?” asked Charlie, grimly, as she picked up her rifle.

“I see three. There’s Sherriff Collins, Chuck and the third looks like Annie’s new boyfriend!”

“Aww, shoot!” said Annie with genuine disappointment at the fickle vicissitudes of fate which decreed that love should turn sour so quickly. “You mean I gotta shoot my fiancée? Hell, we ain’t even called the banns yet!”

“Don’t you fret none, Annie. If’n it makes you feel any better, I’ll shoot him an’ you can take yer pick o’ the other two!”

“Well now, that’s right sisterly of you, Emm,” said Annie, slipping a cartridge into the loading port of her Winchester.

Outside on the street, the three men had split up and found what cover they could. Sherriff Collins crouched behind a horse-trough and Chuck had taken position behind a parked waggon. De Maupassant moped sheepishly in a sheltered doorway and sighed.

The Sherriff’s raised voice penetrated the gloom of the stables and came to roost in Charlie's ear.

“Charlie! You gonna come peacable, or is this gonna be the hard way? You know what that means…”

The eldest of the sisters scurried up a ladder into the hayloft and poked her rifle barrel out through the shutters of the loading hatch.

“Yeah, I know,” she called, “There’s three o’ you an’ there’s three o’ us. We got rifles an’ you got pistols. There’s gonna be shootin’ and mebbe there’ll be dyin’, but that don’t necessarily mean it’ll be us what’ll be doin’ it. I’d say the odds is in our favour, Wilkie. You wanna reconsider?”

“Be sensible, Charlie,” yelled Chuck, “You’re holed up. Ain’t nowhere fer you to get, save into a hail of lead.”

“You gonna shoot me, Frenchie?” called Annie, from her nest in the hay.

“I would prefer not, ma petite. Is it zat you intend to shoot moi?”

“Don’t you worry none. M’ sister said she’d oblige in that regard. Anyways, I owe Chuck fer what he done to Oscar, an’ I’d be happy to shoot the Sherriff, so’s I can write a song about it.”

“Oscar got what was comin’ to him, Annie,” yelled Chuck, a little peevishly.

“An’ so will you,” Annie snapped back and sent a shot thudding into the woodwork of the waggon, about three inches from Chuck’s head.

“Awww, shoot!” said Sherriff Collins, and everybody did—until they had to stop to reload.

When the gun smoke cleared, the woodwork of the water trough was revealed to be punctured in a number of places, most of which emitted little jets of water. The waggon, which sheltered Chuck, was also peppered with splintered holes, while the windows around De Maupassant’s doorway no longer contained any glass. The stables, too, were a little draughtier than they had been, though considering the standard of workmanship employed in the building of it, the extra ventilation would not have made a noticeable difference.

“Hey, Frenchie, you still alive?” called the Sherriff.

“Oui, mon vieux,” came the reply from under the boardwalk.

“How ’bout you, Chuck?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” growled Chuck as he emptied the spent cartridges from his ornately scrolled revolver and replaced them with fresh rounds. “You hit?” he asked.

“Nope. How ’bout you girls? Y’all hale an’ hearty?”

“Yeah! Not a scratch,” yelled Annie.

“Me too,” said Charlie.

Emm made no reply.

“Looks like the odds is shortenin’ on your side, Charlie,” said Chuck.

“Emm! Wake up girl!”

“Say what?”

“I said wake up y’ dozy miss. Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Real bad! I broke a damn nail!”

“Awww Shoo:—”

“Don’t say it!” shouted Annie, but it was too late. Before the final consonant had escaped Charlie's lips, the woodwork around the hatch was erupting into showers of splinters as a fusillade of .45 slugs slammed into it. Every impact drilled a hole which cast a little beam of sunlight through the dusty gloom about her. “God-dammit!” she yelled, then emptied her rifle into the water trough.

Annie concentrated her fire on the waggon while Emm plugged away at the corner of the building where De Maupassant had been lurking. There had been no return fire from that quarter after her second or third shot, so she’d quietly congratulated herself on her marksmanship then switched target to help Annie out in her vendetta against Chuck. After a while there was another pause while everyone reloaded. On this occasion, the ensuing chorus of exchanged pleasantries enquiring into the state of everyone’s health was one male voice short. This, quite naturally, was a matter of some concern to Sherriff Collins and Chuck, who were both pinned down behind cover that was rapidly disintegrating. The water had nearly drained from the trough, and the woodwork of the waggon was steadily being nibbled away by bullets.

The women, on the other hand, were feeling quite encouraged by a turn of events which gave them a numerical advantage. They still had plenty of ammo and a defensible position. Of the three, only Annie was mildly discomforted by De Maupassant’s silence. She had absolutely no idea when she’d ever get to scratch her itch again, and she was certain it would never be scratched more agreeably than the way Frenchie had managed to scratch it. The mere thought of how he had done so was enough to send her into a warm reverie of remembrance, which, for a more satisfyingly replete experience, caused her to close her eyes and sigh. Emm was busy loading her rifle, so neither of them saw Chuck’s head pop up or his arm reach into the body of the waggon to retrieve a hurricane lamp. The glass was broken, and it wasn’t dark. But that didn’t matter to Chuck. Not with what he had in mind.

De Maupassant, though, had not fallen victim to Emm's aim. He had merely retreated further under the boardwalk and discovered that the void beneath it extended right under the building. It opened out onto clear ground on the far side, which, significantly, could not be seen from the stables. While the shooting continued, he’d busied himself wriggling through. He’d emerged onto the street at the edge of town, then bolted into an arroyo which ran beside the track. He was surprised to find that it was sheltering the three Indians he’d passed earlier on the road. They were sitting patiently, immobile, wrapped in their blankets, waiting for the gunplay to finish. He nodded to them, and their black eyes, set in impassive mahogany faces, watched as he scurried past and headed out behind the stables.

From her eyrie in the hayloft, Charlie surveyed the depleted horse-trough and could just make out the top of the Sherriff’s hat. She slid one more round into the breach of her Winchester, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The hat sailed into the air and came down a little way behind him. It rolled to a halt in pile of horse droppings.

“Dang, Charlie! That were m’ best hat!”

“Less you wanna git yer head ventilated to match, I suggest you let us go, Wilkie!”

“You know that ain’t gonna happen, Charlie,” said the Sherriff.

“It’s your head, mister.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure if’n I was you, Charlie. Hope you like it warm,” said Chuck, lighting the lamp’s wick.

“What say?”

“Duck!” yelled Annie.

She’d just seen the lamp arcing on its flung trajectory through the hatch. It landed in a pile of straw just behind Charlie. Within seconds it was ablaze and Both Chuck and the Sherriff took advantage of the distraction and emptied their guns at the hatchway.

Emm, from her vantage point behind the corner of the stables, had just drawn a good bead on Chuck, and was about to fire, when she was surprised by an ear-splitting whistle from behind her. She spun round to be confronted by the muzzle of De Maupassant’s pistol, which discharged its deadly load into her heart. She just had time to register the apologetic expression on his face and the murmured words, “Je suit dessolet, Madamoiselle,” before her world went dark and she collapsed into the dust.

Smoke was now billowing from the hatch, and the horses were stamping and snorting in fear. From the loft, the sound of consumptive, feminine coughing could just be heard above the din. With flames licking behind her, Charlie stood up and defiantly shot again and again through the smoke towards the trough. Chuck stood, aimed carefully and fired once. Charlie, her clothes afire, wobbled and fell to earth like a blazing star with a neat hole drilled between her eyes. There was no sign of Annie.

De Maupassant ran into the stables where the horses were madly trying to break free. With difficulty, he was able to cut them loose and they sprinted into the light, out into the fresh air and freedom. The interior was thick with smoke glowing with a flickering orange red, and bright sparks danced around his head. He scampered up the ladder to the hayloft, but the heat from the flames was savage. Keeping as low as he could, and shielding his face from the flames with his coat, he groped around the top of the ladder until his hand fastened on a feminine ankle. Roughly, he pulled it towards him, and half dragged, half carried the unconscious woman down the rungs, and ran, coughing smoke, into the fresh air. Behind him, the flames crackled with the joy of burning and licked greedily at the woodwork.

“Son, you look a mite seared,” said chuck as he holstered his ornate Colt, “But you was right to save the horses.” He moseyed over and stood next to Sherriff Collins who was standing over Charlie's body, adding, “Can’t bear to see horseflesh wasted.”

The brim of the Frenchman’s hat was scorched around the edges, and his magnificent moustache was severely singed. His jacket bore evidence of charring and little wisps of blue smoke rose from it in the still air. His eyes were streaming and the tears washed channels through the soot on his face as he gently laid Annie on the ground. She didn’t look very well. This had something to do with the bright red stain on her chest and an equally bright trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids flicked and she looked up at De Maupassant, then her lips twitched into something that was halfway between a smile and a grimace of pain. Feebly, she crooked a finger, beckoning him closer. He knelt on the ground beside her and gently cradled her head in his arm.

“Pauvre petit,” he croaked.

“Wasn’t you what shot me, was it?”

“Non, Cherie, It was not I.”

“I knew it,” she whispered before coughing up a little more blood. She smiled feebly. “Looks like the weddin’s off.”

“Oui, mon chere.”

“Probably just as well. I’d a wore you out.” So saying, she closed her eyes and joined her sisters.

Sherriff Collins stared down at Charlie's corpse lying at his feet. Her right hand was still defiantly gripping her rifle. He bent down and prized her fingers from the stock. They weren’t cold yet, but they were quite dead. He picked up the Winchester and stood up. “I reckon so,” he said.

Back at the Palace, the spectators had been forced to take cover indoors, for occasional ricochets and misaimed bullets had made life a little hazardous. Besides, the smoke was spoiling the view. The sound of gunfire had tempted Sam Clemens out of his newspaper office, but the unhealthily lead-filled air on the street had forced him to take shelter with the other regulars at the bar. Every so often, the sharp sound of a crack and tinkling glass from a punctured window prompted him to duck. His hand shook too much for him to be able to write legible shorthand. Instead, he fuelled his imagination with George’s rotgut and dreamt of syndication rights. Mr Kipling, however, after the first volley, had scooped up his relic and scuttled back to his store.

Now that it was all over, the townsfolk emerged from cover and gawped at the living and the dead, while Mr Stevenson complained that his stables were on fire and no one seemed to be doing anything about it.

“Yer insured ain’t ya?” said Chuck.

“No,” said Stevenson.

“Ooops…” said the Sherriff, then he walked off to find the undertaker.


*****
It was slightly before four in the afternoon when De Maupassant walked in through the doorway of Mr Kipling’s store. He’d had time for a bath and a change of clothes and he’d even managed to repair some of the damage to his moustache with a little judicious topiary. Now he was keen to begin negotiations with regard to the acquisition of Daniel Dravet’s head.

Kipling himself, it appeared, had not been seen since noon, and what with the other excitement in town that day, no one had been interested in replenishing their supplies. The Frenchman called out but received no reply, so he walked over to the counter and peered behind. Kipling was lying on the floor as if asleep, but the sticky brown puddle around him suggested that his sleep would be permanent. The drawstring bag containing Dravet’s head lay beside him where he’d fallen. The cast iron cash register on the counter was closed and De Maupassant pressed the lever that opened it with a ‘ching’. The draw was not exactly full, but it wasn’t empty either. There was no sign that a robbery had been the cause of the storekeeper’s demise. He looked over towards the window and noticed the neat round bullet hole in the plate glass. He looked at the counter and back at the window and wondered if he shouldn’t just help himself to the head and ride on. In the end he sighed, then went to find the Sherriff.

Collins stared at the bullet hole and looked back down the street towards the smouldering remains of the stables. “Yup. Looks like he caught a stray. Even the Palace has a broken pane or two. Looks like we have an openin’ for a storekeeper in town. Fancy the job? Yer a mite handy in a fix, so me an’ Chuck would be glad to have you around.”

“You are very kind, mon vieux, but I am afraid zat zis town does not ‘old ze ‘appiest of memories pour moi. La petit, tu comprends?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

There was a completive pause and Sherriff Collins looked away while De Maupassant idly scuffed patterns in the dust with the toe of his boot.

“M Kipling, ’e ’as family ’ere?” he said, eventually.

“Not that I know of.”

“Would, zen, anyone object if I kept ze relic as a souvenir?”

Collins thought for a moment, remembering how little interest had been displayed in the saloon when the head had been exhibited. “I reckon not,” he said.

“Parfait!” De Maupassant grinned broadly and darted into the store, nimbly leaped over the counter and emerged with the bag dangling from his eager paw. “It would be best, I sink, if I were to be on my way. Per’aps you would be so kind as to make my adieus to ze admirable M Chuck at le Palais?”

“I reckon so.”

“Mercie, mon brave. Adeiu!” and so saying De Maupassant sauntered over to his horse, unhitched it and rode out of town with Daniel Dravet’s head dangling from the pommel of his saddle.

Collins stared after him with a bemused expression on his face, then he shrugged and moseyed back towards the jailhouse, pausing only to call once more upon the services of the undertaker.

That evening, as he sat and gratefully sipped at his replenished supply of laudanum, he was surprised to receive a visit from three Indians who wanted to know where the ‘medicine stone’ was. After a considerable effort of communication in pigeon English, mime and a smattering of Navajo, he was able to convey to them that he believed the stone they sought might be found in London, the capital of the Britannic empire. This seemed to satisfy them and they departed. He was much relieved to wake the next morning without discovering that his throat had been cut in the night.

Around noon the stage from El Paso pulled up outside the Palace Saloon and disgorged a single passenger, a strikingly voluptuous lady of Hispanic aspect who marched straight into the bar, and, with a stamp of her neatly shod foot, attracted the attention of all present.

“Estoy buscando a Guy De Maupassant. El hijo de puta robó mi caballo! Dame la justicia!”

She was most put out by the chorus of laughter that gradually built, like a tidal wave of mirth that flowed out of the saloon and onto the street, then on into the shimmering desert.

“Sorry Ma’m, you just missed him”, said Chuck, grinning and raising his hat. “How ’bout a shot o’ consolation while we get acquainted,”

“I reckon so,” said the Sherriff.

The End.

[omferas]

Hi
This is the first time, i read story to you, it is full of movement, and if we were to see a movie,Some of the intensification of the story stating Thank you.

[AuntShecky]

I can just see the Hollywood hype: "A Year in the Making!"

Just one teeny plot point: announcing or "calling" the banns. This is a centuries-old tradition in Europe and the British Isles, with literary references to the banns going as far back as Chaucer. But the custom is more likely found in Catholic and High Anglican parishes rather than in remote outposts of the Wild West. The settlers called themselves "Christians" to be sure, but of a less formalistic variety with the clergy usually represented by a "preacher." He would undoubtedly officiate at frontier weddings, but the impeding unions were probably not foretold via banns.

This is an amusing parody of old-timey Westerns from a Brit's point of view. Interesting on many levels.

Nice to see you back here among us NitLetters.

Auntie

[Hawkman]

omferas: Thanks for reding and I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

Auntie: I think, perhaps, that, "A year in the making!" implies somewhat more effort than was actually expended on this one. The plot was decided upon back in November last year, but I just didn't have time to write the conclusion! :D

As to calling the banns - well now, Ma'am, shouldn't we be mindful that li'l ol' Annie were a parson's gal, and like they say, you can take the gal out'a Yorkshire, but you can't take the Yorkshire out'a the gal :D Anyways, it'd be a mite doubtful that ol' Frenchie would'a turned up fer the wedding', 'less o'course Charlie insisted. We all knows how Charlie liked to negotiate from behind her rifle, an' all.

Thanks for reading and for the welcome back. Live and be well - H

[108 fountains]

I really enjoyed this. I think I got most of the references, but I'm sure I missed some. I can't quite figure out who the youth is in Chapter One, the "young man with sun-bleached hair and the faint traces of blonde stubble around a finely chiselled chin." And I also can't figure out who the Hispanic lady who comes in at the end is supposed to represent. I saw a reference in an earlier comment to a poet named Margarita - is she supposed to be Margarita Engle? There are probably a lot more allusions that went over my head altogether.

At first, I thought the three sisters in Chapter One were allusions to the witches in MacBeth since they are described as "raggedly dressed women," and the witches are described in Shakespeare as "So wither'd and so wild in their attire." Possibly you put that in there purposely to confuse us?

I am curious how/why you came up with George (Honey Boy) Evans as the piano payer, and why not just have another author play that role - or a better known musician/composer?

Anyway, it was a pleasure to read. From concept through execution, it was really well done.

[Hawkman]

Hi, 108. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the young man with the chin isn't actually anybody special. He just happened to be on the wagon :D the Hispanic lady, you correctly identified as Margarita was only the madam of the cat-house in Mexico from whom De Maupassant had stolen the horse. The poetess belongs to the wrong century, I'm afraid. As for the piano player- that's George Eliot! The Brontes were always the Brontes, as I hoped their names would be sufficient to indicate...

Anyway, thanks for reading and I'm delighted you enjoyed it.

Live and be well - H

[Snowqueen]

Hi Hawk, so glad to see you haven't fallen off the perch. Welcome back.

I immensely enjoyed this story from the first episode to last and the ending was superb too.
Just found out how much you adore Bronte sisters. lol

[Hawkman]

Hello Snowy. Nice of you to drop by and let me know that you enjoyed this little romp. Sorry you've had to wait so long for me to get it finished though.

Ah, yes:— the poor sisters! Well I confess that I never really liked Wuthering Heights :D I read Jane Eyer when I was about 11 and quite enjoyed it at the time. Can't go wrong with a madwoman in the attic lol.

Meanwhile, you may rest assured that I remain perched: but the only reason I'm still on it is because I've been nailed there, rather like the Norwegian Blue ;)

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

As for the piano player- that's George Eliot! The Brontes were always the Brontes, as I hoped their names would be sufficient to indicate...



I guessed the Bronte girls, but who knew the piano player was Gerorge Eliot? If memory serves, George Eliot was in reality Mary Ann Evans. So as George "Honey Boy" Eliot, is she pulling off a clever disguise or doing a male impersonator act a la "Victor/Victoria"?

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

If you remember George introduced herself to Hank James thusly: “Howdy, stranger. The name’s Evans, but you can call me George. This is my place.”

I made her a transvestite as a play on her male nom de plume, hiding behind a male persona rendered figuratively by her wearing man togs. ;) A photo of her reveals that she really did have a very big nose.

Live and be well - H

[108 fountains]

A photo of her reveals that she really did have a very big nose.

Yeah, that's what threw me off - a photo I found of Honey Boy also shows a very big nose.
I never even thought of George Eliot's real family name being Evans.
The transvestite thing and the fact that all the other personages were authors should have made me look a little deeper.
It was all cleverly done.