Dusty Trails

            by Adam Miller

 

            James lay bleeding, dying, his reddening shirt clinging to his torso.  He gasped against the cold night air and stared at the full moon with half closed eyes.  Small splinters of wood fell lightly upon his chest from the banister overhead.  There was one small light flickering in the hotel room overhead. The dust beneath James’ back caked onto his ruined white shirt.  His hand pressed firmly onto his gut, but the blood continued to pour out, and another sharp pain flew through his body.  At this hour, the only souls in the dusty street were the drunkards stumbling happily out of the saloon down the road.  If they saw James laying in a pool of his own blood, they would probably squint, and guess he was just more drunk than they were.  A train blew its whistle off in the distance, and the moon stared down at James’ tear filled eyes. He heard the jingle of spurs approach his damaged form. He dragged his eyes towards the dark form and silver gun looming over him. The metallic Click rang in his ears

           

***

            James stepped down the iron steps to the train platform, and was hit in the face by the hot, dusty, Californian air.  As he got off the train, several men brushed past him and out of the station, eager to make it rich.  He tipped down the brim of his hat to keep the late morning sun out of his eyes.  The single suitcase felt light in his hand, filled mostly with a few changes of clothing and a few amenities; the revolver at the bottom, however, carried some weight.  His black shoes slapped against the wooden stairs leading down from the train platform, and he made his way across the street to the two story hotel and brothel.  Inside were dozens of fancy-clad women done up like it was always Saturday night.  James dug around in his pocket and withdrew a dollar twenty, paying for four days and nights in a room.  As he headed up the creaky stairs, he pressed himself against the wooden wall to avoid running into a frilly, full-bodied lady, and a very happy gentleman.  When he arrived at his door, James pushed against the heavy wood, which opened with a loud creeeeak before thudding against the inner wall.  It revealed a simply clad room, with a large bed pushed against the far corner of the room.  Against the bed, there was a night table holding a kerosene lamp, and across from that was a large oak chest with far more drawers than James had use for.  He closed the solid door, and opened his suitcase on the bed.  Two shirts were folded and placed in the top drawer, with a spare pair of slacks laid in the drawer below that.  He then withdrew his gleaming Smith & Wesson from the bottom of his suitcase, and popped open the chamber, checking that all six bullets were in place.  His hand turned to the bedside drawer, and slid it open, carefully laying the revolver down.  As the drawer was shut, the kerosene lamp rocked on it's perch.

            James respectfully declined another offer from the working girls, and stepped out the door of the hotel.   He breathed deep, and exhaled the hot California air, savoring it.  He smiled at the surrounding hills, at calm plain stretching off towards the south.  This place could work all right.  Make a fresh start after all.  His thoughts were shaken by a stagecoach thundering down the main roadway, the snorting horses only a few feet from his face.  He turned to the boardwalk lining the street, and began strolling towards the saloon down the street from his hotel.  As the bar drew closer, the smell and sound became more evident.  Not used to such an establishment, James felt a little strange walking into the room where bustling people, rowdy poker games, and clinking drinks filled all your senses. 

            “I'll have a sasperilla and a whiskey” said James, seating himself at the end of the bar.

            “Comin' right up, feller,” replied the bar tender through a thick white beard. “You don't look like yer from around here.  You look a bit clean to be here for gold, so what's yer business?

            The barstool creaked as James shifted uncomfortably.  “Um, I... really I'm tryin' t' make a fresh start.  Had some trouble where I come from.”

            “Aaah, I understand. A lot of folk in yer position in this town,” he said, drying out a glass with a dirty, mottled towel, “I hope you like it 'round here, stay for a while.”  With that, he moved to the opposite end of the bar, where someone called for another scotch.

 

            The room tilted and bobbed as James struggled to stay upright on the old barstool. He heard slurred voices around the room. Seeya tomorra, Jerimiah. Where was it coming from; down the bar, right behind him?  He couldn’t tell.  –ead, city… -boy? The voices got louder, but still sounded slightly jumbled. Hey, you deaf? C’mere, stranger!  It dawned on James that the jeers were directed at him.  He turned around on his seat, to face the three men, done up in leather longcoats, spurs, and hats big enough to bathe a babe. They all sat encircling a table, with cards clenched in their hands. The dirt clung onto their beards told James that they were used to living way out here. 

            “Hey, city slicker,” called the first man through a filthy grin, wearing black pants and a vest, “our fourth man just left, an’ we needs someone to fill his spot. You play hold-em?”

            James glanced towards the door, and saw another dirty outlaw-type strolling through the double doors, his spurs clinking against the hardwood floor. His eyes wandered around and away from the bar, and James noticed that, besides these men, he was one of the last 5 people in the whole saloon.  His eyes wandered back to the cowboys, whose eyes were expectantly fixed on him.  These were not the kind of men you like to say no to, James decided.  “Shure,” he replied, sturdily as he could.  He stepped down from the stool, and walked to their table, where they all passed around introductions.

            “Name’s Bradford,” said the man with the vest.

            “Charlie”

            “William O, how are ya.”

            “My name’s James. Nice to meet you” he said, reaching to take each of their open hands, one after the other.  Despite the pleasant introductions, James gut was nagging him;  these men all looked carved out of wood: dirty, and intimidating. 

***

 

James laid his cards face down, folding for the third turn straight.  He’d always had a lousy hand at poker, and was bleeding away what little spare coin he had.  At this point, he didn’t know why they still had him at their table; there were another two or three folk scattered about the bar, and they were sure to be more fun to take money from than James.  He turned his gaze from the rest of the saloon back to the hardened men before him. Bradford swung his attention away from James and began muttering with the men beside him. Charlie flipped, stacked, and slid the deck of cards between his fingers as he nodded at is partner’s every word. He then turned and leaned in to James, and grumbled out an offer beneath his breath.

            The men before James turned into great walls, and he felt backed against a corner. Help in a bank heist? Simple part, needs an outsider… aw hell, what might these guys do to him if he objects? He knew in the pit of his stomach that it was a bad idea to agree, but he figured best to get on good terms with the real muscle in the town, the men with grit and guns, if he was to survive out in the west.

            “Oh, and James,” the third one leaned in, slightly dirtier than the rest, “we saw you comin’ outta your hotel there, so don’t bother disappearin’; we’ll come by to fetcha tomorrow afternoon.“

            With that, all three of them stood up and pushed their chairs back, the wooden legs creaking against the stained hardwood floor.  As they walked past James, he could smell the faint stench of horse manure and whiskey from their coats, and it made him wince.  Sure he knew how to ride one, but they never smelled so foul as these fellas. 

            The glass bobbed against James’ lower lip, as he contemplated another sip, the fumes dancing up his nose. I can’t believe I got buried in this horse shit.  Seem’s I have a hell of a bad time gettin’ good luck.

            “Closin’ in 5, mister. I hope you had your fill. Just try an’ clear out quick,” Said the bar tender, as he went to tending wet glasses.

            James stood up stiffly, and stumbled back, righted by the concerned “Woah thar” from behind the bar. He worked hard at making his way out of the bar, through the swinging double doors, one foot in front of the other, out into the dirt road lit by the moon high in the sky. Small puffs of dark blue dirt followed his each footstep back down the unpaved road to his hotel.

            When he came to the front door, he turned the brass knob and eased the oak door open. Through the groaning of its’ hinges, a few rustles could be heard in the dark, from the tired souls strewn about the expensive couches and chairs in the room.  He padded across the room to reach the staircase, which creaked lightly as each foot hit the step it chose. In the second floor hallway, the floorboards groaned under his heavy footsteps; the sound echoed down the gloomy hallway. The wood’s wailing ended in front of James’ room, replaced by the rattling of a hotel key against a door lock.  After the clinking persisted for well over half a minute, he became frustrated with the mechanism, and began rattling the door against its frame and turning the knob, which to his surprise, rotated and opened the door. James stood perplexed, but pleased at his victory over this challenge, and tramped into his room. The door latched shut behind James, who gazed about the dark blue, dusty room. His eyes flicked from the brown knotted walls, to the dresser, without any clutter. He noticed the kerosene lamp burning a low flame, which created a dim orange halo around the figure sitting in the far and darkest corner of the room.

James’ heavy breathing was cut short as he tried to identify the man before him. It didn’t take long to figure it out. He looked just like the outlaws in the bar, with large golden spurs jutting out the back of his boots.

“Did you really think you could fuckin’ get away from me, boy?”

The words struck like pitchforks in his ears, freezing his blood. “Robert...”

“you killed my sister, you son-of-a-bitch. To think I trusted you as a part of our family...”

“I trusted her!” hissed james, “and to find her in bed with someone else, well... the both of ‘em had it coming.”

A cold, still silence filled the room, pierced by the stares of the two men, their faces lit by the dull orange flame of a lantern, and the chilly light filtering through the dusty window. The tension was shattered as Robert darted across the room, his clenched hands aimed at James’ jaw. The first swing was drunkenly dodged, but the second fist caused a crack that rattled around James’ skull all the way to the ground.  Robert picked James up by his shirt collar, and Ran him headlong into the wall alongside the bed, his head making a resounding thud against the log. James spun around in terror, fumbling for the drawer holding his revolver, but couldn’t come to open it; his sweaty hand simply slipped off, as he grasped at air.

James felt his body lifted into the air, his guts sloshing around his torso. Robert flung him through the single window, which shattered on contact. His battered body continued through the rickety banister, which splintered and stabbed out in every direction.  The fall took an eternity, a thousand thoughts coursing through James’ mind. The ground took him by surprise, as he hammered into the packed earth; he could feel every inch of the wooden spar sticking into his chest. 

            As he stared up at the inky sky, james could hear feet pacing towards him. He groaned as he turned to Roberts merciless face, who raised a revolver, pointing straight at his nose. The metallic click thundered through his aching head. Robert pulled the trigger, and his strong arm could barely keep the barrel pointed at his brother in law.