Dead men's Boots Ch:3

Isaac Jones was a big, bald giant of a man and in his thirty-six years of life, he had learned to be ever watchful. Being a freed black man who owned his own land was a dangerous business, even in the lawless west, and as an added hazard, not only his race, but also his monstrous size, made him a target for a lot of gun-slinging lunatics. In testament to his many fights for survival, a large scar was visible on the top of Isaac’s clean-shaven head, and another one ran from his upper lip to his chin. You can be sure that Isaac always kept his pistol hand close to the colt .45 that hung heavy at his side.
On this sweltering day in July, Isaac’s eyes perpetually scanned the dark tavern he owned. Being so watchful not only kept the big man safe, but it also kept him in the know… because anybody who came to town would eventually make their way to The Painted Lady seeking either refreshment or company, and Isaac kept his place stocked with plenty of both.

Isaac’s town, White Creek, was the type of town that people passed through but rarely settled down in. That the place existed at all was owed largely to the fact that the distance between it and anywhere else remotely resembling civilization was at least 50 miles. That made it a welcome sight to tired travelers. Some refreshed themselves for a night and then continued on their way toward whatever life or death awaited them. Some stayed a week or two or perhaps a month before moving on. Then there were a few truly lost souls, of the type who wanted to stay truly lost, and they made White Creek home.

The town’s hotel, boarding house, and tavern usually kept a slow, but steady flow of traffic. And the patrons who came through were mostly the types that wanted to avoid the typical routes, and usually the types to keep to themselves. It was easy now, after so many year’s practice, for Isaac Jones to tell from the look on a man’s face exactly what had brought him to seek the hospitality of White Creek.

This particular evening began just like every other one for Isaac. He stood polishing the glasses behind the bar, watching everything without seeming to. This is why, when the bar room door swung open letting some temporary sunlight into the otherwise dark tavern, watchful Isaac knew right away that he was looking at a man on the run. And judging by the tense facial lines and nervous stance of the man framed in the doorway, Isaac assumed that he was definitely on the run from something fierce.

The stranger wore no hat but his clothes were of the expensive sort, and they looked traveled in. The man held a black leather case clutched tightly at his side and Isaac watched as the man’s eyes made a darting search of the room, prying into every dark corner as if looking for the devil himself.

The man stood there, looking and letting in the light so long that Isaac finally called out to him, “Afternoon, stranger. Welcome to the Painted Lady.”

Several of the other bar patrons looked up lazily for a moment and the stranger visibly tensed under the scrutiny. Although he looked as though he might run away like a scared rabbit, after only a second’s more hesitation he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The stranger walked up to the bar and took a seat near the end where he would have a good view of anybody else who walked through the door. He shifted the case he carried up from his side and held it protectively in his lap.

Isaac walked up to the man, eyed the bag he held so tightly and asked with a forced smile, “So, what can I get you?” The man noticed Isaac’s glance at the bag, and took the opportunity to set it underneath the stool and clear his throat.

“Whiskey.”

“How bout a safe for what ever it is you got in that bag?” Isaac raised his eyebrow knowingly. “Can’t be too careful ‘round these parts.”

“No.” the stranger replied too quickly, and then corrected himself, “No, thank you. I won’t be needing one. What I’ve got, nobody else wants.”

“Um, Hmm”, came the reply. Isaac was clearly unconvinced but he returned with the whiskey and set it down with a clank, causing some of the dark brown liquid to slosh over the side. “Name’s Isaac. You need anything, you let me know. Janie’s free if you want some company later.” He indicated a very young brunette sitting in the corner, laughing quietly with an older man who could have been her grandfather, but probably wasn’t.

The stranger did not respond. He just took a sip of the whiskey and grimaced, “Strong stuff”

“Yeah. Old Man Sykes makes it. That’s him over there, sittin’ with Janie.” There was silence for a minute until Isaac asked, “So, you got a name?”

“John Simms. And I’m going to be needing some more whiskey.”
Isaac smiled to himself, “How about the whole bottle?”

John nodded his ascent and accepted it gratefully, pouring himself another shot.
After a while, John’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the tavern, even as his vision became misty from the liquor. As he looked around the bar, he could see through blurry eyes, all the others who like himself, preferred the shadowy places. He saw the young girl, Janie, leave with Sykes and disappear up the stairs. He watched silently as a game of cards progressed at a table near the wall. A Mexican man was winning every hand, shouting excitedly and drunkenly in his native language as he collected his winnings. Apparently what he shouted were insults or comments about the other’s abilities, because one of them would always answer him with something like, “Shut your fat, stupid, dirty, mouth, Carlos and sit your fat, stupid, dirty ass down so’s we can win our money back!”

Other than the card players, Janie, Sykes, and John, the tavern contained two other patrons. There was a man sitting in the corner, with his feet propped up, obviously napping and another, taller man, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, nursing what looked like a bottle of bourbon. The crowd did not seem overly threatening, just tired and lazy mostly, so John loosened up a bit. The whiskey was helping matters along and by the end of the hour, he was feeling almost calm. He had to admit, it was a nice feeling.

The illusion of peace was shattered like a bullet through glass though, when another stranger shoved open the swinging door, gun drawn. The kid wasn’t very old and you could tell, even through the layers of grime on his face, that he wasn’t nearly old enough to shave. The boy’s hand was steady, but his mouth trembled slightly. His pistol arm moved with his body as he turned side to side, sweeping over the room. John’s slow-motion brain barely registered the danger until the gun was leveled at his head.

“Where’s William Harris? Huh?” The kid demanded, his voice breaking slightly, “I know the son-of-a-gun is in here somewhere! That old fart at the hotel told me he was! Now, you tell me where he is!”

John stared at the boy stupidly; his only response was to set his shot glass nosily on the counter. His fine motor skills were not what they once were and he swayed in his seat, trying to figure out how best to hide.

The kid, for his part, was getting more and more agitated and he swung his pistol around the room to point toward the card players. “I asked you boys where William Harris is. I came here to kill him today, and if’n I can’t find him, I’ll burn down one of you instead!” The boy’s hand began to shake and the trigger clicked slightly, causing the Mexican to cross himself.

Without a word, the tall man at the other end of the bar stood up before the kid had a chance to react.

“What you want to kill him for?” the tall man asked, leaning back with one hand still on the bar, the other hand positioned very near his belt.

“Killed my father.” Came the reply, “that son of a whore killed my old man and now I figure on settling the score.” The boy was calming down again, or trying to. His voice was sounding more measured.

“You waited a long time for this day, haven’t you son?” The tall man asked the boy as he leaned up off the bar and stepped forward. He smiled a little bit at the kid and held out his arms to indicate he wasn’t reaching for his gun.

“Longer than you know.” the boy replied, but he wasn’t really interested in talking so he demanded, “ Now where is he?” The kid had his gun pointed at the man, but the man continued to move slowly forward, making the boy nervous all over again.

“Practiced that aim of yours a long time, I’ll bet.” the man boomed out in a confident, assured baritone. He seemed totally undisturbed by the boy or his pistol and as if to prove he wasn’t worried, the tall man took his hat off with this right hand and brushed it on his pants, knocking off some dust before putting it back on his head.

“That’s right. I mean to do what I mean to do!” yelled the boy, irritated by the older man’s nonchalance, “Now stop where you are and tell me where that dirty gun is!” The boy gestured with his gun hand, all the while reaching out with his other hand to wipe his face. The layers of dirt smeared over the sweat that had beaded up on his forehead and upper lip and the effect combined to make him look even more desperate than he seemed before. The kid was getting to the point where he was about to do something drastic, and every man in the bar knew it.

After a quick appraisal of the way the situation was going, the tall man stopped moving forward, but never broke eye contact with the boy.

“I’m William Harris, kid. Now, you mind telling me who your daddy was? Just so I know which killing I’m going to end up dying for.” William smiled politely as he said it and moved his hands away from his body again in a peaceable gesture.

“His name was Hank Terrell.” There were tears on the boy’s face, mixing with the sweat and the dirt “You shot him down outside of San Pablo.” The gun began to rattle in the young man’s shaky hand.

“He was headed to Mexico to out run the law, boy.” Explained William Harris in a slow and steady voice, “There was a 1,000 dollar reward on his head, if I remember correctly. If the law had caught him, he’d a hanged. That’s a terrible way to die. I did him a favor if y…”

Before William could finish his explanation, the boy made to squeeze the trigger. One round hit directly to William’s left and went into the wall behind the bar. The kid looked shocked. He was shocked partly at the fact the gun went off and partly at the fact he missed. But while the young man was standing there opened mouthed, trying to figure out what should happen next, Isaac the proprietor hit him on the head from behind. For even as William Harris was talking with the young man, Isaac was making his way around the bar in a crouching position, moving slow and silent so that he could get the drop on the lad.

“Pop.” The half empty bottle of bourbon cracked over the boy’s skull and liquor and glass and the young man all hit the floor at the same time.

“That was quick thinking, Isaac.” William Harris tipped his hat to the bar’s owner, “I’d a hated to of shot him.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Replied Isaac, “We’re square over that Salt Flats deal, though.”

“Yep” came the reply, “I can agree to that.”

“So what should we do with him?” Isaac peered down at the boy crumpled on his floor and shook his head, “What a mess.”

“yep.” Agreed William again, “quiet a mess”

“Well, it can be your mess.” Issac muttered after some thought, still looking disdainfully down at the young man, “cause I ain’t a gin to clean it up!” Both men were quiet for a while and finally Isaac asked again, “So what’s your plan?”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead.” William admitted. “Mostly I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to shoot a kid.”

“That would have been a hell of a thing to come out of retirement for, sure enough.” Isaac said offering a little sympathy for William’s dilemma “but all the same, alive or shot, he needs to go.”

William only grunted in response. White Creek did not have a sheriff, and consequently, had no jail, so he couldn’t just stash the boy there. The town didn’t have a hospital either, so that was equally out of the question.

“Well,” said William after rubbing his head in thought, “I guess I’ll bring him up to Molly over at the boarding house. He’s gonna have one big head ache in the morning. I’ll be taking this from him though,” William picked up the young man’s pistol and put it in his own belt, “It seems he don’t know how to use it proper.”

“Maybe you should show him!” offered one of the card players, “so’s next time he comes to kill you, he can do it right.”

The whole card table guffawed and William even cracked a little smile as he hoisted the kid over one shoulder and began the short walk to Molly’s.

From his table in the corner John Simms had been watching everything and it occurred to him that maybe his luck was changing. He never expected to find help in this seemingly God-forsaken place, but perhaps he’d stumbled upon it anyway.

William Harris was a very famous bounty hunter. The papers back east dubbed him, “the lawman’s best friend.” He was reported to be an honest and skillful man who didn’t mind making a few bucks by being a gun for hire as long as what he was hired to do didn’t break any laws.

Glancing down at the black bag by his feet, the stranger realized he may have found the only man in Nevada who could help him out of his strange and dangerous situation. The only man in these parts who could help him get rid of what was tucked away inside his traveling case.

Grabbing the black bag tightly, John followed Mr. Harris out the bar.