Shootout at Goldrun Town

“Water…please, I need water…help…they’re after me,” the man rasped, slumped into his horse’s mane, one hand grasping it weakly as the other waved a battered, empty water canteen in the air. His wide-brimmed hat was perilously close to toppling from his head. Both steed and rider were coated in grime and fine red dust from travelling the frontier plains. The harsh, dazzling sun had done its work, beating them into thirsty submission.

“My name is…Silas ‘Sureshot’ McLeod,” he coughed, trying to look around. “You must have heard of me.” Silas announced as loudly as he could. His horse swayed side to side, whickering to itself as they entered a one street town, both sides of the dusty avenue lined with sun-aged wooden buildings. Built with a focus on functionality rather than architectural glory, the main distinguishing feature of each was crudely painted signs, proclaiming a saloon, bank, general store, town hall and a church with a toppled over cross crowning it. Hitching posts waited outside, as vacant of horses as the tables and counters inside were of people.

“Hello? Water…help…they’re coming!” Silas croaked. His hat fell to the ground, his body following it with all the grace of a locomotive toppling from its tracks. A grunt and a puff of dust, then silence. The swinging saloon doors creaked, a weathervane groaned, a tumbleweed drifted by.

“Hallooo mister, come on in and maybe we can take your troubles away,” trilled a young female voice. No person emerged, but the saloon doors swung back and forth rapidly,

“Stop it you, Silas is a good Christian name, all such a man needs is a prayer or two, not your disgraceful, sinful temptations!” Came an answering voice from the direction of the church, its cross wobbling but remaining aloft on the roof.

“Mr Mayooooor, Churchie’s being rude again, tell him there’s nothing wrong with-“ the Saloon’s doors bashed back and forth again, sulkily this time, but were cut off as the windows of the town hall rattled and a tile toppled from its roof.

“Enough! Why did your bickering have to wake me up yet again? Oh, what’s this? A visitor?” A deep, authoritative rumbling came from the town hall. “Welcome to Goldrun Town, stranger! We’re a bit short on the gold these days, but we’re too fond of the name to change it. I’m sure Ol’ Goldhills will chip in with his view soon enough.” As if on cue a deep rumbling sound like stone tables being torn in half rolled in from the hills behind Goldrun Town.

Silence reigned momentarily as the town seemed to step back and hold its breath while Silas sat up, rubbing at his eyes, scratching his ears. “You…what? Is anyone there?” Silas’ head jerked about, he stood up in stages, like a new-born animal learning to walk. He made eye contact with the saloon’s windows, one of which seemed to wink at him.

“Hallooo handsome, care to dabble at cards? A drop of whiskey? A dash of rum? Only the finest delights await within! You can call me Sally if you like,” The Saloon cooed, its swinging doors flung open, its walls taking on a deep red hue.

Before Silas could form a reply, the neighbouring General Store loomed upwards, its rickety chimney wagging like a pointed finger. “No, no, no, you don’t want any of that saloon dross, come on in and I can present you with only the finest alcohol, foodstuffs, weaponry, ammunition and miscellaneous items required by such a renowned gunslinger such as yourself.” It halted, as though such a lengthy sales prattle took more effort these days than it used to.

“Pft, at your prices I’ll be back in the loan business,” came a snooty voice and the clicking of a safe being unlocked as the Bank opposite deigned to comment.

Silas spun around warily, hand dropping to his holstered revolver, seeking solace in the known when the unknown surrounded. “Where is everyone? I need help! The posse, they’re coming! They said I killed a man! Well…I did, but not the one they think!” He swung an arm across his sweat soaked brow, eyes bulging as he desperately sought sight of humanity. Spotting nobody, Silas muttered to himself and barged through the saloon doors.

A bottle of whiskey, some shot classes, a jug of water and a half-finished game of cards decorated a table that dominated the room. Silas took a seat, poured himself a shot and knocked it back. The alcohol punched through his body as he grabbed the jug, gulping water directly from it. “Ahh, that’s the stuff.

“Make yourself at home, that one’s on the house!” Sally’s voice filled the room, yet when Silas tried to pin down its location, he couldn’t. Half-formed visions of a woman with cascading blonde curls in a ruffled, grimy dress flitted across his eyes.

“Am I drunk already?” Silas sighed, pouring another shot.

“Silly, just enjoy your drink and play your hand,” Sally giggled, and was about to speak again when a firmer voice silenced her.

“Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”

The gunslinger downed his glass of whiskey. He did not turn around as he was pretty sure that if he did there would be no one there.

“Come to save my soul, preacher?”

“It needs saving. I do remember the revivals; how merry they were with singing and tears of repentance! And the sermons about people’s souls burning down, they would put the fear in your bones, that’s for sure.”

Silas played with his shot glass, spinning it around and angling it like a mirror so he could see if anyone was standing where the voice was coming from. A figure dressed in black with a clerical collar shimmered, like a view caught only in peripheral vision, then was gone again. Silas rolled his eyes.

“But of primary importance is saving your posterior,” Church continued on, “I have the best eyes for distance of anyone in town, owing to the height of the steeple.” He let that sink in and Silas nodded, “There’s a group of six men coming this way.”

“Do I have time to get away?” he asked.

“No, if you ride off into the sunset, they will surely see you. Besides, you know your horse is spent.”

Silas reflexively reached for his pistol. “Well, I guess that’s it then, showdown time.’’ He began to rise.

“I abhor violence,” Church continued, “But I had an idea. There’s a trap door below the organ. I can hide you there, and they’ll be on their way in the morning.”

“No, they’ll find my horse.”

“Yes, they’ll find your horse, but they won’t find you and will have to assume you stole another one or left on foot.”

“It’ll never work.”

“I have a deacon who is an excellent tailor. He makes lovely decorations and I’ll have him put one above the trap door. They’ll assume the thing has not been in use for a long time and they won’t check it, even if they find it.”

“You’d lie for me, preacher?”

“I won’t say a word; their own minds will draw that conclusion.”

“There’s a tailor here?”

“Well, you would call it a spider.”

A skittering sound drew Silas’ gaze up to the rafters, for a moment he was certain he could see bushy black spider legs scrabbling around, but his eyes refused to focus clearly.

“I appreciate the offer, but they don’t call me Sureshot for nothing, and I’ve relied on my friend here enough times, I don’t need help,” Silas stood, patting his revolver, fingers caressing the worn handle with a familiarity that spoke of frequent use. He strode towards the door, emitting a yelp as he was about to pass through when a bolt of black fabric fell from above and wrapped itself around his shoulders.

“Aah! What is this?” Silas scrabbled at the garment, wondering at its soft yet heavy feel, his fingers tingling and hurting like they’d been frozen in ice then stuck into a fire.

“Consider it a gift. God bless you, Silas.” Church said, his voice fading with each word.

“Will it protect me?” Silas asked, stepping out into the street, already accustomed to the feel of the makeshift shawl. Silence answered. Silas shrugged, swinging his arms, stretching his legs, running a few quick sprints up and down the street.

“They’re almost here, Silas, best of luck to you, it’s been a pleasure having a visitor again,” the town hall’s deep, comforting voice cut into Silas’ thoughts. He looked up, spotting a cloud of dust disturbing the brownish red of the early evening prairie horizon, the six figures he knew were creating it slowly became more distinct.

“I’m ready.” Silas shouted, standing in the middle of the street, legs braced, arms outstretched.

“Good luck my silly Silas!” Cheered the saloon, clattering applause with windows and doors.

“Put some holes in the dung eaters!” The general store wheezed, then gurgled as one side of its sign fell, drooping diagonally.

“Show them what’s what for us,” the bank grudgingly joined the outpouring of well wishes.

Two golden flashes lit up the distant hills, then a thundering sounded, seeming to shudder up through Silas’ feet and along his body before entering his ears. “I hope you stupid humans all die, wretches burgled every speck of my gold! Do you know how long it takes to mature? Die, die, dreadful little critters!” Goldhills bellowed.

“Goldie! Don’t be rude!” Chorused the town’s buildings, creating a cacophony of rattling windows, slamming doors and creaking floorboards as the distant golden glints winked out into darkness.

“Thanks guys,” Silas said with genuine warmth, keeping his eyes on the six horsemen that were speeding closer, more details becoming visible as the seconds passed. Each man wore a dark suit and hat, their horses snuffling and breathing hard, but still looking magnificent.

As the half dozen riders entered the street, they formed a line, one man with a lengthy grey beard riding slightly ahead, horse pointed directly at Silas. He waved a crumpled piece of paper. “Mr. Silas McLeod, I’m Marshal Elmer Perry and I have a warrant here permitting me to stop you in any way necessary. That gun of yours has spat enough death, we’ve come to put an end to it.’’ Perry announced, eyes staring down at Silas with utter disgust as the line came to a stop a dozen paces away.

“You’re full of lies, Perry! Me, my friends and my new special equipment here are gonna show you the error of your ways,” Silas yelled, glancing about quickly, but the only sound that filled the street was a gentle rustle of breeze. His hand lowered towards his revolver, stance taking on the classic duelist pose.

“Did your Mama knit that shawl for you?” The youngest of the group spat, waving a hand at Silas’ shawl. A couple of the posse chuckled as they shifted uneasily, eyes scanning the empty buildings. Silas raised his hand, mouth opening to make a retort, but Elmer Perry was unflappable, stern features registering not a flicker of emotion as he said simply: ‘’Shoot him.’’

The harsh crack and smell of gunfire split the quiet of the street, a flurry of bullets fizzing out of the posse. Two punched into Silas’ chest, a third into his thigh, blood blossoming on his dusty clothes as the other two shots missed the mark. He stood frozen for a second, any potential wit evaporating in shock, then tumbled backwards, hitting the dirt with a thud for the second time in the day. His hat spun away, landing upside down.

“Good shooting, gentlemen. Let’s get out of this ghost town,” snapped Perry, already turning his horse around, companions hurrying to follow.

Silas juddered and convulsed as blood poured from his wounds, clutching his hands to them in desperation. “Sal-ly…Church? Hello? They…shot me,” he gasped, words slipping weakly from his lips. “Guys? I said…” Silas tried to lift his head, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion and take more effort than usual.

The wind rustled through windows, across empty tables, over toppled chairs, along decrepit roofs, spun the weathervane and swirled on to the distant hills. The saloon doors made a long, laborious creak. A gentle rain began to fall, pattering on wood, drizzling into the dust and the newly dead.