Consequence, at The Well

CW: Casual/Thinly Veiled Bigotry

“You wanna do something fun?” Duke dipped his head low, pulling down the brim of his hat to conceal his eyes a little more. Tiny beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face and along his chiselled jaw as he spoke, dampening the bandana around his neck. It was hot as the third layer of hell out here, even this late at night. Just how he liked it.

“You gonna stick around when it ain’t?” Replied Travers sincerely, as he had done a hundred times before. The age difference between him and Duke was enough that both men knew, Travers needed the older bandit just as much as he needed his wand. 

“Always.” The two men nodded at one another from across the double doors of the saloon and pulled their bandannas up over their noses, leaving nothing of their faces visible but the eyes.

“Then let’s ride.”

The doors to the tavern swung open violently as the two burly outlaws burst into the room. The scent of ale and cheap whiskey hit their noses, bringing with it memories of nights like this. Nights spent searching for riches amongst the doldrums of the desert expanse they called home. On this night, over at the much busier Scaly Scamp in Butchers Bay, they’d heard rumours of a high stake die game outside town at a middle of nowhere saloon called The Well. Expecting to find all manner of gold and treasure piled high on a table, their eyes took in the sights of the space before them. The bartender stood, looking quite nonplussed at their extravagant intrusion. He continued pouring the amber-hued firewater that was the choice of gamblers around these parts into 5 lowball glasses on a brilliant brass tray behind the countertop. Off to the side of the bar, an old upright piano stood unmanned but open with sheets of music strewn across its top. There was one lone patron, an elderly man, slouched over a glass of mead on the table closest to the bar. He gave the outlaws a sideways glance upon their entry before quickly returning his attention to his own misery. “Can I help you gentleman?” The bartender asked, returning the cap to the bottle and placing it on the countertop in front of him.

“I see 5 glasses full of juice but not 2 fellers in this place, sides us. Where’s the game?” Travers dipped his voice low and put a little gravel in it just to be sure. He could not know where the winds would take them from here, but he knew that he would not be identified or recognised, no way no how. Not if he could help it. 

“Game? I don’t know nothin’ about no game boys. I just get thirsty after a long night dealin’ with the rabble that come through here some nights. Bit of a closing ritual” The bartender lifted a glass as if making a toast, and downed its contents in a single gulp. “Whooo, that’ll do it. Why don’t you two take off them masks and pull up a chair? Drinks on me.” He placed two of the lowball glasses onto the countertop. Duke, having made his way to the piano by the bar, noticed a flash of gold on the bartender's wrist as he quickly guzzled the two remaining whiskeys in rapid succession. 

“No, I don’t think we’ll be doing that.” Duke traced his fingers along the keys of the piano, taking note of the dust collected there as he spoke. “That’s quite a timepiece you got there. Unusual for a simple barkeep.”

“Who said I was simple?” The barman speedily reached his hands beneath the counter and raised them again with a firearm in each, one trained on Duke and the other on Travers. The drunkard stood up at his table and began to make a hasty retreat toward the saloon doors where Travers still stood. “Let him go.” The barman said coolly. “And once again, I’m gonna have to ask the two of you to remove those masks. I’ve been plenty cordial, time for you to return the favour friends.”

Travers grabbed the old man and circled behind him, in the same swift motion drawing his wand and holding it to the drunkards head. Across the room, Duke rolled to the side as the barman, emboldened by the sight of the wand, let off a shot in his direction. Springing into action, Duke found the closest table and flipped it up on its side, kneeling behind it. The golf ball-sized bullet lodged itself into the wood of the upright piano to his right unleashing an awful mesh of sounds as strings snapped and random keys played discordant notes. The barman dropped the exhausted single-shot firearm behind the bar, and frantically aimed his lone remaining weapon between the now upturned table and the bandit with the hostage by the entry. “Let him go you majji bastards! You’re gon’ be outnumbered ‘fore you know it. And my friends… Well, they ain’t the type of people who take kindly to freak people holdin’ us regular people up with wands.” The calm had left the barman’s voice now, replaced with a tremor, and hesitation to his words.

“People, people, people. Not much for language are ya feller?” Travers pointed his wand sharply at the barkeep, his right arm fully extended. Taking the drunken old man into a single-arm side headlock with his left, the junior outlaw stepped forward, confidently and with purpose making his way closer to the bar. “Look, I’m gonna be honest here mister, we ain’t really people people anyway. So I think we’ll take our chances on that.” The barman let his gun’s sights rest uneasily on Travers as he continued. “What say we wait on these friends of his Bee? See if maybe they wont be more amenable to showin’ us where we can find a nice friendly game of Devils Die.” He directed his comment at Duke, who was readying his wand. 

“There ain’t no damn game of Devils Die here! Just a thirsty man tryna close up his business and get home to his loving wife.” The barman was beginning to shake with fear. Duke leapt from behind the upturned table with his wand extended in the direction of the barman. “Gorrga!” A blast of electric blue energy shot forth from its tip, the bartender turned but could not fire in time. Taking the full force of the spell directly against his chest, his weapon fell to the floor as he froze in place. Petrified.

“We’ll see about that mister.” Duke relaxed as he regained his footing and holstered his wand. Wiping some dust from his brown leather coat he addressed Travers directly. “Watch your words Three, he still has his senses about him, wanna take care of that?” He nodded toward the old drunkard, whose face was turning beet red under the grip of Travers’ arm.

Travers let go of the old man and allowed him to take four hasty steps toward the swinging doors before silently casting a petrifying spell of his own. The old man was hit in the back mid-stride and turned a pale blue. He crashed to the floor, headfirst, with a sickening thud. “Petrification’ll likely only hold for about 5 minutes, so I’ma tie these two up. That native said the game is happening here, so there must be a trapdoor or some kind of concealed room. Have a look around.” Duke spoke the orders in a calm and collected manner, such that they didn’t sound like orders at all.

“Shit Bee, what if we missed the game!? That was a hell of a ride out here for nothin’ if we did. All on the word of some sand-elf? I told you we shoulda just rode on up. What were you thinking leaving the horses a half-hour walk away? This late at night? Best be hopin’ our barman there was bluffin’ ‘bout these friends o’ his”. Travers furrowed his brow as he dragged the old man closer to the bar for Duke.

“He was... Ain’t no one around for miles… And it's early in the morning, actually.” Duke corrected Travers with a sly smile beneath his bandanna, as he skilfully unlatched the timepiece from around the bartender's wrist. “Ain’t for nothin' though. This gotta be worth at least a three buck.” He said, holding the ill-gotten gains up for Travers to see before stuffing it into a leather pouch hanging from his belt. Across the room Travers began stomping on the floorboards and tapping the wall, making his way around the perimeter of the saloon. “As for my thinkin’. We work best with the element of surprise. How was I s’posed to know the barkeep would go get all brave and start shootin’? When’s the last time the sight of the wand didn’t spook our quarry still huh?”

“Culver’s Gulch, I reckon it was. When we waltzed into that anti-majji spot.” Travers paused at a section of wall displaying a large oil painting of the plains. Hands-on hips, he looked up and admired the artistry in the detailed scene. Two mares, one black and one chestnut brown, were depicted running wild against a vast dry backdrop with a homestead off in the distance.

“Culver’s Gulch, well damn that was a fun night! This son of a bitch is heavy, Three, he needs to lay off the drink.” Duke grunted the words as he heaved the patron’s body behind the bar and began tying him up, back to back with the barkeep. “You still havin’ fun?”

Travers reached up and unhooked the painting placing it carefully against a section of wall he had already searched. “Yeah, I ‘spose. I dunno if I remember the Gulch as fondly though. We damn near lost Luisa that night, Duke.”

“Fuck sake, Travers!” Duke stood, exasperated, and drew his wand. The air hung heavy with tension as Travers realised what he’d said.

“Shit, I didn’t mean…”

“S’too late. Gotta do what we gotta do. You find anythin’?” Duke began blindly blasting liquor bottles from shelves with his wand. His free hand searched the countertops for anything else of value, finding nothing but the two lowball glasses of fine whiskey and the half-empty bottle atop the bar. 

“Nothin ‘sides this painting. I kinda like it. Reminds me what this life of ours is all about ya know?”

"Mmm-hmm" Duke sounded lazily in agreement, peering over the bar at the painting on the floor. He admired what he thought of as his protege’s naivety. “I’ve never understood why people spend their precious hours paintin’ somethin’ you can just look out yer window for.” He said, returning to his search for the money drawer.

“It’s just… Nice.” Came the young bandits reply. “Puttin’ somethin’ like that down in a permanent way. Can’t no dragon’s fire or blasted earthquake ruin that homestead. These mares will live forever.”

“Found it! Ha!” Exclaimed Duke, barely listening to the words of his younger counterpart. “This ol’ bastard had a good night it seems. Game or not.” He scooped the wads of cash and piles of coins out of the drawer and into his tiny leather pouch whose insides were enchanted to hold any number of items that could fit through its opening. “You want those mares to live forever you’re gonna need to shrink em down quick, ‘cause this place can’t see tomorrow now. Not with these fellers hearin’ my name. Come get a drink and let's go.”

Travers took a deep breath and sighed. He tapped the painting with his wand and watched as it shrank down to no bigger than a mouse, the brilliance of the swirling brushwork disappearing to the naked eye at its new dimensions. He gathered it up and placed it in his own magical leather pouch before meeting Duke over the bar.

“To fun! And getting rich.” Duke opined, caught up in the excitement of a good haul. He offered a whiskey glass to Travers who took it and shot it back immediately. The aged liquor, possibly older than he was, burnt his throat as it went down. Duke noticed a hint of melancholy in his young partner's eyes. He pulled down his bandana and continued, thoughtfully, raising his drink. “And to sticking around when we’re broke, or doin’ those things that..” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “… that break the spirit a little.” He took his glass and downed its contents. Travers followed Duke’s lead and removed his face covering revealing a face wet with sweat, and tears. Duke placed a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to do it, kid?”

Travers shook his head. “No. It’s on me. Go on outside. I’ll be alright. I’ma just need a minute.” He grabbed the half-empty bottle and took a seat at a bar side stool as Duke tipped his hat and departed through the swinging doors to take a seat on the steps outside the entrance. “I’ll be right out here if you need.”

Travers took a large swig from the bottle, consuming as much of its contents as he possibly could, before pouring the rest out onto the counter. The young outlaw buried his head in his hands and rested a moment, gathering the strength he needed to pull him through what needed to happen next. He reached into his tiny pouch and pulled forth a can of lantern oil, leaving it on the counter. Rounding the bar, he knelt low in front of the barman and the drunkard just as they began to regain mobility.

“I’m terribly sorry ‘bout this.” He looked down at the floorboards, rather than making eye contact. No longer under the effects of the petrification spell, the drunkard remained unresponsive; unconscious as a result of the fall. The barman however began to weep openly.

“Please, please don’t do this. I have a family. I won't say nothin'. I can’t. You can’t” The barman sputtered his words in desperation. 

Travers stared across to the door of the saloon from behind glassy eyes. He thought of the homestead in the painting. “I can. And unfortunately for you, I have to. We just can’t take the risk.”

“I won't say nothin. I... I swear it. I never seen you, or your partner. I was lyin' 'bout those friends. I ain’t got nothin' and no one but my wife…Please.” 

Travers locked eyes with the barman. “You tell me where I can find her. And you have my word, man to man, she’ll be taken care of. Any gold I can spare, so long as I’m around these parts. Looks like it may be a while yet.” He maintained eye contact as the barman took in his promise.

“Butchers Bay. Her name is Penny…. Penny Farnsworth.” The barman slowly regained a measure of composure as he spoke. Looking around, he realised what was about to unfold. “I don’t wanna die from one of your wicked spells… I’m beggin’ ya. Man to man.” He pleaded, his eyes settling on something behind Travers. The young outlaw followed the barman’s gaze to the single-shot firearm which he had dropped when petrified. He collected it. Steeling himself, he stared down the sights of the dead mans gun. And pulled the trigger.

———————————————

“Firenze!” Travers pointed his wand at the trail of lighter fluid he had set out and watched in regret as it sparked. Flames quickly began to engulf the ramshackle saloon in the middle of the road to nowhere. He turned to his partner, "That part was a lot less fun." Duke nodded and set off down the trail toward the post on which they had left their horses hitched. The two outlaws walked in silence for about 15 minutes before the younger spoke again. “We gotta find someone in Butchers Bay. I have a painting to deliver...And some other things.”

“Alright,” Duke replied dryly.

“Thanks for sticking around.”

“Always.”