A Town For The Dying

Wynonna Belle struggled with the several volumes of books she carried across the main thoroughfare of the once bustling Arizonan town of Canyon Diablo.

Since the closure of the town’s library, Wynonna had made several deals with store owners to house some of her books, where she could provide places for townsfolk to gather and read or take needed lessons in literacy.

Precariously balancing the heavy books in her arms, Wynonna’s steadfast resolve held strong as she crossed the aptly named Hell Street – now void of its once rough reputation of wandering scallywags, thieves, ladies of ill repute, and common murderers.

Catching her breath in the warm afternoon sun, she rested for a moment, then watched as a gnarly looking man exited the doors of The Last Drink Saloon, acting like he was in a mighty hurry to be somewhere. His manner of dress caused an instant summation in Wynonna’s thoughts. Most dapperly attired in a way only a city slicker could pull off, his shiny brown boots matched his beige suit, and a recent shoeshine glistened off the leather from the glare of the sun streaking its way down the town’s only street. For a moment, Wynonna blushed as the bearded and handsome man approached her. She was about to greet him, when the stranger rudely brushed against her, knocking the books from her grasp, sending them tumbling onto the dusty street.

“God-dang it!” Wynonna exhaled in frustration, as she looked back over her shoulder at the stranger - who responded by slowing his pace to turn and look back at her.

“Why don’t you watch where yer goin, Mister,” Wynonna disparagingly chided him using her adopted cowboy vocabulary.

“Do forgive me,” he said while politely tipping his brown Derby hat and apologising with a lilt of an English accent. “I honestly did not see you,” he cheekily smiled – his brashness causing Wynonna to lose her composure.

“There’s a whole damn street out here empty of anyone but old men’s mules,” Wynonna grumbled. “You could see I was carrying these books. It would have been easier to have gone around me,” she continued to chastise him.

“Where are you headed with such a heavy load?” The stranger asked – attempting to change Wynonna’s mood.

“Well, we ain’t got no library no more,” she barked, struggling to gather up some of the manuals. “So, I was aimin’ to drop them off here and there for people to borrow. But you just put a halt to that, exiting the saloon in all flusteration - like you was on some kind of French Leave.”

“Then I must apologise for my impoliteness, Miss?”

“Belle,” she abruptly replied.

“Miss Belle,” he repeated. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is August Love… from England.”

“Well, Mr. Love from England. You better watch where you’re steppin’ in the future. These books are rare in these parts, and they don’t come cheap.”

“Aha!” The Englishman grunted his stirring recognition. “Oh, my goodness. You’re she, aren’t you? The famous gunslinging librarian.”

The mention of her name attached to a supposition of a reputation, raised a concern in Wynonna’s mind. She had been confronted before by lunk-headed cowboys looking to create reputations as gunfighters, trying all kinds of tricks to distract her. Secure in the knowledge and fact that those making the mistake of taking her on, never fared well, Wynonna took her time to look the stranger over, but couldn’t quite categorise him. This was no ordinary hombre, she thought. His gentlemanly appearance concealed the swagger of a mail-order cowboy, a tenderfoot in dapper attire. These types of men, Wynonna surmised, usually smiled with one hand outstretched, then plugged you with a single shot Derringer, previously hidden up their sleeve.

Straightening herself up, Wynonna strategically turned her body at a right-angle to the Englishman’s position. This defensive posture was known to reduce the size of a human target in case there was a fight at hand.

Slowly flicking her tailcoat behind her preferred left side, a reflection from the sun hitting her shiny sheriff’s badge, temporarily obscured the Englishman’s vision.

“My goodness,” he declared. “You’re also the law in this town.”

“Hell, mister,” Wynonna rebuked. “There ain’t never been no law in Canyon Diablo, and if there ever was, they didn’t last long.”

It was a running joke with the town folk. Before Wynonna reluctantly took the position as town sheriff, there had been a revolving door in the undertaker’s parlour of those that wore the tin star for varying lengths of time, before being gunned down by one Bad Man or another. The longest reign in the law’s attendance was thirty days. The shortest was four hours.

“State your intentions, Mr. Love.” Wynonna demanded – her defences on prickly alert. “I’ve come to not trust smiling strangers.”

“I assure you, Miss Belle. I’m just an admirer. My clumsiness was merely due to a certain affliction of short-sightedness. You see, before my inquisitiveness took hold of me, urging me to explore the saloon, I had been at the telegraph office, sending my latest story back to London. In my haste, I may have left my spectacles with the telegraph operator, so I was headed straight back there when I accidentally bumped into you. I’m afraid, the world is a little blurred without my aide visuelle.”

“Story, you say. You a writer, Mr. Love?”

“It would give me the greatest of pleasure if you called me, August,” he requested while stooping to gather up a few of the books. “Yes, I’m on assignment for the Illustrated London News, delivering tales of the Wild West into the drawing rooms of Hampstead, Mayfair, and I dare say, the haughty house of Lords. I’m to understand that royalty also peruses our pages.”

“Now, August,” Wynonna pondered. “Why would folks so far away be interested in what goes on in a hot, dry, and godforsaken place like Canyon Diablo?”

“Well, simply put, Miss Belle. For the tales of adventure in your wild corner of civilization.”

“And they don’t get bored reading about our way of life?”

“On the contrary, Miss Belle. We sell over three hundred thousand copies per week. That’s a very large inquisitive audience hungry for fresh stories.”

“I ain’t no schoolteacher, so please call me Wynonna, or Sheriff Belle – if you prefer to remain formal.”

“What a wonderful Western name. Wynonna,” he admiringly repeated. “To many in the high society of London,” he continued. “The West is full of heroism, cowboys, and – may I say… chaos. The tales of deepest, darkest Africa and the exploits of Stanley and Livingstone are pale in comparison to the adventures of General Custer, Wild Bill Hickock, Wyatt Earp, Tombstone, and such. You see, your way of life represents fantasy, danger, adventure, and dare I say it, escapism.”

“I met Wyatt Earp some years back,” Wynonna dreamily confessed.

“How exciting! What was he like?”

“He was a man you’d prefer was with you rather than agin you. Fearless, tough, and determined, but ever so gentle to women folk. He passed through here on his way to California - after that bad business at the O.K. Corral and the episode with the Clantons.”

“How marvellous.”

“He stopped by the library to see me, or at least to see what the fuss about the Gunslinging Librarian was all about. That is your general description of me, isn’t it?”

“Forgive me, Wynonna. That was just a dollar writer looking for a ten-cent headline.”

“Shucks! Nuthin’ I ain’t heard before.”

“Did Mr. Earp stay long?”

“Long enough to figure out this place wasn’t worth his concern. Hearing the famous lawman was in town, the town’s leaders rushed to gawk at him – even offering him the immediate job of Sheriff. But he declined, saying Canyon Diablo was meaner and wilder than Tombstone and Dodge City combined. Can you believe that?”

“Fascinating.”

“I personally think he saw this place for what it’s worth. Nuthin. The railroad bridge had not long been completed, and so many people were already packing up and moving on to the next boom town, that the place had taken on the atmosphere of abject abandonment. Personally, I think Wyatt was just plain done with being a lawman and was lookin’ for other opportunities unrelated to killing people.”

“How interesting,” August noted. “A town notoriously dangerous that even the great Wyatt Earp wouldn’t police it, but you – a young woman - of all things, gladly accepted the position of town Sheriff.”

“Hell, I didn’t want the job. But the dwindling population forced the town’s leaders to close the library on account of a lack of funding, leaving some of the good folks here without a window to the rest of the world. So, I made several deals with the traders to mobilise and fragment my library into sections that they could fit into their already crowded spaces. I spent so much time on this street, solving fights between drunks and preventing daylight robberies, that the town’s leaders pinned a tin star on me for thirty dollars a month. Most troublemakers had pulled in their horns and moved on, meaning the risks that came with the position had mostly disappeared, so I took the job. Heck, this ain’t nuthin’ but a town for the dying, anyway. It used be the gun that racked up the numbers on Boot Hill. Now, it’s just tumbleweeds.”

“Fascinating,” August noted. “You must be the only female sheriff around. If I may, would you honour me and my readers, by allowing me to write an article about you?”

“Can’t say you’d have much to write about,” Wynonna quickly dismissed the idea. “Unless you count the run-ins with the Henderson clan, the fight I had with the most ornery, well-read drunk, who, it turns out, killed my daddy back awhile. Or the time I saved the Mexican immigrant and her son from a lynch mob.”

“I’m sure my readers would devour those stories.”

Contemplating August’s request, Wynonna dusted down her coat and rawhide pants, as if like Annie Oakley, she was preparing for her image to be posted on a Woodburytype cabinet card.

“We used to carry some copies of your periodical at the old library back during that Whitechapel Ripper escapade. I used to read the articles to those that weren’t blessed with literacy and show them those wonderful drawings that accompanied each story. That Jack was quite the terror. It’s one thing knowing who’s itchin’ to fight you and entirely another thing not knowing who’s hiding in the shadows waiting to bushwhack you.”

“Indeed,” August agreed. “A very nasty business made more sinister with the failure to apprehend him.”

“Yeah well, for every one Jack you had, we had ten. ‘Cept, our Jacks didn’t necessarily wait for darkness to kick up their own shindy with you. Tell me, do you illustrate your own articles, August?” Wynonna asked, changing the subject.

“Heavens, no,” he surprisingly perked up. “I do have an illustrator travelling with me, but he’s gone native – as you say. As a matter of fact, I’ve just seen him drunk and swinging from the chandelier inside the saloon, singing Blow the man down. Without my spectacles, I couldn’t do or say anything constructive to talk him down, so I rushed out of there to retrieve them. The rest you know.”

“Well, hell,” Wynonna sighed. “Best we get him back on his feet, then, before he does himself or anyone some deviltry.”

Helping Wynonna gather up the remaining books, August led her to the doors of the saloon. Then, placing the books on a wooden bench beside the entrance, he motioned her inside using a ladies-first chivalrous gesture that included a subservient bow. Whether it was the stranger’s manner, his intelligent sounding accent, or his handsome looks, Wynonna couldn’t help but smile at him as she passed through the swinging doors. However, upon entering the saloon, she noticed the chandelier hanging from the ceiling was stationary, with no drunkard in sight swinging from it. The second peculiar oddity she noted, was Henry Calhoun, the proprietor, quietly staring blankly at her from behind his bar. The third odd fish, arousing her suspicions was a lack of the usual ruckus normally associated with the only saloon in town still operating supervised card tables. Even the usual clientele seemed to be absent from the bar. In fact, the whole place resembled the quiet atmosphere of a library – her inner thoughts mused.

“Finally, she has arrived,” an impatient sounding male voice broke through the silence. “I thought you’d never take the bait.”

Stepping into the light, the voice revealed its face to Wynonna.

“Henderson!” She exclaimed - using a distasteful tone in her voice - before the recognizable sound of a rifle being cocked, upped a different kind of stakes amid the surrounding gaming tables.

“I’d be careful. This little fish bites back.” She warned. “That was a darn good distraction sending a handsome Englishman to collect me.”

“My sincere apologies, Wynonna,” August regretfully explained. “This relieves me from my gambling debts to Mr. Henderson.”

“You little Muck-Snipe,” Wynonna growled.

“Sometimes,” Henderson lectured. “You need a soft touch to remove an irritating thorn in your side.”

“Need I remind you what happened the last couple of times we crossed paths?” Wynonna crowed.

“You bested me once, that was shame on me. You bested me twice, that was shame on…”

Realising his analogy started off wrong, Henderson became a little flustered.

“Well, you ain’t never gonna best me agin,” he flapped.

“How the once mighty cattleman has fallen,” Wynonna countered. “Bushwhacking the law. Now, ain’t that just as desperado as your brand artist men cattle-rustlin’ at night.”

“There ain’t never been any law in this town,” Henderson countered. “And if there was…”

“They didn’t last long,” August’s verbal realisation caused him to cringe.

“You’ve been in town for what, four unsuccessful gambling days?” Henderson chuckled. “And you’re already up on our local sayings. We’re done here, Mr. Love. You may go. My man on the stairs pointing that Winchester at the Sheriff, will take over from here.”

“What of my debt?” August enquired.

“Toodle-loo, Mr. Love. Be on yer merry old English way.”

“And, Miss Belle?” August concerningly asked.

“No longer your business,” Henderson laughed. “You can take some flowers up to Boot Hill later, where she’ll be buried alongside the other failed tin stars.”

“You told me to just get her in here. You said you just wanted to talk with her,” August protested. “Murder is not what I agreed to.”

“No sirree, it sure ain’t,” Henderson laughed. “But that’s life out here in what you newspaper folks call, the Wild West. Lawless. So, we just do what the hell we want. Now, stand aside and let me conclude some unfinished business.”

Wynonna swiftly scanned the saloon. The four other men standing were most likely Henderson’s men, she thought – recognising his main cowhand, Jake Colter as one of them.

“Easy, Sheriff. Throw your pistols down,” Henderson instructed. “Your jig is up.”

“I won’t let you do this,” August shouted, as he moved into the line of fire between Wynonna and the rifleman’s aim.

The delay, coupled with August’s brave and defiant action, riled Henderson beyond tolerance. His patience wearing thin, he motioned to his rifleman, then issued a cold-hearted order.

“I ain’t got time for this. Shoot ‘em both!”

“NO!” August shouted above the crack of a rifle shot, as a bullet ripped through his left shoulder, felling him. Before the rifleman could shoot again, both of Wynonna’s colt pistols quickly blazed away in her hands. The rifleman slumped dead on the stairs - two bullets lodged in his cranium - a small trickle of blood seeping down his forehead. In response, the remaining three of Henderson’s men drew their pistols, only to be cut down by Wynonna’s lightning-quick and deadly aim. The whole melee lasted five seconds. In the aftermath, four men lay dead. The one still left standing was Henderson himself, who during those five seconds of deadly explosions of fire, had nimbly worked his way around to Wynonna’s blind side on her right and was now stood an arm’s length away pointing his gun directly at her head.

“I reckin’ you’ve got the little end of the horn, Sheriff,” Henderson icily declared.

He was too close for Wynonna to swiftly pivot on him without her getting hit first. However, Henderson needed to cock his pistol before firing. That allowed an extra moment to think. Preparing to meet him at point blank, Wynonna turned to fire, but was too late. A shot rang out. It sounded light in its explosion and soft in its impact, but Wynonna’s keen sense of hearing heard it hit something hard and heavy. While examining herself for a bullet hole, she was surprised to see Henderson staggering sideways - a look of shock and pain scouring his face, before collapsing face-down dead to the floor.

Below her, she noticed a wisp of smoke wafting up from the barrel of August Love’s Derringer pistol - held aloft in his shaking hand. Helping him up onto a chair, Wynonna grabbed a bar towel from Henry and quickly made a makeshift sling for August’s wounded arm.

“Well, I guess you got your own real-life adventure to write about, now,” Wynonna pointed out. “And I suggest it should have a hero named, August. I knew there was more to you than those pretty looks.”

“A lady must always be protected from harm,” August nobly stated.

““I ain’t no lady,” Wynonna corrected him. “I’m just a tired librarian in a burnt-out ghost town.”

“No,” August contradicted. “You’re not just a librarian. You are also the law in this town.”

“Hell,” she rebuked while removing her sheriff’s badge and throwing it to the floor. “Haven’t you learned this yet? There ain’t never been no law in this town. Now let’s get you down to Doc Thornton. You’ve got a story to write.”