Devil's Pit, Arizona

The desert wind blows dry and hot. The sky is pale blue due to the lack of moisture. Beneath the cloudless sky rides a solitary rider slumped in his saddle, his head bobbing with the pace of his pony’s steps. His hat is pulled low. A bandanna covers his face to fight the blowing sand. 

           On the rise of a dune, the dappled mare stops and snorts sand from its nose. Its master lifts his head and rubs the dust from his eyes. He squinted at the town below.  It shimmers with the heatwaves, and one might think it a mirage, except for the sign half buried in the sand, “Welcome to Devil’s Pit, Arizona.” The rider nudges his horse to move on.

The town’s main street seems almost deserted. The wind stirs up dirt devils everywhere. The paint on the buildings has been sandblasted away on the windward side. A group of restless horses tied to a hitching rail huddle together against the wind and sand. A few people scurry between buildings, briefly stopping to eye the stranger. He considers a saloon called the Watering Hole, which has a sign for rooms for rent, but the fresh blood stain on the boardwalk urges him to move on.

The stranger stops at Auntie May’s Boarding house. He dismounts, feeling the pain of a long ride course through his bones. As the stranger steps up onto the rickety boardwalk, an old timer shielded from the wind addresses him. “Best knock off all that dust before going in there, young fella. Auntie May gets snippy about people dragging in dirt.” The stranger stares at the old man with icy blue eyes that amuse the old gent, making him grin. The stranger removes his hat and beats the dust and dirt off his clothes. Returning his hat to his head, he turns to the man, “Much obliged,” and enters the establishment.

 A small bell tinkles, announcing his arrival. The stranger stands in the hall, studying his surroundings. To his left is a room full of overstuffed chairs and a fireplace. To his right is the dining area. It has a long table with eight chairs surrounding it.  There is a vase full of flowers, although he can’t imagine where they came from in the desert. He hears someone clearing their throat and turns to see a busty, middle-aged woman smiling at him. 

“Well, howdy, mister! What brings you to this hell hole?” 

The stranger saunters over to the front desk. “How much for a room?” 

Auntie May continues to smile.  “Four dollars.”

“A night?”

“No. That’s for the week, including meals.”

The stranger inhales and then sighs as he reaches inside his duster for his wallet. “Do you have a stable for my horse?”

“We sure do! That’s an extra fifty cents.”

As he lays the money on the counter, Auntie May turns the register toward him and fills him in on the house rules as he signs. “Breakfast at 7a.m, lunch at noon and dinner by five. If you’re late, too bad. No smoking except in the sitting room and if it’s ladies you’re after, there are plenty down the street at the Watering Hole. I run a decent place here.” As the stranger pockets his wallet, Auntie May sees a flash of silver pinned to his vest. Turning the register around, she reads his name. Tossing back her hair, she drawls, “You just passing through Mr-uh-Smith? Or are you here on business?” Smith glances at her from beneath the brim of his hat. He studies her face for a moment before answering. “Perhaps both.” Then, tipping his hat, he leaves with Auntie May calling after him, “Don’t forget, dinner’s at five.”

The wind has died down a bit, making the day feel even hotter. As he unties his horse, he looks up and down the street. The old timer calls to him. “What cha’ lookin’ for?” Smith takes off his duster and slings it behind his saddle. “ Which way to the sheriff’s office?” The old timer points with the stem of his pipe. “That a-way.”

Smith looks down the dusty street and sees a sign creaking in the wind. “Sheriff’s Office.” He nods at the gent and tips his hat as he mounts his horse. The old timer sees the badge and shouts,” “Hey! Wait a minute. Are you a US Marshal?” 

Smith enters the Sheriff’s office and sees a balding man sitting behind a desk. Another man reclines in the corner with his chair tipped back. The jail is small and has only one cell. Smith figures that the young man in the corner is the depute. He reads the plague on the desk. “You Dawson?”

The Sheriff looks Smith up and down, noting that he is a tall, lean man, a US Marshal’s badge pinned to his chest. He also notices that his gun is slung low on his hip for a fast draw, its holster well-worn like its owner. He thinks he detects a touch of Tohono O’odham in him as well. The Sheriff points to the plaque. “Like it says. Now, what can I do for ya?”

Smith glances at the deputy, who sits up straight. “I’m looking for a man named Rusty Thomson. Have you seen him around town?” The deputy fidgets, though the Sheriff remains calm. He sighs and goes to the bulletin board, where he rifles through some wanted posters. Snappin’ one-off, he asks, “Is this the guy?” The wanted poster reads, “Rusty Thomson wanted for robbery—reward 200 dollars”. Smith nods.  Dawson smiles, “Well, I can’t say I recall seeing him. But if I had, I would have arrested him myself.”

With a half smile, Smith remarks, “I don’t think so, you knowing law officers can’t collect a reward for doing their job.”  

Dawson flies out of his chair, hissing, “What are you trying to say, Smith?”  The deputy’s, his hand hovering over his pistol, Smith freezes the boy with a glare.  “I was just stating a fact, that’s all. Thank you for your time.” Keeping an eye on the boy, he backs to the door, turns, and leaves.

On the boardwalk, Smith pats his horse’s nose and shakes the dirt from her forelock. He watches a tumbleweed roll down the street and notices a woman walking rapidly to the hardware store across the way. Smith figures he’ll ask some questions there. He unties his horse and leads her by the reins to the store.

Looking out the jailhouse window, the Sheriff sees Smith cross the street and enter the hardware store.

“Whatcha think he’s gonna do over there, Pa?”

“He’s gonna ask questions, and I told you not to call me Pa when we’re working.”

Smith enters the store and blinks until his eyes adjust to the dark. He hears a transaction at the counter and walks in that direction. An attractive young girl with chestnut brown hair is talking to the lady Smith saw walk in.

“Let me know how you like that new apron, Mrs. Lizzy. It’s made of 100% cotton from South Carolina.” The cash register rings as the girl watches Smith out of the corner of her eye.

“Help you find something, mister?” Her eyes widen when she sees Smith’s badge. He takes out and unfolds the wanted poster. “Have seen this man, Miss?” Her eyes spit fire as she rips the poster from the Marshal’s hand. “You’re dang right I have! He came in here to buy a box of bullets, but instead of paying for them, he punched me in the face and stole them!”

Smith looks at an angry, purplish bruise on the girl’s left cheek with some swelling around her eye. “When did all this happen? What did the Sheriff do?”

The girl covers her face with her left hand. “About four hours ago. The Sheriff did nothing. He’s scared of him.” Smith glares at the Sheriff’s office.

“Tell me, which way the man go.”

The girl points with her chin, “That way, toward Cottonwood.”

Smith tips his hat. “By the way. Do you think you could do me a favor? Tell Auntie May that I’ll be late for supper.”

                                                          …

It didn’t take long for Smith to pick up Thomson’s tracks. He knew from the horse’s stride that Thomson was moving fast.  After traveling under the blazing desert sun for some time, Smith stops near a mesquite tree to rest his horse and have a drink. That’s when he noticed an object glistening in the sun. He picks it up, it’s a horseshoe. Tossing the shoe back down Smith wipes the sand from his fingers and grins. “Won’t be long now.” A little while later Smith crests a rigde to find the man he's after and yells, "Thomson!"