One More Cowboy Ballad

Along the streets of Goslin, shops formed an even line of large façades. Their dark brown wood was long since encrusted with dust and pummeled by weather. If one entered Main Street from the east, the first set of shops would be the convenience store and the local paper store. Then they’d find a hat shop and a general clothing store. A horse supply store would be next, directly across from the local saloon. Most folks didn’t go much further than there on their first stop in Goslin, but if they did, they would find the sheriff’s office, a small inn, a restaurant, and a grocer’s all in that one line. The road beyond would fade off into dust and obscurity in the western horizon, hills of little green bushes and fenced-off ranches. It was in these ranches, and a couple to the east of town, that the residents of Goslin lived. There were thirty in total. Of these, one was the sheriff, a young man named Thomas, and one was the deputy, a much older man named Wilkins. 

These two men had seen their fair share of trouble already in those parts. Goslin was a prime stopping point between Oklahoma and California. Folks would rest there often, most of the time spending just one or two nights before heading off in search of riches in Cali, where some people said that rivers ran in gold, not water. 

Most in Goslin wished to join the adventure, but it was profitable enough here to make the older generation put strict rules upon their kids to enter into jobs within the town. A few had run away in the past decade. Emmett, the son of rancher John Thornwell, had stolen away in the night with naught but his horse and a six-shooter. Shelby, son of Marty Corning had done likewise, but he’d quit town just after school. John and Marty had commiserated in their loss for weeks afterwards, generally in the saloon. 

On the night of August the fourth, it happened to rain. The town, being unaccustomed to it, shrunk from the thunder and gasped at the lightning from within the comfort of their rooms. The storm should have been the first warning that something wicked was coming. 

The very next morning, a rider was spotted from the east. He rode past Malcolm Hardy’s ranch as he was fixing the fence. His horse was tall, thin, and austere like its master. It had a shocking black coat, gleaming from being recently wetted in the rain, and a strong mane. The person upon it wore a simple pair of brown boots, black pants, and a gray shirt with a black vest over it. He had a dour appearance, no mistaking that, and his saddle showed off two rifles and the revolver he kept on a waist-belt. Malcolm could hardly see his face, being shadowed as it was by a large black Stetson hat, but he saw a thin, proud face with high cheekbones and a day’s worth of salt and pepper stubble. His eyes shone out from under the darkness, bright blue and fiery. In a quiet yet strong voice he asked, “How far to Goslin?” 

“A simple greetin’ would be more polite,” said Malcolm, narrowing his eyes. “What business do you have in town?” 

“None of your concern,” said the man. He spoke with an accent as though he was raised proper-like in the south. “Where is Goslin?” 

“About four miles west, sir,” said Malcolm, deciding that he would take the shortcut from his house to town as soon as this man was gone. “The signs should have told you that much.” 

“Thank you,” said the man, with a small tip of his hat. Without another word, he whisked his horse off and began riding at a deliberate pace down the road. 

Malcolm waited until he was out of sight below the hill and then ran back to his horse. Despite his older age and more rotund frame, he was able to swing himself up with some modicum of grace. “Come on, girl,” he said, urging his horse forward. Soon, he was galloping across his ranch at full speed. 

The old rancher did indeed beat the mysterious rider. He parked his horse hastily outside of the sheriff’s office and burst in, finding only Wilkins. “Good heavens, Malcolm!” cried the deputy, as Malcolm had stumbled in and gasped for air. He steadied his old friend and asked, “What on earth are you doing here?” 

“Wilkins, there’s trouble coming in from the east!” 

“Another storm? Unlikely, but-” 

“No, not a storm,” said Malcolm, struggling for some reason to find words. “A… a specter!” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know, he’s just,” the rancher broke off and collected himself. “Wilkins, there’s been a man out near my ranch who was asking directions to Goslin.” 

The deputy couldn’t help but chuckle. “I assume this man was something sour-lookin’, otherwise you wouldn’t be up here in such a rush.” 

“Somethin’ about him scared me,” said Malcolm. “I ain’t too proud to admit that much. His horse, his demeanor… both dark. He’s trouble, Wilkins. I know it.” 

“Well, if he is,” said Wilkins, heading to the window, “we’ll deal with him here. He ain’t the first bit of trouble to come through this little town.” 

“He’s different, Wilkins, I know he is.” 

“That him?” asked Wilkins, pointing to the east. 

Malcolm joined him by the tattered window and indeed it was the dark rider who was outside the saloon. Wilkins grimaced. This man was indeed different. He was wearing almost all black and yet had not passed out from heatstroke. 

The man climbed off his horse and Wilkins grabbed his rifle and popped outside, closely followed by Malcolm. 

“Good day, sir,” said the deputy, waving a hand. 

The dark-clothed man stood up straight after tying his black horse next to a brilliant white one and said, “Can I help you?” 

“Yes, indeed you can. My name is Wilkins Bradley and I’m the deputy in this here town. I was just curious about what you’re doin’ around these parts. Forgive me for sayin’ this, but you don’t look much like the usual company we get moving along.” 

“I’m not the usual company.” 

Wilkins laughed, but his old eyes were shrewd. “Listen, I’m just-” 

“Am I under arrest?”

“Well no, but-” 

“Then I do not believe I need to answer any of your questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am parched from a long day of travel and would like a drink to quench my thirst. What I do in this town, or how long I stay, is none of your concern.” 

The man made to turn away, but Wilkins grabbed his arm and said, “Unless you’re fixin’ to break a law whilst you’re here.” 

“There comes a point in every man’s life,” began the man. “When he must weigh the entirety of his existence in one hand. You, deputy, look like you’ve done that a couple times. Every time you do, you never know if it could be the last. I’d advise you to release my arm, unless you really do want this time to be the last.” 

“Is that a threat?” said Wilkins, narrowing his eyes. 

“Let go of my arm, deputy.” 

“Wilkins!” called a voice from across the street. It was sheriff Thomas, and he ran over in a hurry when he saw the situation. “Is everything okay?” 

“Your deputy is unlawfully detaining me,” said the man. “I counseled him to cease, and he does not seem to want to listen. I was told that Goslin was a town which followed the word of law. Is that not the case?” 

“This man here’s trouble,” said Malcolm, finding his voice. “I swear it.” 

Thomas, more level-headed than his deputy despite his youth, scratched his short brown beard and said, “Wilkins, we can’t just hold him without reason. Let him go.” 

The deputy growled but threw off the man’s hand, harder than he needed to. After readjusting his black stetson, the mysterious fellow said, “That one, I will let slide, but fair warning upon any man in this town who lays an unprovoked hand on me.” 

As the man walked away, Thomas said, “Can we at least get your name, sir?” 

Stopping in his tracks and turning his head back, he said, “You can call me Lucas.” 

“Alright, Lucas,” said Thomas in a steady voice. “Stay outta trouble.” 

He did not acknowledge the warning as he swung through the saloon doors. As soon as he was gone, Wilkins said, “That guy is gonna start somethin’ here.” 

“We can’t know til he does, Wilkins,” said Thomas. “We’ll watch him, though. C’mon.” 

Malcolm, for some unknown reason, followed the two officers into the saloon. 

Inside, it was lively and bustling. The town’s locals were all off working for the day, but all the passers-through and overnight residents were trying to get their drinks before they needed to leave. Some of them turned and looked at Lucas with wary eyes, but most were wrapped up in their own businesses. They played cards at the round tables and sung songs around the piano.

Lucas had found his way to the bar. Malcolm, Wilkins, and Thomas all sat at a nearby table so they could overhear the conversation. The barkeep, Marty Corning, asked, “What can I get ya?” 

“Water, iced down, please.” 

Marty chortled, “Not many folks order iced water. It’s expensive this time of year. It’d be cheaper to stick with some whiskey.” 

“I’d like water with ice, please,” said Lucas. “Need I ask a third time?” 

“Nah, sir,” said Marty, raising his hands. “Just tryin’ to be funny, that’s all. Seems like you’ve had a long trip.” He poured out the water, stuck a few precious cubes of ice in it, and slid it to Lucas. “Wherefrom do you hail, if you don’t mind me askin’?”  

“I do mind you asking,” said Lucas, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat off of his forehead, which was plastered with gray and black hair. He took a swig of water and said, “But I’ll tell you anyway. I am from Oklahoma. A small town called Riverside.” 

“And what’s your name?” 

“Might I ask you for yours first?” 

“Marty.” 

“Lucas.” 

They shook hands briefly, and Marty asked, “You out on your way west?” 

“Indeed I am. This may be my last spot. I do not know.” 

 Wilkins frowned, listening hard. Thomas was suspicious that Lucas was going out of his way to answer Marty’s questions when he had been so taciturn with them, but he had seen the silencing power of the silver badge before. 

Chuckling, Marty said, “A man without a plan. I like it.” 

“I have a plan,” said Lucas. “Where I exact it, I do not know.” 

“So why Goslin? A fella as deliberate as you can’t be here on accident.” 

Lucas frowned. “I suppose I’ll have to answer that question one way or another. I would prefer, however, if these two eavesdropping coppers would simply join me at the bar rather than hiding behind my back.” 

Thomas and Wilkins shared a cautious look before sliding out of their chairs and sitting on either side of the stranger. Lucas took a long drink of water and continued, “A storm is coming to this town.” 

“’Fraid you missed the storm by a day, sir,” said Marty. “Rained a bunch last night, but now the sky’s as blue as anythin’.” 

“That is not the storm of which I speak,” said Lucas quietly. “If it had been here already, Goslin would be in dire need of a mortician… or perhaps a novelist to put the story into writing.” 

“Are you that storm?” asked Thomas. 

Lucas laughed. It was an odd sound to hear from his grim disposition, but it was a welcome one. He said, “I have been chasing that storm for months. It has eluded me for far too long. Now, I think I have finally beat it to its prey.” 

“So the storm is a man?” said Thomas. 

“Is there a Shelby Corning in this town?” asked Lucas. 

Marty cleared his throat. “Uh, there was. He was my son. Ran off about three years ago in search of gold in the west.” 

“Well, he found it, just not by panning,” said Lucas. 

“What’s that mean?” 

Lucas drained his water and tapped the glass. Marty quickly refilled it as the stranger began the story in his own concise way. “Shelby Corning arrived in northern California in peace, but after a year of searching for gold and finding only pyrite, his patience grew thin. One night at a saloon not unlike this one, he heard a man bragging about finding three hundred dollars worth of gold that day to a particularly attractive woman. They went back to his room at the local inn, followed closely by Shelby. He broke in, killed the man and the woman, and stole the gold. He was out of the town the next morning, vanishing without a trace.” 

“I can’t believe young Shelby could do that!” cried Wilkins. “This is slander!” 

Thomas raised a hand to quiet his friend, and Lucas continued, “Well, that man happened to be Billy Cleaver. He was the cousin of Norman Cleaver, a wealthy businessman in east Texas. Norman’s family has a long, sad history. Billy was his only remaining relation. A mutual friend in the area sent a letter to Norman telling him of his dear cousin’s death, and upon hearing it, Norman began his tour of death westward. All he knew about Shelby came from letters he had from his friend: he was from a town on the highway between Oklahoma and San Francisco. His father still lived there. I noted a white horse parked outside. Is that yours, Marty?” 

“It is indeed,” said Marty, swallowing hard. “Why?” 

“Norman knows that Shelby had a white horse. He also knows, from second-hand accounts, that Shelby was very attached to that horse, as it was, according to him, the daughter of the horse his father rode, nearly identical in appearance. So Norman has been tearing down the highway, stopping at towns, killing everyone who got in his way with reckless abandon. He came to my town. He killed my brother while I was away on business. I have been chasing him ever since, but this is the first time that I-” 

He was cut off as the saloon doors banged open. Malcolm, still on his chair, Wilkins, and Thomas all spun around, but Lucas merely smiled, knowing already who it was. A powerful voice boomed, “Who owns the white horse outside?” 

Marty’s face was pale, for the man at the door was wearing all white clothes in sharp contrast with Lucas’ dark wardrobe. He was tall, his face young but severe, and his blue eyes shrewd and evil. Lucas turned slowly and said, “It is indeed the man for whom you have searched, Norman, but he is under my protection.” 

“You look familiar,” said Norman, narrowing his eyes. 

“You killed my brother,” said Lucas calmly. “Today, we settle that debt.”

Norman laughed maniacally. “We’ll settle a debt, ain’t no mistakin’ that! I’m here to kill the old man with the white horse, and then I’m gonna head out west and find that son-of-a-gun who killed my cousin and put him in the dirt too!” 

“Ain’t no one goin’ in the dirt today,” said Thomas, standing up with Wilkins. “I’m Thomas Lockheart, and I’m the sheriff of Goslin-”

Two short blasts cut off Thomas’ words, and the two officers fell down, bleeding from bullet wounds in the center of their foreheads. A ruckus ensued briefly, where some tried to run and others drew their own weapons, but Norman had his gun pointed to the giant chandelier on the roof. He said, “One shot to that there chain and the whole thing comes down. That’d kill ten… twenty of ya. After that, you’ll all either die in the fire or in the stampede.” 

“Enough, Norman,” said Lucas, his eyes bright with rage. “Let’s settle this.” 

Quick as a flash, Norman drew his other pistol and took a shot at his enemy, but Lucas dodged the bullet and pushed Marty’s head under the bar. “Outside would be much more civil.” 

“Fine,” said Norman. “But I want you to bring that sorry sack behind the bar with ya! I know it’s his horse out there, the way you reacted.” 

The barkeep was cowering behind the bar, his legs shaking, but Lucas said, “Come with me, Marty. Stay behind me. Come on, that’s it.” Throughout all of this, they moved slowly and Lucas did not take his eyes off Norman. 

They went out to Main Street and stood twenty paces from one another. Norman had put both of his revolvers away, and Lucas held his hand poised over his only gun. Marty shrank behind the tall, dark stranger as though he were a guardian angel. 

“Are you sure you wanna throw away your life like this?” asked Norman. The residents and visitors of Goslin formed a crowd outside the saloon. 

“Count it down,” said Lucas, clenching his teeth. “Three, two, one-” 

Three blasts, a searing pain in Lucas’ chest. He had been hit twice, once from each revolver in Norman’s hands. As he fell, his opponent fell too, for he had been shot through the head by one bullet from Lucas’ gun. 

Marty, who had been hit by one of the shots which went through Lucas, cried out and clutched his shoulder. “My god!” exclaimed Clint Rockwell. “Someone get him to the doctor!” 

A horde of people stepped over Lucas’ ailing body and rushed to Marty’s aid. Lucas didn’t mind. Tears of joy were running down his face as he looked up into the blue sky, each blink a little longer than the last until finally… He was able to rest.