Strange Tales

      “Come on in, partner!”

           The home felt nice, and snug, a fireplace roaring, and the nostalgic smell of a home cooked meal filled their noses.

           Stepping out of the rain and into the warmth, the man welcomed the two strangers into his home. He took off his drenched gloves and plopped them by the fireplace, without a care in the world. His children, running down the stairs to meet their father, only to stop in their tracks when sighting the strangers.

           The man looked at his children and smiled. “What are ya starin’ for? That’s no way to treat guests. Pull up a chair, get them some food!”

           With the flick of his hand the children scurried around the house. The boys brining chairs near the fireplace and the daughters scavenging the kitchen for bowls.

           “You don’t hafta do that,” said one of the strangers.

           The man put a hand on their drenched backs. “Nonsense! Y’all got me my horse back! It’s the least I can do!”

           He led them towards the fireplace and the strangers sat down in the chairs. The taller, bigger, one instantly shifting towards the flames. The smaller one hanging back, eyes shifting around like a predator. “You really don’t hafta…” the little one repeated.

           “You say that one more time and I might actually hafta kick you out!” The man joked.

           The girls came back with two bowls, filled to the brim with stew and handed them to their guests. The big stranger gulped it down without a spoon. The smaller stranger took small, calculated spoonsful. And for a while everyone sat in silence, the children staring at their guests while their father lit up a cigarette.

           “I don’ think I ever told ya my name,” the man said suddenly, “I’m Lenny, who’re you?”

           “Names’ Marceline,” said the shorter guest, “and he’s Dutch.” She gestured to the man next to her.

           Stranger Marceline looked around at the children. “These your spawn?” She asked.

           Lenny puffed out his chest. “My own flesh ‘n blood!”

           The children looked amongst each other; the boys chuckled but the girls rolled their eyes. Until Lenny snapped at them, “It ain’t funny!”

           Stranger Marceline gripped the bowl tighter and stared into the fire. Glancing over at Dutch and seeing his bowl was empty, she handed him her barely touched bowl. He took it with no question and gobbled it down.

           Lenny gave the two an incredulous look. “What’d you do that for? Come on now, eat!”

           One of the little girls ran back into the kitchen and came back with another bowl of stew. She held it out to Stranger Marceline, who reluctantly took it. The little girl sat back down on the floor and continued to stare.

           “So,” said Stranger Marceline, “how’d ya lose yer horse in the first place?”

           “Bah.” Lenny patted the woman’s shoulder. “Damn outlaws, ya know how it is.”

           “Ah,” she said.

           By the time Stranger Dutch finished the second bowl of stew he got up and stretched, his gun belt peeking out under his shirt. The boys ‘oo-ed’ and ‘ah-ed’ at the sight of the revolver on the stranger’s hip. But Stranger Dutch sat back down, ignoring the boys’ pleas to see more.

           Stranger Marceline chuckled and called out to the boys, “Look at this.”

           They turned, their eyes full of child-like wonder, and she pulled her own revolver from its holster and held it to the light of the fire. The boys crowded around it, never seeing such a gun up close.

           It was truly a beautiful sight. The light of the fire hitting the barrel of the gun just right causing it to shine. It was engraved with little whisps winding around the barrel. And the handle had a carving of a ram’s skull.

           “Hey now-” Lenny warned.

           “Relax sir, I would never shoot a child in his fathers’ home. They’re just lookin’,” Stranger Marceline soothed.

           One of the boys tried to touch the gun, but the woman swatted the little hand away. “Look but don’t touch,” she said.

           “Where’d ya get it?” one of the boys asked.

           “Ya wouldn’t believe me if I told ya. Ain’t that right Dutch?”

           Stranger Dutch looked over, grunted, and went back to eating.

           “Tell us! Tell us!” The boys cried.

           Stranger Marceline gripped the gun in her hands and chuckled some more. “Alright, now don’t say I didn’t tell ya so.”

           She told them how she and Stranger Dutch were siblings, orphaned when their parents got TB. How they lived with their grandfather, a man who owned plenty of strange items from far away lands. How their grandfather showed them his collection of guns. Guns they used in the war, guns used in current times, and guns that would be used in the future.

           She told them how she stole gun belts and clothes from her grandfather. How she scavenged up enough money from tourists to buy a horse. How she found a map underneath her grandfathers’ bed and with her new horse and brother behind her, traveled five states, wherever the map lead. And how she traveled with Indians, gangs, lawmen, and even a group of musicians, to find her prize. Her gun, found deep within a cave underneath a waterfall. And how she almost drowned to get it.

           The children listened intently, cautiously looking back at their own father whenever Stranger Marceline mentioned stealing. The boys were more focused on the action, how a gunslinger taught her and her brother to shoot before besting their teacher. The girls were more focused on the people, what did their clothes look like and their hair.

           “I don’t believe any of that, not one bit,” Lenny finally but in.

           “Told ya, I told ya you wouldn’t believe me,” Stranger Marceline reminded.

           The rain had long since stopped and Stranger Dutch was peering out the window like a dog wanting to be released. Stranger Marceline followed his gaze and stood up, holstering her gun at her hip. “We best be off,” she said.

           “Stay a little longer!” One of the girls cried.

           “We wanna hear more stories!” Said a boy.

           Lenny ignored his children’s cries for more stories and saw the strangers out, his children clinging to his faded shirt and tattered pants.

           Stranger Marceline looked back at the family and waved, with Stranger Dutch following her movements. They turned back around and walked off into the distance, the only indication that they were ever on Lenny’s property was muddy footprints, and three empty bowls of stew.