Devil In Disguise

To any passerby, the man who rode into the town of El Caso late Friday afternnon was like any other, a dusty cowhand simply seeking a drink, or perhaps 'company.'

He wasn't the type to scream 'Danger! Gunman!' His gun belt was old and dusty, his holster not tied down, and it sat high up on his hip. His clothes were hardly expensive, worn pants and an old shirt that was threadbare, and his old hat didn't advertise an expensive hatband, but rather a cracked strip of leather. 

Indeed, the young man was hardly the material of legend, more like a side character in an old cowboy film.

He rode up to the saloon, dismounting, tying his bay mare to the hitching post and heading for the singing doors.

He stepped to the side to allow a drunk cowhand and a young 'dancer' past, stepping into the saloon with such a slight presence that only a few patrons glanced up, and those who did didn't spare more than a heartbeat to study him.

Only one man, in fact, took a second glance, and he wore a shiny star.

Sheriff Jeffery Branson almost didn't notice the stranger as he walked in. However, when he didn't head directly to the bar and turned for the old man banging away on the piano's keys, Brason sat up as his two accompanying deputies chatted away, oblivious. 

The stranger and the player exchanged words before the cowhand reached into his shirt pocket, putting down a wad of cash, far more than any cowhand should have, and Brason began to get a sick feeling in his stomach, one he had felt before, right before he and others in his old company had recieved a report of massacred settlers on the frontier. 

It was the feeling that Old Man Death was about to arrive, one further cemented when the piano player shrugged, pocketed the cash, and began playing a mournful dirge, one fit for a funeral.

The cowhand headed for the crowded bar, intercepted as soon as he got there by several rowdy cowhands. Brandon and the bartender, who had also spotted the exchange with the piano player, traded glances, both of them worried.

The rowdy cowboys yelled at the piano player to change up the music but recieved no reply. After all, he had been paid a handsome amount, and barring harm to his person, he would keep playing. Angry at being ignored, they turned their attention to the cowhand, already in an exchange with one of their crowd. Insults were hurled as hands drifted towards holsters, Branson's deputies finally taking notice and slowly reaching towards their own firearms.

Amazingly enough, the violence they assumed to be coming never arrived, turned aside by quiet words from the cowhand that Branson never heard. He raised his hands slightly, away from his holster, seeming to be an explanation of something. Whatever it was seemed to pacify the rowdy cowboys, further cemented when the newcomer put a wad of cash on the bar and called out for drinks on him as long as the money lasted, which if Brason was any judge, would last several rounds.

His deputies relaxed, returning to their drinks, and when the bartender came to bring the cowhand-endorsed rounds to them, Branson took the opportunity to sate his curiosity. 

"Hey Hurley, what broke up the fight?" He asked, accepting the glass of whiskey.

"The boy said his pa just passed, back east." Hurly replied, emptying his tray. "He can't travel there, so he's having a drink to remember him."

Branson sat back, downing the whiskey, satisfied. 

And yet...

Something still felt off. The feeling hadn't faded even remotely; in fact it had grown. Chalking it up to simple worry, he returned to the conversation, only looking up when the young cowhand stopped Hurley from returning, instead offering a bill to the bartender who relinquished his tray.

The stranger carried it over personally, expertly setting the drinks down in front of the trio of lawmen who gave him puzzled glances in exchange.

"Just wanted to do it myself." He said, raising the fourth glass from the tray in a salute. "Men of the law aught to be respected. Hell below knows I couldn't do it."

The confusion passed, following by a round of thanks followed by the trio raising their glasses in reply.

Branson, glass tipping to his lips, paused for a second. 

'Hell below knows...?'

He looked in alarm at the cowhand, noticing the dust had run off of his face due to several streaks of whiskey, revealing a small space of red, curved lips.

'It's not dust.' He realized in a flash.

It was makeup.

"And they'll be expecting you." The young 'man' finished, dropping the glass and shifting weight from the left leg to the right, the gun belt dropping as Branson, taken completely off-guard, desperately reached for his own gun, putting several facts together, too little too late.

The belt was held up by a hip, one belonging to a young woman who was just a little girl ten years ago, back when Branson still ran with the Rangers. The phrase, used by the previous wearer of that leather band. It dropped, no loop to impede the draw of the .45 that belonged to the feared gunman Matthias Talon, head of a bandit gang that terrorized countless settlements all across the West. A man who, surprisingly enough, had grown a soft spot for the daughter of a rancher in north Texas.

A rancher who had relented to his daughter's choice of man, even if it was a falsehood, a cover. 

A rancher who had left everything to his new son-in-law when he passed, overseeing all the warning signs in light of his beloved granddaughter.

A granddaughter who watched her daddy die to the combined fire of the Texas Rangers.

A daughter who was here now, wearing the same hat and raising the same gun as her daddy.

Only this time, it wasn't the wielder of the bloody firearm that was surprised. 

The firearm roared, mounds of burning lead burrowing into Branson and his deputies, sending them toppling over backwards, greeted by the hard, dusty floor.

Branson couldn't attest to what happened next. Did the disguised, vengeful girl escape? Was she cut down in the reply of gunfire from the other bar patrons? Did she have hidden allies that pounced upon the opportunity? Did her story end there, or did she go on to terrorize the West in a tale twice as bloody as her father's?

He couldn't be sure of anything except the burning pain in his chest, the numbness spreading through his limps, and the mournful song playing on amidst the gunfire.

It would seem when putting down devils, one shouldn't raise up more than one can put down, and this devil had come in disguise.