Rhyolite Remembers

The violent inward swing of the batwing doors caused every head in the saloon to swivel towards the entrance There was no fear or anxiety in the dozen of so eyes that came to rest on Deputy William Dillinger’s serious face, only burning curiosity. Rhyolite was a peaceful town, after all. Distractions were a hot commodity. 

Dillinger’s eyes met those of Father Wyatt Hardin who sat alone in a corner with his tattered King James. “The Sheriff’s awake Father.”

A salacious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He paused a moment, his teeth gleaming in the smokey light of kerosene lanterns. 

“Well now Billy, you go round up the welcome wagon and I’ll go see about gettin this unsalted bull up to snuff.”

“Yessir.” With that affirmation the batwing doors and voyeuristic faces swung back into position. As the pastor’s boots clomped off the porches front steps a feverish whispering replaced the regular early morning silence of the saloon.

A gentle but insistent knocking cleared the last cobwebs of sleep from James Wesley Mayweathers’ head. The knocker allowed no time for Wes to gather his wits. Opting instead to waltz right in.

“Goodmorning Sheriff. I do hope your first night in our humble town was to your liking. The name’s Wyatt Hardin, but most folks call me Father. I’ll leave it to you to figure out why.” He said this with a wink and a sweeping gesture of his faded black cassock.

“Now normally I’d like to give a man time to adjust to a new position in a new town but there’s simply no time. Serious things are happening Rhyolite. Things us simple folks have never seen the likes of. Things we need your help rightin. Course we can't have you solvin our problems in your unmentionables. You’ll find your uniform on the chair there and the privy’s out the back door to your left. I’ll leave you to it Sheriff. Meet me round front and we’ll get you acquainted with everyone.”

Before Wes had rubbed the crust of sleep from his eyes, Father Hardin had come and left. Wes didn’t remember laying down to sleep last night, let alone signing on to the role of Sheriff. Whatever had happened last night must have started and ended with booze.

“Must have me confused with some other poor sap,” he remarked to the mostly empty room. Still, it wouldn’t do to make his way out to the privy wearin pert near nothin.

Perhaps if his bladder hadn’t been pestering him so, he would have noticed that the clothes were a perfect fit. Perhaps he would have wondered at the brass star pinned opposite his breast pocket carved with his own name, MAYWEATHER. But as the saying goes, he had to see a man about a horse.

Making his way around the timber-framed building he would all too soon consider both home and headquarters Wes saw first Father Hardin and then the small crowd gathered around him. They noticed him, frozen at the corner of the porch, a moment later and all congenial conversation came to a close. The onlookers took a step back and turned to Father Hardin.

“Ah, here’s Sheriff Mayweather in all his splendor now folks. And Sheriff, here’s the town.” The arm without the Bible tucked under it swept across the small gathering. Grabbing Wes with the same arm, he pulled him forward. 

“Here we have the most popular man in town, Big John Wilcox keeper of the saloon.” That playful wink again before pulling him towards the next in line. Although Wesley had no intention of staying in this town and seeing, let alone calling by name, any of these hastily introduced faces he kept on nodding and shaking hands. There was something about this preacher man that sucked you in. Made you more his, than yours. 

 As the crowd thinned around them Wes finally found his tongue.

“I mean no disrespect to you or these fine folks Father but I think there’s been a misunderstanding of sorts.”

“Hold your horses there Sheriff. There’s one more person you need to meet. Your very own wheel horse, Deputy William Dillinger. C’mon now. Billy’s in your office waitin’ to show ya the ropes.” The arm that ushered Wes Mayweather up the steps and into the jailhouse brokered no argument.

The front door opened on an airy room. To the right a single jail cell with thick iron bars, and to the left a polished oak desk with a few mismatched chairs. Sitting in one of these chairs was a young man holding a leather belt holster and what appeared to be a Colt revolver.

He stood and offered these to the pastor, who gestured to Wes with his free hand. 

“Ah the final trappings. Those’ll make a sure Sheriff of ya now.”

Wes hesitated. The glint of cold steel causing a twinge of pain to bloom behind his temples. “Not that you’ll have much need for em here in a town like Rhyolite. We’re a quiet, peaceful folk. Quieter still recently.” His voice took on a somber note with that last admission.

“You see Sheriff that’s why we’re all so relieved you’re here. There’s something sinister afoot. The devil’s work.” 

“Father Hardin that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m not your man. Now I don’t know what kinda Cain I raised last night but it must have led to this mix-up. If I’m bein’ honest I don’t even remember how I came to be here.”

Father Hardin and Deputy Dillinger shared a knowing look before he replied.

“Everyone is here for a reason, son. You may not know yours but Rhyolite does.”

Before Wes could muster up a response to this cryptic nonsense Father Hardin reached into the desks bottom drawer and pulled out a dusty glass bottle. A few swipes on the sleeve of his cassock revealed the amber liquid inside.

“Now I’m not normally an imbibing man. As Billy here can attest to.” Looking at the kid Wes thought not. The young Deputy had yet to say a word. His stony face locked onto that of the preacher.

“But serious matters call for serious drink. And we humble folks of Rhyolite are facing serious matters indeed.” Father Hardin threw back the bottle and took a hearty swig. He sure looked like a man known to bend an elbow. Passing the bottle on to Wes he continued.

 “There have been a number of disappearances lately. Good honest people, poof, gone from God’s green earth. In a town of this size we can’t afford to lose anyone. And yet in the last season we’ve gone from a population of forty-two souls down to thirty. Well thirty-one after your timely arrival. We need your help Sheriff Mayweather. We need it something bad.”

A few heavy seconds of silence and Father Hardin’s foreboding mood switched on a dime.

“Well Billy, how’s about we leave the Sheriff here to ruminate. You can walk me to the parrish and start your rounds from there.”

Billy gave a curt nod and the two men made there way to the door.

“Oh, and Sheriff, you might want to make a few rounds of your own. Get to know the populace like. Diminished as it is. You’ll find the horse you rode in on at Chuck Bailey’s stable down the way. Just follow your nose.” That god-awful wink and the door closed behind them.

Alone at last Wes finally had room to think. Perhaps if hadn’t accepted that dusty bottle from the holy man he would have thought more on the fact that his memories before waking this morning were an inky blackness. Perhaps, had he had a clearer mind he would have wondered about the Father’s general dismissal of his lack of memory.

Instead James Wesley Mayweather was overcome not by his own mystery, but that of the town. How did a quarter of the population just disappear? Nothing against the townfolk and whoever had been running this investigation but he assumed a simple answer. Wes could think of a million reasons to leave a dying town like this.

“What the hell,” he said, “might as well stay on and get to the bottom of this. Won’t hurt me none to give these folks some peace of mind.”

Fitting the holster onto his belt and the Colt into the holster he turned to leave. But the bottle caught his eye before he could go. Because his head was really starting to hurt, thinking it must be last night finally catching up with him, he took one last swallow of that burning liquid before walking out into the early afternoon sunshine of Rhyolite, Nevada.

Looking out from the jailhouse stoop he surveyed the slapdash wooden buildings around him. Most appeared to be boarded up or picked apart. Probably salvaged to fix up those houses and businesses still in use. The saloon across the way had a couple horses hitched out front, reminding him of the Father’s words about him having his own horse. The other end of town was a good mile or so away. All he could make out was a wooden cross on what must be the parrish’s steeple. Hoofin it in this heat, with his head feeling the way it did, seemed imprudent so he took the preachers advice and followed his nose. 

He walked about four-hundred yards until he came to the crumbling livery. A pot-bellied man sat out front carefully rolling a cigarette. He didn’t look up until the tobacco pouch had traded places with the matchbook in his breast pocket.

“Ah Sheriff. Thought you’d be down soon enough. Betcha wanna check on that fine hoss of yours. Well c’mon in. He’s right through here. Even got em saddled up for ya.”

Inside the livery stable Chuck Bailey led Wes past a row of stalls. The first two held a couple of palomino mares but the rest appeared empty. Until they reached the last one.

“What’s he called Sheriff?”

Before Wes had seen the towering Apaloosa in front of him he wouldn’t have been able to answer but the dark spotted beast in the stall ahead of him jarred something loose.

“Chevy. His name’s Chevy.”

“Well that’s a curious name for a horse,” Chuck remarked as he opened the stall.

“I coulda named him Ford, but I wanted him to run.”

“What’s that now son?”

Wes took the reins from Bailey without answering. Mainly because he didn’t rightly know but also because thinking about it seemed to exacerbate the thumping in his skull. 

Instead he said, “Chuck, what can you tell me about the disappearances in town?”

“Right nasty business that is Sheriff. Though I don’t spose I know any more than anybody else. If I recall it all started with Old Man Trillby. Those palominos back in there were his. I’d come out one morning and there they were dragging the plow right through town. I wrangled em up and sent Deputy Dillinger to check on the old man. Billy said there was no sign a Trilby. Just a half plowed field and the trail those horses made into town. I’ve been carin’ for em ever since. Father Hardin says it was probably a bunch a good fer nothin banditos, says not to think on it. I’m of a like mind Sheriff. Best to get on gettin’ on.”

The rest of that long day Wes heard more of the same. Impossible stories of people disappearing during their daily tasks. Each story convincing him this wasn’t a simple case of folks cutting their losses and starting over somewhere else. With each bit of gossip he’d heard the same thing about Father Hardin and as curious as everyone was, they seemed none too concerned. Almost as if he was asking after a wild boar rather than their own friends and neighbors.

By the time the sun began to set behind the old church Wes’s head was hurting worse than ever. His thoughts disjointed. Tomorrow this would all make sense but for now he headed back to the jailhouse where the bottle and bed called him home.

Unfortunately a ruckus at the saloon had other plans for him. A bundle of rags was thrown clean through the batwing door landing in a dusty heap on the street ahead of him. Closer inspection revealed that the bundle was a woman. A cussin’ clawin’ cougar of a woman but a woman just the same. Coming out behind her was Deputy Dillinger.

“What’s the meaning of this Deputy,” he all but growled.

Young Billy had the wisdom to look ashamed. 

“She’s ravin mad Sheriff sir. Talkin a bunch a nonsense. Makin folks uncomfortable. I suggested she go on home to Missus Custer’s cathouse,” almost pleading now,”She’s just a whore sir.”

“You’ll do well to take a gentler approach in the future son. I won’t tell you again.”

“Yessir Sheriff. Won’t happen again.” 

“Well go on then, get.”

A few shades redder, but none the worse for wear Billy left the now sobbing woman in Sheriff Mayweather’s care. But instead of heading back into the saloon he unhitched a brown Mustang and cantered towards the church.

Wesley climbed off his own mount and looped him onto the same hitching rail. Hands up he slowly approached the crumpled mass in the street.

“Are you okay miss?” At this her sobs turned into manic laughter. The white of her teeth gleaming behind painted lips. 

“No Sheriff. I’m not okay. None of us are. We’ve forgotten James Wesley. We’ve forgotten everything.” She was looking into his eyes now. “But remembering is worse Sheriff. Remembering is far worse. I can see you’re starting to. It’s always in their eyes. You can see the pain behind them. Most newcomers lose that look after a day or too. Settle in.” 

Now he watched as the fire in her eyes was replaced with shame. She couldn’t look at him.  “God is punishing us Wesley. I...I killed him. My baby boy.” Her voice was barely a whisper but each word was a hammerblow to his skull. He covered his eyes with clenched fists. Willing her to stop, but needing to hear. “I knew I was in no state to drive but daddy needed his smokes. And daddy gets what daddy wants. Oh Henry. My sweet Henry,” she was screaming now, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in that car. Oh what have I done what have I done?!”

When she finally stopped her shrieking he lowered his fists ready to carry her home to Missus Custer’s hotel and forget this whole thing but he couldn’t because she was gone. As he stumbled back to his horse he knew and understood why. Those who had disappeared in Rhyolite had remembered. Remembered who they were. Remembered what they had done. 

Even as Wes himself began to remember he forced himself to hold on. Hands up! Get down on the ground! NO! Get to the church.

“C’mon Chevy,” he yelled at the horse he didn’t own. “Pedal to the metal. C’mon Chevrolet!” 

By now the ravings of their new Sheriff galloping down the road had pulled everyone from their homes. Curious about his carrying on, they decided to follow. After all, nothing ever happened in this town. That is how the whole of Rhyolite came to be gathered around the old stone parrish, with Sheriff Maywether at the center.

“Father Wyatt Hardin,” he roared, “I’m calling you out!”

Shocked glances were shared all around. The good father wasted no time exiting the building. Deputy Billy Dillinger hot on his tail.

“Now Sheriff, what’s all this ruckus about? You’ve gone and woke up the whole town. Lookit these people! Scared half to death.” Wes was scared too but now, seeing the preacher’s smug smile, he was enraged.

“You know don’t you Father? You know all about forgetting. You said I was here for a reason and now I know what it is. I’m here to make sure we all remember. We aren’t from here Father. We aren’t even from now.”

“Looks like someone’s had a hard first day and hit the liquor even harder,” he said this to the crowd, with his signature wink. But the faces in the crowd looked less amused and more conflicted. They were staring at Wesley and not him.

“We did something. Each and every one of us. We don’t deserve to forget.”

“He’s lying,” but the pastor didn’t sound so sure anymore. It didn’t help when Big John Wilcox disappeared either.

“See Father? He remembered and now he’s free.”

“Stop it! You’re lying. He’s lying.” Arms flapping, the King James fell to the ground. “Don’t listen to him! Go home!”

And the crowd that had been thirty was now only twenty-three. Each sob and scream a person gone home. Truly home.

“You asked for my help Father and here it is.”

Seventeen.

“No! We are good folk! Peaceful folk!” He looked like a child in mid tantrum, with his red cheeks and hands over his ears in defiance, but the truth Wesley Mayweather spoke couldn’t be unheard.

Nine.

“Rhyolite isn’t ours Hardin. It’s nowhere and it’s no one’s. We all deserve to face what we’ve done.” Wes calmly drew the Colt revolver from its holster and pulled back the hammer.

Two.

“Forgetting is easy. And it’s too good for the likes of us.”

With that said he pulled the trigger. And when the fiery ball of lead found its mark James Wesley Mayweather saw not the good Father Hardin in his black cassock bleeding into the dirt road, but a young man. A young man in jeans and a hoodie slumped across the hood of a white Chevy Silverado. 

As his fellow officers fought to hold back the crowd that was now screaming and taking pictures Wes only stared. Stared at those dark spots of blood and thought What have I done?