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We decided to do a Western story because none of us have ever written one. It was an interesting project with varying results.
A Western Story
Bob Nothnagel
Dirk Bennet shifted in his saddle, astride his chestnut mare, overlooking the nameless village which centered in the valley along the Animas River. The river bent around to his left in a gentle arc, then worked its way back a mile further down to form a perfect “C”, a nice little niche for this sleepy hamlet.
Might be a spot to settle in, I reckon.
Dirk fished out his prayer book and rolled a cigarette, struck a match on his chaps, and lit the end. He drew in, held it, savoring the moment, and slowly released through his nose. The smoke curled around, drifting toward his horse. She shook her head and snorted, working the bit.
“Whoa, Olive. Settle down now. Let me enjoy this one.” She stomped and flicked her tail in protest. Dirk smiled. Best horse he ever had, but wouldn’t let him have a smoke. He drew in a few more as he contemplated his next move. He was two days south of Durango, Colorado and into New Mexico territory. Two weeks on the road now. This looked like a quiet little town. Off the main trails, with only this dusty trail leading south. The main route was to the west through La Plata. Could he make a go of it here? Enough farms that he could pick up some work. The question was, was he far enough away? He took one last drag, pinched the end off, and urged Olive down the trail. He passed a weathered sign saying Cedar Gulch, Pop 89. The nine had been recently painted over what looked like a seven.
Good, they’re accepting newcomers.
He pondered the name, as there were no cedars in sight. It didn’t really matter; it was just a name. About two dozen buildings spread evenly on either side of one street, which positioned itself north-south. All one floor except two, more likely the saloon and the stables. Several farms circled the town, all within the gentle C of the river. He rode down the street, a tumbleweed bounding by as he passed a general store and a few houses, stopping at the saloon.
Dirk tied Olive to the hitchin’ post outside Molly’s Saloon and removed his black Stetson. He dipped his hand in the cool water of the trough, scrubbed his face, then ran his hands through his hair several times, and replaced his hat. “Be back in a bit, ole girl. Need to wet the whistle.” She whinnied her approval and slurped some water.
Dirk pushed through the batwing doors. Very little sunlight passed through the grimy windows, making the interior dark and dingy. Several empty tables dotted the dusty hardwood floor. One, off to the left, had four men at it playing cards. A bar took up the better half of the back wall on the left, behind it stood a man and a healthy supply of bottles. To the bar’s right, a set of stairs led up to the second floor, where a banister went across the whole length of the upstairs. Dirk could visualize the ladies leaning on it at night, waiting for business. A hallway led to the rooms on the upper floor towards the back. An old piano off to the right completed the lower level. He tipped his hat to the men and strolled up to the bar. “I’ll have a whiskey and a bite to eat.” He settled on to the stool as the balding bartender poured him a shot.
“Welcome stranger. I’ll get some vittles out momentarily. You just passin’ through?”
“That depends. Might want to settle in here if there’s any work to be had.”
“Hmmm… mostly farm work is all. The Jenkins may need a seasonal guy, four months at best, then there’s the Henrys, same thing. Ole Dan might need occasional help at the stables. He fancies himself a farrier and blacksmith. Hit and miss. ‘scuse me, be right back with your vittles.” Dirk watched the man head through a doorway and a few minutes later return with some stew and a piece of bread. “So where do you hail from?”
“North of here. You wouldn’t know the place so there’s not much use naming it.” Dirk removed his hat, placed it on the stool beside him and ran his fingers through his hair again, before digging into the stew.
“Fine by me. You have a name?” Dirk was about to give him a name when one of the men at the table behind him spoke out.
“He’s got a name all right.” Dirk heard the scrapping of chair legs. He spun around on his stool and saw a man standing at the table with the card players. That’s when he saw the star pinned on the left of the man’s shirt. “That dirty, rotten, thieving, murdering scoundrel is known as The Colorado Kid.”
To read the rest of the story get my book at Amazon: Tales of Adventure, Murder, and Mayhem.