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Sands of Sedona
Copyright 1982-2003 TrixiePixGraphics
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Sands of Sedona -- Western Fiction
Approx. 67962 Words
Chapter Five
John walked into the Elkhorn Saloon about breakfast time. The Elkhorn was a long, narrow room, barely ten feet wide but fifty feet long. The bar itself ran thirty feet of the room's length, and at the back were five smallish card tables. The room looked as though it had been an afterthought in which someone built a roof over a space between two buildings, and had then tacked ends on it. Indeed, that was the case with some saloons in the West, and that was the case with the Elkhorn. That a floor at all had been installed was out of the ordinary for such a building in such a town, but it helped keep customers off the mud. During particularly rainy times the mud squished up through the planking anyway, and little artesian springs spouted from knotholes in the wood, and made tiny streams across the floor. The wood floor was amazingly warped and water that flowed under it had eroded out pockets which caused the floor to sag. In places the mud built up, which forced the flooring up too. In some places the crests and troughs of the flooring in the Elkhorn varied by as much as a foot, so that a person walking the length of the bar changed elevation considerably and often.
Sid owned the bar now. He was a Scottish ex-sea captain from the Colonies who'd retired in Paydirt-- he said it was the driest place he could find-- and he often remarked when he was drunk that, "Walkin' the deck of the bloody Elkhorn is like navigatin' me beloved Barney when she heaves in a seaway."
The Elkhorn's patrons didn't know who Barney was, though they suspected she was a boat. Still, they weren't sure how a boat could throw up, as Sid often did when he was drunk enough to say that. The Elkhorn's patrons had no insight into the concept of a rolling ship's deck, and so the comparison was almost exclusively lost on them. Still, Sid said it often, and the patrons pretended to be duly impressed, for none wanted to let on that he had no real idea what Sid was talking about, and when Sid was in a mood to talk of the sea he often was liberal with his drinks. Still, Sid often said things that no one understood, so mostly folks didn't talk to him.
Sid wondered if he'd done the right thing, moving away from the sea, to a place where the people were odd and there was no one to have a really good conversation with. But the place was dry, and that was his primary prerequisite in a retirement locale.
Sometimes the dark ripples in the water trough outside the saloon, when the wind was blowing hard, reminded him of storms at sea. At those times he shuddered and felt glad that he lived in the desert now. He could not sleep at night when the wind blew either; he would find himself jerked awake, only to pace the floors of his drabby upstairs room; his conditioning was too strong. He sometimes woke up shouting commands to hoist or drop sail, or to "sound the depth and be quick about it!"
Sid sometimes pointed out the sand dunes on the edge of town that rose to heights of forty or sixty feet and were several hundred yards apart from crest to crest. He explained to kids or anyone who would listen that the waves at sea looked just like that, except, of course, that they moved faster than a charging buffalo-- even as fast as a train across the rolling plains. The audience would look from Sid to the sand hills, which were big enough that it would take a few minutes for a horse to climb one. Then they'd look back at Sid and try to apply what he'd told them to something in their experience. Then they became convinced that he was completely crazy. Sid found this vexing, and less and less he tried to describe the sea. No one had ever, in his recollection, asked him for the information anyway.
John instinctively liked crusty old Sid, for he had been to sea himself, and he felt he understood how a man could become old and crusty, having spent his life on the ocean. John recognized the man to be a pirate. Sid had stolen at sea, and perhaps even killed at sea. The man did, however, possess a strong sense of honor, and he could be counted on, John knew, to never kill for no reason, or if he promised not to in any particular situation. The code did not go far in distinguishing the man from an animal, but it was something at least. It was more of a moral binding than the killers of John's family could claim.
The Elkhorn was already crowded. Spring was through springing and the irritatingly hot mornings of summer were upon the territory. The sun was only up an hour and a half and already it was hot enough to sweat. Eight or ten dusty men and two or three dudes were scattered about the place, talking in quiet tones at the bar or at the tables. It was too early for anyone to be drunk, and men were mostly reasonable when they were sober. The tranquil atmosphere suited John and he decided to stay and eat.
John wondered why the place was called the Elkhorn. There were no elk for some distance around. Probably the original builder had seen an elk's horns at some time in his travels, or an old or blind elk had wandered down from the high country, where there were trees, to have a look at the settlement of Paydirt, where there definitely were no trees. Perhaps the man had been particularly impressed with its horns and they had stuck in his mind until it was time to name the saloon. Perhaps he'd thought the name would bring a token of novelty to the establishment, and therefor more business. A great rack did hang on the back wall, but it was from a moose. Sid didn't know what kind of critter it was from-- it could have been from a bear, for all of his inland knowledge. Sid did know, however, that it was not from any creature which lived in the sea. Likely no one else knew the difference, or cared. Parts of it were broken off, probably from fights in the saloon, or from having moved it around to different places, and it having been dropped. There were several bullet holes in the wall behind it, which suggested more than one round of good natured target practice at some of its points.
Sid did know his booze, and he would often launch into an intimate dissertation of the history or manufacturing processes of various forms of alcoholic beverages. No one knew if he was bullshitting or not, and no one much cared. Mostly, they tried to change the subject, which perturbed Sid often.
John walked to the bar still groggy and stiff from a poor night's sleep in the Mermaid Hotel. He wondered if the owner of that enterprise had seen a mermaid at some time in his travels. Certainly, John thought, that would have been something to be particularly impressed with, and worthy of naming your hotel after, assuming you had actually seen one. He thought the Mermaid Hotel would have been a more fitting business for Sid. Sid was a good enough bartender when reasonably sober, but he was too often hopelessly drunk, which left him grossly inefficient.
He was thinking that thought when there was a loud smack in the room, like a book hitting the floor on its cover. Someone had apparently dropped something that landed flat. A couple of the men jumped, but most just turned to see what Sid had dropped. Sid didn't work the bar often, for he was technically retired and he went to lengths to be clear about that, but he tended it that morning.
One of the dudes, dressed in clothes too clean and impractical to be a Westerner, laughed nervously, thinking himself silly for having been startled merely because someone dropped something on the floor. It was likely that no one thought him overly silly for having been startled by the noise, but most thought him that much more Eastern for laughing his nervous little laugh when it was over. Some men, John reflected, just didn't fit anywhere.
John saw a man bending down to pick the object up, whatever had been dropped-- but the man went all the way to the floor to get it. Then he lay down altogether. Then he didn't move anymore and blood ran from his chest. Most of the patrons assimilated this at about the same time. A couple of them cursed and chair legs squeaked as men stood up quickly and pushed their chairs back across the rough pine floor with the backs of their knees.
A rough character with a red beard stood out in the smoky barroom, next to the man on the floor. He held a small, cartridge revolver in his hand. It was a lady's kind of gun with intricate engraving. John noted that its butt was white, though he could not see it well.
A tendril of smoke drifted from the muzzle. A small cloud of acrid black powder smoke hovered over the man on the floor. A smaller tendril of smoke wisped from the hole in his chest. A man near the door gasped and bolted, and some heard him running down the boardwalk.
The man on the floor rolled a few inches and groaned his last sound. Then a pearl handle, two-shot derringer slipped from his hand and dropped with a distinctive clack to the floor. The man had a six-gun on his hip, but the thong was over the hammer. He had apparently preferred to go for the hideaway gun when he saw trouble coming.
John noticed how much the dead man reminded him of the pony that deputy Bob had shot when John was eight, except, of course, that the pony'd been shot through the head, and not in the chest. Still, the bullet hole in the man's front looked much like the one that pony had had in his forehead, but neither of them looked anything like the hole that shotgun had made in John's stubborn mare.
There were a couple of murmurs from the men at the bar, but mostly it was quiet. It seemed, after the fact, that the shot had been louder than it really was, and it seemed only a few seconds had passed when the deputy, Erin, burst through the swinging doors with the Sheriff hot on his heels. John was sure the shooter hadn't planned on the Sheriff showing up so soon, for he had edged toward the door, and was surprised when the Sheriff burst in so close behind the deputy.
Erin drew his weapon as he entered the saloon. "What the hell's going on here?" The deputy demanded before the Sheriff could say it first.
The Sheriff, a slightly wiser and more experienced man, had only taken the precaution of putting his hand on the butt of his six-gun. He had no idea what had happened in the saloon and he saw no reason yet to draw it.
John realized to his surprise that his own Walker was in his hand; the hammer was cocked. He hadn't known he'd drawn it. Something in his subconscious had digested what had happened, that a man had been shot to death, and that the man who'd done it was still armed. John had seen situations where a man had shot someone in a classic case of self defense, but had been so shocked by the incident that he also shot the first man to approach him on the scene, who was perfectly innocent and just trying to help. Where there was gunplay, there was no telling what might happen.
The shooter stood his ground then. He turned the revolver over in his hand and handed it, butt first, specifically to Erin, even though the Sheriff extended a hand for it. It seemed Erin and the red bearded man held each other's eyes too long, then Erin pushed him in a corner and told him gruffly to stay put. The man was obedient.
After taking the ornate gun from the suspect and slipping it into his pocket, Erin commenced to waving his own gun around in case anyone wanted to challenge him. He thought himself somewhat fast, and he spent much time wishing someone would challenge him. No one ever did. --Not because they were afraid to, but more because no one ever took him very seriously. That made him want to prove himself all the more, which, in turn, made him act more like an ass than ever, which made folks grant him even less respect. Erin did not know how to break this cycle, of which he had recently become vaguely aware..
Erin's gun, as it swung back and forth across the line at the bar, came to bear on John. John's, coincidentally, was found to be pointing straight at the deputy's stomach at about the same time. For a second John thought he would have to fire. But the deputy instantly lowered his gun, looked away, and made three quick strides to where the dead man lay on the floor. It seemed to John that the deputy was glad there was a dead man on the floor, for that was a good excuse to postpone an awkward moment.
Erin knelt down beside the corpse with a few other men. It was then that John got his first good look at the corpse on the floor. It was the man he'd seen when he first came to Paydirt, early that blustery morning nearly a week before. It was the man who'd been some fancy dressed, and who had slipped ferret-like into the newspaper office as John rode up the muddy street. His name was --had been-- Ansel Wells.
Little was known about him. The talk was that while he was a stranger in town, he appeared to be a steady and professional man, and he was an honest man by all accounts, at least by all the accounts that flew around the barroom after his death. John mused that many truly evil men had a habit of suddenly becoming model citizens, shortly after their deaths.
Erin now felt more confident and in charge. He chanced to look up at John again from this more respectful position as a recognized authority in a shooting, but John Hannal was no longer in the bar. The man's habit of vanishing was beginning to irritate the deputy.
John knew the killer would claim self defense. It seemed that no one had actually witnessed the event itself, only its result, and it would be hard to prove a crime.
The body was finally removed and the Sheriff cautioned everyone to stick around; he'd have some questions for them when he returned, he said.
A few of the men grunted scarcely intelligible things in response to the Sheriff's warning to keep themselves available. He was still cautioning them on the consequences of ignoring his orders when most of them turned back to their business and their conversations at the bar. If they'd felt like leaving the saloon or leaving town for that matter, or even the territory, they'd do so and never give the Sheriff a second thought. Most had, however, already ordered their breakfast, whether in liquid or solid form, and they planned to stick around long enough to consume it, and no longer. If the Sheriff came back to question them before they were done, then he did. If not, it was too bad.
Erin, pushing his cooperative suspect in front of him, followed the body down the boardwalk as far as his office. Five men continued to carry it to the undertaker's office, which was only a decrepit carriage shed next to the livery. No one had wanted an undertaker next door to their business, and the undertaker thought it important to be centrally located. He was finally able to argue that the horses in the stable didn't care if there were dead bodies just on the other side of a thin wall. In reality, some of the horses did care, but not many of the businessmen cared if the horses cared. The man was granted a permit to set up shop in the old garage, where he did a business that was more brisk than most would have guessed.
John wanted to get away from the scene at the Elkhorn saloon. He wanted to find a quiet place to think. His head was full of disjointed thoughts, mysteries without clues, and revenge. His stomach churned. His hands were unsteady. He found that the slightest inconvenience of having to step around someone in the street who wasn't as attentive to their course as they might be, grated on his nerves. In the wrong situation he might make an unwise move. He had been in town too long, under too much stress. He decided he needed to get out into the country; maybe even to spend a night in the hills where he found life more reasonable and predictable and pleasing. John got along fine with nature and critters. He didn't even usually begrudge the natural disasters life threw at a person. It was people he sometimes had trouble with. He had to think about his plan for kidnapping Deputy Erin.
When he reached the stable he found that Kelly was her usual stolid and aloof self. He checked Chowder's stall but the bronc was gone. He asked politely for his horse and Kelly promised to deliver him forthwith. She had simply moved him to clean his straw bedding. John found a quiet corner to wait in, and lost himself in dark speculations and still darker motivations.
A tender young voice brought him back. "Here's your horse mister. I shore do like him." Chowder nickered when he saw John, and John was glad to see him too.
"My name's John," John said, taking the reins and smiling at the boy.
"An' mine's Joey." Said the boy.
Before him stood a handsome, tow headed boy of eight who John instantly and instinctively liked. Apparently Kelly had help around the stable, and competent help he appeared to be. For a moment John's thoughts flickered back to someone else named Joe. He found it curious that the same name could be used for two so contrasted human beings.
John turned to leave the barn with his horse but little Joey bounded forward and stuck out his hand. John took it though he was a little surprised.
"Glad to meet ya, John." Joey was delighted to be calling a grownup by his first name, for he had been taught not to do so.
"Likewise," answered John, and he gave Joey's small, rough hand a proper shaking, rather more than Joey had counted on. "If you're truly glad to meet a man," John said, "You shake his hand proper, otherwise he'll think you're just pretendin'."
"Oh," Joey said, his face brightening. He appreciated being taught about manly things. At first he'd thought John was mad at him, because he was shaking his hand so hard. "Yes sir," he said, his face brightening even more. He pumped John's arm all the harder.
John chuckled to himself and as he went through the barn door he looked back. Joey was rubbing his shoulder and had a pained look on his face. When he saw John looking his way he quickly grabbed up a pitchfork and pitched grass like crazy, though he was pitching the wrong grass to the wrong place and would have to replace it after John was gone. He was a tough little guy, John thought. He seemed to work hard for Kelly. He wondered where the boy lived and who his parents were.
The mud in the street was dried now, caked into ruts and holes so irregular that a wagon might break a wheel traversing them. It was hard to walk on the street even in dry weather.
Chowder tip-toed along behind John on a slack rein. Once the horse nipped the back of John's neck, upsetting his hat. John pretended not to notice. It felt good just to be close to the horse again.
They had slept together, eaten together, froze in the mountains or cooked in the valleys together for years. John had been the first human being Chowder had ever been touched by, and he was the only one he trusted completely. Most often, if John stopped along the trail and dismounted to pee, Chowder peed too.
If Chowder became truly scared he ran straight to John, and on several occasions the horse had tried to climb up in the man's arms for comfort. At those times John was forced to push the bronc away for fear of being trampled. This behavior Chowder didn't understand, and John felt badly for it, but saw no alternative.
On the trail, if John had something to eat, Chowder wasn't satisfied until he'd been offered his share. It was unthinkable to the horse that John should not share what he had. When it was hot and Chowder had been working hard carrying John, Chowder got the first drink out of the canteens. If water was low, Chowder got the last of it. John reasoned that the mustang worked harder than he did, and deserved it. When it was time to bed down, John was always careful to make sure the horse had a soft place to lie; he often worked for an hour clearing rocks or chopping brush so his horse could rest comfortably.
Chowder had always been a bit of a spook, feigning fear of one silly man-made object or another. Wild horses were often like that, and anyone with any sense, John thought, used their alertness to his advantage, rather than to try and desensitize the animal. xxx
Still, John had cautioned his wife to keep the two girls away from Chowder. Even a slight or accidental error by a twelve hundred pound beast could be catastrophic to a delicate forty pound critter with blue eyes and a ribbon in her hair.
One day a wind had blown the gate open to Chowder's pasture. Some neighbors were visiting, and they weren't overly watchful of their kids. Their two tots, age three and four, got loose and wandered into Chowder's pen. John saw them from the barn. He watched as though the scene was acted out in slow motion; the two toddlers stumbled along, the youngest not being too efficient yet on his feet. Both children spotted the horse at about the same time and made a beeline for him. Chowder was standing in a corner of his shed with his butt to them, munching his oats, of which he was somewhat possessive. None of the other horses were foolish enough to approach him while he ate his meals.
John jumped off the wagon he was unloading and ran headlong for Chowder's pen, but even as he ran he could calculate that the babies would reach the bronco first.
They ran right up to the horse and, without slowing, each hit him at still a good clip. Each child wrapped its arms around a hind leg.
Chowder started, but only slightly. Then he put his head down between his legs and took a long, upside down look at the little hooligans that had a hold of him. Then he raised his head up and looked around wildly. His eyes reflected the strain; he wanted badly to run or buck or throw a fit or to send those offensive little humans to the moon, but he never so much as lifted a foot off the ground.
John reached the kids a few seconds later and plucked them away. Even with that commotion Chowder didn't kick. He just stood still, hoping it would be over soon. Once John backed away with the children Chowder bolted out of the corner and trotted several times around the pen with his tail in the air and his neck arched, snorting and blowing. Then he trotted straight up to John as if to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. The horse trembled slightly and sniffed the children in John's arms, and satisfied himself that they had been no threat after all. Then he cautiously went back to his grain.
John returned the kids to their owners and Chowder got some extra oats that night.
Horses came and went through a person's life, John reflected. Some of them we like; some we don't. Some are just casual acquaintances. Some are good friends. It's hard to sell some horses. It's easier to see others go. And then there are some crazy equines.....who take a piece of us with them. John loved the unusual albino. That's all there was to it.
Next Chapter
Sands of Sedona, Chap 1
Sands of Sedona, Chap 2
Sands of Sedona, Chap 3
Sands of Sedona, Chap 4
Sands of Sedona, Chap 5
Sands of Sedona, Chap 6
Sands of Sedona, Chap 7
Sands of Sedona, Chap 8
Sands of Sedona, Chap 9
Sands of Sedona, Chap 10
Sands of Sedona, Chap 11
Sands of Sedona, Chap 12