Rantings of an Arranged Mind

Here is a sample from a story I’m working on that connects to “No Man an Island.” Most readers there knew this as "The Untold Legend of Jonah Chalmers." I'm working on the title.

***

The preacher stepped into a huge pile of shit the moment he entered town. Both literally and figuratively. For one, he put his foot down in a fresh pile of horse droppings as he came off the stagecoach. For another, this was a town where death roamed the streets.

The driver tossed him his bag from the top of the coach and then rode off in a hurry. The preacher didn’t even get a chance to thank him. He stepped out of the dusty main thoroughfare and attempted to rub the manure off his shoes in the dirt at the side of the road. He was standing with his back to the nearest building and the steps up onto the boardwalk that ran the length of the road, so he could watch for any further traffic and surprise-dropping horses. Concentrating on cleaning his shoes, it was no surprise that he was oblivious to the people behind him.

What was a surprise, however, was that the two cowboys physically shouldered past him to reach their horses, tied to a nearby hitching post.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I beg your pardon. I had no intention of impeding your progress,” he said to them as he regained his balance, attempting to be gracious.

One cowboy had already mounted his horse and was directing it into the road. The second was still releasing his reins from the hitch. They were both trail-worn, and smelled as if their last baths had been in a previous lifetime. The first simply rode off. The second gave the preacher a disdainful smirk.

“Fuck you,” he said, getting up on his mount. He made sure that his steed kicked dust up onto the preacher’s new clothes as he followed his companion out of town.

The preacher gritted his teeth and attempted to brush some of the dirt from his pants and coat. He then went up the splintered wooden steps to the boardwalk and headed for the nearest rickety building. It appeared to be a saloon and stage rest. He went through the swinging doors and then blinked, attempting to adjust his eyes to the dim interior.

Along the left wall was a bar, its uneven plank shelves stocked with various bottles. A door behind the bar led to another part of the building, perhaps a kitchen. The back wall had a weathered piano that was missing three keys. The stairs were along the right wall, leading to the second floor balcony that was overlooking the main floor. This area was furnished with mismatched tables and chairs, all bearing signs of hard use. Splinters, cracks, scratches and chips declared a rough history the way battle scars tell the tales of old veterans.

A lone figure sat at the bar. His tan coloured hat was on the bar on his left, a bottle on his right. He was drinking from a shot glass. With dishevelled, dust coloured hair and three days’ growth of beard, he looked as weather-beaten as his clothes. Only his guns were well maintained, sitting low on his hips. They were well cared for, deadly metal. The owner squinted, staring at the newcomer in the sunny doorway, trying to bring the silhouette into focus.

He saw a young man, perhaps early twenties and certainly no older than twenty-five. His brown hair was cut short, and his black clothes were a little too new to have so much dirt. His shoes weren’t even broken in yet. He looked soft. Why, he didn’t even carry a gun!

“Well come on in and siddown, I’ll buy you a drink. Yer a goner anyway.”

The preacher was taken aback by the lack of respect people in this town had for men of the cloth. But the man’s comment surprised him more.

“A goner?”

“Sure. If the boys in town don’t bury you, the whores will eat you alive. They love ruining pretty young boys.” The grinning gunslinger tilted his glass towards the preacher in salute. “Cheers! Here’s to your health.”

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.” The preacher sat down three stools away, putting his luggage on the floor.

“You’re going to be bored in this town. Ain’t much else to do. Guess you won’t mind the attention from the ladies.”

“Well, I’m not going to be looking for that either.”

“What’s a matter with you, you want to be a priest or something?” The gunman slurred. Then he took a closer look.

“Shit.” He finally noticed the white band around the young man’s neck. “My apologies.” He took another drink, emptying the bottle.

The preacher watched as he dropped it on the floor, where it cracked and rolled to join three others. The labels identified them all as whiskey.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” He asked.

“Ain’t early if you haven’t been to bed yet.” The other man smirked.

“You’re just going to leave them there?”

“Why not? It’s my bar.” He pushed himself up to his feet and leaned over the bar. He grabbed another bottle and plunked back down.

“I’ll drink for the both of us.” He smiled, pouring two glasses.

“Why not just drink from the bottle?” The preacher suggested. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Man’s got to remember his manners sometimes, my friend. Otherwise, he forgets he’s a man.” The gunslinger took another drink. “You sure you don’t want to try it?” He offered the other glass.

“I’m fine, though I thank you for the hospitality.” The young man smiled.

“No booze and no women… What the hell are you going to do in this town?”

“I intend to rebuild the church. I was given to understand that it burned down recently.”

“Yes, it did indeed.” The gunslinger glowered, taking another drink.

“Could you direct me towards it?” The preacher asked.

“I could. Not that it will do much good.” He stood up, wobbled, and then headed for the door. “You coming?”

The preacher followed, wondering what he was getting himself into.