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Despondent watch as the wagon, our livestock, extra harnesses, miscellaneous junk, and concealed cash recede from my view into the darkness. The immediate challenge, stay dry, keep out of sight, out of the wind, and find boots. And plot our next steps.
Where are Frank and Addison? Likely siting around a table enjoying a warm meal. The other members of the crew? Settling in for the night? What happens if they inadvertently encounter the wagon and the thieves? What about tomorrow? Breathe and get some rest. Closed my eyes and sat back. The sounds from the eatery calling. Can’t unwind, too cold. Still on an adrenaline high.
Trying to sleep. Impossible. Screw rest, gotta move. So I head toward the spot I saw the wagon as it slipped away. Toward town. I’ll head toward the light from the restaurant. Collar up, hat down, move, sloshing through puddles along a darkened street.
Visions filter through my weariness. The lost wagon, our cash, team members, Addison, my abode, my daughters, lost love, a dead doctor, and failure. I stumble on the uneven surface, nearly falling forward. I occasionally take a peek ahead as I move toward the sounds.
Lights pulling me forward, like a moth to a flame, close now. I can hear voices, the smell of cooking reminding me of my hunger. Not thinking all that well as I cross the cracked sidewalk, entering through a partially closed door with no plan in hand. Lights temporarily blind me, stop to take in the room as my eyes adjust. Tables with a few customers scatter about. Here I stand, shoeless, drenched, center of attention, grab an empty seat at a nearby table, sigh, and with head in hands wait, resting, exhale. Hoping a server would soon arrive. Conversations cease. I feel someone is approaching, god I hope a server.
“This is just not your day,” a male’s voice rumbles.
Feels like I have just been punched in the gut. Don’t look, maybe he will just walk away. A bad dream. He now stands just beyond the table, gun in hand. Place my hands gingerly on the table, pushing myself away from the table to a standing position, looking up, taking a moment to focus. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”
I can vaguely see others in the shadows, observing, waiting for the drama to unfold. I had become the evening’s entertainment.
“Looks like you lost your boots,” he cackled.
“Well, kinda.”
“Case you forgot, I’m the one that directed you to leave town, remember, and now I have a problem, or actually, you have a problem.”
“I just need a minute to warm up, dry off, not looking for trouble.”
At that moment, a shot rings out. The front window shatters. Glass disperses while across the room, a mug explodes at a nearby table. Attention drawn to the window, then the mug as liquid fills the air, the owner falling, landing on his back on the floor, finally the bullet smashing into the wall.
Frank stands to my right, weapon drawn. Cord enters through the kitchen door, moving to my left. Attention returns to me. “I remember now. We have met before.” Tension heightens as two others stand a few yards behind my challenger.
Addison steps from behind, placing a gun in my hand, then steps into my peripheral vision.
“Set your weapon on the table, carefully, and turn around,” Cord orders.
Addison approaches the threat. “Hands behind you back, please” he turns slowly, where she places handcuffs on announcing, “I’m a US Marshall” a lie. A few customers grin as a five-foot, strawberry-blond cuffs, a six-foot brute.
Brett enters from the back with a sack carrying cash. “Evening gentlemen, FYI, with the help of the staff we have filled our wagon, we will soon leave. As previously directed, with a few supplies for which we are now paying. And we will take boots. Everyone’s. Remove them quickly and place them on the tables, with your weapons. And don’t do something stupid.”
Joshua now enters with a sack, collect the boots and weapons, and warns upon exiting out the back, “If anyone one follows, he or she will probably regret that career choice.”
“So as directed, we will leave, heading west, with our sharpshooters watching, waiting for anyone leaving the building while we remain in range. My suggestion, sit back down, drink, and relax,” Addison said.
Brett grabs our handcuffed guest. A hostage for now. Throws a hand full of silver rounds across the room, then tosses the sack onto the floor, while pulling our antagonist outside, forcing him onto the wagon. Followed by Cord and Frank. Finally, Addison and I hustle out the back. Now all mounted and riding. At the town’s edge, seems no one is following. Mile up the road, we drop off our hostage. “Where’s the key?”
“Oops, great question, bummer to be you,” Addison answers.
Another mile up the road, home in sight.
Brett drove the wagon, filled with staples and kitchen supplies, into an empty livery yard. Here’s hoping Mrs. Bishop will arrive to gather up the consumables and kitchen supplies. Likewise hoping the Committee will be pleased.
Exhausted, I need sleep. So many questions, but not tonight. We each go our separate ways, for now I drag my fatigued body up a ladder, across the roof, into my corner, which better be empty this chilly night. Empty it is. Hat off, belt off, new boots off, when I noticed…
…there on my pillow, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker.
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