The Wishers

By E.A. Lucky Murphy

The Wishers are a group of friends living in the present day that like to play Cowboy. They have gone so far with the western theme as to gather original items owned by the families they emulate. They have made a small western town that fi ts on a trailer and pull this to rodeos on weekends. During Intermission they play out the last days of the Dawson Gang. The wish to be back in the old west is overpowering. As soon as they arrive at the rodeo, the gang gets everything ready for the show. At Intermission they set up the collapsible town and the fun begins. Going through their script of the robbing of the bank, they ride pell-mell out the back of the arena and into a small depression behind some trees to await the announcers speech. While waiting in the hole, a small Dust Devil comes in with the men and horses in a cloud of sand. When the sand clears, they are not where they were supposed to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450032438

Book preview

Chapter One

Van

A cloud of dust appeared on the horizon and swirled in the direction of the sleepy little town. Soon, a horse and a rider could be made out through the rippling heat waves and dust. He was coming fast.

The horse galloped down the street and came to a halt in front of the livery stable. The rider, a short, stocky, red-faced man, dismounted and proceeded to knock the dust from his clothing. The dull glint of a sheriff’s badge showed, where it lay pinned to his vest. Turning to the figure standing in the middle of the street, he unlatched the hammer thong from his colt. The heat was intolerable. Sweat trickled from beneath his hat and down the side of his face. The flies buzzed around his face for the moisture. The sounds of a barking dog came from somewhere in the distance.The silhouetted figure stood, almost blotted out by the fierce outline of the sun behind it. All movement seemed unreal. His antagonist seemed to float forward, toward him. He tried to watch the hands of the figure for some sign of movement. Any slight twitch would be enough. The sun was intolerable. His mind raced. He had been following this man for three days. Now, it was coming to an end. His eyes started to water. When would it come, that lightning fast stab toward the holstered gun, a second, two? Sweat dripped from his chin onto his dusty white shirt, leaving a muddy-colored spot where it struck.

The move came so fast that he almost missed it. His response was a tad slower than it usually was. He rocked to one side and dropped to his right knee. Even as his weapon leveled, he heard the blast of the other gun and felt the pass of the hot lead next to his face. He thumbed the hammer once, twice, thrice. The dark figure jerked like a puppet on a string, then slumped slowly to the ground. As the man lay twitching, a growing stain of red started to appear from beneath the body.

Slowly, Sheriff Pinky Dobbs staggered over to the porch and leaned heavily against the wooden post. The Bisley colt dangled limply from his hand. His head began to swim. He closed his eyes and as he did, dizziness swept over him, a dizziness of a hundred years.

The sensation of falling forward brought Van back to consciousness. His eyes snapped open the instant the cool water struck his face. Frantically, he struggled toward the blue shimmering surface. His head broke through and he gulped the precious air hungrily. Sheepishly, he looked around. The clear swimming pool water was only cool, but he still held the chill of the daydream in his mind. He swam over to the shallow end of the pool and walked up the stairs, climbing up onto the decking. Water streamed from the pockets of his white shorts and created a puddle at his feet. The shirt with the bright blue Vans Pool Service on the back, stuck to his well-rounded figure. This was not a new occurrence. The dreams, daydreams that is, happened more often here lately. That’s why he didn’t carry his wallet in his pocket anymore.

Should he talk to Earl about this? Mulling it over in his head, he decided it wouldn’t be such a good idea after all. The others would probably laugh their heads off at him. Here lately, he seemed to spend most of his time daydreaming. It was always about the same thing, the old days of the West. He wondered if this had anything to do with the gang. God! He had even started thinking about the club members as, the gang. He had to talk this over with someone.

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Jay

Chapter Two

Jay

The smell of stale beer and body sweat came to him first, then the sounds of people talking low in the background. As he raised his eyes slowly, the three men seemed to appear from out of nowhere before him. All three were dressed in the typical cowpuncher fashion, hat, jeans, cotton shirt, boots, and a gun belt. The one in the middle was a small man. He was red faced and had his hair all slicked back. A nasty snarl crossed his face as he came to a halt in front of Billy. He seemed to be the leader of the three.

The other two men were larger than the first one. All three had sun-beaten faces, with the same snarl as the short one in the middle. Each man held calloused hands poised above their six-guns.

What did you say, boy? the small man in the lead drawled. A look of hate and contempt shown in the man’s red, whisky glazed eyes.

I said, leave the boy alone, he found himself saying again, real low and deadly like.

The middle cowboy’s mouth moved and a stream of brown shot from between his lips. The stream of tobacco juice landed on the toe of Billy’s boot.

The peacemakers appeared in Billy’s hands as if by magic, hammers already back. Even so, the small man still tried to bring his pistol up first. A look of surprise was frozen on his face when the slug from Billy’s right-hand colt, caught him between the second and third button on his shirt. The large lead slug lifted him up and slammed him backward. As the man fell to the rough board floor, his outstretched arms flailed into the other two men knocking both of them off balance.

Billy’s left colt fired, as the right one’s hammer was being cocked again. The second .44 slug caught the cowpoke on the left in his right breast pocket, causing tobacco and cigarette papers to spray into the air. Billy’s right-hand colt fired again. The cowpoke on the right, in terror and desperation, pulled the trigger on his iron, prematurely. Fired at an angle, the bullet passed right between Billy’s legs and gouging a furrow in the board floor. The bullet spraying splinters in all directions. Turning sideways, the cowpoke fell to his right knee. A look of surprise appeared on his half-shaven brown face. A patch of red started forming from the small, dark hole in the center of his shirt. Billy’s third bullet had passed through the man’s heart. He was dead even before his body sagged, lifelessly to the floor.

The smell of fresh blood filled Billy’s nostrils. Acrid powder smoke, hanging heavily in the room, caused a haze that was hard to breathe. His eyes started to sting and then to water.

Always some smart-assed bully types, trying to push someone else around, Billy thought to himself.

Inserting his left colt in its holster, Billy thumbed open the loading gate on the right pistol. Easing back the hammer to half cock, he ejected the two spent cartridges with the ejector rod. Both the brass casings clinked, in a dull sort of way, as they struck the board floor. He replaced them with fresh cartridges from his belt. Billy then turned and motioned to the teenage boy with the bib overalls, and pointed to the saloon door. Like a scared rabbit, the boy scooted toward the door in a dead run. Not even taking time to say thanks, he left the batwings swinging in its wake.Finished with the task of loading the second colt, Billy moved to drop it back into its holster. The movement was never finished. A soft mist slowly filled his eyes.

When the mist had cleared as always, the colt had become a ratchet locked in Jay’s grease-covered fingers. Startled, Jay tried to focus his eyes on the engine of the Mustang in front of him. Shifting his weight off the fender and standing up, he looked around at the inside of the garage. He had been daydreaming again. Damn! Feeling a slight draft on the inside of his leg, he stared at the rip in his coverall. It hadn’t been there earlier. He stuck one of his fingers in the hole. Could it be? He wondered! Nawww!!!

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Earl

Chapter Three

Earl

A figure, dressed in a dark gray uniform, walked quietly between the stacks of lumber and building supplies. The construction site was quiet and dark. Every fiber of the man’s being was intent on listening for a sound. He strained to catch a glimpse of something moving among the partially framed houses. He was totally alert to his surroundings.

The Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum on his right hip, rode high in a specially made holster. The grips of the gun were made especially for his hand. The sights on the weapon were white framed, so as to make the target stand out better. This allows a quicker sight alignment when the area was not well lit. Not that he needed these special tools. He practiced every chance he got. The weapon had become like an extension of his arm.

Returning to his patrol car, Earl unlocked the driver’s door and swung it open, but not before scanning the interior. Being too cautious never hurt anyone.

It’s when you let your guard down, that’s when shit seemed to happen, he thought to himself.

Once in a while, his mind strayed to thoughts of the upcoming weekend. Friday night, the gang would get together at his place for their weekend before the rodeo shindig. They would drink some, dance some, and talk a lot. The subject would be about the Old West and the upcoming shootout Saturday morning. As he stood there absentmindedly fingering the .38 caliber cartridges in his six loop, he adjusted his baton so it wouldn’t hang up, then slid into the interior of the car and closed the door.

The radio spluttered to life, with a tinish voice emanating from the small speaker attached to its side. Picking up the mike and pressing the transmit button, he growled, Three boy’s four and eight. Copy, came the voice from inside the black box. Replacing the mike on its holder, he reached into his beat-up briefcase and pulled out a very old tattered book wrapped in plastic wrap. Using the vehicle’s overhead light, he unwrapped it. Opening the book, he read the publisher’s mark. The book had been published in 1865, and it looked like it.Earl had found the book in an estate sale, in Arizona last weekend after the shootout. He took a thin piece of plastic from his shirt pocket and used it carefully to turn the tattered, brittle pages. As he read the small cryptic print, his eyes took on a faraway look.

The dark horse and rider threaded their way cautiously through the twisting arroyo behind the small town. The soft dirt muffled the sound of the horse’s hoofs from any prying ears. The rider leaned forward in the saddle as he strained his ears to hear the slight tinkle of a piano and the sounds of laughter drifting in on a nighttime breeze from the distant town. Only the dull scrunch of the saddle leather gave away his presence and then, only to someone within ten feet of him.

It was growing dark here in Ague Verdi, and the nightlife of the town was beginning to show its self. The rider could see the dull, yellow glow of a lantern hanging in front of one of the buildings. Had to be the saloon, he thought. It was nine o’clock. Every self-respecting, hardworking citizen would be nestled in his or her beds by now.

He rode quietly up the side of the arroyo, crossed a large open space, and entered the street at the end of the sleepy little town. Dismounting, in the shadow of the general store, he took the reins in his left hand and deftly looped them over the black horse’s head.

Comanche was a large, black mustang. He didn’t have a white hair on him. He stood sixteen hands high, long legged and short necked. A little too fat from the spring grasses but that would melt off to muscle soon. He nuzzled the man standing beside him. The man scratched behind the horse’s ear, and the horse let out a deep sigh. He was content to be here.Moving to the side of the horse, the rider reached up behind the saddle and removed a clean shirt from the left saddlebag. The shirt was dull black. He shrugged off the dirty, brown shirt and replaced it with the black one. Running his hand over his stubble-covered cheeks, he thought about taking the straight razor from the saddlebag. Na! he thought. All I want is a tall, cool beer and a little hot something to eat.

After changing his shirt and wiping the dirt from his face, the rider walked the black horse to the watering trough. Waiting patiently, he let the horse take a long, slow drink. The black horse seemed to linger in the depths of the water. Savoring the coolness of it, his head sank almost to his eyes in the cool liquid. Finally, he lifted his head and proceeded to shake the droplets from his muzzle. The shaking continued down his body in a wave, ending with his large rump quivering from side to side.

Walking the black horse to the hitch rack, in front of the saloon, he dropped the reins to the ground. He rubbed the neck of the black horse lovingly. The horse nuzzled his hand in reply. Stepping onto the groaning boards of the porch, he eased up to the batwing doors and parted them. Stepping cautiously just inside the room, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the yellow glow of the coal oil lamps. After a minute or so, he walked slowly to the nearest end of the bar. It wasn’t much of a bar. Rough-hewn wooden boards had been set up on a couple of barrels. Typical frontier bar, he thought to himself.

The smell of stale beer and human sweat assaulted his nose. The aroma of cooking beans came from a small doorway, leading into a room off the back of the saloon. The click of cards drifted up from the table at the rear of the room. Someone mumbled, Call, in a low voice.

The barkeep was a large, sweaty man, with a red beard. His skin looked pale yellow and stretched tight across his flat, featureless face. The scars of past fights had marked his almost-hairless eyebrows. A dirty brown rag moved methodically back and forth, across the rough surface of the bar. The smell of vinegar drifted up from a jar of pickled eggs sitting on a shelf behind the bar. Mixing with the smell of sweat, the smell of vinegar didn’t make much difference. It all smelt bad in the closed in heat of the room.

The dirty, broken mirror on the wall behind the bar, showed the bald spot on the back of barkeep’s head. Three men sat at a table in the back, playing cards. A woman, in a low-cut red dress, stood at the far end of the bar gazing off into space. Her rummy eyes wandered over the slim figure of the newcomer and settled on the colt in his belt. She didn’t bat an eye. Everyone wore a gun in these parts, except the occasional farmer, drummer, or sheepherder.

Whataya have? it was the red-faced barkeep.

Beer and something hot to eat, the man in black replied in a low voice.

Succotash and cornbread do fer ya? the barkeep kinda wheezed as he spoke.

Fine, said the man in black.

The barkeep turned the spicket on a wooden keg, stacked in behind the bar and caught the trickle of light brown liquid in a wooden mug. The beer was strong and cool. The rag thrown over the keg and saturated with water seemed to work OK. The bartender turned and yelled to someone in the back room. Moments later, an old Indian woman came out with two wooden bowls. One of the bowls was piled high with steaming corn and beans. The other bowl was covered with pones of white cornbread. She placed these on a table nearest to the bar.

That’ll be two bits, said the barkeep, wiping his sweaty face with a red bandanna.

The coin struck the planks of the bar and rolled around in ever shortening circles, before coming to rest with a clink. The barkeep picked it up with his swollen fingers. He looked at the coin closely, before placing it in something behind the bar. The coin made a resounding clink against other coins as it came to rest in the box.

Taking the mug of beer in his left hand, the man in black walked over to the table and took a seat with his back against the wall. He wiped the wooden spoon on his shirtsleeve and proceeded to eat.

The beans and corn were hot and newly cooked, but the corn pone was old and stale. Two out of three weren’t bad. He’d had worse, especially on the trail. This was a treat to him. At least, the beer had a good taste, and it was cool and stout.

The man in a blue shirt at the back table leaned across and whispered something to the two other men seated with him. Their chairs made a scraping sound as all three pushed back from the table. The spurs on their boots chinked as two of the men walked over in front of where the man in black sat. He paid no attention to them.The two men came up and stopped a couple of feet from his table. Standing to each side, they glared down at him. The man in black, sat with his back to the wall; his head was down, but his eyes were alert.

You be Bad Jack, ain’t cha? the skinny, blond man with bad teeth and a bowler hat said. There was no immediate answer.

I said, said Skinny.

I heard you the first time, Junior, the seated man replied as he shoveled another spoonful of succotash into his mouth.

Bad Teeth was taken aback. His eyes flicked to the other man standing across from him, as if asking him a question.

His companion was short and thick, and wore his gun low over worn, brown cord trousers. His large calloused hand rested on his gun butt as he eyed the man in black.

We be bounty hunters out from Tucson and we be lookin’ for Bad Jack, the older of the two said. There was a nervous sort of highness to his voice.

People always said Bad Jack was a smart ass, sose I guess you air him all right, said Bad Teeth.

Junior, there’s a peacemaker under this table here and it’s pointed right at your maggot-ridden belly. So, why don’t you and your short friend just amble right on out of here, before you go and get yourself hurt? said the man in black.

Bad Teeth shifted his eyes back and forth between his partner and Jack. A nervous tick started to show just below the skinny man’s right eye. His hand hovered over his gun butt, but he didn’t make his move.

This be our job. You wouldn’t want to keep a man from making a livin now, would ya? Bad Teeth said in a lower voice.

Iffin you’re dead, you can’t make much of a livin, boy. Bad Jack said in a cold, icy voice.

Bad Jack’s voice made the man’s hair prickle.

Raising both hands slowly, Bad Teeth hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest.

Well, you shor ain’t friendly, he kind of choked out. Turning to his friend, he motioned with his head toward the saloon door. Come on, Charlie. We know when our company ain’t welcome.

Both the men backed slowly in the direction of the door, all the time keeping an eye on the man at the table. As they stepped through the door, they turned and ran; each man in a different direction. Each of the men’s boots made a different hollow, thudding sound as they struck the boardwalk and proceeded hurriedly into the dirt of the street beyond. The street grew quiet again.

The bartender looked even paler than before, if that were at all possible. His hand shook as he wiped the sweat from his face with a dirty rag. It was the same rag he had used to wipe the boards of the bar.

Jack heard the floorboards creak as the barkeep shifted his ponderous weight from one foot to the other. He finished scooping the last of the corn into his mouth, and with the same hand, mopped up the juice with the stale pone. He finished his meal by washing it down with the rest of the now warm beer.

He caught the bartender’s move out of the corner of his right eye, and heard the click of the two hammers come back and lock. The barrels of the sawed-off shotgun cleared the top of the bar. The arch of the weapon was in his direction. It never finished the arch.

The colt in Jack’s right hand fired from under the table. The .45 caliber bullet passed through the tabletop, causing it to splinter, and the bowls on top of the table flew off and landed on the floor. The bullet carried on passing through the bar and caught the bartender in the right thigh, just below the top of the bar. The shock of the two-hundred-grain lead slug slammed the red-bearded man to the right, causing the shotgun to fire prematurely. The force of the blast went in the direction of the saloon doors. Someone yelped from outside and the footsteps of the man could be heard running hurriedly away into the darkness.

Slowly, Bad Jack raised the barrel of the colt from under the table till its muzzle pointed right at the fat man’s throat. The colt’s hammer clicked twice, before it came to full cock.

Don’t shoot, Jack. I’m hurt bad. I think my hips busted, the fat man blubbered.

Cornealius, what made you try to take me? said Jack, in a cool, dry voice.

The bartender sagged to his right, as red started to puddle on the floor beneath him.

The money… Jack. I just had to try for the thousand in gold, he wheezed through clenched, yellow teeth. Anybody would have done the same. It weren’t nothin personal, Jack.

Was it worth it? Jack’s voice was cold, as he took deliberate aim.

Please Jack, don’t, the fat man pleaded.

The bullet struck the fat man right at the base of the throat, and his head snapped backward from the force. His body slammed into the shelves of bottles and glasses behind him. He gurgled, as the last of the air was forced through his shattered neck. Sliding down, his body struck the floor with a vibrating thump. His feet continued to kick at the beer kegs that held up the bar for few seconds. Finally, his movement stopped, and the room was silent again. The small, pearl-handled pistol made a metallic sound as it fell from the dead man’s hand onto the boards of the barroom floor. The hammer was already cocked.

Jack turned to the back of the room where the third man still stood. The man’s gun was in his right hand. Jack’s voice was cold and deadly.

You want to try for the gold, too, my friend? he asked.

The man’s eyes looked like a mouse, looking into the eyes of a snake. He shook his head slowly from side to side, and then let the long-barreled pistol fall to the floor with a thump.

The woman in the red dress just stood there. The glassy look was still in her eyes. She’d seen this type of thing played out, all too many times before. She knew not to move, lest it cause the shooter to perceive her as new threat.

Jack got to his feet, letting the chair fall with a clatter to the floor behind him. Pulling his second colt from the front of his belt, he placed the first pistol in its holster behind his back. He never took his eyes off the man in the back of the room.

Go, tell your friends out there, that iffin I come out and see either one of them, I’ll shootum dead. Ain’t gonna be no warnins, no questions asked, Jack growled at the frightened man.

Yes Sir, he said, startled so badly he actually jumped.

Moving quickly through the saloon doors, the man disappeared into the night. The sound of his rapid footsteps could be heard, receding into the distance. He ran down the dirt street toward the south end of town, till his footsteps could no longer be heard.

Jack walked over to the lamps, and one by one turned down the wicks and blew them out. Smoke curled from the tops of the blackened glass chimneys.

Don’t light these again till I’m good and gone, he said to the woman in red. She nodded her head, though Jack couldn’t have seen her in the darkened room even if he had tried. She hadn’t realized Jack had already gone.

Going to the side room, Jack had slid back the bolt and stepped quietly out into the black of the night. The warm darkness enveloped him.

Earl’s eyes snapped back to focus, as his mind came back to reality once more. How long had it been this time? It seemed like he spent more and more time daydreaming here lately. Each new time seemed more realistic than the last. Looking down, he wiped at the black smudge on his uniform pants. The dark stain was just above the right knee. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that it looked like a powder burn.

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Brian

Chapter Four

Brian

The figure that rode up to the front of the first bank of Braden County and dismounted was a fine example of the mixtures in the Old West. The young, slim man wore brown cord pants and calf-high moccasins. A bright blue shirt and a stovepipe hat crowned with an eagle feather, topped off his outfit.

Dropping the paint horse’s reins over the hitching post, he stepped onto the boardwalk, and proceeded through the door, and into the interior of the bank. A surprised look on the bank clerk’s face made John T. smile as he handed him the worn, brown saddlebags. The clerk’s eyes almost crossed as he tried to focus on the end of the short rifle barrel, jutting out from between the bags. The rifle was trained on the end of the clerk’s nose.

Fill ’um up, pardner, and not with the little stuff either. I want to hear gold jingle in them bags, John T. snickered.

Yesser, the clerk said. His voice seemed to go up and down with his Adam’s apple. Reaching beneath the counter, his hands moved from drawer to drawer without looking inside.

Hurry it up, pardner. I ain’t got all day, John T. growled.

Yesser, juuust don’t shoot. You can have it all, just please don’t shoot, Adam’s apple spluttered. His eyes grew larger as the rifle targeted something a little lower. He filled the saddlebags from a rack beneath the counter and scooped up a sack full of bills from the previous day’s receipts.

That’s everything from out here. I’ll have to go into the safe for any more, said Adam’s apple. Sweat started to darken his white shirt at the neck and armpits.

Never mind, friend, I ain’t greedy, John T. said. He motioned the clerk around the counter and caught him by the suspenders as he passed. Taking the saddlebags from him, John T. draped them over the arm with the rifle. Releasing his free hand from the clerk’s suspenders, he reached into one bag and pulled out two fifty-dollar gold pieces. Reaching around to the clerk’s front, he dropped both coins into his watch pocket.

For your trouble, friend, don’t say nuthin, just look out the door and tell me if anyone’s commin, Said John T.

The clerk pressed his cheek against the window and looked both ways, up and down the street.

The only one I see is Mr. Parmalee, the president of the bank and he’s a heading this way, Adam’s apple whispered.

Standing to one side of the door, John T. waited till the bank president entered the bank. The short, little, fat man had a muttonchops mustache. When he felt the cold muzzle of the Winchester press against his neck, he came up on his tiptoes. His muttonchops quivered.

Whaaaat’s the meaning of this? the little fat man blustered. What’s going on here? said the Banker.

I’m a robbin this here bank. Pres, now you be a good little Pres, and walk right back to that closet there and open it up. Keep yore hands in plain sight. I don’t want to have to blow your head off and wake the whole durn town. I will, though, iffn you let out one little peep, said John T.

The little fat man flumped and blew but did exactly as he was told. Both men backed into the closet, and the door was closed and locked.

After that had been accomplished, John T. went back to the door, and looked up and down the hot, dusty street. It seemed clear. Opening the front door, he stepped onto the boardwalk. His moccasin feet made very little sound as he sauntered toward his horse. The horse saw his master, and raised his head and whinnied.

Just as John T. reached for the reins, all hell broke loose from inside the bank. A double blast, from a shotgun, blew out part of the nearest window. Buckshot splattered on the building across the street. An old-timer, sitting tilted back in a chair against the far wall, let out a squawk and slammed down on his back onto the porch. The dog, he landed on, yelped and scrambled from under the man.

Yelping and screeching at the top of its lungs, the startled dog ran down off the porch and in-between the legs of the two horses tied at the watering trough. The horses, startled by the blast and trying to avoid the yelping dog, reared back at the same time, pulling the wooden horse tie and water trough over on its side. Water spilled from the overturned trough into the middle of the street. A mini flood coursed its way toward the end of the town. Both horses, rearing and buckling, raced off down the street, the bouncing hitch rack following close behind. The hitch rack’s antics filled the air with a cloud of choking, alkali dust as it bounced crazily to and fro.

Grabbing the paint horse’s reins, John T. slung the bank sack over his saddle horn and vaulted into the saddle. The spooked pony knew what to do; it headed out of town at a full gallop. As John T. passed the saloon, a tall, skinny deputy wearing a large