The Seer And The Stetson

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Clyde stroked his greying beard and leaned back against the rickety chair.  His eyes moved shiftlessly about the dimly lit saloon with obvious disinterest. He would, every now and again listen to the absent-minded chatter around him. 

Most people were fools and these were no exception. They yammered on about nonsense and idle gossip but listening helped pass the time. 

One of his older boys, Jeb's irritating cackle carried over the hum of the crowd, drifting to the corner where he sat. The sound of it irked him. It was too much like River's. 

It was weeks since he'd heard hide nor hair of River. The boy was like a son to him. He'd practically raised him. You would've thought he'd turn out better. 

Quick-witted with a cheerful disposition, River was always the life of a room. Hell, Jeb even had the same head full of rusty brown curls just like the back-stabbing bastard.

 But, what Jeb lacked were his skills. He weren't near as skillful with a gun and he damn sure was no leader of men. With River beside him, Clyde could have ruled the world. 

It both pained and pleased him to have Jeb as a constant reminder of the son he lost. Because he both loved and hated River. 

When he found him, he would kill him. He would put a bullet between the eyes of his own kin. The very thought was painful but the act was necessary.  River's cruel betrayal could not go unanswered. Blood begets blood. 

He was grateful though, that they'd been unable to find him. It gave him time to put his mind to the task. River slipped up only once. And, Ole Clyde had to make an example out of that sleepy little town. 

Even now he could recall the looks on their terrified faces. The slaughter of those poor souls executed in heinous fashion. It near-guaranteed that word would spread. Making it abundantly clear, any town harboring River Collins would be razed to the ground.

The gang rode half-way to Mexico, in a mad hunt for River and his stolen prize. His reputation as an outlaw was well-earned. Finding him wouldn't be easy. 

Clyde's desperation grew, gnawing at his already thin patience with each day that lout went unaccounted for with their hard-earned loot. He even considered putting up reward money for information. 

His boys were getting antsy. They needed action or ass. He chose to give them the latter. Thusly, finding himself in the sleazy New Mexico saloon waiting on them to have their fill of flesh and drink. 

"God damn that River Collins," A gruff voice complained a little too loudly, flouting conventional politeness.  

Clyde leaned in. Finally, a conversation he wanted to hear.

"Will you shut the fuck up, Tommy." A portly man sat with his ankles crossed atop the table. With his patchy beard, ugly red shirt, and blue handkerchief, Clyde could tell who he was a mile off. 

"The man had you dead to rights." He said sitting up straight. "He coulda shot the wings off a fly from that distance. You just lucky his second gun got to ya first."

Tommy and Mason Cabot, well-known cutthroats, cow hustlers, and thieves. Though they tried they weren't exactly the brightest of the bunch. 

Clyde suspected that their family tree was more like a shrub. Especially that Tommy, he was mean enough to each off the same plate as a snake and dumb enough to do it. 

"If he hadn't gotten the drop on us we'd of had him. Him and his Niggers too." Tommy folded his arms over his chest with a huff. 

A feud struck up some years ago between Tommy and River. All over a game of cards and a whore named Candice. That night Tommy lost the game, the whore and his left ear. You'd think he'd know when to leave well enough alone.