Death's Horse Throws A Shoe

Part 1

Jebediah Malik awoke slowly to a steady hammering in his head. He tried to think back to the night before. It was a foggy mess. He remembered a saloon, several shots of whisky and having words with an old man he did not know but knew he did not like. The rest of the evening was lost in the murk. Jeb tried to open his eyes and found that the meager light coming from his right was enough to cause the pounding of his head to increase. He moaned and slammed his eyelids shut again. The hammering continued to beat a cadence within his brain. What had happened last night? He would remember. He always remembered and more often than not regretted it. Maybe this time he would just move on and leave the past where it was-safe and sound in the hidden corners of his mind. Jeb liked the idea of forgetting the past, but the past always found a way to pop up when least expected. He had come to accept that even if the knowledge did him very little actual good.

Jeb tried to open his eyes again. The dim light was still there. It did not hurt as much as before. His head still ached but there was nothing for it at the moment. He would just have to deal with the pain. Jeb swung his feet off of the bed. It began to dawn on him that he was not in his bed at the hotel. Jail. It must've been more than a few words with the old fella. He inhaled slow and deep. The smell of stale sweat and even staler tobacco smoke hit him hard and he suppressed the urge to retch all over the floor.

Jeb stood slowly, testing his legs. His head swam and he swayed on the spot for a second. He ran his hands through his hair and found the knot. It was sore. Someone had cracked him up side the skull and from behind as well. So it was not a hangover after all, or at least not completely a hangover. The hammering continued, but Jeb was now awake enough to realize that it was coming from outside. He walked slowly to the window and peered out through the steel bars. Jeb could see several men working on a gallows. Typical.

Jeb had no intention of being hanged, whether he deserved it or not. He shook his head to try and clear it and immediately regretted it. His eyes soon became accustomed to the meager light and he took in his surroundings. He was in a small cell, in a small jail, in an even smaller town. There was only one guard and he was fast asleep with his boots up on the desk and his hat pulled low over his eyes. Between the bangs of the hammer outside he could hear the man snoring.

Jeb found his boots on the floor near the bed. Everything else he owned was secured somewhere in the jail. He pulled on the weathered, leather boots and relished their familiarity. They were worn almost clear through but they were broke in and he did not feel that his feet were up to the challenge of breaking in a new pair. They did their job and while he still had a horse, they would work just fine.

Getting out of the cell and out of town were the most important items on Jeb's to-do list at that moment. He surveyed the lock on the iron barred door. It would be a simple thing to get it open, but doing it without waking the guard was where the challenge lay. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, gathering himself up. He bit into his thumb and drew blood. Jeb squeezed it until he was sure there would be enough and drew a symbol resembling a crooked capital 'A'. The words of incantation came easily. It was one of the few spells that his mother taught him before she was killed. All of Jeb's concentration was on the lock and his efforts were rewarded with a metallic click that echoed throughout the jail. He looked up quick, but the guard did not even so much as stir from his sleep. Grasping the iron bars he pushed the cell door open as slowly as he could. His only saving grace would be the near constant racket that was going on out back with the construction of the gallows. The hinges creaked loudly and Jeb stopped, watching the guard who twitched slightly, but did not wake. Luckily the door was already open just enough for Jeb to squeeze through the gap.

He sucked the remaining blood from his thumb and crept toward the guard. There was a half drunk bottle of whisky on the desk, and upon seeing it, Jeb grew more bold. He walked straight up to the man and pulled his pistol from its holster. After checking that it was loaded, he pointed the barrel straight at the man's face and used it to lift the guard's hat from over his eyes. The guard blink against the light of the single kerosene lamp until his eyes focus on the weapon pointed between his eyes. He was awake in an instant.

"Mornin', deputy," Jeb said conversationally.

The guard looked from the pistol to the open cell door and back. "How the hell did you get out?"

"I'd say, given the circumstances you find yourself in, that you ought to be answerin' questions not askin' them." He smiled, hoping it looked intimidating. "Where are my things?"

The shaken man nodded his head, "In the cabinet there."

"Locked?"

The guard shook his head in the negative.

"Good." Jeb drew back the hammer which caused the guard to flinch. "We don't have a lot of time. I figure they mean to hang me at dawn. So, I have one final question for you, deputy...?"

"Sheck. Gary Sheck. I gotta a wife and kids. Please don't kill me."

"Like you weren't going to kill me? The gallows out back just for show?" Jeb said forcefully.

"That's different. You're a criminal. You don't see my face on one of them wanted posters."

Jeb could feel Sheck getting braver, so he pressed the end of the barrel to the man's forehead and shrugged. "Fair point. I guess it wouldn't make a lick of difference if I told you I didn't do none of those things they say I did? No? Didn't think so. Now, about that last question. What happened last night?"

Sheck looked confused and just stared for a moment. "You killed Art Fenner."

"Fenner? I'm afraid that name don't ring a bell."

"You was in the saloon and drinkin' mighty heavy. Folks there said Fenner came up and you just went stiff like. You turned to him and Fenner looked at you. Then they say you got this crazy look on your face and blood started pouring out of Fenner's nose, ears, eyes, everywhere. Then he fell dead. They said you was glowing and that's when Barton cracked your skull with the ax handle he keeps behind the bar."

Nothing that Sheck said brought back any recollection for Jeb. The murk remained and his brain fought him as he clawed for the missing memories. There was nothing for it and it was time to get out of town and in a hurry. The sun would be coming up soon.

"Thank you, deputy Sheck. You've been right helpful, though I can't say I believe a word of that story. Good story though. Maybe you should hang up the spurs and become a writer." Jeb motioned with the pistol for the man to stand up. "I'd like to stay and chat some more, but I've got to be going now. Cuffs?"

Sheck opened a desk drawer; eyes never leaving the muzzle of the pistol pointed at him, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

"Fasten one of these to your right hand then put it behind your back. Now turn around."

Jeb poked the gun into Sheck's back as he clamped the other cuff to the free hand. He was free to set the pistol down, sure that he'd be able to get to it if Sheck tried anything. Jeb pulled the bandana from around the deputy's neck and rolled it up and gagged him with it. He picked the gun back up and gave Sheck a poke.

"Into the cell and on the cot." Sheck obeyed. "Come on, lay down now."

Sheck lay down and Jeb covered him completely with the musty blanket. He closed the cell door and locked it with the keys he had taken from the deputy. He crossed the room to the desk, opened one of the drawers and dropped the keys and the gun into it. Sheck had not lied. The cabinet was unlocked and inside was his hat, his gun belt, his medicine bag and his most prized possession of all: a Colt revolver with a remarkable iridescent stone embedded in the handle. The latter two items were the only things left of his deceased parents, and they were treasured by Jeb more than life itself. To part with them, was to stop living.

He lovingly caressed the pistol for a moment, and then stuffed it into its holster. He hung the medicine bag around his neck and dropped his hat on his head. Like his boots, it fit perfectly. He secured on his rig around his waist and tested his draw a few times, confident that all was well. Jeb checked the cylinder and found that the two-bit town sheriff had not even bothered to unload it. He gave the cylinder a spin before snapping it back into place and putting the gun away. He looked back at the struggling form in the cell and smiled, poured himself a shot of the whisky on the desk and drank it downs. He'd be miles away before they even discovered his was gone.

On his way out the door, Jeb found the wanted poster with his face on it. For a lark, he found a piece of charcoal and drew a mustache on the poster, an eye patch and a few extra zeros to the thousand dollar reward. He laughed out loud and stepped out into the street. It was still early enough that no one was about. Jeb whistled a simple tune and went to find his horse.