Fire and Water: a Red Dead story

1

Good god, but it was a hot day. Dust was aided by the brittle winds and swept up and around corners to settle down in heeps around cracked wooden boards. The town was a mean glance from it lighting up in flames, and the sun didn't do it any favors, beating down on it just for existing. Horses neighed and sweated in the stale air, tails swishing away the loud buzzing mayflies that zipped in and out to settle on their rump, their shoulders, their nose. The town was dead, all respectable people inside, soaking handkerchiefs to lay across bare shoulders, or to sit gazing longfully at the open window, hoping that a warrant breeze might fly in and grace their presence. 

All unrespectable people were holed up in the saloon, a place of social gathering and low regard. They were there to rid themselves of the suffocating heat by a different means altogether, the sweet amnesia of drink. 

Between the wavering heat lines lifting and shimmering off the road, two stragglers appeared warped and faded. Their backs were bent against the heavy strokes of the sun, and the dust that coated both man and animal spoke of a wearisome long journey. One of them, the younger, lifted himself in the stirrups, a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. 

"Hosea, there's a saloon up ahead. Let's at least stop and grab something to drink." 

The other nodded slowly, his eyes slowly blinking closed, and slowly blinking open. 

They dismounted, patting their horses. A cloud of dust rose from the gentle pat, and the horse nickered softly rubbing its head against the older man's shoulder. 

"I know boy," He whispered softly, one hand scratching the rough mane. "Jus' a little while longer now." 

He followed the other into the saloon, the shade providing intense relief. It was dead quiet in there, people too tired to even try to move from their drunken state. The heat was oppressive even in here. 

The bartender was the only movement, one slow methodical push of the rag after the other. He turned and gazed at the two men poking their way down to him. 

"Gentlemen." The word stuck in the thick air, wavering and shimmering. "What can I do for ya?" 

"Whiskey, if you got it." 

The drink was poured and with an apologetic "Sorry, no ice" the glass was shoved across the rough counter. 

"Haven't seen the likes of you around here? You ride in or..." Bartender had perked up, heat forgotten for some honest to god entertainment. 

"Ah, yeah, just got in." Reached a hand over the counter. "I'm Hosea, pleased to meet ya." 

"Damn awful day for riding."

"Yeah." A beat of silence rose up, shattering the thick air. "Say friend, me and my partner here got split up from our caravan a while back. Got lost, you know. You know anywhere we could bunk down for the night?"

"There's Millies. She runs a Bed and Breakfast not too far from here. Who was you riding with?"

"Just some people we paid to take us from Chicago out west a little." 

The bartender leaned over the counter. "If you want, you can just go to the stagecoach master out a ways." He puffed out his chest. "Mr. Malley is in charge of the local stagecoach routes, very important man." 

"Wonderful." Hosea reached to take the man's hand. "This is wonderful."

The two of them bid the man goodbye, paying him extra for his troubles, and left. 

"This'll start us out alright, eh Dutch?" Hosea nudged his silent companion. "A little cash lift at the stagecoach masters and we flit on to the next town to establish ourselves at, no one the wiser."