The Right Thing To Do

Chapter 1 -

His knife cut the rope and the body dropped to the ground with a thud. Galen Helliwell swung down from his horse and knelt beside the corpse.

"No way for any man to end up, friend." He frowned at the torn trousers and the claw marks on the purplish skin of the legs. With the tip of his knife he pushed the shirt material open, spotting a silver chain resting under the coarse rope that cinched the neck. Carefully cutting away the material, he also found a folded piece of paper, and after a few minutes of cautious cutting and prodding, he stood, holding the chain and locket in one hand, and reading the piece of paper in the other.

Galen had never seen a bank draft before, and his eyes lingered on the amount of five hundred dollars, and the two signatures at the bottom. It was made out to a Caleb Weston, payable at a bank in Pine Ridge, and dated a month ago in the current year. Galen popped open the locket and saw facing pictures of a young couple, the man, he figured, was the body on the ground at his feet. There was still enough to recognize and compare.

"Seems there's a young lady won't be hearin' from you again, Caleb." He pocketed the items then dragged the body to a small copse of trees and buried it as best he could with his hands, using available sticks and rocks. "What did you do, son, to git yourself hung?" He took his hat off, muttered a few words then, whistled for his horse; Pine Ridge was a few days away, and not where he was originally headed.

Bedford Creek

The sign read Town of Bedford Creek, but it looked more like a settlement than a town. Windblown, dusty, and the namesake creek, little more than a small track running right down the road between a scattering of tents, and a few wooden structures. Galen pulled up in front of the saloon, one of the wooden structures and second largest to the hotel next door. He hitched his horse, dragged his saddlebags off and pushed through the wooden doors, hearing them creak as they swung to a halt behind him.

The room was small, with only a few tables near the pot-bellied stove in the centre. A short counter, serving as a bar, blocked the entrance to a back room, with a few glasses and a bottle the only indication he could actually get a drink. One of the men got up from beside the stove and went behind the little counter, looking expectantly at Galen.

"You drinkin'?"

Galen dropped his bags at his feet and picked up a glass. "Fill this."

"That's fifty cents - afore I pour."

The coins hit the counter with a flat plunk, and he held the glass while the man poured, then turned to face the room, sipping slowly.

"You got business here, stranger?" The man behind the counter asked

"Maybe. You got a bank here?"

"Fred Dankworth runs the general store, he takes care of most of that business for us."

"So, no bank?"

"Fred'll see you for supplies if that's what your needin'. He runs an account for folks who can't pay right up."

"How about that hotel, they rent rooms, or is it just for pleasure?"

"They got a few . . ."

Galen finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. "For sleepin'?"

There was a laugh from a couple of men by the stove. "Miss Cynthia sure won't like it if that's all you want."

"That's all I want. That and a place to stable my horse."

"Cross the street and down beside the blue tent," the barman said. "Old Grunge runs the livery."

"Thanks." He picked up his bags and left the saloon, one ear cocked to the murmurs that followed him out. Old Grunge wanted two dollars to board and feed his horse for the night, promising to take right good care of such a fine animal. Galen gave him a dollar, tilting his head to remind the old man, he would get the rest if his promise was true.