Lane James, who drifted into the town without a care in the World, arrived at the Saloon. He entered the double oak doors; he tipped his dusty hat at the barkeep.
"One shot of dry scotch, no ice", he stated.
"Two gold coins". The fifty year old barkeep poured the drink. Lane sat down on his seat; the other cowboys kept their distance.
"I heard there as a rumor that someone shot you".
"Some of the Sheriff's men like to talk; some of them like to shoot, too. Word is that none of them are here to speak; word is they're in their graves, dead".
"And you're thinking I would shoot the Sheriff?".
"Montana isn't a home for outlaws".
"I'm a farmer; I'm not an outlaw. The land I own has value. My parents were killed last year because of a stupid feud; my parents left me enough gold to survive".
"One thousand gold coins".
"Yes. But the time to tell all of you that I'm rich will cause my death. So, in short, I'm drinking my favorite scotch, and letting the drink do the talking, not me".
***
Lane drank.
The liquid went down his parched throat; the liquid soothed his body. By the time he noticed a group of land owners holding their guns at him, he raised his hands in the dry air, then waited for them to kill him.
***
"It's a long, dead, road, Lane. Many cowboys live off the land; many are in their graves because they won't pay me gold to live", Sheriff Deans grinned.
"I won't be driven off by you, Sheriff; I won't! The land is harsh for one reason. Montana's ranches are full of wild horses. And the mountains are wonderful to see at dusk".
"This morning three bank robbers shot Merle Harding, the Bank of Montana President. Now, as you're on the border, you've seen them on the edges of town".
"I've seen a lot of robbers, Sheriff. Rich out-of-town people protect their gold coins; rich people hoard their wares for fear that highway men will rob them on the dirt roads. Montana's jail cells are bursting; the jail cells will not keep them out, Sheriff".
"One false step Lane, and you'll be in jail for being a drifter".
Lane, who finished his third scotch, sighed.
"A friend of mine shot a Sheriff awhile back. Then he shot all of the criminals. He wed a daughter of the Sheriff...then left town".
"And, because of that, you're on the lookout for drifters who arrive in town. The crime rate is increasing because of corruption".
"Leave Montana, Lane".
Lane walked outside, then turned around.
"This town will die, Sheriff. That's my promise". He jumped onto his horse, grabbed onto the tan saddles with both hands, and rode away through the arched gates, hitting the silvery spurs that connected with his dusty boots.
The Sheriff coughed, then grinned in triumph.
He had won the fight, this time.
Page 2.
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The Westerner
PertualanganThe Westerner is rated 15+ for some violence, sex references, adult themes. Montana, 1862 In the 19th Century, where cowboys live on the harsh lands, Lane James, a twenty-five year old drifter, faces an uncertain future, where murderers, convicts, a...
