Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 7

I am comfortably full with scrambled eggs and spiced sausage mingling in my stomach, but there's a hollow sensation completely separate from food as I step out into the early morning streets and head toward the sheriff's office. Chisholm seemed trustworthy enough, but money could sour even the most honorable of men. My guns are ready at my hips, and I hope I won't be forced to use them.

A welcoming nicker calls as I draw close, and my heart eases. Blaze is tied to the rail before the sheriff's office, his coat glistening from a fresh brushing, his blanket and saddle in good repair. Chisholm emerges at the side of a muscular man with hints of grey tracing into his darker hair and beard.

"Morning, Hawk. Meet Sheriff Galeston. He'll be overseeing our little transaction."

I shake the offered hand. He nods brusquely, then gives a wave. A young lad of perhaps thirteen runs out, his coppery hair shining in the sun, carrying a small scale. He puts it down on the ground.

Chisholm nods his head toward the horse. "You see the horse there, with his gear, as agreed. The price you offered was two hundred silver."

A few of the passer-bys turn at that, their eyes alight with curiosity. They form a small ring around us.

I keep my right hand near my hip, and with my left I draw at the leather strings at my neck, withdrawing the pouch there. I pull it free of my head and hand it over to the Sheriff.

He nods noncommittally and sets it on the ground next to the scale. From the row of weights in front of the scale he withdraws a pair of small cylinders and puts them into the right hand pan. He pulls the mouth of the bag open, then carefully pours its contents into the pan on the left. Slowly, with the casual ease of the morning sun rising above the horizon, the pans begin to equalize.

The pouch is nearly tipped upside down when the scales reach their balance point. He lifts one nugget experimentally from the pan, watches the scales move, then places it back in. "That is it," he announces to us. "Two hundred exactly."

He holds the pouch out to me, with the remaining few nuggets in it.

I take it from him, pour the last five nuggets into my hand, and tuck them into my pocket. They might buy me a few night's rest down the road, especially now that I have a horse to stable as well. I hand the empty pouch back to the sheriff. "I'll throw this into the deal as well."

He gives a wry smile at that, then carefully scoops the silver from the pan into the pouch. When every last bit has returned to its leather home, he hands that over to Chisholm.

Chisholm turns to me, holding out his hand. "Then we are done. Best of luck to you. I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I do too," I agree. "Thank you."

He gives another heft to the pouch in his hand. "And I shall be heading directly to the bank with this," he murmurs. "Safe travels."

I untie Blaze from the rail and swing myself up into the saddle. It feels just right to be on his back, looking past the alert ears to a future which holds unlimited possibilities. I give a gentle tug on the reins, and in a moment we are walking out the main gates, turning our heads north.

The town fades out of sight behind us. For a while I ride, and then I dismount to travel by his side. We walk through tall, fragrant grasses, the river burbling along on my right, Blaze keeps a steady pace at my side on the left, and the world is just as it should be. Billowing clouds drift far overhead, dancing across a sky of cornflower blue, larks swoop, and my heart sings. I have no thought of yesterday or tomorrow. I am simply content being where I am.