The Alcove

Wyoming, 1905

Sam built up the fire, then hit the blanket. He was drifting off when he heard a low rumbling off in the distance. He grabbed his Winchester and scrambled up to the top of a low ridge. From there, with the sun sinking low, he took in the scrubland he'd been crossing for the last three days, ever since he'd left Ashtown with the aim of bringing in Killer Cole Steele. In the middle of it all, bouncing along, was an automobile, its two brass lamps cutting a path of light through the gloam.

"Well, I'll be damned," Sam said.

It was the automobile that had shown up in Ashtown the day he'd ridden off in search of Steele. The driver, a young man named Barton, was making the first automobile journey across America and had stopped in for supplies. He and his machine had caused quite a stir, for nobody in Ashtown, not even marshal Sam Cross, had seen an automobile before.

"It's a curved dashed Oldsmobile Runabout," Barton proudly told the townsfolk gathered about, his crisp Yankee accent leaving no doubt as to his pedigree. "I've driven her all the way from New York City. She goes seven-miles-an-hour tops. By the way, this is California, isn't it?"

"Wyoming," Sam replied.

As the curious inspected the contrivance, Sam headed for the hotel where Mary May, taking a break from her job as cook, was eying the spectacle from a safe distance. Before Sam could utter a word, she said, "I don't like that man."

Sam told her not to worry. "He'll be gone soon enough."

He climbed onto Paint, his horse. As he did, he confessed, "This is the last time. I'm too old to be chasing outlaws down over hell and gone. Once I get that reward, we're gonna settle down."

Mary May found comfort in the thought. "Be safe," she said, squeezing his hand.

As Sam headed out of town, he passed the automobile. As he did, Barton stepped away from signing up riders.

"I say, marshal?" Barton asked. "Can you tell me the way to Minerville? I'm told I might find a few bona fide outlaws there. Oh, I'm just dying to see a real, honest-to-God cutthroat."

"I suggest you find another way," Sam warned the man.

He spurred Paint on andand was gone.

***

Two days later, Sam, on the ridgeline, watched as that same automobile slowly motored its way through the dark.

“The damn fool,” Sam said. “He’s heading for Minerville.”

Sam returned to the fire and there, sitting smartly as if trained to do so, was the ugliest dog he’d ever seen. He drew back, fearing the beast was wild and diseased. The dog was size of a yearling calf, had a square head and a short coat that gave shape to hard, sinewy muscles. Its coat was orange-black, like it once had stripes, but the rain and whatnot had smudged them all into one big mess. It barked, as if welcoming Sam home, then rolled over wanting a tummy rub.

“Well, I’ll be,” Sam said, holstering his pistol. “Where’d you come from, boy?”

At the sound of Sam’s voice, the dog sat up, like it had been well-trained. Its left ear stood straight up while the right one was gone, bitten clean off at the skull.

“Ain’t you a sight,” Sam said, kneeling to shake the paw the dog was offering. “Smart too,” Sam added. “No, I ain’t playing. I gotta get some shut eye. Now scram, okay?”

Sam hit the blanket. No sooner had he done so when a long, wet tongue started giving him a face wash under his hat.

“Look,” Sam said, sitting up. “If I give you some jerky, will you scram?”