100 Dollars is too Cheap

One Hundred Dollars Is Too Cheap

A chime rang from the door and a figure dressed in a brown trench coat and a black fedora walked in surreptitiously. Then, the figure removed her hefty clothes and revealed a woman with features unknown to this forgotten town.

She placed her coat and hat on the rack and positioned her glasses farther up her nose in a very dark and empty bar.

She darted through the multitude of chairs and tables to the high chair end close to the nearest and only bartender. He was young and most likely to be in high school and yet had the credentials of being a legitimate detective. And truly, the only good detective in the neighbourhood.

He was drying wet beer mugs when she coughed to remind him of her presence. But, she was already known. Her tuft of dirty blonde, messy hair drifted all the way to her shoulders indicated rough business at work; meaning that there's trouble afoot. Her fake eyeglasses induced a sense of secrecy, whether she was a celebrity or a bounty hunter.

His last and final clue was her cautious nature when she arrived at the poorly lit bar. Looking left and right and the sudden rigidness as he grabbed a towel from the lower cabinet under the counter could only mean one thing. Two words, the most dangerous job in the Wild West.

She was absolutely, utterly, indefinitely a bounty hunter.
*****
She rode her dear old horse, Vitesse, to the rickety town of Senstuff, Arizona fifty kilometres from her town Belmont.

She was unsure whether she made the right choice coming to a no named town in the middle of nowhere just to seek the help of a detective considering her occupation, much less a teenage boy.

She knew she entered the right place enquiring the ghost town with a population of five when she noticed the young man wiping the drips of glass, beer mugs.

She coughed. And ordered a beer -a typical drink for the young ones, she supposed.

"How old am I?" she barked at the bartender. He slightly jumped at her poorly timed outburst. He paused for a minute in the strained silence only to blurt out, "21."

She looked baffled for a moment and let out a howling cry the next. After a minute or two, she finally asked him between listless breath, "Why . . . so?"

"Just an educated guess. Under aged customers tend to order beers." He explained.

"OH," she exclaimed.

"Even if you were over twenty-one, you wouldn't be mad if I were to guess any lower, right?" He added.

Once again, she let out the hyena in her and roared in the silent, eerie bar. She calmed herself to recognize his answer. "Okay then, what's my profession?"

"Bounty Hunter." He let on a little too quickly.

Her eyes widened with admiration and an upside down smile formed by her lips. His answer was rather too stoic and too indifferent. "Wow. They don't call you the best mystery-solver for nothing."

She noticed him turn red as a tomato and she chuckled softly. Of course, he would blush. He is only but a boy.

"So?" His man-ego, hurt by his girlish colour, forcibly questioned. "What do you want me to solve? Lost pet? Lost shoes? Lost husband?"

She laughed momentarily when a serious tone replaced it. "Someone is wanted."
******
He granted her table with a Darjeeling Cooler. "Here you go."

"Okay, sit down. Every mystery needs a little bit of explaining, so here goes." She began her tale.

Her story involved her population in her town and explained that the Wild West has experienced an increase in bounty hunters. "You know very well how all the mines have been closing down because of the excessive gold mining? It's not surprising to see the men running towards bounty hunting."