Stranger

This story does have some typos. This was typed up very fast to squeeze it in before a contest deadline. I'm a bad procrastinator. Enjoy the read!









The story in Weed, Arizona, is that the stranger floated into town like a cottonwood bloom, buffeted and caressed by the will of the aimless wind. His name is never uttered, he is simply referred to as “The Stranger”. It is said he rode in on the heels of a violent dust storm, agreed upon as a unlucky omen. His figure is described as being perched upon a jet black steed, with week old stubble, ratty clothes and a tattered hat, a long rifle scabbard hanging from his saddle. His legend has lasted over a hundred years, and has yet to dissapear. It is doubtful he will ever be truly forgotten.

Dismounting from his horse with a gravelly crunch, the tall man ambled slowly into the saloon, the glint of his gleaming revolver wheel contrasting sharply with his dirtied clothing. The sleepy town of Weed, Arizona, was not used to seeing a new face at all, much less the one belonging to this strange man that walked into their saloon. The stranger radiated freedom and nonchalance, traits rarely found in the speck known as Weed. All eyes were on him as he stalked down towards the bar. The sharp thump of his boots echoed throughout the silent room.

Old Bill, who had been serving drinks as long as anyone could remember, fidgeted nervously, swallowing loudly and adjusting his glass eye, as he addressed the menacing stranger.

“Can- can I get you something, stranger?”

The stranger glanced him over, as if he were debating whether or not to shoot him on the spot. His voice was something completely singular, a coarse, rambling tone that could belong only to this man.

“You could tell me where to find Nathaniel Groves,” he said in his terrible deep, throaty speech.

Old Bill faltered at the mention of Groves. After all, Groves was the millionaire benefactor of Weed, former mayor and owner of the town's only bank. He swallowed again and started intently at a fly buzzing around the room. A spur came down and crushed it.

“I'm not, uh, quite sure if I can absolutely tell you that, um, mister.” Old Bill mumbled. Like a streak of light, the stranger's Colt revolver was digging into Old Bill's rib. Everyone either didn't notice or chose not too. The stranger smiled.

“You sure 'bout that?” He inquired again.

Old Bill was more then happy to comply.

“R-right up that road there.” He said, a trembling hand indicating the road in question. He relaxed and took a much needed breath as the pressure left his side.

“Much obliged to you,” the stranger said, and stalked back out through the swinging double doors. A deathly silence reigned supreme throughout the room. Old Bill leaned against the bar and mopped his sweaty brow. A man poured him a drink and tried to comfort him.

“It's all right, Bill, the lunatic's gone.”

“Gone to kill Groves, most likely,” a voice piped up.

“That's right!”

“We have to stop him!”

Confidence and determination swelled in the room with the stranger gone. A chaotic scramble erupted as arguments spewed forth as how best to strop the crazed madman. It took the sheriff, Don Regan, fifteen minutes to restore order and form a rescue posse. They marched out of the saloon as conquering heroes; a crowd clattered together on the wooded foyer of the saloon to see the quintet of men gallop off, fine dust kicking forth from the horse's hooves.

The men dashed up through bits of crabgrass and stunted cacti on the mile-long, winding dirt road up to Groves' estate. Squinting against the bright midmorning Arizona sun, the best efforts of the men to make out the stranger were foiled. Leather pouches and wooden rifle stocks bounced against saddles as the horses raced up the incline. After what seemed like hours, the vast outline of the banker's huge mansion was in sight.

Groves was the founder of the town's only bank. He was the town's state representative, former mayor, treasurer, and most prominent citizen. The short, portly man was the perfect target for a kidnapper or murderer.

But as the riders came up on the house, Groves was reclining peacefully on a brightly colored, striped plush chair. Neither the stranger or his horse were in sight. A very eerie silence descended on the grounds as the men approached, even the horses' hooves seemed to be muffled. No wind blew, no bird chirped or insect buzzed.

Regan was overjoyed to see Groves. He dismounted his horse and walked over to where he was reclined. Smiling, he went to shake his hand.

“Oh good........” Regan gasped when he saw the damage. Groves was limp, his eyes permanently closed, his hands closed and stiff. Blood seeped from a hole in his chest, staining his crisp new suit.

“Don, is he okay?” One man called. Don shook his head and motioned for silence. Drawing his revolver, he took deliberate steps as he crept over to the posse.

“Groves is dead,” he informed them matter-of-factly. “But we never saw anyone come down that road. The killer's still 'round here somewhere.”

The men nodded as they drew their weapons. They hopped off their horses and slowly advanced around Groves' spacious yard.

Suddenly a pair of gunshots rang out, sending the men scurrying for cover. Don dove behind a low granite retaining wall that enclosed Groves' garden. Seeing a horse fleeing down the long driveway, he steadied his revolver against the mortar and fired. Dirt kicked up well behind the rider. Cursing, Don sprang up and dashed after them, firing as he ran.

Back in Weed, some form of normality had been restored, though a group of men still were huddled by the saloon, discussing the morning's bizarre events. They were interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping into town.

“Hey, Don's back!” A man called out, sending a mad rush into the street to see him ride in.

“Don! What's the news?”

But Don't didn't slow down, just rode straight for the group of onlookers, a wild cloud of silt racing in behind him. Soon it dawned on them something was terribly wrong.

“That's not Don!”

The wall parted just as the horse plowed though like a demented locomotive. The men were determined to avenge their cowardice that morning; the horse didn't get two steps past when the first pistol cracks rang out. First the horse buckled at the knees, then fell full speed into a horrific somersault. Amazingly, the man jumped up and dashed into the hotel across the street, slamming the heavy oak door just as bullets crashed into it.

“Well, where's Don?” Someone wondered aloud.

Just then a posse man rode up. He stepped down from his horse, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat away.

“Looking for Groves' will. Where is he?”

No one had to ask who “he” was.

“Boarded up in the hotel,” someone replied.

“Anyone got a rifle?” The posse man, whose name was David, asked. Someone tossed him an old lever-action Winchester rifle. Taking the gun, he turned and sprinted though the doors and up the stairs of the saloon. The confused onlookers stared as David's figure appeared perched in the window on the second story. The rifle barrel poked out into the air, resting on the chipped paint of the sill.

“Someone get a match and plenty of wet hay!” David called down. “We'll smoke him out!”

David leaned on the window ledge and squinted out into the hot humid day as something even hotter burned inside. Revenge.

Don hadn't found Groves' will. He had been digging in Groves' endless assortment of cabinets and drawers for hours. However, he had found something much more shocking. Silently, he read from a single personal record he had found in the bottom of one of the desk drawers. He shook his head in sheer shock and awe has he read the massive amount of money Groves had embezzled and stole form the town's taxpayers. He had stolen over a million dollars, withheld interest and secretly shot up loan interest behind everyone's backs. Then he read deeper about the rigged elections and huge bribes. A sickening realization came over him as he struggled to swallow the fact that the town's most prominent citizen was no better then common prison scum.

Then an even worse reality came to mind: the town's savior, an unorthodox, violent savior but savior nonetheless, would surely be killed back in town. He dashed outside and with nary a word to the rest of the posse, he climbed onto his horse's back and sped back towards town.

David leaned out the window, staring at the imposing shadow of the hotel then looking up to the sliver of light between two locked shutters. He fired another two warning shots into the air, the bullets whistling off into infinity.

“Come on out! We know you're hiding in there!” He shouted out across the street. Silence responded.

Frustrated by his lack of progress, he signaled to a group of men standing below; harbingers of death armed with massive piles of damp hay and fire. Spurred on by David, they heaped the napalm into the inn, through windows, doors, stacking up in flaming mounds by the walls. Kerosene was generously doused on top, bringing forth huge red-orange balls of fire that seemed to be living entities, swirling and grasping at the building with smoke entrails as fingers.

“One more time!” David bellowed. “You can come out or we'll burn the inn to the ground!” A roar of approval followed as the groups of bystanders made known their support.

But once again, there was no response. Weary of the stranger's suicidal resolve, David sighed and looked up at th faded shutters of the hotel. The blazing inferno was burning ever so slowly, he noticed. It could be hours before the fire even reached the stranger. A single blackbird zipped through the blue expanse of Arizona sky, twinged with yellow and orange streaks of late afternoon.

After what seemed like an eternity, putrid black smoke wafter through the first floor's open windows. The rank smell of singed hay mingled with fabric and wood wrinkled noses and watered eyes. The ring of citizens stood rank, stoic, unfailing as they watched the building burned.

Don could see the billowing cloud of opaque smoke just over the horizon. He was positive of its source, fear coursed cold through his veins as he sped back towards town. Looking at the hazy outline of buildings in the distance, he prayed that he wouldn't be too late.

Grimly, David once again stared at the charring hotel. He had been sitting in th stuffy upper saloon room for more than an hour. Rafters had collapsed over the front door to the hotel, forming a foreboding “X” over the front door. David knew he couldn't wait much longer. Twilight was sneaking in, and the citizens were growing impatient. Smoke and flame crept up the building towards the roof. Suddenly he saw a glint of light between a crack in the formerly locked shutters. The smoke hadn't yet reached the stranger's barricade, as he saw the light of a kerosene lamp inside.

“Must have been blown open by the wind,” David muttered to himself. Bracing himself, he flipped up the peep sight on his rifle and peered through. He was elated to see the stranger's shimmering profile against the light of the lantern. Finally he had a chance to end it now. Breathing slowly, he tilted the rifle back and forth, left and right, grasping desperately to find the perfect angle. Focusing intently, he blocked out the increasing noise of a disturbance below, probably a squabble over the stranger's fate. The stranger appeared through the sight. David fired.

At first, David couldn't tell if he hit. The shutter swayed back and forth, as if deciding on how his shot should turn out. Ten, a man's body tipped out the window and fell with a sickening lifeless thud to the dusty ground below. Thrilled with his precise shot, he dashed down the stairs, ready to receive his hero's welcome. The remaining people were huddled around the body. David could see Don in the rear. Happily, he went over and clapped him on the back.

“Well, we sure got 'im Don.”

But Don didn't have the look of elation about him, or even one of determination or satisfaction. Don looked hollow, sunken.

“Don, what's wrong?” David asked.

Don bent down and handed him a government bond and a star-shaped piece of bronze. Gasping for air, the realization of his actions collapsed on David all at once. He fell to his knees, then onto his hands. The crowd dispersed silently, leaving David kneeling in the dust.