part 2,
part 3, part 4, part 5
PART 1
The sky glows orange as the sun rises over the barren plains to the east. The earth below is covered in a slight frost— a sign of the fast approaching winter: a sign that Marshal Harold Cummings only had a few weeks to locate a savage murderer before the snow slims his chances. The Marshal awakes and rises to his feet stretching his arms high above his head. Marshal Harold is well over six feet, but in his old age, his back began to slouch giving him the appearance of being shorter. His beard is gray yet his hair is still the dark brown from his youth, but starting to sprinkle with age. He dressed in a burgundy bib shirt, tan deerskin gloves, matching canvas pants tucked neatly into his black cowboy boots. He adjusts his knee length black duster, and grabs his matching slouch hat off the ground and puts it on his head. He grabs his holster wrapping it around his waist. Marshal Cummings removes the Colt Peacemaker from the holster and inspects it before he sliding it back into place.
He stands in place staring out at the snow capped mountains in the west as the warm fall sun shines on his back. He is headed toward a small cabin located on an abandoned ranch: a place known as a hideout for wanted fugitives. The old marshal knows it well. He had captured many men there and killed even more, but that was when he was young before he hands shook, before his fingers pained him to bend. It was when he could draw quicker than any man north of the Rio Grande. It was before he had a family to get back to.
It would be dangerous to head to the ranch alone, but he had gone too far to turn back and round a posse.Even if he did who in town can he even trust anymore? Besides the bitter cold and snow was coming making time of the essence and it was about time he ended the chase for the fugitive who had eluded him for the last ten years.
His horse gallops over the frozen ground. His mind wandering to his past. A time when he was young when he first arrived as the new marshal in the small dust bowl town of Red Creek.
It was a Monday in 1864. The day was hot even for mid-July. The sun hung lazily over the main street of the town as he rode his horse down the dirt road. The streets were empty. He wore the same knee-length duster her wears today. His eyes were bright, his smile was electric, and his muscles nearly burst through his gray bib shirt. He hoped his takeover from the old marshal would go smoothly, but he knew it wouldn’t. He was ambitious, but he also was looking to escape past struggles.
He hitched his horse in front of the Marshal’s building. He grabbed a packet of papers from his satchel and headed into the building. It was much larger than how it appeared from the outside. Three large cells lined the back and three desks dotted the room. Only one had any signs of being occupied, but no one sat there. The desk was covered in wanted posters waiting to be hung up on the board outside and half empty bottle of dark liquor accompanied by two empty bottles.
The cages in the back were vacant. His chair creaked as he moved impatiently waiting to meet the current marshal. A clock ticked away on a far wall echoing into his head. Harold stood up and decided to explore his new home. The streets were silent like a Sunday morning. Something was amiss. He walked across the street to the saloon.
The doors swung open and the place was almost as empty as the streets. Just the bartender stood behind the bar blankly staring at the new comer.
“Can I’s help ya?” The bartender spoke in a rough voice as a bit of tobacco chew dripped from the corner of his mouth lodging in his auburn beard.
Harold didn’t speak he just approached the bar and took a seat on one of the stools. The bartender continued his cold stare as Harold removed his hat and brushed his hand through his thick brown hair.
“You’s got to order or leave.” He spits toward the floor.
“Whisky.”
The bartender drug his one foot along the ground behind him as he struggled to the other side of the bar to fetch a bottle. He brought back a brown bottle and a glass. He wiped out the glass with his apron and filled it with what smelt like whiskey. Marshal Cummings stared at the glass.
“Is there anythin’ else I cans do for ya city?”
“I’m looking for Marshal Jenkins,” Harold said without taking his eye off the filthy glass in front of him.
The bartender stared at the marshal without saying a word instead he spit another wad of chew into the spittoon behind the bar.
“He Ain’t here, you mays want to check up yer ass.”
Marshal Cummings stood up smiling at the man “I'll be sure to take that advice.”
He put his hat back on his head, dropped a coin on the bar, and started out of that saloon. He paused at the doorway, “when he is done banging your whores let him know the new marshal is looking for him.” Harold pushed the saloon doors open and stepped out into the street. He could hear footsteps inside the saloon heading up the creaky staircase.
Harold stood in the middle of the dusty street. He watched as a woman peered out a window above the saloon. Marshal Cummings pulled out his silver pocket watch the big hand swung past the one as a man stepped out of the saloon.
“Marshal Jenkins I presume?”
“Who’s askin’?”
Marshal Jenkins was a short fat man. His red hair was slipping out from under his black gambler hat. his dark red mustache was waxed to point out from either side of his round face. His black rifle frock coat was covered in the red dust that gave Red Creek its name.
“Name is Marshal Harold Cummings.”
Jenkins pushed his coat slightly from his hip to reveal his revolver. He hovered his hand above it ready to put it to use. “And what is it I cans do for ya Cummings?”
The streets began to fill with curious citizens.
“I have a warrant signed by the honorable Judge Archie Lucas for your removal from your post as Marshal and for your arrest on several charges, so you can take your hand from your gun and come one with me to one of those vacant cells over there.”
“I’m the law ‘round here, so I suggest you get the fuck out a here!”
“According to the fine Judge and the governor of this fair territory, I am now the law around here.”
“So whats ya aim to arrest me?”
“And have you hung, yes that is my intention.”
“By Gum! Ya gonna have me hanged? I say I rather be left here in the street as buzzard food than go wit ya.”
Jenkins spit a large wad of tobacco into the street. He then reached for his gun, but before it was even out of the holster a shot went off echoing through the silent street. Marshal Jenkins fell to the ground. He screamed from the pain as blood poured out of his thigh.
“From reading the crimes you are being charged with I would love nothing more than to have you bleed to death here, but I promised the Judge you’d hang and that's what I intend to be your fate.
Marshal Cummings picked up Jenkins and drug him back to the marshal’s office and tossed him into one of the cold lonely cells.
That was long ago. His mind returns the present and to the cabin and the uncertain fate that awaits him.
