Let the Wind Blow

A little Western tale I'm trying to work together. -tips hat- I'll be working on it from time to time, if it catches i'll continue and make a little book out of it. Otherwise, I'll just scrap it. Now, to finish part 1...

Let the Wind Blow

A tale of treachery, of friendship and courage in the Wild, Wild West.

It all started that morning, all of it. Alan Larson was an independent gun for hire, got his Winchester reapter and his six-shooter and that was all he'd ever need in life. He rode into the fairly sized town of Birstonbur Railtown without a faint clue of the events that would unfold that day. The sun day just risen, his chestnut horse Messy galloped on at a brisk pace, he slowed it down as he entered the town and the people eyed him wearily. Any newcomer to any town in the West was eyed wearily. He settled the horse down, eyes open ahead and looking for the local saloon where he could have a drink and get friendly with the locals. 

"Easy girl." He muttered to his horse, patting her gently on the side as he neared the saloon, noting a place where he could tie her up and still within a fairly close walking distance of the doors. A man wearing a long black trench coat stood outside, fingering a long double-barreled shotgun. Alan tipped his hat as he passed, settling the horse down and tying her to the bar, he walked slowly towards the saloon entrance.

"Howdy stranger." The man spoke, stepping in the way of the saloon doors and slowly pulled a cigar out from a case. He let the man blow the smoke in his face and he stood his ground, eye to eye. Alan gave a brief nod, trying to fiddle his way past the man but it was obvious he wouldn't budge.

"I'm trying to get into the saloon." Alan said, trying to keep his cool. The man smiled slowly, shaking his head,

"I'm afraid it's closed stranger, now go on and get would you?" He narrowed his eyes, Alan stared back a moment. He wasn't riding all the way to Bristonbur to cause trouble, but he was mighty thirsty. He heard a shot ring out from the building and the man looked back momentarily. That was all he needed, he brought his knee up hard into his groin and slammed his elbow into his neck. Twisting the mans arm around in a painful twist he managed to free the shotgun from his eyes. He laid a solid punch across the face and the man fell off the little step and onto the dirt. Alan kicked the double-barrel up and tilted his hat again, busting into the saloon with the gun raised.

The first floor was quiet but he heard noises coming from up above, loud angry ones. He moved swiftly, hopping over the railing and quickly pinpointed the source of the location. There was a door at the far end, and he distinctly heard a mans voice shouting but the words were a bit muffled by the door. Another shot rang out and Alan planted himself carefully at the end of the hallway. Scuffles of feet and loud laughter came and a handful of gruff looking men popped out of the room.

"Had him there Roy, had him."

"Yeah Roy that was mighty good thinking, mighty good thinking." The chatter stopped at once as they saw Alan with a shotgun raised. They fingered their pistols and a man wearing a flamboyant suit stepped into the hallway. It was plaid grey, he had a napkin folded in the pocket of the breast, and a gold watch hung around his neck. He wore no hat but had a monocle firmly planted in his eye and a beautifull pistol, also made of gold was in his hands. He cocked his head at Alan,

"And who the hell are you? Wheres Tony?" His voice had a clear and cool ring to it, but there was menance beneath his tongue.

"My names Alan Larson sir, and I think you'd best be the one explaining." He heard a sob come from within the room and the man with the suit lifted his pistol for a moment, but had his eyes on Alan, and lowered it slowly.

"My names Roy Wolfe and thats all you need to know. Now you can get the hell out of my way or I can let a bullet move you for me. Your choice boy." The men around Roy sniggered and Alan bit his lip. There were about five of them including Roy, he was sure a well placed blast from the shotgun could probably reduce that number considerably. However, there was the offchance that one of these men was a good shot, if he dodged quickly...

A hand grabbed his shoulder and he jumped, spinning fast and turning his head, a middle-aged man with a thin beard was staring at him. He lowered his shotgun when he saw the badge,

"Easy boy, step aside," The man spoke and Alan moved slowly over. He looked up and the man Roy seemed to be chuckling, "I don't see nothing funny here Roy." The words were smooth, yet the kick was undeniable.

"Ah, Sheriff, so good of you to drop by."

"Oh shut the hell up Roy and explain to me what you think you're doing. I just got a complaint from the saloon order that said five men busted in here and threatened his life if he didn't get the hell out. You best be explainin' yourself." The Sheriff had his hand on his six-shooter. Roy laughed again, obviously he knew he still had the better odds. Alan didn't like it, he didn't even know what the hell was going on. Roy hefted the pistol back into his holster and took a step forward,

"Sheriff, Sheriff..." The other four men opened fire and Roy darted into the room, slamming the door behind him. The Sheriff dropped behind the wall, and Alan followed suit but not without a rapt from his shotgun. He hit two, and one of the men was pounding on the locked door.

"Let us in Roy! Come on, let us in!" The Sheriff bounded around, firing three shots from his pistol and dropping the other two.

"Sheriff Clayton Jackson, didn't think we'd have to meet on these terms." He said loading more bullets into the pistol and stepping forward over the groaning bodies. He tried the door normally, knew it was locked and started kicking at it.

"Alan Larson, nobody special. Step aside Sheriff I'll handle the door." He blasted the handle open with the other shell from the shotgun. He reached his hand swiftly behind the door knob and unlocked it. The two bounded in, Alan pulling his own pistol out after throwing the shotgun aside.

The room was a mess, furniture all toppled over, the mirror smashed and the bed flipped. In the centre of the room a sobbing man with his mouth tied and gagged was bleeding horribly from the chest and stomach. Apparently thats where the two shots had made their mark. The Sheriff bounded towards a smashed window and stared out onto the street. The two heard gunshots outside, and Clayton ran for the door, "I'm getting the doc, you stay here with him until he arrives. Thats my deputy out there shootin', you stay here boy."

I set my pistol into the holster and walked towards the dying man, untying his gag. He let out a long sob and then nodded. He had deep black hair, cut short but with a little fringe he had slicked back that was coming undone due to the mass amount of sweating he had. He had a thin black moustache and had obviously been a man of some status due to the fact he was wearing a luxurious black suit. The coat laying on the floor, and the mans undone, his white shirt stained with his own blood. "S-s-somethin' to d-drink boy?" He asked, and Alan nodded running downstairs. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a little glass and came pounding up the stairs again. The man thanked him slowly and took a long draught, the doctor soon followed by two men with rifles.

"Oh jesus, Mayor Roberts... just take it easy Mayor, we'll patch you up." The doc spoke slowly, and the two men untied him from the chair. Alan flipped the bed back and they laid him on. The doc thanked him and told him it'd be best if he went outside to check on the Sheriff. Alan hopped over the groaning bodies outside and hefted his pistol again, and walked outside into the sunny morning.

The Sheriff was behind some barrels firing off some blind fire shots while three men with rags around their mouths returned fire from the street. Another man was laying in the middle of the road, unmoving. He darted across the street, a bullet kicked up behind him and he managed to slide behind the horse galley. He grabbed his Winchester from Messy and crept up on the opposite side of the street has Clayton. He took his aim and fired, hitting one of the bandits square in the chest, the man went flying backwards from the impact. The other two seemed a bit nervous now, and Alan saw one of them drop from a well-placed shot from Clayton. The third turned to run, but two bullets, Alan and Clayton's, smashed him into the ground screaming. Alan cocked his repeater and scanned for more targets, Clayton ran into the middle of the road hands up and praying aloud.

After concluding that the area was clear, Alan ran over to Clayton who was now hunched over the body, hefting him up and carrying him back towards the saloon. He was silent now, and Alan took the hint that he didn't want to talk. The body he was carrying was that of a young boy, probably not much older than 15 or 16, bullet wounds had torn his upper torso to shreds; there was no hope of him being even the slightest bit alive.

Clayton set the boy down on a series of tables, and poured himself a shot of whiskey shaking his head and sighing. The two men came from upstairs carrying the Mayor inbetween grunts. The doc followed, silent and steadfast. He took one look over at Clayton and the body and let out a tremendous sigh, "When is this going to all be over, when!" He left the saloon, calling for help with the body of the boy. A few men streamed in and Clayton said impassable as they hefted his body and walked out of the saloon obviously for burial purposes. The Sheriff poured himself another shot and took a hefty swig, looking towards Alan now.

"My deputy, only 16, only 16..." He kept saying, draining another shot of whiskey. Alan took a step forward resting his hand for a moment on the Sheriff's shoulder before staring at the ground. He'd just arrived in the town, trying to escape fighting and conflict and now realised he was stuck dead in the middle of it. The saloon keep walked in, taking a look at the mess of blood where the body had been laid and swore.

Clayton now stood up, and handed some bills over to the keep, "For the damages," and walked out of the door. Alan stood there for another moment and then followed suit, he headed over to Messy and prepared put his Winchester back into the holster on the horses side. The entire town seemed to be out now, the three bodies of the bandits had been disposed of and everyone seemed to be moving in one general direction. He figured it was for the funeral, but he didn't want to go. He patted his horse and walked back into the saloon where more men had seemed to appear from no where. Some were helping to clean up others were drinking away their problems. He walked up to the bar where the keep nodded to him,

"Scotch, please." He said, grabbing at whatever he had for money.

"Oh no, put it away, we all saw your shootin' stranger. You did your part, here." He poured a generous amount into a glass and slid it down the bar. Alan tipped his hat and took a long sip, letting the warm drink swish around his mouth before sliding it down his parched throat. It felt good, and he took another hearty swig. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to face the sheriff once again,

"You'd best follow me boy, we've got some things to discuss." Clayton had his other hand gripping the hilt of his pistol a little to tightly.

Author's Note

This would be chapter 1 if I decide I like it enough to continue writing it.

Reviews

[Buck West]

Sounds good .I hope you continue it. Want to find out what the Sheriff has to talk to him about.

[Comrade Andrew]

STARTING OVA ON MA WESTERNNN