mickey.hades

The following is the first chapter of my novel, "The laughter of the Crow." I hope you enjoy it, and I'd appreciate your feedback.




CHAPTER 1


The hooves of his horse beat along the path, moving at a pressured pace along the plains. It was cloudy, and the tassels of his hide jacket fluttered in the wind. There were three specks on the horizon, and though he could not see them clearly from this distance, he presumed them to be men. His silvery-blue, haunted eyes narrowed and his mind prepared him for a fight if necessary.
It began to rain lightly. He found the pitter-patter of the droplets thudding against his jacket calming to his nerves, but his body remained tense and readied against the possible danger he had recently sensed in the distance. The coldness of the air threatened a fast-approaching storm; perhaps in just a few hours it would arrive onto this prairie and take its greedy toll on the farmers' harvests.
The specks were now far more visible from this distance; in fact he was close enough to make out the details of their faces. In the course of a mere few moments he'd be riding in on them.
He counted three, as he had before. One was an older man, his hair becoming grayer with age, and two were middle-aged, perhaps in their late thirties. The oldest one had an intimidating scar over one of his eyes, rough and jagged in a way that suggested he had been somewhat hot-headed in his younger days. An old revolver was holstered at his left hip, the rusty steel visible through the opening in his leather trenchcoat.
The two middle-aged men were far less radical in appearance, though they seemed to be twins. They both had greasy brown hair; one wore it tied back in a strip of rawhide. The other had massive cheekbones and a broad jawline.
He rode up to the men and stopped. The older man crossed his hands in front of his trenchcoat.
"Yer new here," said the old one.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, cold and emotionless. He noticed that the man on the left began, slowly, to circle around to his flank.
"Perhaps. Your name?"
"My name ain't nothin."
His eyes grew colder still. One of his hands slipped inside the trenchcoat and gripped the handle of the revolver on his belt. He failed to notice though, that the man on the horse had already done the same.
"My name is Samuel," said the man on the horse. "I only come to this town to pass through and pick up supplies..."
The bolder of the twins was halfway to his flank now.
"I'm heading to Curod City. I only stop to pick up supplies..."
The twin jumped. A flash of steel caught the gunslinger's eye, a leaping revolver emerged from his coat, a gunshot echoed through the prairie... and then it was over. The first twin fell as the second tried to drag the towering horseman to the ground.
"Pa, help me, I got 'im! Help me! Pa!"
The man looked over his shoulder. His father, running across the plains as if all the demons in Hell were chasing him, was the last thing he saw. The revolver screamed twice, and the body of the second twin crumpled beside the first.
Samuel's horse had not moved. He holstered his gun, and mounted as he looked after the fleeing man. He made the sign of the cross over himself, and the twin bodies in the grass. He headed north towards Curod, once again. The grass swayed in the wet breeze, and the horseman repositioned his hat. The city was not far away.




As the horseman passed through the gates, the first rolls of thunder emanated from the clouds, and the rain began to fall harder.
The city of Curod was small. There was a tavern, a butcher, a few small houses and a general store, and a larger building that appeared to be a prison. The tavern was well-kept, it seemed, though the houses scattered throughout the city seemed to be in shambles. The dusty road through the town seemed long and ominous in the stormy haze, though in truth it gave the town a sort of gloomy charisma that he quite liked.
He made his way to the tavern, and payed a young black man to stable his horse. He entered slowly, deliberately, and the patrons inside turned in unison to face him. He nodded and walked slowly to the bar. For a while the faces continued to follow him as he moved, but before he was at the bar the eyes on his coat slowly fell away one by one, and the secretive whisper once again became the depressed crescendo of sultry farmers.
He sat, taking in his surroundings. The tavern was small and simple. It was poorly lit, though the furniture was in good shape. The walls were plain, hardly decorated at all, and just two small windows graced the front of the tavern. The bar was made of a slick hard wood, almost oily. Groups of grizzly men sat at shoddy tables chatting about their days in the fields, and a blonde barmaid, attractive in a used-up sort of way, stood at the opposite side of the counter, flirting with her prospective customers.
"Barmaid," He said.
She turned, abandoning the now drunken patron at the other side of the bar.
"Stranger!" she exclaimed, "I never even saw you come in, what will it be?"
"Just a room for the night."
"Oh, come now stranger," she said, "Surely that's not all you want." She walked closer, the overpowering scent of her perfume now wafting at him in thick drafts. "Whiskey, ale..." she leaned in closer, procuring a clear view at a desperate cleavage. "...or perhaps something a little spicier?"
He looked at her with disdain.
"Just a room. And a bowl of that stew you have on the stove. Please."
Her sudden smile faded. "Well, if that's all..."
She reached into a drawer under the table, holding up a large brass key.
"Third door on the right, just up those stairs." she said, gesturing towards a rickety staircase in the corner. "Do be quiet, though. The drunks aren't partial to being roused." She left for a moment and returned with the stew.
He thanked her and began to eat. The stew was bland, but hearty. He chewed a piece of beef thoughtfully and looked back towards the barmaid. It was a shame she prostituted herself so, she may have been almost beautiful at a time.
He took a good look at her former customer, a tall man sitting at the other end of the bar. He was balding, and thin, almost amazingly so, with a heavily tanned face and a long, scraggly beard. He wore a tattered linen shirt, and round, black spectacles that seemed dwarfed on his six-foot wiry frame. On his belt was a massive revolver in a leather holster, and from his demeanor one guessed that he was proficient with its use.
The man turned to face him. When he spoke it was clear that the man was drunk, but in the same way as a man who had built up a tolerance to the drink over the years.
"Howdy, stranger."
"Greetings."
"This storm's supposed to be a biggun," he said.
"That it will be."
The new man grinned, revealing a smile of sickly yellow teeth. "Name's Hauser," he said, "Jet Hauser."
"Samuel." said the horseman.
"Where're you from?"
"That is not important."
"Alright, Sammy, alright, just makin' conversation," he said. "Can I call you Sammy?"
The horseman glowered at him noiselessly.
"Alright, Sammy it is then." He waited a while, and tried again. "You here for work?"
"Perhaps..." he replied. "Your revolver. It's different from anything I've seen."
"Talkin again, are we?" said Hauser, grinning. "Yeah, it's different. It's older, for one thing, it's been in my family for years." He removed it from the holster, and looked at it admiringly. "The barrels, there's six of 'em, see? They all turn, instead of having a chambered cylinder." He holstered it once again. "It takes .50 calibers. My granddad designed it."
The horseman took a good look at the revolver. It was huge, massive. Each barrel was larger than that of his own handgun. The man had to be positively insane, shooting something like this. It was a miracle that the thing did not shatter his wrist.
He eyed up the man again.
"I would be very interested in learning to shoot something like this," he said.
"Well, your sure as Hell welcome to," said the drunken man next to him. "Come on down to the Gulcher's Ranch tomorrow. I'll show you how myself." He righted himself and continued. "If your wantin work, that is."
"Work?"
"Harvest is comin' in," said Hauser with a shrug. "We need extra hands now and again."
The horseman thought it over briefly.
"This ranch, where is it?" he asked.
"Head back where you come," said Hauser, gesturing to the doors, "but head more southeast out of the city gates. You'll be able to see it after a short while."
Samuel considered this for a moment.
"Shall I come at dawn?"
"A bit after, I'd think."
"I shall come."
He thanked the drunk called Hauser and finished his stew. The barmaid returned to take his bowl. He went upstairs, and through the third door on the right.
He sat on the bed, thinking of the course of the day. He thought particularly of the scar-faced old man, and wondered what became of him. And afterwards, Samuel slept through the night, dreaming of stew and barmaids.