Previously: The Timely Adventure of the Old West
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At the Sheriff's Office
Halted in the sound of silence, the wondering boy stopped when he saw no one inside the office. A dusty old building, the workplace held a few rusty cells. One of which held a dozed prisoner. Grey’s shoulders dropped in disappointment, as he realized the sheriff was not there, and neither was Lewis. Wiping his eyes in tiredness, he remembered that he spent the entire night searching the desert. Standing in the threshold, the cowboy stretched his muscles, before turning to the prisoner.
“Hey, fella…where’s the sheriff?”, he rose his voice to hear a shrug in tired denial. “Nah…I don’t know where that man is, as you can see, I'm locked behind this cell, here”, he paused with a laugh. “…why, I ain’t seen nothing but this here room for six months…”, the criminal spoke as Grey leaned against the wall. Dozing off a bit, the outlaw stared at the blabbering man.“Maybe he’s wetting his pecker, or maybe he’s wetting his pecker, hehehe…..”, the rotten tooth prisoner stated, as he lied in his cell, staring at the cracked ceiling. But, quickly jumping up, he looked at the boy. “But, between you and me, I suspect he’s at the doctor…..he’s been having an ‘itching’ problem, hehe…..a real bad one”, the man snickered. “Why, I couldn’t tell ya if it was red pocks, white pocks, purple pock, or even pocks at all…..but, word to the wise. When you see him, keep them there gloves on…”, the jailbird happily spread dirty rumors about his officer.
As the cowboy listened, a yawn had awoken him to how tired he really was, and how little he cared about the criminal’s jokes. With a light chuckle, the browned haired youngster stepped outside. Feeling his body grow still, he found a chair, sitting on the porch of the building of authority. His feet ached, as he slowed slumped into the warm seat. Feeling the soothing sun over him, he leaned his weary head back, and folded his arms. “I’ll…just wait…..for the good ol’ sheriff…”, he snored the statement of a sleepy plan. Grey was now falling into the realm of stilled dreams.
With his broad-rimmed Stetson cowboy hat tipped over his face, as it leaned back, he mildly snored into his hat. With his face shielded from the heated sun, he tilted the chair back, in a light rocking motion. Sleeping on the porch, seeing nothing but the dark inside of his brown felt hat, the often-hunted gunman rested in peace.
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High Noon / 2:00 PM
The day went by with great ease, as the sun blazed above. Creating a gold sky of beauty, one that matched the gold that plagued the mind of many, the town of Westomb sat as it always did. With regular city folks filling the streets, the western strip of buildings stretched long. Directly at the end sat the Sheriff’s place of business. Quiet and empty, an outlaw sat in front. In a position of deep sleep, his eyes stared at the darkness of his lids, as they stared at the blackness of his hat’s inners.
Grey leaned the chair against the wall, as he slept in peace. However, his slumber was soon interrupted by the sound of zipping bullets. Shots fired, his eyes popped open, and sat up right. Turning his hat back up right, he saw the full strip of Westomb. “What the…”, he mouthed before seeing a man tumble out of the local saloon. Covered in liquor and blood, the man was dead as he hit the floor. Soon, another man stepped out of the inn. Carrying a steaming pistol, he started walking towards the sheriff’s office. With long white hair, which curled under his hat, he had a face of elderly authority.
Approaching the outlaw, the Marshal headed into his office. “How may I help you, sir?”, he dryly asked, as he stormed through the threshold. As the woken youngster stepped in behind him, “…I’m looking for a man, by the name of Pete Lewis…buy any chance, would you know where he is?”, the greying officer chuckled. Sitting on his desk, the Marshal placed his gun back in its holster. “Well…another man looking for a man. What is the reasoning for your search, boy?”, the veteran officer asked, as he poured himself a glass of Scotch. Taking a sip, he listened to the searcher, “…we had a conversation, a few miles from here, and I just want to continue it…that’s all…”. The liquor-sipping man giggled under his sip, knowing that the boy was hiding the real reason. Well aware of the reason probably being ill-fated, the Marshal chose to tell him, anyway. “…hmm, I know Officer Lewis. Head officer of Duststone, he’s a rather wild card; chasing after any man with a bounty over his head, who comes into the county.....You find him there, a short while east of here.”, the man spoke, as he stared at the celled prisoner.
Grey smiled, as he gazed at the man, before pulling a cigarillo out of his shirt pocket. Placing it on his lips, he smirked. “Thank you, sir…”, the cowboy stated, tipping his hat in gratitude, before turning to leave for Duststone. However, he was frozen by the voice of his elder. “Son…this is a rather small county. Word spread quickly through it. So, as the Marshal of this county, if I hear of any trouble going on up in Duststone, I will be there to settle it…so, I hope your conversation stays a conversation…”, the authoritarian figure seriously finished his glass. And, with a final tip of his hat, the cowboy said nothing, gathering a idea of what would unfold.
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Next: The Timely Adventure of the Old West P. 3
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