Blood Cycle

story cover piece sourced from On a quiet night in a usually busy town named tumbleweed outside of a busy saloon filled with music, song and liquor a masked man polishes his trusty .36 revolver, it was a colt 1851 navy revolver. 

Looking around the streets are empty, and the lights are off, the only light emanates from the blinders and the door of the saloon. 

The masked man opens the cylinder of his trusty .36 to the left of the gun it hangs outside the frame of the revolver. 6 shots, he counts. With that he rapidly runs his hand down the cylinder spinning it 5 or 6 times before flicking the gun to the right locking the cylinder back in its place and psyches himself up. He paces towards the saloon shutter nonchalantly and peers through, this is everybody’s watering hole, it was packed scanning through the crowd he finds who he’s looking “bingo” he says under his breath pulling the hammer back on his revolver he paces over to the door and right as he reaches the door he raises his arm and fires 3 shots before he starts to run, the 4th shot rings out from within the saloon, our masked man returns 3 more and feeling his gun run empty he runs into the darkness of the alleys, a badged man with a hole in his hat storms out of the saloon pulling the hammer back on his revolver with his thumb, he looks left, nothing, he looks right, empty. 

Defeated, a wave of disappointment washing over the badged man. 

“FUCKING HORSESHIT”  

He uncocks the hammer on his revolver and storms back inside, inside the “Lagoon Saloon” the air is filled with blood and tears, just a moment ago it was filled with laughter, now blood. 

 

The year is 1886. 

The sun high in the sky unrelentingly scotches everything in its sight. 

A Marshall and a Deputy ride, side by side on their horses at a casual pace, the winds are dry and heated drying their lips and throats with each gust, they’re as dry as the deserts they rode, but they were used to it by now, the lawmen ride, the Marshall polishes his trusty .44 Smith & Wesson No.3 revolver which was commonly nicked name the “Schofield” by gun merchants and users alike. 

The Marshall hawks up a gargantuan gob of spit into his rag and continues polishing his gun. 

The Marshall turns to the Deputy and speaks. 

“Now these ‘uns of bitchers are some real mean people, there ain’t no lawman around, at least they think, they’ll be itchin for their guns, let me do the talkin, you keep an eye on the place, make sure the crowd don’t get rowdy”. 

The Marshall holsters his trusty .44, it slides in locking into place. 

The Marshall produces a box out of his navy-blue jacket and within is a small comb, fitted from fishbone. He produces the comb and brushes his fine white moustache. 

Doing so he turns his head to the Deputy and flies sitting on his shoulder fly away. 

And seeing the Deputy stare off into the distance he wondered if he was even listening. 

“Deputy!” 

The Deputy turns his head to the right look at the Marshall in shock and speaks. 

“Aye Don” 

The Marshal still combing his moustache speaks. 

“Ya Listenin?” 

With a quick nod the Deputy returns his gaze to the road ahead 

And with that the Marshall packed away his moustache comb inside of its special case and tucked it away deep in his pocket, he brandished a document in an envelope and began filing through the lines, they were about another mile from the desolate, isolated saloon. 

“Deputy!” 

 The Marshall says inspecting the Deputy, the Deputy’s ear pricks up like a dogs would. 

“Now, all we know from the lady that came and told us all about it, is that-“ 

The Marshall stops once more inspecting the pages, half the paper is hard to read since it is within the deathly gaze of the sun and the other half being protected by the brim of his hat and continues. 

“- a young fella came in and shot a lad to death 6 times before taking off through the back, she was working outside, in the back of the saloon the saloon being ‘Ormsby’s Saloon”. 

The Marshall pauses for a moment and thinks chewing on the dead skin that coated the inside of his mouth he says. 

“Now, the fact he wasn’t shot on the spot is suspicious to me but that’s just me, we’ll poke in and ask about.” 

The Deputy clears his throat still watching the road ahead his rough throat, deprived of drink it deforms his voice, raspily he replies. 

“think about it, he probably planned it, in and out only a couple of seconds, if they did try to shoot him they probably woulda only seen his ass by the time they pulled their guns” 

The Deputy pauses turning towards the Marshall, his hand extends to his hip and with his index finger he taps the handle of his revolver, a cold .45 peacemaker, imitating a draw and a raised pistol position trying to show the amount of time needed to pull off a shot, the deputy holsters his pistol and looks back towards the road and continues. 

“My question is how a gal got back to mulberry in such a short amount of time”. 

They both pause and watch the road ahead of them, their horses still trotting along. 

The Marshall leans over and rubs the side of his horse’s neck and says to the Deputy. 

“Let’s get there before sundown, I don’t wanna have to stay there the night”. 

With a nod the Deputy digs his stirrups into his horse’s belly and with that it takes off, the Marshall gently taps his horse’s stomach with his right stirrup and it takes off after the Deputy. 

 

It’s about noon now, the sun is setting and next the front of the saloon the Deputy and the Marshall tie up their horses, the horses stand still brushing the flies away with their tail, the Marshall looks to his left, he sees the door to the saloon, it’s quiet, further left he sees the prairie sun, as if a wildfire was rapidly approaching, he thinks to himself. 

“it’s strange how that works, the sun leaves us, but it looks like it’s greetin us”. 

His horse tied he stands on his toes and whispers to the deputy. 

“let’s go”. 

The Marshall walks up the stairs to the saloon doors, each step his buckles bounce and clank, his spurs clicking with each step., the Deputy, close behind him. Marshall slowly and carefully peers through the doors he sees a staircase going upstairs to the left at the end of the room, and to the right of the staircase, a table, with 5 men. 

As soon as the men heard the clanking of the metal their attention was caught, they’ve been eyeing off the doors since they heard it. 

As if a switch flicked upon seeing the men the Marshall confidently strut in and did a quick sweep of the room, to his left an African American? No, a native American, sitting alone maybe scotch? Or brandy? The Marshall quickly turned to the bartender, who wore a white dress shirt with overalls that had a rag in the front left pocket, a cleanshaven face and a bald head with a nasty scar across his nose, the bartender looked at them and shouted. 

“The Kegs are cold, and the meals are hot what can I get you fellas”. 

The room after that was eerily silent, the bartender stood with a wide grin, face dripping with sweat. 

 The Marshall placed his hat on the counter and slicked his hair back, sitting on a stool, the Deputy sat to his right repeating the Marshalls actions to a tee. 

The Marshall cleared his throat and slapped the counter he hollered loud and clear 
“Whiskey!” 

In other words 

“Detective, Arriving. on the Scene.” 

The Bartender nods and turns to the Deputy a few specks of spit fly past the Marshalls face when the Bartenders lip’s part. 

“And you?” 

The Deputy pauses for a moment inspecting the bottles behind the bartender, the bartender a little nervous step to the side to allow the Deputy to read the bottles, after a good ten seconds his eyes sparkle and confidently in a harsh sounding voice says. 

“Sarsaparilla, the one with the nice Mexican lady on it” 

The bartender instinctively fetches their bottles and pours them each a glass of their preferred beverage, the liquor like a waterfall rushes out of the bottle and splashes on the bottom of the small drinking glass, wiping his forehead of sweat he stretches out his sweaty palm and speaks 

“2 bucks for the mexicano wine, a buck 30 for the whiskey”. 

Both thirsty lawmen, licking their lips like ravenous vultures dig deep into their pockets and place the notes and coins in the man’s palms. The Bartender winks and makes a click noise with his mouth , pocketing the money as he does so, he looks away for a brief moment, the Marshall chasing the gaze, a man at the table of 5 sitting in a semi-circle their backs to the walls, all having a clear view of the door and the lawmen, the meanest man, in the middle of the 5 men, the hat he wears leather is grey and it’s crevasses white dulled by the years of exposure to the harsh sun, wearing a dress shirt with a chest holster , with of course a firearm tucked within, a large coat hid the rest of what he wore, it was not as in bad of a condition as his hat. He wore a red scarf around his neck and was slowly drinking his drink, gazing at the bartender, then to the Marshall. 

The Marshall slowly returned his gaze to the bartender and locks his eyes with his, really trying to read him, inspecting every movement his face makes and after a good couple of seconds spoke. 

“You Ormsby?” 

The bartender and the Marshall enter a battle, until a third party enters the ring. 

From the left of the Marshall a voice rings throughout the entirety of the saloon 

It’s a rough voice, not from dehydration but from years of drinking and smoking, a voice damaged by years of abuse. 

“Who’s askin” 

The Marshall still locked in his war with the bartender watching every bead of sweat drop from his forehead to how his left eye twitches and how he occasionally bites his lip. 

“Are you death or something deadshit?” 

The abused voice calls. Without breaking his gaze, the Marshall hollers back. 

“I can hear just fine compadre”. 

An loud exhale is heard to the left of the Marshall, a glass is raised and the liquor inside is swished around, and sipped, the glass is planted back onto the table. A muffled cough is heard, all the while this war is still waging between the Marshall and the bartender, the bartender loses and breaks away, the bartender broken, shattered speaks. 

“C-can I get y-you fellas a-a-a room?” 

The abused voice snaps at the bartender 

“I wasn’t done talkin” 

The room is so quiet you can hear the winds outside, the prairie sun still shining through the shutters he continues. 

“Who’s askin.” 

The Marshal shuffles a bit in his chair and turns a little to face the voice, the voice belongs to the fella with the pistol holster on his chest. 

They both sit looking each other, from a slouched casual position, the man with pistol holster on his chest sits up and places his elbow on the table, and with it a loud thunk fills the saloon, he quickly points at the Marshall and speaks. 

“I’m gonna spare you some courtesy lawman, because you must be new here, this is-“ 

He firmly plants his finger on the table, it makes a small but noticeable thud”. 

“-my bar, and in my bar, I make the rules.” 

Twisting his finger into the table he continues 

“Now my bar, lawman, has 3 rules.” 

Raising his right hand, a little bit Infront of his face and raising his index finger, the fella with the pistol holster continues. 

“1, There is to be no fights, within my bar, all the fights, are taken outside.” 

Raising his middle finger alongside his index finger he continues. 

“2, there is to be no disrespect to any woman inside or outside my saloon.” 

And finally raising his Ring finger alongside the Middle and the Index finger he finishes. 

“3, No lawmen without a permit.” 

The man picks up his glass and swigs another sip into his coarse lips and gently lowers his glass. 

The Marshall is inspecting him and everyone at the table, carefully and thoroughly, making notes in his head. 

The man after his drink, is about to continue when another man, seated to the right of this man stands and squeezes past and makes his way to the restroom around the corner , this man is far better dressed than anyone in the saloon, a vest and a dress shirt with a monocle in his vest pocket, wearing dress shoes and tightly fitted pants, he carries with him a hard leather case and disappears behind the door. With the slamming of the restroom door, the man with the chest holster, continues. 

“Now I’ll give you two options lawman, all you need to do is make the right choice.” 

Scratching his rough shave job on his face he speaks 

“1, you finish your drink, pay your full tab, and leave.” 

Slouching back into a calmer position he continues 

“Or option number 2” 

He pauses moving the right side of his jacket revealing more of his pistol holster. Tapping the handle of his revolver and he hawks a big gob of phlegm and spits it across the table towards the Marshall and continues. 

“I shoot you where you sit”. 

The Marshal doesn’t speak or react, as if he never heard it, trying to figure out the make of the gun he gives up, he needs to see the cylinder to determine the cartridge and the gun, his focus returns to the man’s face. Looking around the marshal carefully stands up and with each step towards the table *click* *clack* *click* , his buckles, spurs and holster all loudly erupt shockwaves through the bar as he approaches the table calm, and firmly he plants his palms on the table feeling the wood, it’s worn, very worn, damaged by the elements, fists and knives. 

The Marshall leans right into the man with the pistol holster slouched back and ignores everyone else, in the Marshalls mind, no one else exists, break the leader,  

“Divide and conquer” 

He thinks, as he leans in, staring right into the soul of this man, poisoned by many years of turmoil and coping mechanisms, he see’s something, in his eyes, he doesn’t know what it is it’s not hatred, he knows the look of hatred from men like this many times before. 

The Marshalls lip’s part 

“Shoot me right where I stand, right between the eyes, split my skull in half.” 

The Deputy stands in the background revealing his holster. What little there is left of the sunrise sneaks in and reflects off the shiny pistol holster on the Deputy’s hip, its blinding to some 

The Marshal looking into the eyes and sees the bright light taking up the visage that was forming in the man’s eyes. 

“That stupid boy” 

The Marshall thinks.  

Without trying to break this delicate puzzle, The Marshall speaks. 

“Stand down Deputy!” 

The Deputy was shocked, paralysed even, it was a tone he had never heard before from him not knowing what to do he swallowed his fears and holstered his pistol and sat back down and ordered another round of drinks. 

The Marshalls right foot stood on its toes, and he twisted into the floor. 

 “Thank God that boy isn’t as stupid as he looks”.  

he thought. 

 this is exactly what the man Infront of him didn’t want, he was in the deep end now. 

the Marshall clears his throat and continues. 

“C’mon tiger, grab your gun, blow my head off right here, right now.” 

A voice to the left of him speaks, it’s of a Mexican accent, it’s very distinct. 

“you’re fuckin crazy man!” 

There’s a pause as the man with the pistol holster reaches for his gun, watching his hand the Marshall mutters. 

“Crazy doesn’t do me justice Amigo.” 

The man Infront of him slowly reveals the revolver. 

“Peacemaker, colt .45” 

The Marshall makes a mental note expressing no emotion. The revolver is held between the knees of the leader, he spins the cylinder 4 times than slams it shut with his other hand. And slowly raises it with both hands and points the sights between the eyes of the Marshall , he holds the gun steady and closes his left eye, with his right eye he is looking everywhere but at the Marshall, the Marshall however is starting right into his eye inspecting every detail in the pupil, the man holding a revolver to the Marshalls forehead slowly pulls the hammer back with his right thumb, it clicks into place, a glance down the barrel, a cold lead core .45 round sits in a chamber waiting to be struck by the pin in the hammer. 

 where will it land? 

and they meet eye to eye again, 10 seconds go by, nothing. 20 seconds go by a small patch on his head, it shines a tiny bit and by the 25 second mark the Marshal sees it, only for a glimpse in the right eye of the man pointing a gun at the Marshalls head. 

Like church bells or a gun shot, it rings through the marshall’s mind and bounces around his head, the word. 

“F.E.A.R” 

He’s won the battle, not the war. 

5 more seconds go by until the sharply dressed fellow comes out of the bathroom he takes a few steps and turns the corner, and he sees a man leaning towards a barrel of a gun, his heart drops, he shrieks and says with a posh accent.  

“What are you doing!” 
the visage that was forming in the man’s right eye slowly starts escaping from the Marshalls view. 
The Marshall thinks to himself. 

“motherfucker” 

The sharply dressed man marches over and scoots by and sits back in his seat. Once more he speaks. 

“Have you gone mad? Do you have any ide-“ 

The sharply dressed man is cut off by the man with the gun to the Marshalls head. 

“I couldn’t have shot him anyway; my first rule disallows killin inside my saloon.” 

The man with the gun, points the guns barrel towards the roof and looking at the Marshall with a stern look slowly unlocks the hammer and holsters his pistol.  

He slouches and a wave of relief washes over him and turns to the sharply dressed man and then turns to a man on the right of him and leans in and purposely, Infront of the Marshall speaks to the man on his right. 

“Butch, you go grab a pretty little rifle that you like from the counter and you go upstairs. Now, if the Marshall rides off you stick a slug right in between his shoulders, and you unload that fuckin rifle till he stops groanin, you hear me?” 

Butch was dressed sharply as well, he had a suit on with a nice black short bowler cap, he grabbed the brim of his hat and tipped it, then stood and shuffled pass the Mexican and headed towards the bar, next to the Deputy he stood on the wall there was 2 lever actions, one was old and had a very small feed tube, and a very small lever, the second one was long with a long feed tube, it was also fitted with a hunting scope, and a larger lever the bartender already knew which one Butch fancied and handed him the scoped rifle, he dug behind the counter a little till he found the ammo and slapped it on the counter and back past the Deputy with a box of ammo in his hand and holding the stock of the rifle he marched upstairs like a solider. Each step was heavy up those creaky stairs, the Marshall watched the man with the rifle he walked around eying off his bird nest positions and chose the middle room and closed the door. 

What seemed like a victory had turned to a defeat. 

Gazing at the door his stare was interrupted by that familiar voice. 

“what’s your name lawman?” 

The Marshalls neck snapped to the man with the chest holster at lightning speeds and spoke. 

“What’s it to you?” 

Holding each other’s eyes, they wait for a good few moments until the Marshall breaks the silence and with a polite smile speaks. 

“Bartender, fetch me another whiskey”. 

With that he turns and strides over to the bar, his metal clicking and clanging. 

The bartender shuffles over pouring more whiskey into the glass and slides the glass towards the Marshall, the table is filled with chatter now while the Marshal drinks, the Deputy shuffles over and softly speaks. 

“What was that? What did you just do?” 

Placing the glass on the bar he slowly leans towards the Deputy and mutters. 

“Keep your pretty little face seated, don’t do nothing more, nothin less, do not fuck this up.” 

The bartender trying to listen to what they’re saying discretely is seen by the Marshall and he leans in and asks the man once more. 

“You Ormsby?” 

The bartender glances at the table of 4 men, they’re stuck in chatter, he turns back and replies. 

“That’s actually my great granddaddy’s name, my pa took it over when my great grandaddy didn’t comeback from the war, and now my daddy’s gone, and It’s mine.” 

The Marshall leans in closer to the bartender and checks the table to his left, the men aren’t looking, he asks. 

“So, it ain’t his?” 

And the Marshall nods his head to the left. 

The only reply to the Bartender gave was a simple nod. 

The Marshall tapped the bartender on the shoulder and stood up and with his thumbs tucked behind his belt he walked casually over to the table of 4 and dragged a chair from an empty table and spun it around so the back of the chair was facing the leader and sat on the chair resting his arms on the top of the chairs back rest. 

The leader leaned in towards the Marshal and spoke. 

“If I don’t get a name, and your badge i won’t say shit to you.” 

Before the Marshall could even speak the sharply dressed fellow to the right of the Leader leant over and spoke. 

“The Law of the United States of America declares that an officer and servant of the law be it conscripted or not, mandatory or not, must present his identification when asked.” 

He gave a rosy smile and grabbed a sheet of paper and pen from his vest pocket and put on his monocle and then spoke while writing. 

“I am Vernon Reed, I am the lawyer of the clientele positioned to my right who is, Russel Reed, I am going to need to see your information before you can talk to my client, this includes your name, your rank, and your office, this is just to ensure legal security for both parties I assure you.” 

He then slides the pen and paper over to the Marshall with a friendly grin. the Marshall picks up the rigid pen and starts writing the details the man needs. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Once done he slides the piece of paper back towards him and the lawyer very carefully inspects the paper with his monocle, running his eyes up and down the paper, sometimes he glances at the Marshal just to make sure, and after a good minute of inspecting the paper he tucks it away deep in his vest and extends his hand in greeting, resentfully the Marshall extends his older, more firm hand and shakes it well, the lawyer speaks. 

“Pleasure to finally be acquainted with you Michael O’Donnell!” 

Michael O’Donnell quickly snaps back. 

“That’s Marshall O’Donnell to you” 

Their hands stay intertwined for far longer than the lawyer intends, he’s stuck in Marshall O’Donnell’s web, the trial by fire if you will, it begins, with an unrelenting attack, through the eyes. The lawyer puts up his best defence, but it is too late, his defences are over run and with that he turns his whole head away and clears his throat sitting down. 

Marshall O’Donnell turns his attention to the leader and begins speaking. 

“This is your saloon you said right?” 

The leader braces himself in his chair and responds. 

“Marshall O’Donnell, this saloon is mine, dipshit, you hard of hearin?” 

Marshall O’Donnell leans in a little closer cupping his ear and speaks. 
“I never caught your name? I need your name sir.” 

The leader scoffs at what he said and leans back. 

“My lawyer told y-“ 

Marshall O’Donnell is quick to shut him down. 

“ah-, I need your name from your sir” 

With baited breath the leader responds. 
“Russel, Reed, R-U-S-S-“ 

Marshall O’Donnell quickly silences him. 

“There’s no need to spell it out Russel”. 

Russel’s sat in silence while Marshall O’Donnell continued. 

“You claim to be the owner of this establishment, I do suppose you have an understanding of what goes on around here right?” 

Russel swallows and turns to his lawyer, but before he can even signal for help seeing the dire situation, Marshall O’Donnell sprang up and leaned over the table. 

“-Ah Russel, I asked you, not your lawyer, - “ 

Marshall O’Donnell turns to the right, there’s 2 people seated the lawyer and an unknown fellow, his head turns left, there’s one the Mexican, the Mexican wears an orange shirt, drenched in sweat with a poncho, the Marshall addresses the table. 

“By Texas law, if I need to speak to a suspect, I need the suspect to be isolated as to preserve the integrity of the investigation-“ 

Russel stands up his face growing red. 

“You never said shit about an inv- “ 

Marshall O’Donnell raises his voice. 

“I would have gotten to that if you would have allowed me the time Russel.” 

Marshall O’Donnell, once again, Questions Russel. 

“Now Russel-“  

Marshall O’Donnell slowly brings his head closer and closer to Russel tilting it to the right, squinting trying to look through his eyes , slowly, precisely choosing his words he says once more. 

“Do you, have an understanding of what happens here in the saloon”. 

after he speaks again, Russel tries to sneak a peek at his lawyer. But right as his head tilts Marshall O’Donnell slams his palm on the table loudly and points at Russel. 

“Russel boy what did I tell you? What did I tell your friends?” 

Left staring into his now exposed psyche Marshall O’Donnell peers deep, calmly he turns to his Deputy. He speaks. 

“Deptuy!, come grab these men and take em away.” 
the Deputy nods and quickly rushes over and pulls Russel’s reinforcements away. 

All the men to the right of Marshall O’Donnell are removed from the table, Almost forgetting the Mexican, Marshall O’Donnell turns his head to his left and says to the Mexican with a friendly smile. 

“You too Señor” 

The Mexican groans and says to him. 

“Eres el abrelatas humano” 

Before shaking his head and joining the others at the table behind the Marshall. 

“With no help this is going to be a slaughter. 

Divide and conquer, check. 

Contradiction/ falsity 

Then the confession.” 

Marshall O’Donnell thinks to himself. He smiles lightly, it’s so light that most couldn’t point it out, but the Deputy who is now seating himself next to O’Donnell can see it, a smile only he can see. 

Clearing his throat, Marshall O’Donnell steers the interrogation back to where it left off. 

“As you were saying?” 

Russel now fiddling with his fingers unable to even look the officers in the eyes, squeaks. 

“I-I of course I do, I fuckin run this place, what wouldn’t I know.” 

He readjusts his posture; he is confident with his answer. 

This is exactly what Marshall O’Donnell wanted to hear, he plants his finger onto the table. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know what happened here last Friday night? Would you?” 

Marshall O’Donnell produces, a small container, and within it, his trusty moustache comb. 

The deputy kicks into gear slamming his fist on the table. 

“We know you did it, we know you shot him dead! Just fess up man!” 

Marshall O’Donnell let him rail into Russel some more before stepping in. 

“Back down Deputy, I’ll handle it.” 

He packs away his moustache comb and tucks the container deep into his pocket once more and continues. 

“excuse my partner , he’s antsy he gets like this , but did you know of the events that occurred last Friday?” 

Russel rearing for a fight calms himself down and responds to the Marshalls Inquiry. 

“What events? “ 

After saying this he slouches in his chair a little tapping the harsh table. 

Marshall O’Donnell tries to act surprised and continues. 

“Oh? You don’t know?” 

He pauses ruffling around inside his navy blue jacket and produces a document, he continues throwing the documents on the table. 

“These here are documents detailing a murder that occurred in this very Saloon and you know nothing of it? 

Russel inspects the papers. Carefully reading through the lines. he takes his hat off, as suspected he is bald, middle aged possibly. 

“I am so sorry to hear about that Marshall O’Donnell, I’m sorry for my hostility, truly, if I can assist in anyway, I will gladly assist.” 

Marshall O’Donnell sits for a minute or two, in complete silence thinking, twirling his moustache hair, everyone in the room is looking at him curiously and then it hits him. energetically he turns to the bartender who is cleaning their glasses. 

“Bartender, you said this was your place, right? But Russel here says he owns it, what’s the issue there?” 

The bartender looks terrified and refuses to answer before Russel whistles saying. 

“I thought you were interrogating me, Marshall.” 

Marshall O’Donnell finally has something to latch onto now. he responds. 

“And I thought you were going to be cooperative throughout this investigation? Bartender, how often do you work here? If it’s your grandfathers place, I imagine you are the only one who runs the bar?” 

The bartender digging himself into a hole can’t bring himself to speak. All he can do is splatter and stutter, it’s pitiful. The Marshall continues. 

“Can you at least point to where the man sat when he was shot?” 

The bartender slowly rises his finger and points to the stool where the Deputy once sat, tears slowly falling from his face, The Marshall thinks to himself. 
“he’s broken, he’s held the facade up too long, there’s no need to pressure this one any longer, ease up a little.” 

Slowly the Marshall exits his chair and as gently as he can walks up to the bar and tries to comfort the man, his spurs and belt buckle clinking and clanking as he does so. 

He says softly to the broken man. 

“I’m here to help”. 

Russel stands up again and snaps. 

“Stop talkin to him! come back and talk to me!” 

The Marshall slowly turns and points at Russel, now standing, and speaks. 

“Where were you last Friday Russel.” 

Russel confidently places his hands on his belts and goes to speak when, the Mexican cuts in. 

“He was with us, we were out even ask the – “ 

The Mexican is abruptly interrupted by Marshall O’Donnell, the Marshall quickly retorts. 

“I was interrogating Russell over here; Now Russel where were you last Friday?” 

Russel points towards the Mexican and repeats what he was going to say, 

“We were out at the tumbleweed saloon Marshall.” 

“that’s it?” Marshall O’Donnell scoffs. 

Laughing a little he slaps the bar and continues. 

“that’s the best you can come up with? No dates, specific people you saw? What drinks you ordered? Nothing?” how am i gonna use that as evidence you didn’t do it Russel?” 

Russel slowly moves his right side of his coat to reveal the handle of his 6 shooter and says to the Marshall. 

“I’m not goin to prison cobbo” 

Marshall O’Donnell is stuck in a precarious situation, he ponders for a good minute or two, drawing up all the possible scenarios that could arise in his head, before closing his eyes and exhaling. 

Turning to the Bartender a smile dashes his face and the Marshall softly speaks. 

“Bartender, you work here, every day, you saw the man, die, high chance is you saw the very man we’re looking for, ain’t that right.” 

The bartender solemnly nods. 

Marshall O’Donnell turns his head and looks at Russel, for long he looks before asking. 
“What did he look like?” 

Russel staring back into the Marshalls eye, with little resistance Russel gives up, for a moment, just one moment, be it small, it was there, and it shined brighter than a thousand suns. 

It confused Marshall O’Donnell, he had been wrong before, but it seemed so certain, it was a plea, he saw, a cry for help. 

Russel Spat a gob of phlegm and as hard as he could he slammed his fist onto the table, the glasses either flew or rolled off the table, he speaks. 

“Alright! alright! you got me! I did! I blew the boys fuckin brains out! are you happy now?” 

He says palms flat on the coarse harsh table. 

The deputy laughs slapping his knee saying. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” 

Russel’s Lawyer springs into action and stands Infront of the Marshall 

“Marshall O’Donnell , It must be acknowledged that Russel is under the influence of alcohol, in no way would he be trailed before  a judge for such an absurd, and mis founded admission to murder, he presented his alibi to you, which you haven’t been able to disprove yet, he is under the influence of alcohol, if you continue this Interrogation , after I’ve told you this I would have no choice but to contact your Magistrate and have you trialled for disorderly conduct.” 

He's right, He can’t disprove the alibi without leaving the saloon and letting Russel the chance to escape, or any of his colleagues for that matter, inside Marshall O’Donnell wanting to shoot the lawyer, but he calmly exhales and acknowledges and turns to the bartender. 

The Marshall orders his Third whiskey and turns to the right to see if it’s still daylight, and to his surprise it’s night, it’s so dark outside you can’t even see the horses through the shutter. Silent, the entire time. sitting, not saying a word, not moving, the native American sits, observing. 

 

Everyone who was seated away from Russel has now come and joined him, by his side, they’re all secretly mummering and conversing with him, scheming, tensions are high. The best outcome is if the Marshall can escape with his Deputy, alive. 

For an hour Russel and O’Donnell eyed each other off and their guns, thinking of something to say, connecting the dots he had, but nothing made sense, the bartender was so distressed was because of Russel and his gang, Russel admitted to murder, but he can’t act on it, and even acting on it wouldn’t work, nobody admits to murder even if they have nothing else, admittance only brings the worst, never has it gotten someone bail, they both know this, Russel has to, that’s why his lawyer stepped in.  

Marshall O’Donnell peers around the room once more and watches the native American, he’s been writing this whole time, or at least it seems so. 

With that signature clicking and clacking of Marshall O’Donnells buckle and spurs he slowly paces over to the native American, the native American pays no attention to him as he continues writing, Marshall O’Donnell slowly pulls a chair out Infront of the native American and extends his hand in greeting. The native American still writing on his page doesn’t even lookup, his voice is deep and distinct, a bit of a lisp but it is expected, he says. 

“Greetings Wasichu” 

Marshell O’Donnell is a little perplexed that he even knows English and quickly responds. 

“You speak damn fine English for a redskin-“ 

There is a pause between the two the Marshall continues. 

“How did a redskin like you get so far down south? I thought you fellers climbed trees, not cacti”. 

The native American looks up from his paper, not bothered, Moreso tired or bored and replies. 

“How far did your white people travel to come to Anowara?” 

The Marshall Sits and thinks awhile, looking the native American in the eyes he speaks. 

“there’s more common in us than I thought, what’s ya name redskin?” 

The native American looks out the window which is all but black now, he stands up and walks towards it, closing the shutter. Looking at the closed window he speaks. 

“I believe, you  Wasichu, were interrogating the man over there”. 

He nods his head to the left, signalling the table where Russel and his gang sat. 

Marshall O’Donnell replies. 

“I was , until I hit a brick wall, something seems, off. He’s been eyein me off ever since, one wrong move and I may catch a bullet. But since I am a Marshall Questioning a potential su-“ 

The native American man looks at him with a stern look and quicky says. 

“Tumu, Tumu is my birthname.” 

The Marshall slouches back little more relaxed and inspects Tumu’s paper. 

“whatchu writtin about Tumu?” 

Tumu looks back quickly and snatches the paper, hiding it from the Marshall. 
“none of your business Marshall.” 

The Marshall hunches over looking at Tumu’s liquor, it’s a native American brandy , atleast that what it looks like 40%, or maybe a really strong tequila. 

The Marshall raises his voice. 

“Tumu, where were you last Friday?” 

Tumu looks back at the window sorrowfully and with hurt in his heart replies. 

“Living like my people once did, if you do not believe me, in my sack is a rabbit skin, it is 3 days of age, take it to any Leatherman, he can tell you the same.” 

The Marshall digs through his travel sack and he finds, a skinned rabbit, a blade of some sort, also a square small rough object, using his hand to try open the lid, it opens, it’s not a box, it’s a book. 

Tumu snaps at him. 

“Wasichu, I told you, the rabbit skin, not my knife, or my book.” 

The Marshall respectfully nods and removes the rabbit skin and lays it out on the table. 

Inspecting the skin, it does look aged by the elements, but 3 days? It had to be older, it was too white especially for a brown rabbit, that it seemed to be with the spots on its hind legs. respectfully addressing Tumu, the deputy says. 
“Tumu, do you know what rabbit you killed? Also, this doesn’t explain why you are here, in a saloon, your people did not live off saloons.” 

Tumu scans the room and replies. 

“it’s just some hare, all I know is that I killed it, skinned it and ate it, it is just a rabbit, just like you and I are man, no, you are not a man, you are a man, but with a badge, so you are better than us aren’t you?” 

The Marshall strategy isn’t working, he needs to change his plan, and so he doesn’t. He puts on a display of perplexity and speaks. 

“What do you mean Tumu, why are you here? Instead of out in the wild like your people?” 

 

Tumu sits down once more and looks at the Deputy in the eye without saying anything. 

And so, they initiate battle, they explore each other’s eye, and facial expression, their movements, Tumu relentlessly and maliciously picks apart the Marshalls defences and with that, the Marshall looks away, the first time he has lost. 

Tumu snickers at him and speaks.  
“you are getting old and play the same tricks old man, you are not that stupid, stop playing tricks on me or I will refuse to talk.” 

The Marshall helpless gives in and cuts to the chase saying. 

“I’m sorry Tumu, I-I just need help, I’m just stuck, I’m over analysing everything, my minds just cluttered. What do i do?” 

Tumu rubs his chin thinking and leans in closer. 
“You are over complicating it, tell me, what do you have so far of this man?” 

The Marshall bites the bullet, he doesn’t even know if he can trust Tumu but he bites the bullet. 
stuttering he speaks 

“Tumu, I have absolutely nothing, I-i-His Alibi can’t be proven unless I go, and if I go, he goes, he admits to murder, in my face, I know he didn’t do it, but who else could have? The bartender knows, who killed him, and the bartender and Russel are connect, I know that much, he’s a tickin bomb if I say anything to him it’s gonna set him off the rails I’m stuck Tumu, I could press the bartender more, but he can barely relay information Tumu, what do i do?”  
Tumu reclines tabbing his belly humming for a minute, then leans back in. 
“once more you over complicate it, think outside the box, think outside the saloon. What is it worth dying for? For a white man?” 

Marshall O’Donnell extends his hand once more pondering this, and Tumu raises his hand and shake it, The Marshall makes his way back to the bar. His mind, is forcibly reset by himself he thinks continuously. 

“Simple, Simple, Simple, Got it!, if a man gets shot, there has to be blood, blood stains, especially on wood.” 
the Marshall calls over the bartender. 

The bartender like a dog heeds it’s call and rushes over. 

The Marshall asks him. 

“You said the man got shot here?” 

The bartender nods, right where the Marshall stands is where the man got shot. The Marshall squats down and inspects the bar stand, no blood, the floor, no blood and what little room there is, there’s a rug, there’s a rug…. 
the Marshall quickly snaps down and lifts a part of the rug. 
Bingo, dark red, stained, planks. 

The Marshalls head snaps to the bartender and says. 
“Who’s blood is this? 
the bartender says naught and just panics the Marshall then asks. 
“would the man who got shot dead here, on Friday, want you, the only man who can help him, to lie to me? The fella who catches the man who shot him dead?” 

The bartender wailing on the bar crying over and over. 
“No! No! No!” 
the bartender slouches his head resting on the bar saying repeatedly. 
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry”. 

Russel Stands up like a bolt of lightning unholstering his chest pistol with his left hand and aims it right at the Marshall and speaks. 
“Step the FUCK away from him RIGHT FUCKIN NOW!” behind the Marshall the Deputy brandishes his Firearm and leaps out aiming it at Russel, Right on Queue the Mexican brandishes a Revolver and aims it right at the Deputy. 
The Marshall now is in the worst situation and needs to find a way out of it, alive. 
Slowly the Marshall raises his hands and slowly starts stepping away from the bar. 
Russel starts speaking once more. 
“NOW! You Marshall O’Donnell, YOU! ONLY GOT 1 WAY OF GETTING OUT OF THIS A-FUCKIN-LIVE! DO YOU HEAR ME?” 
the Marshall quickly nods repeatedly. And responds saying. 
“Gentleman we do not need any more bloodshed, we all want to come out of this alive don’t we?” 

The lawyer quickly jumps in and nods his head saying. 
“I agree Marshall, both parties mutually benefit from no bloodshed, If you would all just low-” 
Russel hits the lawyer and speaks. 

“I AIN’T PLAYIN AROUN ANYMORE! NOW I TOLD YA I ALREADY KILLED HIM, I KILLED THAT SCUMBAG AND I LIKED IT, AND IM GON LOVE KILLIN YOU.” 

His lefthand shaking rapidly aiming the pistol to the Marshals chest. 

The Marshall is observing, calculating, everything, how can he save as many people as possible, every road leads to death, somebody has to die. 

How fast is his draw? where will he shoot? when? one misstep and everyone dies. 

Russel out of nowhere hollers to the man who is seated next to the lawyer, he has been silent throughout the entirety of the time he was there, and the Marshall forgot he existed up until this moment. 
“JEAN, go put a barrel to that bartenders head, if he squeaks YOU KILL THE BASTARD.” 
 
with a simple nod, Jean stands , his red wine tux visible to all, he strides over and reaches for his hip holster, when the slouched over bartender, his head planted firmly on the bar, suddenly raises a presumed to be loaded double barrel shotgun, the bartenders face covered in dried tears, slowly pulls back both of the hammers on the shotgun and clearly speaks. 

“Step aside jean.” 

Jean, being the sensible fella he is, moves to the side, out of the shotguns blast radius, out of view from the Marshall, although he can’t see him, the Marshall hears a very quiet but a distinct *Click* although sensible, jeans was loyal, to the end. 

The bartender then raises the shotgun towards Russel and speaks. 

“After everything you did to me, I helped you, I could have killed you, but I helped you and this is how you repay me.” 

The shotgun waves around as the bartender wipes his eyes with his left hands sleeve and regains a firm grasp. 
Russel moves the gun from the Marshall to the Bartender , while at the same time reach for his left hip with his right hand, his entire body shaking he growls. 

“Watch what you say barman, as it may very well be the last thing you say.” 

Russel brandishes a second pistol, pulling it’s hammer back and aiming it at the Marshalls chest. 

The Marshall tries to ease the tensions a final time but is abruptly cut off by Russel who shrieks. 

“SHUTUP” 

The bartender and Russel look at each other for what felt like an hour before the bartender speaks. 

“Say whatchu said about my boy, one more time, I dare ya” 

Breathing heavily Russel slowly responds. 

“He deserved, every round, that he got in the back.” 

The bartenders face grows wide with a wicked grin as he speaks. 

“I hope your so-“ 

A shot is fired from Russels Peacemaker, colt .45. 

Milliseconds after the first shot, 5 shots, ring throughout the Saloon, and everybody hit’s the ground, Jean makes a run for the back door and is gunned down, 3 shots, by the Marshall. 

it all happened so fat, didn’t it? let’s rewind a little. 

The first shot, fired by Russel Hit the bartender in the neck, making him lose his balance, the Marshall Reaches for his trust .44 Schofield model 3,The bartender, fired his shotgun, on double fire, anything Infront of it is not recognisable from meat scraps tossed out on Thursday, The Deputy Dives to the left of the Mexican as the Mexican fires his shot, Narrowly flying past Tumu, Jean fires a shot through his coat, striking the bartender in his thigh, The Marshal pulls the revolver out of it’s trust holster, it shines and glistens as in a single swipe raise high in the air, the barrel smokes, just having fired a bullet. This is around 600ms after the initial gunshot, but the bartender begins to stumble backwards, around 800ms after the initial shot, the Mexican pulls the hammer on his revolver, but the Marshals round strikes him in the neck. The Marshal Dives. Towards the floor. 

1 second after the initial shot, Jean is gunned down as he flees out the back door by the Marshall. 

Above the Marshall a door is kicked open and through the roof, rifle rounds rain from above striking the corpses of the fallen Men and riddling the table and floor with holes, the Mexican is accidentally mercy killed by the rifleman, this is Butch’s last stand. The Marshall rolls over the counter, next to the bartender who is now grasping his neck, which has a rather large hole, his eyes grow bloodshot and bulge out of his skull as he chokes on his blood, the Marshall behind some form of protection extends his shooting arm and inspects the dust falling from the roof, Butch is shooting wildly seems to be around about to the left of the door, the Marshall fires, 2 shots left, remain in his cylinder, however, the rifle rounds, continue to fly , the Deputy has crawled towards Tumu, trying to get an angle on the rifleman, the Marshall calculates again, maybe the right of the door? he listens in between the gunshots, in between the Deputy’s screaming He fires a shot and the planks that squeak the smoke parts from the end of his barrel, clearing his gunsight, a loud thud is heard, blood trickles through the bullet holes in the roof and butch starts screaming profanities. The Saloon silent , finally after 10 long seconds the Marshall quickly  commands the Deputy as he reloads his 6 shooter. 

“Slowly go up the stairs, if you see the open door, fire everything you have at the bottom of the door” the deputy quickly rushes up the stairs and butch screams and wails as begs. 

“Please don’t fucking shoot me PLEASE! PLEASE! IM FUCKING SHOT I GIVE UP! I FUCKING GI-” 

The Marshall raises his voice saying. 

“Toss your guns, or I put a slug through your spine, NOW!”. 

A groan of quite considerable pain is heard when the man moves , an exerted grunt is heard as , a holster with a revolver tucked deep within flies over the railing of the upstairs. It hits the wall and lands next to the Mexican who has long since deceased, riddled with lead. 

The Marshall Shouts another command. 
“Your other gun, I ain’t takin no chances Butch, Toss your other gun”. 

“I CAN’T FUCKIN STAND LET ALONE SHOOT YOU DUMB MOTHER FUCKER COME UP AND HELP ME” 

The Marshall looks around a moment and finds the deputy’s hat and tosses his hat to him signalling him silently to place the hat on his gun barrel and stick it up to see if he was lying, and so the deputy slowly climbed the stairs sticking his hat above the rails. 

*BANG* 

A shot rings from upstairs, leaving a hole, through his hat. The Marshall unloads 3 shots from the origin of the gunshot through the roof the Deputy ducks and runs downstairs, Butch lies dead. 

Marshall O’Donnell and the Deputy regroup and step outside into the darkness of the night and they both share a cigarette, they discuss and try to find an answer and are no closer to solving the mystery, if anything, now they have more bodies to count and testify, they usher Tumu out of the Saloon and ride off to Tumbleweed to consult another Marshall named, Marshall MC Connor. 

And so, the two lawmen ride to tumbleweed. 

It’s high noon the next day, a young, fit fella, unsaddles his horse from behind Ormsby’s saloon, through the backdoor a stench arises and hits the young fellas nose, he slowly opens the backdoor and pushes it open and see’s that the second door, to the back, has 3 bullet holes. 

The young fella slowly Brandishes his signature navy revolver chambered in .36, it glistens as it exits the sunlight , the boy tries to slide the door open, but something heavy is stopping the door from opening, resting his shoulder against the door the boy slowly but surely opens the door and the door opens to a horror screen, the bar he had shared many drinks in, filled with blood, Jack, the bartender, Jean 3 shots in his back, Infront of him, bullet holes all over the walls and floors, the boy slowly cocks the hammer on his navy revolver back, his hand trembling, slowly ,he paces forward, approaching the corner, he feel butterflies in his stomach when he sees a large pool of blood reveal itself as he paces closer and closer to the corner, he steps into a nightmare, he drops to his knees bashing hist fist into the bullet ridden floor screaming and wailing, every punch harder, faster, louder repeatedly he curses and swears, footstep, slowly  approach him and he snaps out of his fit drawing his pistol and cocking the hammer back, a native American man, paces towards the boy with his hands up, in a deep tone, he speaks. 

“I am not a threat Wasichu” 

The boy looks into his eyes and begins to cry, throwing his gun across the saloon, towards the stairs, it fires, a bullet soaring through the window across from the stairs. 

The boy sniffling, with a sore chest, burning like a furnace responds. 

“W-w-well what te F-f-uh-fuck happened?” 

Visibly infuriated, the boy paces around pleading bearing not to look at the table. 

The native American spoke. 

“a firefight boy.” 
the native American says, the native American gets good look at the gory scene, there are 3 men at the table, a Mexican, slumped onto the floor, shot in the neck, a man in a rather fine blood stained attire, covered red with his brains, head is missing, and the man to the left of the sharply dressed fellow, with a red scarf and a chest holster, shot the man to his right took a majority of the buckshot but he still caught some to the heart and lungs. 

Exhaling the Native American tries to comfort the boy saying. 

 
“I know that look Wasichu, I know pain, I know loss, which one was your kin.” 

This just makes the boy sadder until he curls into a ball, on a blood stained floor. 

The boy speaks through his arms, muffled. 

“What the fuck do Y-you mean redskin?” 

The boy begins balling and more sore tears roll down his cheeks. 

The native American taps his shoulder twice swallowing a thick lump of saliva resting on the back of his tongue and says. 

“Why did you kill the man?” 

The boy snaps back 

“I didn’t kill anyone!” 

The native American chuckles and sits down next to the boy and says softly. 

“If you tell me, I can tell you who shot the man you cry over.” 

The boys’ eyes met the native American, he looked back at the floor and sighed and spoke. 

“T-the man, T-the bartenders son he fucking took her from me, the fat bastard, I loved her so fucking much, so I marched here with a vow, and hot the man dead, 6 times , I fanned my revolver into his fat fucking back and my daddy told me to hide, hide good and long, it had been a while when I came back, and, fucking, now he’s fucking dead.” 

The native American. Questioned the boy further. 

“What did this man do to your lady?” 

The boys head falls into his knees, and he starts crying. 

“R-raped and k-killed her” 

He stomps his foot in anger and angrily swears saying. 

“if I could do it again, to see the fear in his eyes, the fear in that fat fucking whoresons eyes, I would do it, a million times over. 

The native American hummed a little tune patting the boy on the back, it’s all coming together, the picture, it forms in the native Americans mind. 

He leans into the boy’s ear and speaks softly. 

“When they find you, you’ll hang”. 

The only response he gets from the boy is a nod, before his headshots up and he looks at the Native American speaking. 

“And when i hang I’ll hang gooooood” 

The boy wipes his eyes and nose with his sleeve and sniffles, just looking at the carnage Infront of him. 

The native American asks one more question. 

“Where did they burry the cadaver?” 

The boy quickly responds. 

“We buried him out the back by the big tree.” 

The native American nods, he slowly raises his hand and points towards the headless finely dressed fellow. 

“if you wish, you can follow the path of vengeance, you may not know it, but the path leads nowhere, there is no satisfaction, only the anticipation of satisfaction you can, search that mans vest and find the credentials of the man who killed your father. 

Or- “ 

He pauses, thinking a little before continuing. 

“You break the blood cycle, free yourself from hate, and live the rest of your life healing.” 

The native American  taps the boys shoulder and stands up brushing his knees and walking towards the front door of the saloon, the boy stares at the headless man. 

The lawmen, awake at 9:03PM, freshly rested, they dress and meet each other outside of their room, they both walk down stairs to the main room of the saloon of Tumbleweed, they sit at a table and discuss every detail they have, Marshall O’Donnell speaks. 

“We have all our suspects dead, no body, more blood than before, and no closer to solving the clue.” 

The Deputy thinks it over and speaks. 
“well I’m just fuckin lucky to get out of this alive Marshall”. 

The Marshall inspecting the alcohol. Behind the bartender, in-between all the people dancing and walking around, the pianist plays a wonderful song, the Saloon is filled with jubilant life, one bottle catches the eye of the Marshall, it has a native American on the bottle, and it’s like time a stops, the puzzle forms in his head as he turns to the Deputy, in the corner of his eye, a muzzle flash filles his eyes, he hears the gunshot the Marshall slumps, he holds his neck, he heard and felt the bullet drive it's way into his neck the screams and the piano is muffled all the Marshall can hear next is yet another gunshot, it strikes his belly spitting blood the Marshall leans back , in the corner of his blurred vision he sees the Deputy, return fire as a third shot hits the deputy in the collar bone, the Marshall collapses onto the floor and is left lying on the floor, 3 more no 4 gunshots, 3 heavy objects hit the floor with a heavy think are fired, until the Deputy returns to the Marshalls side, the Deputy, seeing the deputy who was once adorning a navy blue attire, now red, like wine breathing heavily, the hole in his lung making a whistling noise, he wheezes and exclaims. 

“Iiiiiiiitttttsssss…..hhhhhiiiiiiissssss……sssssooooonnn….” 

With that the deputy smiles and closes his eyes the last words that ring through his brain  

Is  

Son. 

Tumu sits next to a large, long dead tree, gazing at the stars in the midnight sky, a shooting star flies across the sky, and Tumu closes his eyes and in Miwokian says. 

“When we meet, will I have the story to tell white man”. 
the native American unearths a grave by the tree, and finds the body, the body is of little value, it was the key the body had on the night of the murder.  

You see Tumu was your average citizen living life trying not to do wrong until the Marshall walked in, Tumu saw his chance and so he took it, and so Tumu used the key to unlock the safe and in the safe, was $1500. 

Tumu rode off 20 minutes later with the money and little did he know, that was the start of his deadly legacy.