High Moon Rising: Volume One

Chapter One: Prospect

The tallest of the three men who rode through the forest on that September morning was called Long Jim. Long Jim, most assumed, was named for the two custom revolvers that hung at his waistband, with their longer barrels for improved accuracy.

Long Jim was always adamant that he’d been named such by a whore in Pasadena for the alleged twelve inch barrel that swung between his legs. He was a lanky man, his hair greyed by the years, but his blue eyes were sharp in his weathered face, scanning for any hint of a threat in their surroundings.

The bulky man who rode on Jim’s left was known as The Mick. Jim had recruited Mick to his gang three years before, and had found him to be deadly with a shotgun. Unfortunately, he also found him to be a goddamn annoyance, who talked constantly about matters of very little consequence - usually when he'd been drinking, and above his bushy, unkempt, muddy-brown beard, his red-veined cheeks made it clear that this was a regular occurrence.

I love these little beauty spots you’re always bringing us to, Jim. Reminds me why I hang around wit’ya. 

Jim glared at the little Irishman, who smirked.

Why ain’t I shot you yet, Mick?

Well, it’s gotta be my winnin’ personality, ain’t it?

The other side of the big cowboy, Sanchez remained silent. Sanchez usually remained silent. Usually, the only thing about Sanchez that spoke was the Winchester rifle slung at the side of his saddle. 

Today, that rifle was joined by a stout hessian sack. Another was slung at other side of the Winchester, mirrored on the left flank of the Mexican's horse. Each of the men had four similar sacks slung from their saddles as they looked down through the trees at Prospects sleepy houses.

Alright, Jim said I reckon this is far enough. Mick, grab that shovel.

We burying it all, Jim? the Irishman said. 

Now, what’s the good in this stuff if we ain’t gonna spend any of it? Take some each, and we’ll get the rest after we’ve rested up some in town.

Mick pulled one of the bags from the horse, and dropped it to the ground. It made a satisfying, delightful clinking sound.

***

The weather was just starting to turn when the three men rode into the small town of Prospect on that September morning. Years later, Timothy Elliot swore that he could still remember the smell of the oncoming snows on the wind, the crispness, the coldness in the air.

When the three men rode into town though, Timothy Elliot was still too young to take part in the events that followed. At the tender age of eight years, Timothy was considered too small to take part in much of anything.

The boy barely glanced up as the three men rode into Prospect on weary horses. He was far too interested in the wooden horse and cart his father had carved for him to be interested in three travellers, no matter how rarely travellers crossed Prospects town limits. Timothy’s mother, however, was very interested in the three men, and ushered her young son inside as they rode past. 

’Scuse me ma’am, Long Jim said, tipping his hat to Mary Elliot, But would there happen to be a saloon in this town? My friends and I have worked up a fierce thirst.

Mary looked at the three levelly, and nodded her head down the road.

You’ll find the saloon at the far end of town, stranger. Though I doubt you’ll find any welcome.

Long Jim merely raised an eyebrow, tipped his hat one more time, and rode down the dirt street towards the saloon doors.

Friendly place. Mick said lightly. Almost makes me want to set up home here.

Don’t joke about shit like that. Jim said.

What? Charmin’ forest, pretty locals…

A hundred or so US Marshals not nearly far enough away…

You just have to ruin the party, dontcha Jim?

Sanchez frowned, his eyes darting across the nearly abandoned street. He felt exposed, and he didn’t like that. Especially in a town where he had no need to feel vulnerable. He could feel eyes watching him from behind curtained windows, and unconsciously reached for the handle of his gun. Jim noticed his companion's expression.

Everything alright?

The Mexican made a conscious effort to relax, and nodded. The trio swung down from their saddles, and calmly tied their horses beside the saloon's water-trough, before heading into the dimly lit bar.

Eyes followed them as they walked across the roughly sawn planks. Jim ignored them. He found it was the best thing to do in this sort of situation.

The cowboy leant on the bar.

Whiskey.

The barman gave him a flat look. Jim didn't like that look. In the dim light of the saloon, there was something strange about the man's eyes, a hint of a deadly hunger.

The barman leant forward, and Jim blinked, shook of the disconcerting feeling, and put it down to a trick of the light.

No offence, stranger, but I'll see the colour of your money first.

No chance of credit? Mick said hopefully. The barman glared at him.

Not a chance in hell.

The Irishman glanced around the room, and shrugged.

Well, it was worth a try.

The assorted denizens of the saloon laughed, and the tension seemed to flood out of the room. Jim breathed a little easier, and reached into his satchel. 

The room went silent as the silver dollar glinted in the dim light. Jim laid the coin gently on the table, and stared into the barman's strange eyes. Strangely, the man flinched slightly as he picked the dollar up from the surface of the bar. He didn't bite the coin to test the metal, as Jim had seen barmen all over the country do, he merely slipped it into his pocket, and turned away.

Whiskey it is.

The glasses were set in front of the three men, and the liquor was poured, glinting amber as it tumbled into the glass. Jim raised the tumbler to his lips, and downed the shot. Fire spread through his throat, a reassuring warmth on the cold day. Beside him, Mick smacked his lips with pleasure. 

'It's the good stuff you're givin' us friend. Much appreciated.

The barman grunted in acknowledgement of the compliment, refilled their glasses, and got back to the perpetual task of wiping down the bar. Jim rested his back against the wooden surface, and glanced around the room. Most of the men didn't meet his gaze, but those who did had the same strange cast to their eyes that the barman had shown. Jim shrugged mentally. After all, it wasn't uncommon for people to share traits in small, rural communities.

He knew there was going to be trouble when the gang of young men walked in. He concentrated on his drink, and elbowed Mick in the side.

Keep to yourself, Irishman. We don't want no trouble here.

Mick nodded slightly, and gestured to the barman.

Another, please friend. It's a terrible thirst I have.

The barman nodded, and leant forward.

You wouldn't be planning anything stupid now, would you boys?

If something starts, it won't be us. Jim assured the man.

Well, lookee here. The leader of the little gang said. Looks like we got some strangers in town, boys.

Jim swore under his breath. The boys were wearing irons. What he had here were some small-town boys who thought they were bad - Probably ran The Sheriff ragged, but never did anything other than harass strangers and get stone-cold drunk.

What you doing in a little town like this, old man? The boy said, sidling up to stare into Jim's face. Beside him, he heard Mick snort into his drink.

Something funny? The thug asked.

Well for sure, I've just been telling Jim here that he was gettin' too old for drinking, so I was. Nice to meet someone who shares that opinion.

Nervous laughter ran around the saloon, swiftly silenced as the boys looked around. Jim downed his drink.

Well fellas, I was just stopping to wet my whistle after a hard days riding. I've done that now, so me and my friends here will be on our way.

The boy put his hand on Jim's shoulder, and pushed him back towards the bar. 

Now, who said you boys could leave? Surely you haven't had enough of Prospect's hospitality already?

Jim looked down at the youth's hand, and back up to his face. His eyes were cold steel.

Boy, you've got to the count of three to take that hand away.

The thug glared at him, but quailed in the light of those ice-cold eyes, and took his hand away. Jim pushed past him, and headed to the door. 

A tall man with a long blonde moustache was leaning against the side of the saloon as Long Jim stepped into the cool air. One glance told the cowboy everything he needed. The gleaming bronze star pinned to the man's jacket spoke volumes.

Sheriff. 

No trouble, I trust friend?

Jim smiled slightly.

None at all, sir. Me and my friends will be movin' on now.

The Sheriff nodded, and tipped the brim of his hat.

May be for the best. Young Donahue has a hot temper.

Jim nodded, and headed for his horse.

You'll need supplies, I'll wager. Cara is mindin' the store – tell her I sent you. The Sheriff said. Jim gave the man a look as Sanchez and Mick stepped out of the saloon. He met their gaze, and nodded.

Much obliged, sheriff.

***

Cara glanced up as the three bandits entered the store. Her nose wrinkled slightly as if there was a strange smell on the three, amongst the usual scents of the trail. She looked young, her auburn hair tied back from her thin angular features, but her eyes were old - and looked as if they'd seen more than they cared to.

Can I help you... gentlemen?

We'd be much obliged, me darlin' if you could fix us up with some supplies. Mick said, exaggerating his drawl even further.

We just need food and ammunition for the road, ma'am. Jim said.

I'm sure we can manage that.

She started bustling away behind the counter, sorting out the general supplies the three would require for travel. Jim glanced out the window at the curiously abandoned street.

Seems awful quiet there.

We like it that way. Cara replied.

Those rowdies give you much trouble?

If you're referring to Donahue and his gang of pups, no. The Sheriff largely keeps them in line. They're just young troublemakers, truth be told.

Jim nodded in acknowledgement, trying to shake the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

What round will you be needing?

Twelve-gauge and forty-thirty.

No pistol rounds?

Jim drew one of his revolvers, and showed it to her. She raised an eyebrow.

Cap and ball? Ain't seen one of those in a long time.

Jim winked at her. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

I can do the shotgun rounds for you, ain't got no Winchester rounds though.

Jim glanced at Sanchez, who shrugged.

That's fine.

She nodded, and pulled boxes of bullets from beneath the counter. 

That'll be twenty-four dollars.

Jim reached into his back, and produced a handful of silver coins. The shopkeepers breath hissed slightly as Jim allowed the coins to trickle through his fingers to the counter-top. Jim's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her reaction. 

There a problem?

No sir.

She gingerly lifted the coins from the counter, and placed them in the cash box. Jim pulled the sack of supplies towards him, and tipped his hat to her.

Thank you again, Ma'am.

The trio stepped out onto the side walk, and headed to their horses. 

They all seem awful suspicious of the money, Jim. Mick said, the serious tone of his voice a stark contrast to his usual ebullience. 

I saw. Might mean nothing.