They Come In The Snow: Part I

Four men; A sheriff, an elderly chicken farmer, a cowboy, and the lodge owner are snowed into a lodge during a bad storm. To their dismay, the men find they're being watched by something outside...

February 14^th, 1855, Utah Territory

            “You dirty cheatin’ w***e!” shouted Corey Baggett. Leaping from his seat, the Cowboy brought one bruised and balled-up fist down onto the table. The tower of black-speckled red poker chips seemed to levitate�"suspended in time�"before capsizing over the knotted oak. With a guilty grin on his face; gambler, drunk, and lodge owner, Joe Edmonds, leaned forward and picked up the neglected tokens that had been cast to the ground. 

            “It’s not cheating, Corey,” the Gambler said, amused with the man’s frustration. “Now if I were to lose that would be another story. Pay up.”

He extended one grimy, unwashed hand and arched his fingers in a beckoning motion. With a roll of his eyes followed by a sigh, the Cowboy tore the gold-buckled belt from his waistband and dropped it into Joe’s begging hands.
            “Whatever,” he glanced at the window and noticed the hail pouring down. “I’ll let it pass just this one time ‘cause you’re lettin’ these fine folks and myself wait out the storm here.”

            Joe smiled a crooked smile; one tooth on top and a few on the bottom were missing, “’atta boy.”

The Gambler took a swig from a half-empty bottle of whiskey brought to him by the unnamed Sheriff. It was offered to Joe as a thank you for letting the strangers seek refuge during the snow flurry outside.

He’s a good one Joe thought, he actually paid me, unlike that Chicken Farmer and Cowboy. Well, at least that Cowboy humored my gambling a bit. What’s that damn Chicken Farmer done to help or repay me for my kind services?

            Across the lodge from the Gambler and Cowboy, were the Sheriff and an elderly fellow named Whitey Douglass, or simply referred to by Joe as “Chicken Farmer”. The Sheriff sat quietly, occasionally glancing outside, patiently waiting for the snowstorm to subside so that he could head back to his home five miles East. Just ahead of the chair, blocking the view, was Whitey who peered anxiously at the swaying trees outside. The wind was a strong one. It didn’t take much focus for one to be able to hear the angry hiss of mother nature beyond the lodge’s walls. Suddenly, something in the shadows caught the old man’s eye.
            “Hey, Joe?” Whitey said, refusing to take his eyes from the small clearing in the trees.

            “Chicken Farmer?” Joe replied, taking another swig from his bottle. His arms tingled all over and grew warm. Although never a lightweight, the Gambler was beginning to feel the effects of the liquor.

            “We’ve got somethin’ out there.”

            “What do you mean something?” The Sheriff said. Pulling himself from his seat, the man of law crossed the room and fixed his eyes on the thing holding the old man’s interest.

“Looks like we got a loose tree.”

The Sheriff wiped grime from the corner of his mouth and spit on the floor, then turned back to face Corey and Joe who were currently lost in a game of poker. The preoccupied men paid no attention to the Sheriff until the man crossed the room and snatched the deck from the Gambler’s hands.
            “What in God’s name are you doing?” Joe protested, reaching for the stack of cards only to have it pulled away another inch by the Sheriff. To Corey, the two men resembled brothers fighting over a toy. He sat back, finding humor in the situation.
            “You hear what I said?” The Sheriff asked sternly.

            “Yeah, we got a tree out there. Who gives a rat’s a*s? There’s tons of damn trees on this side of the country,” Joe stumbled out of his seat and reached for the deck but was strong-armed back into the chair.
            “Not just a tree. A loose tree.”

Joe rolled his eyes and took another hit of whiskey. The bottle was now all but empty.
“If we’re stayin’ the night, we don’t want to risk the wind blowing it onto the lodge.”

            “He’s got a point,” Corey said, finally weighing in. He gestured to the wall at the object hanging from the mantel. “We’ve got a hatchet. One of us can go out there and chop it down.”

            Joe laughed bitterly, “If by one of us you mean one of you three, then, by all means, indulge yourselves.”

The Sheriff glanced to the Cowboy and shrugged, then looked at the elderly man hovering by the window, “Chicken Farmer, you wanna go out?”
            Without taking his worried eyes from the swaying tree, Whitey said, “Hell no. I’m nothing but skin and bone. I’ll freeze to death out there by the time I get that tree even half way chopped down.”

            The Sheriff expected that. “Fair enough. You or I, Corey.”

            Before the Cowboy could respond, Joe cut in, “Hold up, Sheriff, let me ask you a question before we decide which one of you two braves the snow. You a gambling man?”

            “I can’t say that I am.”

            “Alright, well I’ll play on your account, then. Don’t worry, I’m a real good gambler.”

            “You’re a dirty cheater, that’s what you are!” Corey said.

            “Alright, since you’re so worried about my cheating, of which I most certainly do not do, let’s play something more up your alley. How’s blackjack sound?”

Joe plucked the deck from the Sheriff’s hand and shuffled it.
            “Sounds good if I can be the dealer,” Corey said distrustfully.
            “Nice try,” Joe chuckled, “I’m dealer.”

            “Come on, you and I both know the dealer always wins!”

            “Exactly,” Joe said with a wink. Corey groaned and rolled his eyes, but before he could deny the offer, Joe had already laid the first card down. It was the three of spades.

            Sighing, Corey Baggett obliged and said, “Hit me.”

Joe slapped the second card down next to the first. Four of hearts.

“Hit me.”

The table shook with the force of the Gambler’s next slap. Queen of spades. Now the count was up to nineteen.
            “Feeling lucky?” Joe asked; a devious grin painted across his lips.

Even with his gut telling him the odds were fixed, Corey shook his head.

“Alrighty then. Let’s see what we have next.”

The fourth card was a two, putting the number at exactly twenty-one. “You lose.”

            “Son of a w***e!” Corey shouted. Frustrated, the Cowboy jumped from his seat, tipping the chair over. He crossed the room and snatched his leather jacket and hat from one of the rungs lining the wall. When he was dressed warmly, the Cowboy removed the hatchet from the mantel above the fireplace and headed for the door. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “I know you’re a cheater, but we’ll discuss that after the damn tree’s gone.”

Then, Corey Baggett opened the door and stepped outside.

2.

A flurry of snow had picked up as soon as the Cowboy stepped into the winter wonderland. It was so bad, in fact, that it was impossible to see more than a foot ahead of him. Inside it wasn’t much better, either. Standing by the window was the Chicken Farmer who watched anxiously for the Cowboy but was unable to see anything through the blur. Without getting out of his chair, Joe glanced to the window and laughed.

“Well, ain’t you glad I didn’t lose the bet?”

He was talking to the Sheriff but got no response. The Gambler shrugged then finished off his whiskey. The floor had begun gently rotating beneath his feet. After a few minutes of being in the blind spot, the flurry ceased.
            “What the Hell?” Whitey said under his breath.

            “What?” The Sheriff asked, crossing to the window. He froze perplexed in his tracks.
            “What do you two rattails see?” Joe called drunkenly, stumbling out his chair to get a better look.

            Without looking over his shoulder, the Sheriff replied with, “He’s gone.”

            “The Hell you mean he’s gone?” The Gambler forced his way between the two men and pressed his face against the smudged glass and squinted. The tree was gone, signaling that it had been chopped down by the Cowboy. But, sure enough, Corey was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, s**t,” Joe scratched his head in confusion then made his way back to his chair in a zig-zagged pattern.

             “Must’ve had to piss,” the Sheriff said.

He sat down on the leather chair by the door and pulled off his hole-ridden, crusty socks and dropped them to the ground. Whitey stayed by the window, nervously looking out for Corey.

3.

            Five minutes had passed since the Cowboy’s disappearance. The Chicken Farmer had begun pacing the room nervously. This began to strongly agitate the Gambler, who shouted at him to sit down.

            “I don’t think he went out to piss,” Whitey said nervously, now with his back turned to the window for the first time in nearly ten minutes.

            “Maybe he had to drop trou,” Joe said. “Quit your worrying and sit your a*s down.”

Sighing, Whitey did as the Gambler ordered and sat on the stool across from the Sheriff who was absent-mindedly picking at the filth accumulated under his fingernails.

4.

            The snow bore down heavily upon the old roof. Shackles dangled loosely from the gutter, tapping the glass with enough force to cause several cracks to spread out in a spider web formation.

The Chicken Farmer peered outside of the smudged glass and shouted, "I think he’s back, but I can’t tell.”

In no mood for games, the Sheriff bounded forward and shoved the Chicken Farmer out of the way. Squinting his eyes to get a better look at the sight, he gazed outside then made a sound of confusion.
            "There's something out there. But it sure doesn't look like him."

Draining the last drops from the bottle, the Gambler said, "What the Hell do you mean it don't look like him? Who else would it be?”

"I mean that thing right out there ain't Corey. It's something alright, but it ain't our man."

"Son of a w***e," The Gambler jumped from his seat angrily, then slid the table out of his way and staggered drunkenly towards the door and snatched his coat from the hook.

 "Gimme your gun, Sheriff."

The Sheriff was taken aback by the drunk man's request and simply retracted from him, placing his hand protectively over the holster. "What do you need my gun for?"

The Gambler rolled his eyes then gestured towards the dark figure concealed by the snow and hail with his head. "Gimme the gun. I'm goin' out there and I ain't comin' back in 'til I solve this damn mystery of ours. Unless, of course, you want to go out instead.”

The Sheriff took another look at the tall, hooded figure standing by the edge of the woods watching the lodge and shuddered. The figure looked human, no doubt, but for some reason, the sight of it made him uneasy. The arms of the thing outside were long and abnormally skinny; like twigs hanging off a sapling. Its head was cocked to the right at what looked to be nearly a ninety-degree angle.

“Well?” Joe asked, regaining the Sheriff’s attention, “If I knew you better I may say you seem a bit nervous, Sheriff.”

            “It’s not that. I just hate the cold,” The Sheriff lied.

The Chicken Farmer watched the figure which seemed to sway back and forth as if it had a bad case of vertigo and felt chills run down his spine. The Sheriff didn’t care to look at the unsettling sight again. Joe glanced out of the window and laughed.
            “That’s the Cowboy, alright,” He said with confidence. “Thinks he’s real funny, I bet. Son of a b***h probably knows we’re watchin’ him right now, too. Well, I fancy myself as a pretty funny man, as well.”

Joe reached out and carefully grabbed the Sheriff’s revolver by the butt. The Sheriff’s hand loosened and fell away from the gun. The Gambler chuckled beneath his breath as he withdrew the revolver.

Not scared, my a*s he thought. Then, he tipped his hat at the men inside and headed for the door before being stopped by the Chicken Farmer.

            “Hold up,” Whitey said.

Joe paused and looked at the nervous man with a grin on his face.

“I don’t got a good feeling about this.”

            The Gambler laughed�"liquid courage coursing through his veins�"then lifted up the revolver and shook it lightly, “Neither do I. That’s why I got a gun.”

Joe swung the door open and braved the snow. The figure remained frozen in place, except for its head which turned in his direction. Its swaying became more pronounced. The sight reminded the Chicken Farmer of a drunkard attempting to walk a straight line.

“Lord, let that be the Cowboy.”

5.

            Just like when the Cowboy headed out, a snow flurry began; blocking both the figure and Joe from view. Seconds later, a shrieking yell that sounded like a mix between a bat and a cat with a broken paw came from the white abyss. It was followed immediately after by a fearful and confused shout that undeniably belonged to the Gambler. Four booming gunshots rattled across the sky, then everything went silent; apart from the heavy breathing of the Chicken Farmer and Sheriff, and the whistling of the harsh wind.

            Whitey looked helplessly to the Sheriff who was already at the door, fixing to swing it open.

            “What in God’s name are you doing!?”

            “I gotta check on him, and make sure he’s just playing a cruel joke,” The Sheriff said.

            “If he’s just playin’ a joke you don’t need to humor him!” The Chicken Farmer felt a cold sweat break across his brow as he watched anxiously as the Sheriff debated whether or not to follow in Joe’s foolish footsteps. 

“Plus, you don’t even got a gun if he ain’t.”

            “I’ve got a knife, though,” The Sheriff quickly withdrew a jagged blade used to skin deer from his waistband as proof.

            “Yeah, but that ain’t no gun.”

The Sheriff looked back and forth from the door to Whitey.

“Sheriff, what makes you think you can take on whatever the Hell that thing was with a knife when Joe had your revolver?”

Sighing, the Sheriff removed his hand from the frozen handle; instead flipping the latch to the right of the door to lock it. He walked back to the window and looked outside into the storm. After a moment, the flurry subsided once again. Both Joe and the figure were gone.

            “S**t,” the Sheriff said with a frustrated sigh. He crossed the room angrily and threw the knife to the ground. It impaled a floorboard with a clunk.

 

To Be Continued... 

Part two of three coming: May 12th, 2018