The Streets of Alverone

The Streets of Alverone

A Story by R.Guy Behringer

    The freckled face boy knelt in the sand above the corpse. He heard the door he came through slam close behind him. The wind came in powerful gusts off the moon lit beach, bringing with it, not only particles of the beach itself but dark forms moving slowly towards them from the water and queer sounds.


“Dad-a-chum?”

“Dum-a-chum?”

“Ded-a-chek?”

“Did-a-chick?”


The boy looked down into a ruined face and studied it. The dark forms were getting closer. He could hear snapping noises now along with the weird question-like sounds. The boy then put his finger inside the bullet hole in the corpse’ forehead. The Gunslinger rose to a sitting position, killed all three monsters, re-holstered the revolver and then looked up into the eyes of the freckled face boy. The Stranger grinned back.


      She looked at her own thin and muscular body for a moment as she stood topless before a spotty hotel room mirror. In the old beveled looking glass she studied her scarred body as she ran a hand through her chopped gray hair. Her cold dark brown eyes then looked past her own reflection and focused on the saloon w***e sleeping in the fouled bed behind her. Suddenly her attention was drawn to the door. She watched the light at the threshold change slightly, her right hand already rested on the bone handle of her revolver. The yellowed parchment made a “Sheh” sound as it slid over the dusty floor under the door. After reading the contents of the envelope, she placed it in her saddle bag, pulled her buckskin tog on over her head and walked to the door.


“Winnetka.” a sweet voice came from behind her.


She put her felt sombrero on and quit the room without looking back.


“Winnetka!” the w***e shouted at the cracked and peeling door.


The woman, wrapped in sheets, sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the gold piece left on the bed stand. She bit down on the edge of the coin and then examined it.


“B***h.” she said, quietly and fell back into the pillows with a pleased look on her face.


    The ranger walked through the lobby of the Alverone Hotel and out the front door and into the midday heat, passing an older lady and her daughter carrying baskets of laundry on the boardwalk, and then out into the street. The dirt suddenly burst up in front of her. A rock chip sliced through the corner of her brow. She had drawn her single action revolver and fired as the report of the older Dragoon reached her ears. At the far end of the street, in front of the mercantile, a dead man lay face down. The back of his skull was missing. A fraction of a second later the air was filled with lead, screams and blood spray. The ranger reloaded her six shooter twice and killed as many men. Just before the last one fell from the roof over the livery stable, a shot came from the upstairs window to her left. She swung around and aimed at the same time she heard a body fall on the boardwalk behind her. Turning around, she saw the two ladies cowering behind a rain barrel, their baskets abandoned on the walk. Not more than ten feet from them lay a dead man with his rifle beside him. A pool of blood spreading out from under him. The ranger turned and looked back at the upstairs window. A bald man with a handlebar mustache stood half in and half out of the opening. White curtains billowed out around his thin frame. A rifle lay over his knee. He threw a mock salute toward her and then grinned an unnatural grin. The corners of his mouth almost reaching his ears.


“Ay!” the washer woman said in surprise.


The ranger turned and looked at her just as the daughter stood up and walked to the edge of the street.


“You’re welcome.” the young lady said to her in a deep male voice and then grinned that unnatural grin.


“Dios mio!” the washer woman cried out and then made the sign of the crescent moon on her chest. She cried out


“El Forastero!” pointing at her daughter, who at that moment collapsed on the boards by their laundry baskets.


The ranger re-adjusted the saddle bag over her shoulder and headed down the street to the livery stable. People started coming out into the open again, now that the shooting had stopped. Few paid any attention to her. Most were going through the clothes of the dead and dragging the bodies out of the street. Just as she got to the stables she noticed a bit of graffito scratched into the sash above the door. It read

“Ka is a B***h”

She turned the knob and walked in.

    A freckled face boy had watched the ranger cross the town center and then enter the livery. He followed after her moments later.



© 2018 R.Guy Behringer


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127 Views
Added on December 22, 2018
Last Updated on December 22, 2018
Tags: Fan Fiction, Gunslinger, Sci-fi, Western, Fantasy

Author

R.Guy Behringer
R.Guy Behringer

Lincoln, CA



About
I'm a retired truck driver, married and a father of three grown sons, two pit bulls and one red heeler. I like to play guitar, build and rebuild rifles, hunt wild boar, Fishing, camping, gardening and.. more..

Writing