The Dying of the Light
The one-eyed man came riding out of the dying of the day, with the sunset glowing bloody behind him and the lights of Horsehead gleaming ahead. He rode a buckskin mustang with flopped ears and a good stride, and he wore the brim of his battered grey hat pulled low to shade his patched left eye. A black bandana shielded his face from dust and from sight, and a tired black hound trotted at his horse's heels.
He reined in at the Silver Needle, loosened his cinch and let the horse drink from the public trough. The dog drank too, and then curled up in the shadows under the mustang's belly. The rider cupped a handful of water, splashed it under his bandana, and beat the pale dust from his hat against his jeans. His hair was grey too, but not with dust. He tugged his hat low on his brow again, and unbuttoned the flap that held his pistol secure in his holster. The polished grip slid easily in his hand. He dropped it down again, and stepped up onto the porch.
Light spilled out through the batwing doors of the saloon, with a high curl of voices and laughter, the tinny edge of a badly played piano, the ripe stink of alcohol and sweat and sawdust. The one-eyed rider stepped quickly through and to the side.
His single grey eye took in the saloon at a swift glance. A handful of cow punchers playing five-card stud at one table; a drunk banging away at the piano; a faro dealer with his blond hair slicked back and his lazy smile mocking the men he was cheating. In the corner, a big man with a handle-bar mustache and a gold watch-chain suit held court with several punchers and two whores. The one-eyed rider's gaze lingered on him for a long moment before it slid back to the faro dealer.
Then he crossed the dusty floor in a jingle of spurs and leaned up against the bar. "Whiskey," he told the bartender quietly. "You serve meals here?"
"Beans and beef," the bartender said, sliding a glass across to him. "Want anything fancier, Sophie's across the street does good chow. She'll be closing at ten."
"Beef'll do me," the rider said. He tossed back his whiskey under his bandana, winced at the burn, and tapped the glass down on the bar again. A commotion at the poker table caught his attention for a moment; a rangy young puncher chipped in with a laugh and a curse, shoved his chair back, and wavered for a moment before he found his balance and his hat. He weaved his way to the bar, stumbling over someone's foot, catching himself on the back of the chair and apologizing with a grin so wide that the injured man couldn't seem to take offense. He was clearly drunk--but somehow, the one-eyed man noticed, his hands never got tangled. He wore a horn-handled pistol low on his right hip, and the rider would have bet gold he knew how to use it.
"Whiskey!" the kid hollered as he hit the bar and clung to it, just short of the rider's left shoulder. He blinked, refocused, and grinned. He was several inches taller than the one-eyed man, with a wild shock of black hair and a faded shirt that had been bright red when it was new. He was handsome in a dark, reckless way, but the gun at his hip had probably been cleaned more recently than his face had. "You holdin' us up or somethin'?" he asked, staring with fascination at the dark bandana under the shadow of the rider's hat. "Most punchers'll take off the bandana to drink, y'know..."
"Guess I'm not most men," the rider said.
"Guess not," the kid agreed. He rubbed the back of his neck, drained his whiskey, and signalled the bartender for another. "An' one for my pal here," he added cheerfully. "You ridin' through?"
"Maybe," the rider said. "Depends on what I find here."
"Whole lotta nothing," the kid said. He picked up his shotglass, found it was empty, and stared, puzzled, at the amber film on the bottom. "Ol' Man Benton's dead, and his son's buyin' the town out. Bringin' his own riders in. Just bought out Jake Forsyth at the Bar J, and Jake's been here since before we had a Boot Hill." The next round came; he brooded into his new shotglass for a moment before he drank. "I been ridin' at the Bar J these last three years. Made foreman this roundup. An' now Jake's heading back East to live with his daughter..."
"That Benton?" the rider asked, jerking his hand at the big man with the whores in the corner.
"Huh?" the puncher looked around so fast he nearly tripped himself; he had to clutch at the bar to keep his feet. "Nah, that's Gatlin. Came in to help Tom Benton run things just before the old man kicked it." He sneered. "Thinks he's a big shot around town. Word says he was a gunman down on the Rio Bravo, but it weren't him bucked Danny Irons last week, anyway--"
The shotglass cracked in the one-eyed rider's hand. "Danny Irons is dead?"
"You knew 'im?" The kid's sneer died away. For a moment he looked almost sober. "He was a good man."
"The best." The rider stared down at the cracked shards of glass glittering between his fingers, the drops of amber liquid threaded with blood splattering on the bar. He pulled a sliver out of his palm and threw a dollar down on the counter. "See you around, kid."
"Riley Torres."
The one-eyed rider hesitated halfway to the door. "You can call me Shadow," he said finally, and left.