Authors: R.D. Sherrill
Red Dog Saloon
RED DOG SALOON
BY
R.D. SHERRILL
© 2013 Duane
Sherrill
All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
First Edition
– October 2013
Cover design
Copyright © 2013 Seth Wright
The following is
a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any real persons or events.
He
ran from the country church unrepentant and unforgiven, the bitter February
wind slapping him in the face like an invisible hand as he dashed into the
snowy night. If there was a Hell he no doubt was going there. Not just for his
past deeds, but for what he was about to do. However, if he had his way this
evening, Hell would have to wait until his body of work was complete, his
curriculum vitae reserving him a special place in the bowels of the earth.
For
now he had a date with destiny, a date toward which he willingly raced forcing
aside his fear as he concentrated on the matter at hand. His fate hung in the
balance. A steady mind and steady hand was key to surviving his showdown with
the dark man. His personal Armageddon was just minutes away.
Sure,
he considered turning his car into the wind and going the other way. He could
flee Castle County forever, but somehow he knew the reaper would pursue him to
the ends of the Earth until their business was done. There would be no rest for
the wicked. Besides, he had invested too much, risked too much to cut and run
this close to the end. He too, like the dark man, had blood on his hands
leaving an invisible stain that would never wash off.
Even
as he climbed into his car taking momentary refuge from the cold, he realized
his antagonist was waiting for him at the old Red Dog Saloon. The dark man was
looking to complete his collection of souls and finish collecting the tab they
ran up long ago at the rural tavern. For the others, his fellows in sin, the
price had already been paid, that price being their lives. He didn’t plan the
same fate to befall him. He refused to be a victim, a frightened child ducking
his head under the covers after hearing things go bump in the night. He would
stand up to his fears; devour them if he could. His defiance of his fate made
him stronger.
His
tires spun on the icy road as the rubber struggled to find grip on the snow-covered
lane. The winter storm had dumped a fresh coat of powder turning the landscape
into a sea of white. The bodies in the trunk helped add some weight to the rear
of the vehicle, stabilizing the handling enough where he could hold it between
the ditches.
If
he had his way, the two corpses in his trunk would be joined by a third dearly
departed soul in the next few minutes. That was if the dark man even had a
soul. All would share the same watery grave in the murky depths of Castle Lake,
forever concealed in the lowest reaches of the Bottomless Pit.
His
last-minute stop for absolution at the church, something he found to be a
wasted endeavor, put him behind schedule as he now had to hurry over the
treacherous roads to make his nine o’clock appointment. His knuckles were
white as he held a death grip on his steering wheel as his car sliced through
the curtain of snow. Being late was not an option, not for this appointment
anyway.
He
threw on his brakes as he saw the turn suddenly materialize from the whiteout.
His bowling bag flew forward onto the front floorboard and landed with a thud.
The car slid sideways as he stood on his brakes, driving into the skid. His
talent behind the wheel likely kept him from running over an embankment as he
was able to collect the vehicle and continue on.
His
degree of difficulty would increase; however, as he flipped off his headlights
for the final leg of his journey. He couldn’t afford to let the dark man know
he was coming. The element of surprise was the key to his plan, and as such,
key to his survival.
All
he could do now was navigate the dark lane using the piles of snow on either
side of the road as his guide, keeping his car in the middle of the two
ditches. There would be no other traffic this evening. The people of Castle
County were known for their fear of bad weather. Most locals would make
pilgrimages to the grocery store ahead of such storms for milk and bread as if
they were preparing for a zombie apocalypse when a dusting of snow was in the
forecast. This was the biggest snow storm in memory thus insuring just he and
the dark man were the only two braving the elements.
It
took only a few minutes, despite his slow progress, to reach his destination,
or at least the place he would park his get-away vehicle. He sat in the
driver’s seat for a moment still clutching his steering wheel as he considered
what he was about to do. Then, preparing himself for the shock of the biting
cold, he opened the door. The chill was even worse than it was minutes earlier
when he started his journey. He wasted no time opening the rear door and
pulling out his hunting rifle complete with night vision scope. He didn’t
always give the deer a fighting chance, enjoying a good night hunt from time to
time. But then, illegal hunting was the least of the crimes he had committed
over the course of his lifetime.
He
immediately began climbing the snowy hill before him, refusing to pause to give
himself time to rethink what he was doing and perhaps back out. His frozen
breath poured from his face as he puffed with the strain of each step. The
frigid air ripped through his lungs like little daggers as he pulled himself
toward the crest of the hill. The snow was starting to slow but the bitter wind
still swept the loose powder across the landscape making the ascension a chore.
The accumulation reached high on his ankles, the overflow cascading into his
shoes where it immediately began freezing his feet. His toes were going numb
despite his thick socks. This was no way to spend Lincoln’s birthday.
After
what seemed like an endless climb, he reached the pinnacle of the hill. He kept
himself low against its face as he slithered the last few feet, parting the
snow with his unprotected hands. He paused as he reached the peak which
overlooked the valley where the infamous Red Dog Saloon stood more than twenty
years ago. He took a moment to blow into his tingling hands, trying to return
some feeling to his fingers. He had to be quick about his mission. The cold
would not allow him time to procrastinate.
Wiggling
his fingers, his top knuckles already frozen tight, he slid his rifle through
an opening in the snow and peered through his scope into the valley which lay a
few hundred feet below his vantage point. His night vision scope relayed an
eerie greenish rendering of the flat valley as he panned it from left to right
looking for any signs of movement. It didn’t take him long for his cross hairs
to find their target.
There
he was! It was the dark man waiting for him in the middle of the snow-covered
field, atop the ashes of the former tavern. This would be their final showdown.
One of them would die tonight and, from the looks of things, it was going to be
the dark man.
He
looked through his scope for a few moments. He was not only watching to see if
the dark man made any movements but also to see if there were any others
lurking in the shadows. He assumed the dark man had come alone and that he had
worked alone during his murderous rampage but he couldn’t be careful enough.
The stakes were too high.
Satisfied
no one else was witness to what was about to happen, he took careful aim at the
center of mass and wiggled his trigger finger back and forth to unlock his
joint. Then, holding his breath just as if he was about to drop a buck, he
slowly pulled the trigger. A twinkling of an eye later the tranquil night
exploded, the fire from the muzzle of his rifle blinding him momentarily as it
flashed off the pristine snow while the butt of the rifle cracked against his
shoulder. Had he hit his target?
He
dared lift his head from behind his snowy cover, straining to see into the
night with his naked eye. The darkness prevented him from seeing any movement.
Falling back onto his belly, he again peered into his rifle scope. He panned
across the landscape until his sights again found his target. The figure was
still standing from what he could tell. The darkness of his clothes cloaked
whether he was facing him or facing away. Had he missed him? If he had, why was
the figure still standing exposed in the open field? Why hadn’t he taken cover
or, even worse, returned fire?
Clenching
his teeth and closing his left eye, he took careful aim through his scope, the
cross hairs lined up perfectly on his target. Then, flinching in anticipation
of the eruption of sound and fire, he squeezed off another round, then another,
and another and another in quick succession. The gunfire split the serene
silence of the countryside like claps of thunder.
Surely
the dark man was dead. He couldn’t have missed with that many shots. He had
laid down a veritable wall of fire.
The
sniper again peered through his scope. The figure in the valley was now on his
knees from what he could make out through the grainy picture. Perhaps he hadn’t
struck the fatal blow. A kill shot would have laid out his target. However, the
fact the form was dropped meant he had found his mark. Polishing off the
wounded animal would be little more than a formality. He would finish the job
up close and personal. Besides, he wanted to see the face of his vanquished
opponent before ending him once and for all.
With
that he charged over the hill, rifle in hand like a soldier attacking out of
his foxhole. He slid down the snowy hill forgetting the cold as the burst of
adrenaline from the excitement of the moment made him feel invincible. He had
won. He was the sole survivor in a game of life and death. All he had to do now
was claim his trophy.
Reaching
the bottom of the hill, he cautiously approached his quarry. He looked for any
signs of movement. There was none. His prey sat slumped on the ground.
However,
his elation was short-lived as something didn’t seem right as he approached the
dark figure. Then he saw it as he crept a few feet from his quarry. The vanquished
target was leaning against a pole! He could now clearly see the dark metal top
of the pole protruding above the form, something he couldn’t see through his
scope from the top of the hill. What was going on?
He
circled the black-clad figure that lie before him, his gun still pointed at the
prone target. Then, timidly reaching out, he poked the seemingly lifeless body
with the still warm rifle barrel. There was still no movement. He must be dead.
Adding to the evidence was a crimson puddle which had formed beneath him.
Convinced
the dark man no longer presented a threat, he reached out to remove the mask
that covered the figure’s face. His hands shook uncontrollably, perhaps from
the cold or perhaps from the excitement of the kill. Grasping the covering, he
gave it a tug. The mask fell onto the snow and into the pool of blood below.
He
froze as he gazed into the dead stare of the man before him, casting aside his
rifle as he dropped to his knees before the figure. The dark man had won.