Once Upon A Time in the Past: Book III

Wind whispered in the streets. Dust stirred the air of a little slumberous Missouri town as Chance William Logan sat the firm saddle of his black stallion, Midnight, fox trotting the horse through the dusty haze of a warm autumn morning. His garb—black britches, hat, vest and shirt—stained with trail dust, he rode into town, looking from side to side, his alert, smoky-gray eyes scanning the empty streets and boardwalks.

The sign at the outskirts of town had read there were forty-three people in Black Crow, Missouri. But he had yet to see the first. Towns always have sheriffs or deputies standing out on the boardwalks in front of their office on the lookout for strangers and drifters riding into town. Sheriff nor deputy stood out front of the office this morning. If not for the horses tied at the hitch racks fronting the buildings, Black Crow could have been just another ghost town along the western frontier.

Most of the gray-colored neglected buildings of Black Crow did reminded Chance of ghost towns: Their glassless windows stared somberly toward the empty streets. Their open doors seemed to welcome dust. Yet, in spite their neglected appearance, some buildings showed promise of life: The Dry Goods Store, Black Crow Livery Stables, The County Sheriff’s Office, Black Crow Saloon, and a few other buildings along the stretch.

Suddenly a voiced cried out, “Chance!” just as Midnight made to clop past the livery stables and,

 From Chapter 22 

Chance Logan rolled his coffee cup in his hands. The campfire light reflected on tears crawling down his sad, gaunt cheeks as he thought of death, of his ma and pa, Big Burt, Jesse, young Pete, and Old Jim.

Chance shifted restlessly on the ground where he sat before the crackling fire with his back against the saddle sprawled on the ground. The flames danced off the white bone-handled Colt .45 resting in the holster hanging from the saddlehorn.

A moment, Chance thought he wanted to be with the dead. He was just that lonesome. He was just that alone. Nothing interested him anymore.

A cool breeze blew down from the cottonwoods and hickories at his back. It chilled his bones. He took a stick from the ground and poked at the fire. The fire popped, crackled, and then burned brighter and warmer.

Shaw knew his quarry would fall asleep sometime during the night. And when the outlaw did that would give him an edge—a chance to make a move and then jump the outlaw, hopefully by surprise.

As midnight neared, the air drew colder. Jake Shaw’s frame became chilled. Still the big ex-sheriff did not make a fire to warm his cold, thickening blood. He sat there, steam before his face, on an old rotten log wrapped in thick bedblankets trying to stay warm,.

Winchester cradled in the crook of his arm, the barrel protruding from the blankets hanging off his shoulders, Jack Shaw waited for the night to grow older.

An hour later, Jake Shaw checked his watch. 2:30.

Time passed fast, he thought.

He must have fallen off to sleep while sitting up waiting on the outlaw to fall asleep. Now he shrugged the blankets off his shoulders, letting them fall freely to the ground, jacked a cartridge into the chambers of the Winchester, eased the hammer down, rose to his feet and, Winchester in hand, stood a long time near the log he had been sitting, surveying the night and wondering if the outlaw was asleep yet, as he noticed the fire of his quarry’s camp had died down, reflecting only a feeble, flickering glow.

Or had his quarry let the fire down on purpose?

He had to remember the outlaw was one of a smart and wily hombre, a dead shot with that pistol of his; and he must not underestimate that and not go sneaking up on that outlaw’s camp if the outlaw still was awake. That would be pure suicide. But if he were going to make his move, he would have to do it now, before the morning brought on the sun.

Another hour passed. Jake Shaw became more restless. He could not wait any longer on his foe to fall asleep, if the outlaw wasn’t already.

“The hell with it!” he cursed aloud to himself and sauntered warily to untie his horse. He mounted up and walked the roan within twenty-five yards of the outlaw’s camp. He dismounted, Winchester in hand, and tied his horse to a bush and went the rest of the way on foot. He halted cautiously when he came within firing range of the camp. The hot coals of the outlaw’s fire burned apple-red.

He could smell the fire, the coffee and bacon over the coals. It was of no surprise to him when he saw the outlaw still was awake sitting at the fire with his back to him.