Greyback - Chapter 1 - Spurs, Irons, and Lead

 Chapter 1 - Spurs, Irons, and Lead - Part 1




    A train stops at station in a small boomtown in the New Mexico Territory. A man named Conwell, in a ragged grey, Confederate uniform, stands in the doorway of one of the train cars. The sun beats down on the small frontier town and dust fills the air. Conwell is in his late twenties, has rugged brown hair, and a bit of scruff on his chin. After he exits the train he steps onto the reddish dirt ground and looks around. People push past him as they get off the train, but Conwell just stands there for a while and takes in the town. He watches as a lady struggles to lug her large suitcase off the train. He walks over to her.

 
Conwell reaches down to help her, "Here miss, I can help ya."

The lady looks up and sees him, "UH! I don’t want no help from a greyback!" 

Conwell backs off and lets the lady continue to struggle with her suitcase. 

   After a few minutes of walking down the dusty main street, he heads into a large wooden building labeled "Saloon". When he steps inside the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke fill his nostrils and sound of a piano being played is almost drown out by people talking and the sounds of coitus coming from rooms upstairs. He goes and sits at the bar. The bar tender comes over to him and asks him what he wants to drink. "Whiskey", Conwell replied and the bar tender pulled out a very scuffed up bottle from under the counter and poured Conwell a shot. He downed it and gave the bar tender a quarter before turning around to watch the other people in the saloon. Suddenly an older man, probably in early fifties, with long, light brown hair, and a light brown beard walked in and sat down at the bar next to Conwell. He didn’t pay any mind to the older man and kept on watching the people. The man next to Conwell examined him for a few moments before talking to him.

 "What's your name son?", the older man said as he downed a shot of whiskey.

"Conwell, sir." Conwell said as he turned to the man.

"Sir?", the man said with a light chuckle. "I like that, a man who gives respect to his elders."

"Respect is all I got left to give." Conwell replied.

The man downed another shot whiskey, "Well son, that’s the best thing to give. Even if that’s all ya got."

"I reckon so." Conwell replied, not seeming to interested in the conversation.

"Why did you come out here if all's you got is respect? Was it tails of mountains filled with gold? Or the whores that don’t stop?", the man asked with horse chuckle.

Conwell now turned to face the man, "I ain't come for none of that, sir."

"Then what did ya come for?", the man asked.

"To start over. I lost it all in the war. My farm, money, and house." Conwell replied and ordered another shot of whiskey.

"So let me get this straight. Ya lost everythin' and you come to this little piece of hell in the middle of the desert?", the man replied a little shocked.

Conwell drank the shot of whiskey, "If this is hell, then I'm right where I belong."

The man laughed, "Ain't we all Mr. Conwell. Ain't we all."

   Conwell didn’t respond and turned his attention back to the people in the saloon. Most sat around tables, playing poker or just taking. Others were leaning against the walls smoking pipes, cigars, and cigarettes. After a long period of just watching the people, the older man spoke again.

"Hey. Son, how's 'bout I give you a job so ya can earn some money?", the man said to Conwell.

Conwell turned to face the man, "Depends, What's the work?"

"Well Mr. Conwell, we have been having some problems with a gang of Irish men. They’ve been terrorizing the town for 'bout a month." The man replied.

"What's you ask'n?" Conwell said a little interested.

"I's ask'n ya to help keep an eye on the town. We ain't got no sheriff no more." The man said and paid the bar tender for the whiskey.

"Why? What happened to him?" Conwell asked.

The man smiled slightly, "You're look'n at him. 'bout three months ago I took a bullet to the hand and now my trigger finger ain't to sharp no more."

Conwell sighed, "What's in it for me?"

   The man pulled out and holster with a revolver in it. He set it on the table and pulled the revolver out. It was scuffed up and the grip was cracked slightly. "This is what's in it for ya. Plus a dollar a day and ten dollars for every criminal you either put behind bars or kill."

Conwell thought about it for a moment. What better choice did he have? The man was practically offering him a stop a sheriff!

"Sure. I'll do it." Conwell replied and he took the holster and revolver.

   Conwell put on the holster and made sure the revolver was loaded before putting in the holster.