“It wasn’t my fault,” the man said. A crafty look crossed his pocked features.
“That Dark Man done it. He pushed her down there. He does all kinds of bad shit.”
Matt Cahill felt a chill in his bones. Mr. Dark is here?
Before he could ask any questions, the two teens started screaming and waving. Someone was coming from the highway. Their father at long last, driving a battered white police cruiser.
It said “Dry Wells Sheriff” on the side.
CHAPTER TWO
Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 9:06 a.m.
Matt Cahill walked down the sidewalk and through the ghost town with Sheriff Pickens by his side. Word of the rescue had spread quickly. Folks came out onto the old wooden sidewalks to stare, and a few older people even cheered him. It seemed there were very few residents left in this town. Most of the young citizens had moved away in search of better schools and jobs. Those who stayed behind had a deep love for local traditions and the state’s rich history. Clearly the teen he had saved was a precious commodity, and Dry Wells was understandably grateful for Matt’s good deed.
Their sheriff was a big man, wide and tall, with white hair bound in a ponytail and a large, arrogant beard. He looked to be in his early sixties, and Matt had taken him for an ex-hippie who’d originally come out to a commune to smoke pot and get laid. Pickens was the kind of man who grew up and sobered up but had never returned home. His tan uniform was stretched tight across his ample belly and thick arms, and his chest hair was like a scrap of white shag carpet. His wife had died some time ago.
“Thanks, mister!” a gray-haired woman called. She was dressed as a nineteenth-century prostitute, frilly dress and all. She probably ran the tourist shop beneath the old brothel. Feeling a bit silly, Matt waved hello. He felt like a politician on parade.
“You’re welcome.”
Matt Cahill had stuffed his battered hat in his pocket and slung the bedroll, long ax, and backpack over his right shoulder. Although he certainly looked the part of a cowboy, Matt came from timber country. The nearby Ruby Mountains looked a lot more like home than this ghost town did. Matt didn’t belong down with these flatlanders, on the edge of an eternal desert. He tried to smile and get past this experience, but he felt distracted.
His mind was on what the miner Kearns had said-something that made it sound like his nemesis, the Dark Man, had been here recently. Matt figured he would put in just enough time with the sheriff to be polite, and then go back and check out that possibility. He felt better on his own and out in the open anyway. On top of that, he’d already attracted way too much attention. Sooner or later someone would recognize him.
Knowing he was trapped for the time being, Matt tried to relax and let his momentary celebrity roll off him. He smiled and waved and let people shake his hand.
“Buy you a beer?” Sheriff Pickens said. “Least I can do.”
Matt said, “I’m sure you have more important things to do. I think I’ll just relax for a while and then be on my way, if that’s okay.”
“It’s your town for as long as you want it,” Sheriff Pickens said. “We’re beyond grateful for what you’ve done.”
Matt paused on the sidewalk and took in his surroundings. Though there were homes and small ranches surrounding it, historic Dry Wells itself looked like the abandoned set of a classic cowboy movie. The narrow wooden-plank sidewalks were bordered by split-rail horse hitches and fronted small buildings faded by weather and the relentless Nevada sun. The overall shape of the tourist town was loosely oval, with the main opening facing east. The sheriff’s office and small jail cells sat at the west end, with a small alley on either side. In the center of the street sat a small gazebo littered with beer bottles and trash.
To the north and south there were empty storefronts, a grocery, Wally’s Saloon, a closed tourist shop, a two-story hotel with a handful of empty rooms, and an abandoned movie theater. On the other side of the street sat an office and stables. A hand-lettered sign read “Vet.” Next to that building squatted an old whorehouse left fully decorated just for show.
All in all, it was kind of fun.
Pickens laughed. “You trying to memorize the place?”
“I like it,” Matt said. “I come from a small town.”
The sheriff grinned. “Folks say we should put a mirror at one end, just to make it look bigger. Come on, let’s get us some shade.”
The two men walked briskly west past the old hotel towards the alley, boots thumping over the splintering wooden boards. The Nevada sun sat in the pale sky like a huge white blister, and the heat remained oppressive, the air dry and still. Back to the east, where the town opened up, a pair of black vultures swam a lazy oblong over roadkill. Nothing moved on the black ribbon of highway. Many of the town’s storefronts were empty, a lot of the windows broken. Matt licked his lips. It would be high noon soon. Most living things wouldn’t want to be outside. Damn, it gets hot…
As if reading his mind, Sheriff Pickens said, “You want to wait an hour or two before you go back out there.”
“I’m starting to agree with you.”
The radio on the sheriff’s belt crackled and he answered it. “What’s going on, Barbara?”
A woman spoke hurriedly, something about an accident. Pickens sighed. “I got me something to take care of, Mr. Cahill. How about you go on inside and relax for a bit. Maybe we can talk again before you leave.”
“Sure.”
“Look,” the sheriff said, “please reconsider letting us put you up for the night. I’d at least like to buy you a big steak dinner.”
When Matt didn’t respond, Pickens sighed. “You’ll think on it?”
“I’ll think about it,” Matt said, just to get away. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 10:59 a.m.
As the wickedly hot desert wind moaned and strained at the dusty bathroom window, Sally Morgan stared into the cracked mirror above the sink and ran a brush through her long blond hair. Sally was still on the right side of thirty, but her blue eyes were losing their twinkle, some fine lines had broken through, and her body was softening. She sighed. Life had taken a pretty girl born to conquer the world and stuffed her into a tight waitress outfit. It was like a bad practical joke. She sniffed her armpits, sprayed on a little more perfume, and returned to work.
The tiny saloon called Wally’s was dimly lit, festooned with neon beer signs and old cowboy memorabilia. A large antique wagon wheel hung over the polished wooden bar, and George Jones whined from an antique jukebox. The street entrance was a dented metal door, but the inner entry was all atmosphere-old style batwings with slats. Sawdust covered the floor. Sally often wondered what had prompted the owner to invest in a tourist saloon in old-town Dry Wells, much less name it after himself.
Wally’s was a dump.
The joint was never crowded, barely turned a profit. Then again, what the hell prompted her to continue to stay here? At least Wally got to live in the saloon and stay drunk all day, which he was right now, passed out facedown on the bar. All Sally got was spare change, smart-assed remarks about hooking, and tiny bruises on her ass cheeks from all the pinching.
Kyle Brody was still in his corner, nursing a beer. Sally knew he had a thing for her. Whenever he could get away from the garage, he’d hang around like some kind of bodyguard, trying to act charming, but Kyle was a big, clumsy boy with red hair and blotchy freckles. Still, maybe he was the best she’d be able to do. Sally hadn’t had sex since that charming traveling salesman had turned out to be a Mormon from Utah with three wives and thirteen kids. Kyle smiled. Sally smiled back.