Fantastic Shorts

Seven Hundred and Seventy-Six-1

Seven Hundred and Seventy-Six

The handle of the revolver was the nicest part. That wasn’t saying much. It hung down like the long, bulbous nose of a drunkard. It may have been a smooth chestnut brown at one time, but now it was chipped and cracked, covered in scratches like a rattlesnake that had been on the losing end of a badger fight. Running along the side, between the trigger and the hammer, was what may have once been fine silver plating. Now it was tarnished to match the rusted barrels and cylinder.

Floyd Usher wondered about the last time it had been fired, if ever.

He lifted his eyes from his desk where the pistol lie and blinked at the man seated across from him. “You say you want $776? Nothing more. Nothing less.”

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, yessir, I... It’s just...I need a coach to Tombstone and a train ticket out of there.”

Floyd wasn’t sure what to say. Was this some sort of practical joke on the part of the security guards? He noticed Carl standing against the wall near the front door with his arms crossed, one boot pressed against the floor, the other against the wall. His face was expressionless and it was hard to tell what he was looking at under the lowered brim of his hat. He was always funning Floyd, and if this was one of his jokes, Mr. Howard would hear about it once again. If it wasn’t, well, Floyd was glad it was Thursday and Carl was on shift.

The man took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his dirty, sweat-streaked forehead. It was a warm June day for sure, but the inside of the bank was cool enough.

Floyd knew a little about guns. It was nearly impossible not to when living in a land where the law was thin and enforcement was thinner. But he was still a bank clerk and his weapons were pen and script.

Eyeing the gun again, he realized it wasn’t a modern revolver, like a Colt or anything like that. It was an older flintlock. Something of a relic.

“You don’t need $776 for a ticket,” Floyd said, thinking in the back of his mind that if this gun was all the man had to offer, he wouldn’t get seven cents.

Floyd was half-listening to the man’s stammering reply and, for some reason, decided to pick up the weapon. It felt unusually heavy and uncomfortable in his hands and he put it back down immediately. He lifted his head to see traces of a hopeful smile disappear from the man’s face.

“I’m sorry, Mr...”

A momentary pause.

The man said, “McKay.” He let out a deep breath as if he had been holding it since walking in. “And save it.” He pushed his leather chair back, stood up, and leaned in to Floyd. “Just tell me if you’re gonna give me the $776 or not. I ain’t got time for chewin’ the fat.”

McKay’s breath was putrid, a result of yellowed teeth and dark gums hanging inches from Floyd’s face. Steam piled up on the banker’s circular lenses. He leaned back and removed his glasses. He pulled his own kerchief from a shirt pocket and wiped them vigorously, as if they had contracted a disease.

“Look,” Floyd said, feeling slightly unnerved but still observing a habit of politeness. “I don’t know that this is worth enough for what you need. It appears to be pretty old and has clearly seen better days.” He was being generous. “The manager isn’t going to authorize any loan based on this. You may want to check with Dade down at the general. He could be willing--”

McKay interrupted, “Already did. Why do you think I’m here?” His eyes darted almost aimlessly, like a man caught between decisions. Beneath the wiry, unkempt beard, his flesh wobbled and shook like a bowl of gelatin pudding.

“Everything okay?”

Floyd felt his skin cool. Carl had approached quietly from behind and stood stiff and imposing behind Mr. McKay.

Well played, Carl, Floyd thought. Well played.

Floyd decided he could play along too and said, “Mr. McKay is looking for assistance, but we can’t provide him any.”

“I guess that means his business is done here then?” Though phrased as a question, no answer was expected.

It was in that moment that McKay’s cheeks shook even more and his eyes started welling up. Floyd felt a sudden sense of shame. Maybe the man was serious? He looked toward Carl for a hint of a smile. Something to indicate the jig was up.

If this was a joke, Carl gave no sign.

Floyd’s good Christian sense tugged at his heart, but it was quickly put back in its place as Mr. McKay spread his hands and shoved all of Floyd’s pencils and account books off his desk and onto the floor.

Carl took another step toward Mr. McKay, but the man grabbed his worthless pistol and ran out the door before a hand could be laid upon him.

“Some folks ain’t got a lick of sense, huh?” Carl asked no one in particular as he walked away.

Floyd stared after him, dumbfounded. The idle sounds of the bank seeped into his ears once more, beckoning him back to work. He bent down and picked up his papers.

* * *

Darkness greeted Floyd as he locked the door behind him and began the quarter-mile journey toward home. Mr. Howard, the manager, had headed left early to catch a coach to Tucson and entrusted Floyd to wait for Tony, the night guard, before locking up. The problem was the oaf was late, again, and Floyd had waited him out until his stomach started growling. Tony had his own set of keys anyway. Floyd would have yet another conversation with Mr. Howard tomorrow.

Not that J. Howard Bank & Trust saw much action anyway. It was a small fish. It had a tiny safe, miniscule compared to the larger vaults out of the Tucson or Flagstaff banks, and it never held a large reserve of precious metals or cash. For those lucky few who prospected the surrounding desert mountains and actually found something, it was mainly a temporary holding spot, a safer place than loose pockets.

Floyd debated whether or not to go straight home. His nerves were shot after his encounter with the strange man and he didn’t feel like dealing with Jinnie. Something had gotten into her over the past few months. Floyd couldn’t entirely place its cause. He’d tried to dig into it occasionally, but she would button up and tell him he’s imagining things, relentless in her secrecy. She seemed resentful, of leaving Boston and moving to Cordson, this tiny frontier town in Arizona. But some days she would have a smile on her face and would move with such grace, as if her feet were being carted around on tiny rickshaws. Those were the good days. On most of the days, though, Floyd had only come home from the bank because the bed was more comfortable than sleeping on a stiff chair.

We should never have come here, she’d often say. It’s so damn boring.

Floyd cringed whenever she cursed.

He would offer to take her out, but she’d refuse, saying that if she had to step one more time into the Coyote Saloon, she’d seize up and die right on the spot. Several times, he’d gotten so frustrated with her inexplicable mood swings to the point that he began thinking really hard about throwing her out. It was he who owned the deed to the house, after all. But he knew he was too much of a coward to do such a thing. Though they hadn’t touched each other in months, he’d convinced himself that there was still hope.

All of this ran through his mind as he realized he had turned around and was headed toward the Coyote for a sarsaparilla and a meal. Jinnie probably wouldn’t have made him any supper tonight. Besides, it was always entertaining to watch braver men gamble on hands of faro.

* * *

If not for the light wind carrying across the main street, Floyd would have lingered in his thoughts, undisturbed by what sounded like deep, heaving sobs.

He halted to determine the source. The cries stopped just as abruptly, but turned into frenzied, whispered shouts.

“I tried!” the voice hissed. “I tried! I just can’t.”

Then the sobbing returned.

Floyd squinted and picked up his hat as if it would help him hear better. It was hard to place the source, but it sounded like it was coming from fifty or so yards across the street, under the moonlit shadows of the stoop outside the livery.

The harsh whispers came again. “Shut up! I won’t do it!”

The violence in the voice made Floyd’s neck hairs come to a salute.

A final, painful cry.

And then a loud bang.

Instinctively, Floyd ducked down behind the picketed, wooden railing on the edge of the boardwalk and held on to the top of his hat.

A puff of white smoke drifted out from the side of the livery. Now he could see a lightly drawn silhouette of a man pressed against the wooden slats of the livery. Shock and a general unsurety of what to do kept Floyd in place.

For just a moment, there was no discernable motion from either Floyd or whoever was across the street. Curious, he started to straighten up.

Another shot and another puff of smoke.

The vibration and splintered piece of boardwalk inches from his right shoe indicated that he was the intended target.

“Nooo,” the voice cried. The silhouette became flesh as it emerged from the shadows and barrelled toward Floyd.

The frightened banker’s legs decided that someone ought to step up, so they took on a life of their own and Floyd was immediately running back towards home. He felt he was moving quickly, but he turned and it seemed the man was moving more quickly. Floyd realized he wouldn’t make it to the house before being overtaken. A quick decision was made to hole up inside the bank. What safer place?

He scrambled breathlessly, his feet pounding the boardwalk, until he reached the bank door and yanked at the handle. It barely budged.

Idiot, he thought.

He fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Mr. Howard had insisted on two separate locks when he had the door installed and now Floyd cursed him for it. A part of him told him to look back, to be aware, but his focus was on stilling his shaky hands, retrieving the keys and getting inside.

“Mr. Usher.”

The familiar voice was directly behind him now and as he lifted the ring of keys to the bottom lock, they slipped from his fingers onto the wooden boardwalk. Floyd’s stomach dropped.

Am I the only one awake in this town, he asked himself. But of course he knew from experience that if there was trouble, the few residents would rather ignore the situation than get involved.

“Please. Turn around, Mr. Usher. I don’t want to shoot a man in the back.”

McKay’s voice was shaky.

He’s trying to rob me, was Floyd’s first thought. His second thought was that he’d be very disappointed as it was the beginning of the week and most of the bank’s reserves were off with Mr. Howard to those vaults in Tucson.

Finally, after enough thinking, Floyd conjured up the bravery to turn around. The barrel of the rusted flintlock was pointed in his face. From any other viewpoint, it would be a humorous thing to see. A part of him could hardly believe the antique worked at all, but his memory quickly reminded him that he had been shot at once, maybe twice.

Floyd raised his shaking hands. “Please, Mr. McKay--”.

“Shhh…” McKay interrupted. “Do you hear it?”

Floyd nodded his head like a woodpecker.

“Yes, I heard the shots, I--”

“No!” McKay said. Floyd noticed that his voice was choked with emotion and under the half-moon, he could see tear-carved streaks running down the man’s dirty face. He inclined his nose towards the flintlock. “The whispers. The goddamn whispers.” Mr. McKay emphasized goddamn as if he were literally cursing something.

Floyd began to realize that he was dealing with a madman. In the seven months that he and Jinnie had been in this tiny town, they’d heard tales of men found dead in the surrounding granite hills, driven insane by the their lust for gold and silver and their lack of results. Now here was another one, only this time, he didn’t have the decency to die outside of town and he was going to take out Floyd instead.