The night may have been a cold one, but the inside of the bar was warm, and the sting of the whiskey was warmer still as Sheriff Branch tipped the shot into his mouth. He hoped the magic liquid would do battle against the harsh Wyoming weather and thoughts of Janice, who’d up and run off again like she always did. “Pour me another.”
“Now, Sheriff, you and I both know whiskey ain’t a pipe wrench or duct tape.” Freddy leaned across the bar, exposing his large yellow teeth with a grin.
“Well, that’s some shit coming from the man who makes all his money off people coming here to feel better.” Branch clinked his glass against the oak bar, stained almost black.
“Alright, alright, you got me.” Freddy poured another shot and watched as he threw it back. “How long we been friends?”
Branch waved his hand for another pour before he spoke. “Since third grade, but you know that as well as I do. What’re you getting at?”
“I heard the other day, your great grandaddy killed twenty-five Shoshone right here in town, and he’s the reason this whole place is haunted.”
“Yeah, he did, so they say, but there ain’t nothing haunted about this town. He rode out here after the Confederates lost and killed a few Indians, but clearly, he didn’t do a bang-up job because you’re here, ain’t you.”
Freddy’s eyes grew cold as the mirth behind them disappeared. “At least a quarter of me anyway.”
“Now don’t go getting worked up, Freddy. You know I don’t mean anything by it. Let’s get another drink.”
“No, Jason. You’ve had enough for one night. How do you expect to drive home?”
Branch slammed his fist onto the table. “I’m the damn Sheriff and you’re talking to me about driving. Just like Janice.” The last part came in a whisper as he rose to his feet and stumbled into another patron.
“What the hell, Branch?” The man pushed him away.
Branch felt a wave of anger rush over him, and he pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the man’s head. “You dare talk to your Sheriff that way, you mangy piece of trash.”
The man threw his hands into the air and appeared lost for words.
“Lay off him, Branch. You wanna know why Janice left? Well, here it is,” Freddy said.
Branch turned on him. “You been talking to Janice.”
“Yeah, she came by. She’s worried about you. God only knows why.”
“Bet you were screwing her too, weren’t you?”
“Go home, Branch, while you still have a job and some semblance of a life.” Freddy’s pitch was rising, and his voice cracked.
Branch’s thoughts were as jumbled and disarranged as his legs wobbling in place. The only thing he could still feel was anger. He brought the butt of his .45 down on the man’s head. It came away bright red instead of black.
“Branch shit man…” Freddy was yelling for help, but Branch ignored him and stumbled into the starless night.
An owl called far in the distance, but Branch ignored it as he climbed into his truck.
“Branch, hold up, listen. It’s not what you’ve done but what you do now. Don’t start that car, bro.” Freddy was yelling and waving his hands, but Branch offered only his taillights in reply.
He pulled out of the parking lot and began his descent along the winding mountain roads toward home. The darkness seemed endless, and Branch fixed his eyes on the white line, following it as if it were a rescue rope tossed to him from one of the cliffs high above. He was so focused on it that he didn’t see the mountain lion until it was too late. He swerved as it darted across the highway, and for a moment, everything seemed to get darker than it already was.
Branch drove on until he came to Colburn Creek. He stopped on the bridge and stared at the icy water, which was normally rushing down the mountain, but now looked to him as if it were traveling back upstream. He shook his head, blamed it on the whiskey, and traveled on until the clock on his dash read four am and he had no idea where he was anymore.
The town looked like something out of an old Western with wooden buildings lining one long street and little alleyways protruding along the length of its spine. But wasn’t he the Sheriff of the whole county? How could a town he didn’t know appear out of nowhere? Maybe it was a movie set or a rich man’s pet project, and he’d gotten turned around and run onto private property.
Branch put the truck in park beside a hitching post and got out. “Shit.” He jumped back in surprise when something scampered across the road. “No, Branch, it wasn’t a three-headed dog, just three dogs. You’re drunk as Hell and hallucinating again.” It wouldn’t have been the first time. He walked down the empty street and was about to start calling for anyone, but just as he thought the words, a light came on in the old saloon.
A single oil lamp burned on the bar, casting long and violent-looking shadows across the room, which lay empty save for the bartender, who looked as if he were three hundred years old, with great wrinkles covering his face in waves and a long grey beard stretching past his neck. The silence tried to eat its way into Branch’s brain like a parasite, and when a raven called, he jumped and reached for his gun.
“Better put that away, Branch, best to let the raven’s light on you if they will.” The old man laughed and began to cough so violently that he had to lean over and grip his midsection as if trying to keep himself hoisted in the air.
“How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot of people. Name’s Gregory Carron, don’t ask me why.” The old man laughed again, but this time, coughing didn’t follow.
“Ok, well, I’m the Sheriff of this county and I need directions back to Turville.” Branch kept his face from contorting.
“You’re the Sheriff and you don’t know you’re way around? Why don’t you sit down and have a drink while we wait?”
Branch remained standing as if his ankles had just made good friends with some concrete. “I…I got turned around, and I don’t need a drink. I need to go home. Now, answer my question, please.”
“I don’t know any such place, young man. Please, sit.” The old man waved a hand at one of the seats near the bar.
Branch scoffed but obeyed, hoping shift change would bring someone with a brain in their skull.
“Can I get you a drink? Seems we have about two hours yet.” The old man looked at the clock behind the bar.
“Fine, a Coors if you got it.” Branch’s head was starting to throb, like the thunder of hooves in his ears.
“Yep, sure do.” Charron placed a glistening long neck on the bar.
They both fell silent. Branch counted the minutes until sunrise, hoping the ghost town would come to life. The old man was pacing back and forth as if waiting for something. The silence was broken only by Branch nursing his beer until he heard a moan and a soft cry from somewhere on the street.
“There are the others. Wait here.” Charron moved from behind the bar with the speed of a much younger man and came back with his arms wrapped around a young mother holding a crying baby. The woman wore a hospital gown, and the baby was naked and squirmed against his mother, his mouth opening and closing, looking for food that wasn’t there.
“What the hell is going on here?” Branch rose from his stool and put a hand on his sidearm. “She ought to be in a hospital, and that baby needs some…some attention.”
“The baby will be fine, Branch. There is nothing anybody needs here.” Charron set the mother and her child at one of the tables, and she began rocking the babe, who kept crying for a while until it fell asleep.
Branch watched her. Her tear-stained cheeks looked like she’d been through the worst life has to offer. “What is this? Human trafficking?
“Just settle down, Branch. It isn’t anything nefarious. Just part of life.” The old man smiled.
“The Hell it is.” Branch jumped from his seat and grabbed his gun.
The clock chimed. “Welp, time for us to go.” Charron grabbed a lever-action repeating rifle from behind the bar.
Branch looked at the clock. It was 6:30 already. He spun to face the woman. She seemed sad but understanding of something he did not. He turned again toward the window. The Sun hadn’t risen.
“Where’s the Sun? Where’s the Sun?” He stumbled out onto the Saloon’s porch and stared toward the east.
The old man appeared at his shoulder. “Let’s go, Branch. It’s time.”
Branch’s eyes grew wide, and he started to run. “I’ve got to get home.”
“This is your home, son,” Charron called after him.
Branch heard the old man rack a shell into the chamber of the rifle and fire. The bullet felt like someone had dripped hot slag on his bare skin. He fell to the ground, and the next instant the old man was gripping his collar and pulling him to his feet. “You’ve killed me.” Branch cried.
The old man laughed and pulled him onward with the mother and child in tow.