By Lincoln Reed

“Don’t be a fool, son.” The saloon’s bartender nodded toward the revolver holstered on my belt. “This town got a history. On the full moon—”

“I ain’t scared of no Wyatt Earp. No killer, frontier, quick-shooting lawmen are going to get me, no sir.” I downed my drink. “Pretty sure Johnny Ringo and his outlaws are six feet below, too. Tombstone’s gunslinging days—long gone. Besides, this thing’s a replica. Goes with the costume.”

“Straight to your motel. Don’t linger—”

“Or what?”

The bartender, a grizzled man with cold eyes and a harrowed face, shook his head. “This town’s too tough to die… and so are its spirits.”

I wiped my mouth and tipped my cowboy hat. Sure.

Outside, an April moon draped the town of Tombstone in a blue sheen, masking shadows over dark windows of tourist shops and closed saloons. No street lamps. No nighttime critter chatter.

My breath plumed in the crisp desert air as my boots clopped the boardwalk. I dug my fingers into my duster coat pocket, searching for my room key, when I heard a whistle.

I paused. Glanced left and right. Not a soul on the street. No cars. No pedestrians. Just me—a cosplaying cowboy toting a six shooter that couldn’t fire bullets, let alone blanks. A red sash adorned my waist and a five o’clock beard completed the ensemble. My best Johnny Ringo impersonation.

I chuckled to myself. Bartender’s getting to you, huh?

I ambled along the boardwalk until another whistle danced upon the air, shrill and piercing. What the…?

Ahead of me, standing in the middle of the street, loomed a figure dressed in black. Two eyes as red as hellfire peeked from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, boring through my skin, clawing the courage from my bones. A tattered coat dangled around his bony shoulders. Two arms drooped at the stranger’s sides, loose and ready like two rattlesnakes prepared to strike. His gaze locked with mine, craning his neck as one does when studying an insect before squishing it.

He raised his right arm, crooked index finger curling, urging me toward him.

A shiver scuttled down my spine as my feet cemented to the boardwalk, fear tingling every hair on my body. My mouth dried with a metallic aftertaste. Sweat collected at my brow.

The dark figure wiggled his finger once more like a master calling his dog, beckoning me off the boardwalk and into the dirt street.

I thought about turning around, running away, calling for help, but everything inside me stiffened with sobering dread. The entire world blurred except for the man with the red eyes and a face as bony as the Crypt Keeper.

Like a moth to flame, I found my feet moving of their own accord, heeding his call, shuffling into the street until thirty paces away.

When the stranger threw back his worn coat, a silver six shooter glinted in the moonlight. His lipless face sneered.

I took a step back, gaining more control of my body, wanting to run away, but still transfixed on the gunslinger’s aura. A scent of sulfur hung in the air.

His jaw cracked and popped. Splintered teeth grinded. A low voice rumbled from his throat like a colony of bats escaping a cave. “I want your soul.”

My heart slapped against my rib cage. My palms moistened. This had to be a nightmare. Any moment now I would wake up in my motel room, throwing up whatever I had eaten that gave me such a delirious fantasy.

The demon dug his heel into the dirt. “We only die twice. And I know you, Johnny Ringo. You killed me once. I want what’s mine.”

I raised my hands. “Whoa, whoa, friend. These duds are just a getup. You feel me? Pretend. This gun ain’t real. Just playing around. This is Tombstone. Touristville.”

The gunslinger hissed. “Hell’s waiting for you, Ringo. You won’t escape again.”

“I-I’m not Johnny Ringo.”

Smoke wafted from his ears. “Hades is for murderers. That’s you, Johnny.”

Like a biting whip, he drew his gun and aimed, cocking back the hammer, cylinder rotating. My knees shook. Throat tightened.

Boots thumped from behind, followed by the snapping of a loaded shotgun. The bartender stepped into the moonlight, weapon ready. “Let him pass.”

The demon bristled. “And if I don’t?”

The bartender pressed the shotgun against his shoulder.

“I’m owed vengeance.” The gunslinger chuckled and spat saliva. Droplets scorched the dirt. “You got no power.”

The bartender sneered. “Try me.”

The gunslinger’s red eyes gleamed with raw fury. “Under the April moon, the month of my burial, tonight, I am a free spirit.”

“Not when you hunt innocents.”

“Him?” The demon laughed. “Belongs down below like the rest of us.”

I froze as the bartender strode between me and the gunslinger.

The sulfuric aroma thickened as time slowed. Blood pounded in my ears.

The bartender stood tall. “Go back to the grave.”

The demon didn’t flinch, revolver still extended, finger on the trigger. “Maybe I take you instead.”

Heavy silence descended upon the street. It thickened, tightened. Then it snapped.

The gunslinger’s revolver kicked.

The shotgun sang.

I fell to my knees, hands clasped over my ears as acrid gun smoke lingered. When I opened my scrunched eyes, I saw the demon had vanished, replaced by a pile of ash. The bartender scooped up the gunslinger’s debris and stuffed the remains in his pocket.

My lips quivered. So many questions. So little understanding.

He helped me to my feet, a new spark in his eyes like that of a man who has lived several lifetimes. “Never bring a toy to a gunfight, kid. Not even in Touristville.”

I spun around, starting to walk away, taking several steps before stopping. I don’t even know his name.

I turned to thank him…

And blinked.

The street was empty.

The bartender had vanished as quickly as the gunslinger, like a waft of cigar smoke lost in the desert air.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than sixty of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. Short film adaptations of his Havok stories “Tritanopia” and “Dark Side of the Moon” are currently in their film festival run.

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