The plains, covered in yellow and brown sage brush and low, rolling hills spread to the horizon, and the town of Oblivion sprang up as a rude interruption to the wind and the loneliness of the wide-open landscape.

The air shimmered with the late summer heat. Oblivion sat quietly, keeping politely to itself, knowing that it wasn’t wanted. The scorching sun beat down mercilessly, baking the earth, while occasional gusts packed dust and tumbleweeds into niches and corners of abandoned buildings.

The town had roughly the same amount of buildings as most people had fingers and toes, all weathered, grey and ashen, much like its remaining citizenry, and nearly abandoned. The railroad station, quickly constructed during the westward boom, stood empty, flakes of paint shedding like leaves in autumn. Sometimes a train came by, which happened once a week if things got busy. No one stopped here anymore. There was no reason to.

Close to the station stood a water tower, leaning slightly but still holding water, courtesy of a squeaking windmill that pumped away with each gust. Like the town, the windmill persisted, unsure of why but too settled in habit to stop. Black crows rested in the rafters and crossbeams of the tower, the only shaded area they could find to rest in.

The church stood solemnly with its graveyard beside it, the headstones, worn and leaning amid a few wooden markers not yet old enough to have weathered, all beneath the shade of a single, leafless tree. The church remained active, with its bell ringing faithfully each Sunday morning, though there were not enough townspeople left to fill its pews.

The only remaining general store struggled to keep its shelves stocked, a stark contrast to the lively establishments that once lined the main street. Now it remained open so old men could spin yarns around the cracker barrel. The sun-bleached shingle out front simply stated that this was ‘Mayfield’s General Store’, although Mayfield died thirty years ago in a bizarre accident involving a keg of beer and a loose tap.

The stockyard, with its large, dilapidated warehouse barn, came from a time not many years past when cattle drives brought life, commerce, and wild Saturday nights to the town. The empty corral, once packed every season with vast herds of cattle, held only hard-packed and cracked ground with patches of grass sprouting here and there, as if nature decided to use it if no one else would.

The enormous barn stood weathered from neglect, yet with a faint wisp of smoke from one of the makeshift chimneys poking through the warped boards of the roof, a neatly stacked pile of firewood near the entrance let passersby, if there were any, know that the barn had not been completely abandoned. Branding irons, a worn dinner triangle and an old clanging chain hung from the eaves and clinked faintly in the wind. Lanterns, cracked and dusty, still swung gently from their hooks on the wall.

Scattered against the barn stood old barrels and a few wooden crates holding various odds and ends, from coiled ropes to horse tack, evidence of the barn's ongoing, albeit diminished, role. In front of the barn, an old, weathered sign creaked on its rusty hinges. The symbol of a raven, still visible and unmistakable, remained etched into the wood.

Behind the barn, a small pen of old, gray wood held a few goats, their bleats occasionally piercing the still air. The goats milled about, nibbling on the sparse tufts of pale-yellow grass and clambering over an old, overturned trough that had seen better days. The modest pen held a makeshift lean-to, under which the goats hid in the shade.

A shadow circled over the forgotten town, unnoticed by the few residents who had hidden indoors from the oppressive heat. Not even the crows hiding in the water tower paid any attention. The shadow belonged to a dragon, who swooped down onto the corral with the elegance of a tipsy vulture. He staggered to a halt, nearly tipping over to one side before righting himself. He panted heavily, his great chest swelling rapidly. His emerald scales glimmered in the sunlight, while his golden underbelly shone even in shadow. The bright yellow horns and ridge along his back appeared lackluster in the daylight. The deep brown saddle that covered the length of his back from shoulder to rump held a pilot and lots of cargo.

The dragon stood panting while his pilot unfastened her straps and slid down from the saddle. From inside the barn echoed the enthusiastic baying and barking of dogs, their excited howls reverberating off the wooden barn walls as she stretched, flexing each leg to ensure her joints were still in good shape. She took off her hat and let her long, auburn-brown hair fall. She raised the yellow tinted goggles she wore over her forehead, then patted the dragon on the shoulder and jogged toward the barn. She pulled open the large doors and a herd of dogs burst through, tails wagging, barking and howling at the pilot and the dragon. One blue hound stopped long enough for the pilot to pat his head before joining the others. They barked at the dragon who stood still trying to catch his breath. They wagged their tails and leapt at his legs. The pilot called to him, and he slowly turned and made his way into the barn followed by the herd of happy dogs. He stopped and reached up with a claw and shook one of the chains that hung from the eaves. It gave a pleasant tinkling sound.

Stepping from the bright summer sunshine into the dimly lit barn brought a momentary loss of sight. The familiar aromas of hay and earth blended with the rich smells of corn mash whiskey and tobacco smoke. Most of the stalls had been removed years ago, all except for one in the rear, and three on the left just inside the door. A hefty wooden plank set atop barrels functioned as a makeshift bar with sparse shelves holding a few bottles of hard liquor on the wall. In front of the bar stood three rickety round tables, each paired with an assortment of mismatched chairs and stools, awaiting company.

Against the other wall leaned an impressive collection of books, primarily reference works with some fiction, placed on rough cut wooden shelves supported by brick stacks. The tilted shelves seemed ready to topple but never quite got around to it.

There was no need for lamp light on a day like this. Enough daylight poured in through the open door and poked through the slats of the wall that, once the eye adjusted, one could see well enough.

The dragon stopped in the breezeway beneath the high beamed ceiling, still catching his breath. The young pilot peered into the dim barn.

“Dad?” She paused, but the only thing she could hear was the ear-splitting bay of the dogs who still barked and leaped at the dragon’s legs demanding attention and welcoming them home in their own way. “Shut it!” the pilot yelled. “We’re happy to see you too!” She turned to the dragon, “Is he here?”

He nodded towards the back of the warehouse barn, too winded to speak. After a brief silence from the pilot's reprimand, the dogs resumed their excited barking. The pilot watched them, and soon they darted back to the stall in the rear of the barn, tails wagging, eager to inform their master about the pilot and the dragon's return. She trailed behind them, taking of her goggles and setting them on a table as she passed.

In the old stall by the rear wall and out of sight from any visitors, a cot sat beside a compact wood stove, upon which rested a coffee pot. The young pilot poked her head around the corner. “Dad?”

Her father sat on the cot in his long johns. His wooden arm, ending in a hook, secured to the remnant of his right arm with a harness that stretched across to his left shoulder. He always wore it outside his long johns to prevent chafing. His artificial leg, a long wooden peg-leg, had not been strapped properly, and he fumbled with the straps using his good hand and the hook of his right arm. The pair of hound dogs burrowed their faces under his good arm and onto his lap. He petted one absently.

“Hey, kid,” was all he said. He did not look up as she entered his stall. He just stared at his leg and the undone straps.

“Dad,” she sighed with a mix of frustration and fondness. She bent to help tighten his straps. “Why aren’t you using the good leg? It’s got knee and ankle joints!”

He waved away the question. “Haven’t gotten used to it yet. Keep tipping over.” When she tightened the last strap, he took her hand, and she helped to pull him up. “Let me get my pants on and I’ll help you unload Jangles.” He waved her away.

“Let me help.”

“Lori, go get Jangles unloaded. He’s tired. I’ll be along.”

Lori frowned in frustration and watched him hobble to the stall’s wall where his pants hung on a hook. His hair was unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Hadn’t bathed in days, either. She left without saying anything.

Jangles’ breathing had slowed. He managed to ask, “Is he okay?” His voice was a deep rumble. The brown shepherd had rolled onto his back and Jangles gently rubbed his belly with his clawed front foot.

"Yeah, I think so." She glanced at the stall briefly, then stared thoughtfully at the ground for a moment. She wanted to help her father, but he was so stubborn. She untied a thick rope from a horn cleat on the support post next to Jangles and lowered a makeshift dual hook and pulley system from the barn's central beam overhead. Climbing into the saddle, she hooked the lifting hook into the saddle’s rigging ring. With careful steps, she walked along the saddle’s spine towards the back, where a canvas-covered top pack secured with a cargo net sat piled high with supplies. Holding onto the cargo netting, she climbed around to reach the rear rigging ring at the base of the saddle. There, she attached the second lifting hook and cautiously climbed down from the packsaddle to the ground.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

A happy border collie wagged his tail, and Lori petted him as she looked back at the stall. Her father was still inside. He needed help, but knowing his pride and independence, she let him be. She had to unsaddle Jangles swiftly. He was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. She quickly unfastened the breast collar, the three girth straps under his torso, and the breeching strap which looped under Jangles tail and across his backside, and let the buckles and straps fall to the ground. She pulled on the hoisting line and the saddle rose inch by inch with every tug.

Jangles became impatient. The weight of the saddle had pressed heavily on his back for long enough, and the promise of relief outside beckoned him. With a determined grunt, he crouched low to the ground, his muscular legs flexing under the strain. His breath came in short, eager huffs as he inched backward, the saddle shifting slightly with his movement. Lori watched, amused, as Jangles maneuvered his way backward beneath the hoisted saddle and right out the barn doors. The dogs barked excitedly.

Once outside, Jangles crouched and stretched, his tail lifting into the air like a massive housecat. With a sudden burst of energy, he galloped towards the water tower by the railroad station. The dogs barked happily and followed him the whole way, their paws kicking up little clouds of dust.

As Jangles neared the water tower, the crows resting on its shaded scaffolding took flight, cawing irritably at the interruption of their respite. Jangles ignored them and sat back on his hind legs and curved his long neck so he could dip his head into the tank and drink his fill of the cool water.

The landscape sloped slightly from the barn and Lori could see him over the sparse buildings of the town. The sight of Jangles galloping with such determination between the buildings and the disgruntled crows and happy, barking dogs made her laugh. It was a moment of levity amid her worries, a small slice of joy in a demanding day.

Lori's smile fell as she glanced back toward the rear of the barn; her father still hadn't come out. She surveyed the makeshift bar and library, the unlit lanterns hanging from the rafters above, and the large bank safe in a dark corner that someone had brought in when the last bank closed. Her father stored guns, dynamite, and magic artifacts in there. She tucked a few strands of her auburn-brown hair behind her ear. Sometimes the place would host a handful of people, drinking, seeking her father's advice, or browsing his library. Up the ladder in the loft, visitors could sleep on cots and hammocks. Rangers often sought her father's expertise on weapons or spells. Lori resented them for exploiting her father's knowledge and hospitality and leaving him a pauper.

She approached her father’s stall. “Dad? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Hon, I’ll be out in a minute.”

Lori pursed her lips in frustration and turned away. She headed behind the bar to a cold and dusty pot belly stove. Lori crumpled up some old newspapers, tossed them into the stove, added a few sticks from the wood carrier, and struck a match from the box always kept there. After lighting the fire, she dusted off her hands, shook the coffee pot, and found it empty. She dumped the used, dry grounds into the trash barrel and was about to make more but noticed nobody had ground any coffee beans recently. Grabbing a few handfuls out of a canvas bag kept next to a bottle of whisky, she put them into the grinder, closed the lid, and started turning the crank.

As she ground the beans, tears welled her eyes. There weren’t any ground beans because Dad couldn’t do it with one hand. He likely hadn't had coffee since she left and if there had been any visitors, none of them had helped. She turned the crank angrily, frustrated by her need to work with Jangles delivering post and supplies. Her dad had so little money coming in. She ached to stay and care for him but had to earn a living. When she dumped the ground coffee into the pot and found the water bucket empty and dry, she cursed. No one had fetched water for him either.

She lowered the saddle with the hoist rope until she could reach the canteens she kept in various places when she flew. She poured water into the pot and set it on the stove. She stared at the coffee grinder. The next time she was in a large city, she would buy him a coffee grinder that she could bolt or clamp to the shelf. Then he could grind his own coffee.

Her father hobbled out of the stall, dressed in threadbare jeans and a buttonless long-sleeved shirt. The hook of his right arm was partially visible through the sleeve, and a peg-leg protruded from the pant leg that he had pulled over it.

Lori walked over to her father and handed him her canteen. “Here, drink this.”

He took it with his left hand and drank deeply, the water refreshing him. Lori then guided him to one of the tables and helped him sit down.

“How’s Jangles doing?” he asked.

“He’s exhausted,” Lori replied. “He needs a good night’s sleep.”

Her father glanced over at the large saddle that hung by the hoist rope. “That sure is a lot of cargo.”

Lori nodded, her expression softening. “It was a long trip, but we made it. We brought back plenty of supplies and a few letters we have to deliver yet.”

Her father sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Where are you headed next?”

“To Fort Dane. Lots of post for such a small place.”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “How many miles are you making in a day?”

Lori smiled. Her father loved facts and collected them like a miser collected gold. “We left Cedarbrook yesterday morning.”

He tapped his fingers on the table as he thought. “And you followed the river?”

“Oh, yeah. Jangles must have water.”

He chuckled as he glanced out the barn doors. They could see Jangles, still drinking from the water tower, but now taking the time to snap at crows as they flew around him. “So you traveled about 550 miles then. In a day and a half. Not too bad.”

Lori looked out of the barn doors and saw Jangles running through the streets, his wings flaring playfully as the pack of dogs barked and chased him. She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with affection.

The coffee was ready, and Lori poured two steaming cups, handing one to him. She lowered the saddle and fetched a jar of pickled sardines and an oil cloth bundle of hard tack from the saddlebags. With a laugh, Lori split the hard cracker with her knife, sending pieces flying everywhere, which drew more laughter from them both. They enjoyed their modest meal together, continuing their lively chat.

Lori decided it was time to get dinner started. She pried open a barrel of salted pork, selected two hefty chunks, and gave them a good rinse in a pot of water she had ready. She diced the pork and tossed the pieces into the pot to boil.

Jangles and the dogs had returned to the barn and had found refuge in the cool shade of the lean-to. Panting heavily, the dogs sprawled beside him, digging into the refreshing soil beneath them. Lori went to the back of the barn, where they kept goats in a small, wood-fenced pen. She took down the rope from its nail on the barn wall and entered the pen, lassoed a goat, and guided him toward the gate. The remaining goats let out uneasy bleats, scurrying to the far side of the ashen pen. Tugging the stubborn creature through the gate, she pulled it behind her around to the front of the barn. Jangles perked up with sudden interest, his size causing him to crouch until he exited the lean-to. The dogs snapped to attention and trailed after the dragon, who followed closely on Lori’s heels.

“Ready to eat?” Lori said and loosed the rope from the goat. It bolted, and Jangles pounced on it, his jaws clamping on the animal’s neck. It fell limp, and Jangles sat on the ground to eat, much the way a dog does as it settles down to work on a juicy bone. The dogs gathered round and watched in hopes of getting a carelessly dropped scrap.

Lori watched him eat for a while, her mind on all the tasks she needed to complete before she and Jangles left again. With a sigh, she decided it was time to start. She headed to the goat pen. The trough was dry, as was the small pipe above it. Lori made her way up the gradual slope toward the small cistern, wishing it were nearer to the barn. The cistern received water from a windmill situated further up the hill, which fortunately appeared to her to be functioning properly.

At the cistern, Lori turned the crank on the gate valve that controlled the water flow to the goat pen. She opened it just enough to let a small stream of water through, then walked back to the pen. Water began to drip from the trough pipe, and she hung a metal bucket on it to catch the water. She watched the trickle and hoped it would be enough to keep the goats watered and easier for her dad to fill buckets with. The goats gathered around and watched with equal curiosity. She sighed and removed the bucket. She would have to wait. The goats needed water.

Jangles walked around the corner, his green scales shimmering in the bright afternoon sun. The goats bleated in fright and scampered to the far side of the pen. Lori stood motionless, her hand gripping the handle of the bucket, Her gaze fixed and lost in thought.

Jangles watched her intently, his eyes reflecting a deep concern. He knew the turmoil within her, the heavy burden of worry that clouded her mind. The gentle breeze blew, and Lori remained oblivious to the world around her.

Jangles, feeling the need to comfort her, took a step closer, his presence a silent assurance. The goats quieted down, their initial panic giving way to a cautious curiosity as they watched the scene unfold. Lori's grip on the bucket tightened momentarily before she let out a deep, resigned sigh.

“Everything okay?”

Lori looked up in surprise. She hadn’t noticed his arrival. “Oh. Yeah. Just thinking.”

Jangles noticed the empty trough. “No one’s been out here to help him, have they?”

Lori shook her head, staring at the trough. Tears were coming again, and she didn’t want to cry. But when she looked up at Jangles, she burst into tears anyway.

“Jangles, what am I going to do?” Her voice squeaked as she wept. “He can’t take care of himself out here! And we can’t stay to help him!” She buried her face in her hands.

Jangles walked closer and nuzzled her with his long neck. He did not know what to say.

Lori dropped the bucket and did her best to wrap her arms around his neck. They stayed that way for a long time. Soon the dogs caught her mood and milled around her feet, a couple of them stood on their hind legs with their forepaws on her. Lori looked down at them and their looks of concern at her crying made her laugh between sobs. “Goofy dogs,” she said and petted them.

Jangles pressed his muzzle against Lori’s chest, and she hugged him again. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I know. We should get him out of here, but where? And he won’t leave.”

“I wish we could get enough money together and hire him some help.”

Jangles gave a sardonic laugh. “Who’s out here to hire?”

Lori laughed. “Maybe we could send for someone…”

Jangles shook his head. “Who would want to come out here for what we could afford to pay them?”

They both chuckled bitterly. They had tread this ground many times in conversation and never seemed to find a solution. It always ended the same. They had no ideas, and they settled into doing what they could with what they had.

***