PART 1: The End of a Story
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in the frontier town of Lansteer. A man in a long, black cloak with a deep hood was crossing the street. Dust puffed up under his silent footfalls, drifting over the empty road. It was merely a rutted wagon track, running straight between wooden buildings on either side.
The man in the cloak had no apperent features under the hood except for a pair of empty eyes which glowed leaf-green. The hilt of a sword showed now and then under the front of his cloak.
He was half-way across the street, headed for the general store, when another man detached himself from the shadows of a nearby saloon. This second man was well known around the town. Chuck Feltman, tall, beefy and red of face. He had been a bandit in his time, and a Sheriff’s deputy. Now he was a rancher with a spread just out of town, a rolling business rumored to be built on ill-gained money.
He stepped in front of the cloaked man, drawing a revolver from the holster at his side. It was an old model,with a rusty engraved plate on the side. But it would undoubtably do the job.
The cloaked man stopped mid-stride, weird eyes sliding down to take in the gun, then up to meet the rancher’s gaze. It was a steel-blue gaze, under graying hair.
“Charles Feltman. A pleasant surprise. I thought we agreed to never meet again.”
“There was never any agreement. You walked out on my gang two years ago. I’ve been laying for you ever since. Until now, you were smart enough to stay out of town,” Chuck spoke in a low, rasping voice, “that’s overwith.”
The cloaked man stood as if perfectly at ease, crossing his arms loosely on his chest. “Come now. I haven’t turned pigeon yet, but this would make a pretty tale for Sheriff Costwhile to hear. Especially if he heard the whole thing.”
Chuck’s face twisted into a nasty leer. “Dead men don’t tell very good tales, mister.”
“Really? I would say that their tales are the only ones to be complete.” The green eyes inside the hood flashed mockingly. “Because until you’re dead, you can never know all that life will hold in it.”
With a motion quicker than time, the cloaked man drew his sword from its sheath. The flat of the blade shone and rang as it deflected a bullet headed for where his heart should be. The next instant, the blade was whirling through the air. It sunk into the gunman’s chest with a soft squelch, leaving only the hilt protruding. Chuck sank to the ground, pistol still clutched in his fist, mouth open in a soundless cry as he looked down at the object that had gone through him. He flopped to his side in a small puff of dust.
The man in the cloak walked up and bent down beside him, speaking quietly, “I’m sure your tale is a wonderful one. And such a good ending, too.”
He put his hand to the hilt of the sword, beginning to draw it out. But before he had withdrawn it far, there was a stir from what he had thought was a corpse and Chuck’s eyes flickered open into narrow slits, full of hate. With an almost convulsive movement, his hand holding the pistol came up. Three shots rang out.
“So long, Leaflow,” were Chuck’s last words.
As the rancher gave his last gasp and lay dead, Leaflow looked down at the three holes in the front of his cloak. He knew that their were ones much like them in the back, just between where his shoulderblades should be. His green eyes seemed to grimace.
“Well, this is embarrassing.”
By now, people were starting to gather on each side of the street, looking on in shock and excitement. Women in wide skirts and Sunday gowns gasped, pulling back against the buildings or sheltering small children with an arm. Men watched and muttered. Boys crowded to the front, wide-eyed and curious.
“It’s ol’ Chuck Feltman.”
“Hey, he killed Chuck.”
“What’s going on?”
“Alright, I’ll deal with it.” A tall man in a dark suit stepped down off the wooden boardwalk to stride towards the scene. For a moment, Leaflow seemed to be about to flee. But then he seemed to think better of it. Without any sign of pain, he finished jerking his sword from the corpse and wiped it on a black kercheif from his pocket.
“Now, then.” The Sheriff came to a stop in front of him. Sheriff Aaron Costwhile was a dark-haired, serious man with a face that brooked no argument. He was said to have once broken a strong bandit’s fingers one by one after winning a fistfight against him, and another time rescued three farmwives who were under siege in one house by their angry neighbors.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
This renown Sheriff looked at Leaflow with a mixture of repulsion and curiosity. His hand never left the pistol at his side. “Who are you and what is this all about?”
Leaflow put a gloved finger through one of the holes in the front of his cloak, before looking up at the Sheriff. The sword was still in his left hand. “If I give myself up, will you allow me to speak to you...in private?”
His green eyes swept over the crowd gathering on the boardwalks, some of the men edging closer with rifles from their wagon boxes or tools from shops.
Costwhile considered with a frown. “If you give yourself up and let me take care of that pigsticker for you. But manslaughter is a serious crime, and you’ll have to let my deputy in on the secret to, 'cause he’ll help me get you to the jail.”
Leaflow bowed his head, apperently looking at the sword in his hands. When he looked back up, there was a cold fire in his eyes. “I will give you my blade for now, but if you do not keep it safe, a curse will be upon you. and if you do not give it back to me when I ask, the curse will be doubled.”
With a shrug, Costwhile held out his hand to take the old-fashioned broadsword. It was heavier than he had expected, the crosshilt made of silver and the grip wrapped in black leather. A large red stone glared at him from the pommel. “We’ll see about that. And threatening an officer of the law isn’t a good idea either. Deputy Marston!”
His second in command came up, taking custody of Leaflow gingerly. The cloaked man stiffened at his touch, but allowed himself to be led away. The crowd followed at a distance, despite the Sheriff’s shouts to go about their business and leave it to him.
The jailhouse was a small shack on the outside of town with two rooms inside. One held a desk and chair for the officers. The other had a stout door with a barred window and was very plain inside. A bucket and a wooden bench was the extent of the furnishings, and there were no windows.
Sheriff Costwhile slammed the door on the curious crowd with a last admonishment to get the undertaker for ‘ol’ Chuck’ as soon as possible. It was a warm day and the body wouldn’t wait.
He slid the sword across the desk as Marston took Leaflow into the jail room. He seemed to have no other weapons on him, so the Sheriff brought the chair from the other room in and sat down.
“Have a seat.” Costwhile indicated the wooden bench. “And tell my how it is that some people say Chuck attacked you, others that you attacked him, but one way or the other he’s dead of a sword through the chest while three bullets through yours haven’t seemed to slow you down.”
Leaflow glanced at the three holes in the woven fabric again, before sitting down on the bench and pulling his knees up with his fingers linked in front of them. “It’s simple, really. Though I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”
“Try me.” Costwhile had seen some pretty wild things on the frontier. The town of Lansteer and the county of Longriver was civilized now, compared to when he had first taken office there. And he was Sheriff number two to be stationed in the town.
Leaflow’s empty green eyes met his. “Very well. I’m already dead.”
Marston made a choking noise which could have meant anything. Costwhile’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “Well, of all the people I’ve ever met, I reckon you’re the one who looks it the most. But have you any proof?”
“Other than three bullet holes through my chest?” Leaflow blinked slowly, like a cat. “I suppose I’ll just have to tell you the entire story.”
He paused in thought for a moment, before adding, “of how I am a deadman walking, that is. My entire story would take too long. Far too long.”
Costwhile crossed one leg over the other. “Alright, shoot. But keep it brief. I still need to know why Feltman is laying out there dead in the street.”
“Oh, the stories are one and the same.” Leaflow nodded. “Which would be reason enough for me to have attacked Charles. But I didn’t.”
“Your trial will be later. Just get on with the story.”
Leaflow‘s eyes seemed to take on a fatal smile for just a moment. “You think to keep a dead man in chains? Very well. Perhaps this story will change your mind about that, as well...”