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Midnight strikes a sleepy Old West town, and a stranger has come with a sinister need to fill...
Basket Hound by Scott S. Phillips
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BMN3IQ
Music by Ray Mattis
http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
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Transcript:
Orel Hamlin stared up at the night sky, wondering if the flying monkey would ever come back.
This was his favorite part of the day, round about 2 AM, when it came time to empty the spittoons. They reeked, of course, from the rotten-toothed spit of a hundred cowboys and cheap chewing tobacco. On occasion, a drunk would piss in one rather than stagger out back to the outhouse, and the stink got a hell of a lot worse when someone had puked in one of them, but even that Orel could live with, because being the designated dumper-of-spittoons meant he got to go outside by himself. Mr. Teevins didn\\u2019t much let Orel go outside on his own otherwise, day or night.
Orel carried a lantern in one hand and a spittoon in the other. It was black as hell out there and he didn\\u2019t want to fall in the trench again. Some nights \\u2014 when the moon was real bright \\u2014 he didn\\u2019t need the lantern, but bringing it meant he had to make four trips to empty the spittoons and he was happy for every one of them. Early on, right after Orel was given the task as a responsibility Mr. Teevins felt he could handle, the saloon\'s bartender \\u2014 a one-eyed crotchety sonofabitch named Branlyn \\u2014 insisted he dump all the spittoons into a big bucket and carry that out, one trip, easy and done. Orel consistently made a point of spilling the contents of the spittoons while dumping them into the bucket and Branlyn eventually gave up on the idea. Orel suspected Mr. Teevins had caught on to his scheme, but the older man never mentioned it. When it came time to dump the chamber pots from upstairs, though, Orel didn\'t bring the lantern. He didn\'t much enjoy taking the chamber pots out, and with one in each of the upstairs rooms (except for Mr. Teevins\'s office), Orel wanted it over with as quickly as possible.
Orel was seventeen years old and had been with Mr. Teevins since he was eight, when Orel\'s daddy beat him senseless and he pretty much stuck that way. It was just after the war and Mr. Teevins had come west minus a leg but full of big dreams, looking to make his fortune in the liquor and whore trade. He was literally stepping off the train when he saw Orel trip and fall in the mud, doing great disservice to his best clothes but nothing to incur the sort of whipping his Daddy unleashed as a result. Mr. Teevins hop-stepped on his wooden leg into the middle of the dust-up and threw a beating on Orel\'s daddy that left the man with a limp of his own, not to mention a busted-up face that would insure he\'d remember what he\'d done every time he looked in a mirror till the day he died. The beating also did wonders for Mr. Teevins\'s standing in the town, since no one much liked Orel\'s daddy and felt it was a long time coming.
Teevins had purchased the Stone House (which Orel thought was funny since the place was made out of wood), the larger of the town\'s two saloons, and the only one that came equipped with prostitutes and Branlyn. Teevins moved into one of the upstairs rooms, and when Orel
wandered into the joint a few days later, his daddy having run off in the night, Teevins took him in. Orel\'s room was basically a closet at the end of the hall with a cot in it, but he\'d lived there happily ever since.
"What you gazin\' at, kid?"
Orel jumped, slopping some of the spittoon\'s contents out onto the ground. Standing a dozen or so yards away was a man, watching him. Orel raised the lantern, trying to get a better look, but the light refused to cooperate, as if it were sliding off the figure.
"Who\'s that there?" Orel asked, voice unsteady.
"Ain\'t scared, are ya?"
"No," Orel lied.
After a moment, the man walked towards Orel. When he was a few feet away, the light from
the lantern finally took hold, illuminating his features. Whip-thin, about five and a half feet tall \\u2014 Orel was relieved to see the man was shorter than him \\u2014 clad in dusty gray trousers, stained shirt with frilled cuffs, and a black leather vest. His bowler hat was tilted far back on his head, like he was walking away from it and it was struggling to keep up. Unlike the rest of his clothing, his boots were new but covered in dust. His eyes were close together, deep-set, and focused on Orel in a way that made him uncomfortable, like he was in trouble for something.
The man\'s lips pulled back in a smile that bunched up the weathered skin on the sides of his face like a washrag being wrung out. "Name\'s Malcolm, George Malcolm."
Malcolm George Malcolm, Orel thought,\\xa0first name same as last. No, that ain\'t right. He just said it funny, is all. George Malcolm. "Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Malcolm." Orel went to stick out a hand, realized they were both full, then settled on a nod towards the man. \\u201cMy name\\u2019s Hamlin, Orel Hamlin.\\u201d
"Why you out here in the night with a cuspidor full of Christ-knows-what, son?"
"Just spit n\' chew is all," Orel said, taking a quick look to be sure. "It\'s my job \\u2014 one of \'em." Malcolm cocked an eye at Orel. "You some kinda simpleton?"
"No sir, I took an injury as a boy, somewhat scrambled my brains."
"You sound like a simpleton."
Orel frowned. "No sir." Setting the lantern down on the ground, he upended the spittoon over
the trench he\'d dug a few days prior. The foul-smelling stew of saliva and tobacco (and, as Malcolm pointed out, Christ-knows-what) spattered into the thicker sludge in the bottom of the trench. "I have a job and I do okay for myself, I reckon." He straightened, fixing Malcolm with a stern gaze.
"Didn\'t mean no offense, son. This job a\' yours, I\'m guessing it\'s in a saloon or some other joint serves liquor?"
"Yes sir, the Stone House, not a hunnerd paces from where we stand now." "Mind if I walk with you?"
Orel puzzled on it for a moment.
"Again, I meant no offense," Malcolm said, bowing slightly. "And I could sure stand to pour some whiskey into myself."
"No, it ain\'t that," Orel said. "Just that Branlyn\'s closin\' up the bar about now. I don\'t think he\'d turn away your business, though."
Malcolm made a sweeping gesture towards the nearby buildings. "Then if you\'re finished pourin\' out your slop, by all means lead the way, son."
Orel started back to the Stone House, Malcolm falling into step next to him. After a few paces, Orel glanced at the man, catching the tail end of an odd expression that sent something wriggling up Orel\'s spine to settle coldly at the base of his skull. The only time he\'d felt anything similar was when his daddy was about to go on a tear.
"Ain\'t my place to pry, what with us just havin\' met an\' all, Mr. Malcolm, but I was wonderin\' why you\'d be out walking in the desert late at night like this."
Malcolm took so long to answer, Orel thought he hadn\'t heard the question and was about to ask again when the man finally spoke. "Guess I got lost just a little bit. Was on my way from Bell\'s Creek."
Orel wanted to press him further but they\'d reached the back door of the Stone House and Malcolm took the opportunity to steer things in a different direction. "How many in here, son \\u2014 yourself included?"
Orel hung the lantern on a hook near the back door. "Just a few, plus the whores, and some or all a\' them might be with customers." He made to open the door but Malcolm\'s hand darted out, grabbing the handle.
"You know that ain\'t no real answer, don\'t you, boy?" Malcolm said, making another of his fancy gestures as he opened the door to allow Orel in.
Orel gave Malcolm a confused look as he stepped past him, entering a narrow, dark hallway. Lamplight from the saloon\'s main room spilled in at the other end. "There\'s the three of us plus four whores and whatever men they\'s with," Orel said. "We got two girls wait tables, but they gone home awhile ago."
Malcolm stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. \\u201cFine. Let\\u2019s have that drink.\\u201d
Orel led the way down the hall and into the main room of the saloon, its dozen or so tables empty at this late hour. To their right was a staircase to the upper floor. On the left was the bar, an L-shaped counter with wooden stools running the length of it. Liquor bottles topped the shelves behind the bar, and a carefully lettered sign read\\xa0Tabs for liquor only! NOT whores. Branlyn, looking six hundred years old but meaner than hell, a puckered scar where his left eye had been, wiped the bar with a towel that looked as unpleasant as he did. His gray hair hung stringy past his shoulders, and his cheeks, trenched with age, were covered in salt-and-pepper stubble. His single eye settled on Orel and Malcolm and he stopped wiping to stare at them.
\\u201cWhat\\u2019s this you brung in?\\u201d Branlyn said.
\\u201cFound him out back,\\u201d Orel said. \\u201cHe was hopin\\u2019 he could get a drink.\\u201d
\\u201cOr two,\\u201d Malcolm said, stepping up to the bar and proffering a hand. \\u201cMalcolm, George Malcolm.\\u201d
He done it again, Orel thought.
Branlyn\\u2019s eye looked at the hand, then at Malcolm\\u2019s face. He wiped his right hand with the bar towel and shook with him. \\u201cWell, Mr. Malcolm, technically we\\u2019s closed for business, but I think we can accommodate you. If you got money, a\\u2019 course.\\u201d
\\u201cA pocketful,\\u201d Malcolm said, stepping up and resting his elbows on the bar. \\u201cWhiskey, please. Don\\u2019t care how cheap or how shitty.\\u201d
\\u201cWe don\\u2019t serve shitty whiskey in this joint.\\u201d
Malcolm turned his head to find Mr. Teevins coming down the stairs, stepping with his good leg, then swinging the wooden one after. With the saloon closed, he\\u2019d taken off the jacket but still wore the rest of his favorite white suit, the vest unbuttoned. Teevins was about 35, probably'