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A Stranger in Copper Creek

 

Chapter 1: Crystal Clear

 

As Barrett Hawke crossed the threshold into the dusty town, the scent of deception that clung to his soiled handkerchief mingled with the air of suspicion that hung heavy over the desolate streets. The windows of ramshackle buildings bore the gaze of a dozen hidden onlookers. Through the heart of this forsaken town flowed a narrow, serpentine rivulet, the unassuming “Copper’s Creek” that gave this place its moniker, a fact that drew a wry chuckle from Hawke. His boots splashed in the shallow water, scattering droplets onto the parched, sunbaked sand.

 

His destination was the general store he had spied a few miles off, a simple establishment marked by a spigot standing sentry at its entrance, sporting a sign that declared, “5 cents a bucket”. From the dimness within the store emerged a rotund man, his jovial face belied by the town’s desolate atmosphere. “Good lord, son, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he exclaimed.

 

Hawke’s gaze met the man’s, a steady, unwavering stare. “Water,” he demanded through parched lips.

 

A frown flickered across the shopkeeper’s face before he nodded. “On the house, friend.” He nudged the sign aside and twisted the valve, releasing a cool, crystal stream from the weathered pipe.

 

Gratefully, Hawke leaned over the spigot. His hands cradled the water as he splashed it onto his weary face, the shock of its chill inciting a sharp gasp, followed by a bout of hacking coughs. He thrust his head under the flow, letting the coolness envelop him. “Thank you, kindly,” he murmured between gulps, every mouthful cleansing him from the inside out.

 

Crouching now, he lost himself in the rejuvenating sensation of the water. The shopkeeper watched, a silent guardian, until at last, he shut off the flow. “You look worse for wear, stranger,” he remarked, concern etching lines on his face. “Highwaymen? Natives?”

 

Hawke shook his head, water droplets flying. “My own damn fault,” he confessed, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. “Pushed my horse beyond her limits. She couldn’t take it. Had to put her down.” A line he had rehearsed, that he hoped sounded natural.

 

The shopkeeper sighed, a heavy sound that echoed the sorrow in Hawke’s words. The town's folks had begun to venture out, curious about the newcomer, but the shopkeeper hastily restored the water sign before helping Hawke to his feet. “There's a kind-hearted lady at the saloon up yonder,” he gestured vaguely. “She's got a knack for soothing troubled souls. Go on now, out of this street and into a proper bed.”

 

With a nod of thanks, Hawke staggered off in the direction of the saloon. Sunburnt, battered, bloodied, he heaved himself onto a stool and slapped a handful of coins onto the counter. “A room!” he demanded “and a whisky!” Blood droplets spilled from under his bandaged neck and onto the floor beside him.

 

"Lord’s mercy, what is this?" A feminine voice echoed through the dimly lit saloon. "Bit early for a drink, ain't it? Ah, I kid. You wanted a..." Her voice faltered as she studied the rugged man more closely. "...Room." She finished, a note of concern seeping into her voice.

 

The man, Hawke, sat in silence. His eyes were closed as if he was absorbing the ambience of the saloon, the desperate plea for rest etched on his face. His garments clung to him, damp and soiled, his boots were sodden and caked in mud. A fine sheen of dust coated his unwashed skin, while his stubbled face suggested it had been days since his last shave. He was trembling subtly, an almost imperceptible shiver induced by the relentless heat. Strapped across his chest was a bandolier, its weight anchored by a well-worn gun and a few empty bullet loops.

 

The woman, Miss Gracey, recoiled initially, instinctively fearing the worst. But as she took a moment to observe him, she understood that the man before her, worn as he was, posed no threat. "We'll start with a cool bath," she proposed gently.

 

Hawke nodded in agreement. "And the room?"

 

"Consider it part of the bath service," she responded with a weak smile. Guiding Hawke from his stool, she led him to a room tucked away behind the bar, where an aged metal bathtub sat waiting.

 

"Hold tight while I fetch the water from the store. You can leave your clothes wherever you'd like," she reassured, plucking a pair of buckets from a corner before departing to fill them with haste.

 

Hawke, left to his own devices, first unslung his gun belt, draping it carefully over the back of a chair near the tub. His trousers followed, hitting the floor with a muted jangle of coins. His body was a canvas of battle scars, and he'd clearly lost a few toes to misadventures. As he hoisted his shirt over his head, the full extent of his state was revealed – his torso was smeared with a crust of dried blood that had soaked through his shirt, gave him a gruesome appearance.

 

"I must look like a damn horror," he thought aloud, shaking his head.

--

Miss Gracey returned to the sight of Hawke sprawled out in the tub, a picture of vulnerability under the dusty light of the room. She hesitated at the sight, debating the propriety of the situation, but the man's obvious need for care took precedence. With newfound determination, she lifted the first bucket and poured its contents over the slumbering form.

 

With a loud splash, the water emptied from the bucket, causing Hawke to wince in his sleep. Shaking her head, Gracey murmured, "God's wounds..." before pouring the next bucket of water.

 

As she worked on cleaning him up, her hands carefully navigating the multitude of scars etched into his skin, she made sure to continually check him for breath. Once she was satisfied that he was as clean and comfortable as could be, she went to alert the sheriff about the unusual situation.

 

Hawke awoke to a pair of boots and the gleam of a brass star badge. Sitting up, his eyes were met with the stern gaze of a man in a white wide-brimmed hat. "Mornin'. I'm Sheriff Irons," the man introduced himself, his voice as gruff as the desert winds. "Care to explain how you ended up near-death, covered in blood, and loaded with coin in my town?"

 

It was then that Hawke noticed the sheriff holding his coin pouch. With a flicker of irritation, he muttered, "I'd appreciate it if you took your hands off my money, mister."

 

"And I'd appreciate some cooperation. This town runs on law and order, and I'm afraid you're disrupting the peace," the sheriff responded, nonchalantly flipping a couple of coins back at Hawke, which plopped into the tub. "So, how about it?"

 

Hawke tried to sit up, but a sudden surge of pain in his neck forced him to lie back down. "My horse died," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or rather, I had to put her down."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"Yeah."

 

The sheriff squinted at Hawke; the skepticism evident in his gaze. "You reckon you can give me more than that?"

 

"Am I under arrest?" Hawke shot back, locking eyes with the sheriff.

 

"I reckon that depends on you. As I see it, the only reason a man would be out this far, carrying this much coin... well, he must be hiding something. Now you best start talking, or I'll drag your sun-scorched behind out of this tub and into nice warm cell. Do I make myself clear?"

--

“Cystal” Hawke snorted. “I was set upon, Sheriff, My company were just a courier, ferrying winnings from the gaming house in Cainsville to the bank over in at Begone Gulch.” His words were accompanied by a dismissive wave, and the overplayed theatrics of a lie. “Asked some friends to accompany me, in case we crossed paths with any banditos or redmen.” The Sheriff’s stoic silence amplified the weight of anxiety.

Hawke continued, his tone deflating, “We were in the midst of nowhere, when my mare misstepped into a rattler’s den. It took us an age to free her and that's when they jumped us.” His words hung in the air, serrated with trepidation.

 

“Who?” The Sheriff’s voice was sharp as a whip crack.

 

“I couldn’t tell you, Sheriff.” A shrug of his shoulders, nonchalance playing across his visage as his arms lazily rested over the rim of the tub.

 

“A soldier, were you?” The sheriff pointed at the scars along Hawke’s person.

 

“Once.” A brief nod from Hawke, acknowledgment of a past life.

 

“Which Army?”

 

Hawke’s mind played tug-of-war – the risks of truth against the safety of deceit. Finally, he replied, “The Greys” truthfully.

 

A grin split the Sheriff's face, “I reckon I’ll hold onto this for a spell then, traitor.” Irons casually balanced the money pouch in his hand. “Presume you know exactly how much is in this, if I were to inquire?”

 

“Roughly.” The word slipped through Hawke's teeth.

 

“Well then, I guess you can tell me ‘roughly’ how much is missing come sunrise.” The Sheriff, nonchalantly, tossed two more coins into the bathwater, the sound echoing through the room. “This here room costs two dollars per night, and that should settle it.” He made his way over to the chair by the tub, casually lifting the gun belt from its perch. “I’ll be keeping this too, lest you forget where it is.”

 

Robbed of his strength, Hawke could only conceal his frustration behind his palms. “Yep.”

 

“Sleep it off, Dixie.” The finality in Irons' voice was unmistakable as he shut the door behind him.

 

Hawke's mind swirled with a torrent of regret and bitterness. Where had it all gone wrong? Memories of his mother flooded him, the echoes of her anguished screams rebounded off the tub. His hand balled into a fist, denting the tub's edge. His own scream was on the brink of escape when Miss Grace reentered.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Why did you fetch the sheriff?”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

Hawke shot up, the pain in his neck a mere afterthought. “Why’d you do it?”

 

Miss Grace stammered, her hand fluttering around the doorknob as if it were a live wire. “I… I had to, didn’t I? You could have been a victim of some terrible felony.”

 

Hawke was out of the tub now, confronting her. “Say it. I look the part, don't I? A thief, a scoundrel, a killer?”

 

Miss Grace’s response was fiery, “Self-preservation is no crime, sir!”

 

“That man doesn’t serve to keep you safe, he maintains order, and the two ain’t the same thing.” Hawke gestured for a towel, hoping to pat himself dry as his wound opened again; a solitary trail of blood traced a path down his body.

 

Miss Grace struggled to avert her eyes, having already seen more than she wanted to. She handed him a towel from a nearby shelf. “Well, that’s a thought, isn’t it?”

Hawke dried and then covered himself, "Sheriff's left you a decent amount for a night. It’s in the water."

 

"That ain't going to foot the bill for the clothes." Gracey commented, eyeing the murky bathwater. "Should I start you a tab?"

 

Hawke, stationed on the chair next to the tub, stared at the dent he had left. His mind was far away. "If you must."

 

The clothes Gracey had found for him clung a bit too snugly to his frame, but were a marked improvement over the threadbare and stained attire he had arrived in. As he drowned his thoughts in drink, the events of the day persisted in their haunt. Despite his best efforts, the memories refused to fade.

 

The desert had been his bed the previous night, and he had awoken to the bitter sting of betrayal. A gun's cold barrel pushed against his forehead, wielded by the man he had considered a brother. That man’s opium-laced dreams had taken hold, driving him to treachery for more. The pipe that once aided in sleep had morphed into a relentless master, dragging his friend into the abyss slowly rotting away what little was left of his humanity.

 

The echoes of their struggle for survival still echoed in Hawke's ears. The reluctance, the denial, then the inevitable acceptance – it was the brutally familiar dance of life and death. Once again, the blood of a man he knew painted his hands crimson. His shirt stained with the essence of so many years and memories. The mare, Nurse, had been an innocent casualty in the brawl, the result of a misfire. The horror in her eyes when death came knocking was a sight Hawke wished he could forget.

 

He signaled for another round.

 

"What's eating at you?" Gracey's voice cut through his thoughts.

 

Hawke's solitary act hadn't seemed to deter the girl. If he desired solitude, he decided he might need to be more direct. "My friends." he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

"At least you're not completely shut off from the world." She attempted to lighten the mood.

 

"They're dead." His correction stung for a moment.

 

Mis Gracey sighed, "I gathered as much. You don't strike me as the kind who keeps ‘lively’ company." She offered a sympathetic nudge. "Feel like talking about it?"

 

"Wasn't I supposed to scare you off?"

 

"You did, but..." Grace poured him another drink, complying with his silent request. "Now, I guess I see you for what you truly are."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" His question was more to himself than to Gracey.

 

She busied herself with cleaning the counter, her attention particularly focused on a stubborn stain. "You're a man lost in the wilderness of life, exhausted, worn down by your struggles." She continued without waiting for his response. "And you probably think your struggles are unique, worse than anyone else in here." She gestured around the partially filled saloon. "But that's just plain horseshit. If you knew what kind of place this is, you'd have happily died out in the desert. Hell, I've contemplated it myself, but I guess I'm too yellow for it."

 

Hawke broke from his introspection, his attention piqued. "What?"

 

"You're stuck here for the night, so you might as well lend an ear to a tale. Perhaps it could serve as a distraction. Or maybe, if you manage to crawl out of this godforsaken place, you can pass on a message for us."

 

Hawke tossed back his drink, the burn of the alcohol a welcome sensation. "Speak your mind, then let me be, whore."

 

Gracey began "Years ago, this town was brought into existence by a handful of imbeciles. This is long before my time, and while I didn't personally know them, I reckon they must have been fools to decide to live in such a godforsaken place."

 

Hawke cast a bewildered glance at the woman.

 

"I didn't elect to live out here in this desolate landscape either. I was shipped off here, but I won't confuse you with my side of things, you've had your fair share of trials already. The crux of the matter is this town was founded for a reason. A family brought it up from dust after tales of copper deposits found by the Apache, or some such, upriver lured them in." She traced an imaginary line across the counter with her finger. "Then They followed the river to its source, stumbling upon the spring - our spring." Her fingers theatrically trotted back towards Hawke on the counter. "Using sticks, they found the right place to dig, and, lo and behold, they discovered copper." Her finger shot up towards the ceiling. "Whoo-hoo," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "They poured their life savings into building mines, sold all their other land, and then these simpletons began pouring in, hoping for decent work." Her gaze strayed to the dejected patrons of the saloon. "That’s when the weirdness began. People reported seeing spirits, apparitions, and people got sick with fever. Some were scared off, but the hardy ones and the drunks didn't seem to mind. Until the mine dried up, that is. Copper yield decreased and several lives were lost to cave-ins."

 

"So, a haunting cursed this place?" Hawke pondered the bizarre occurrences he'd come across in life, and none of them had felt supernatural.

 

Gracey pointed a finger at herself. "That's when I showed up, about three or four years ago. The mining company was overburdened with families, and they needed help to prevent the miners from going on strike."

 

"So, if the miners are contented, then that's that, isn't it? You must've not done a very good job then, huh?"

 

Gracey shot Hawke an icy glare. "Given your recent brush with death, I'll let your rudeness slide. But don't expect me to remain a docile subject of undeserved insults."

 

Hawke took a swig of his drink. "Continue."

 

"The trend went on. People were either scared away or killed until today. “Now, with the mine shut down due to the striking miners," Grace pointed at the saloon's occupants, "and everyone else being in debt to the company, we're contractually trapped in this hellhole. The hope of the strike breaking and good fortune striking the mine is all that keeps us sane." Her voice faltered, despair creeping in.

 

Hawke interjected, "Are you done now?"

 

"No!" Gracey quickly wiped away a tear, smearing her makeup. "I haven't had sex on my own terms in so long, I think I'm going to explode." She swiped Hawke's glass and poured herself a stiff drink.

 

Hawke rolled his eyes. "That was one of the worst pitches I've ever heard."

 

"Stay another day and you'll get a room plus the 'extras' for free. How about that, tough guy?" Gracey turned away and faced the wide mirror behind the bottles of whiskey and sprits realizing that she needed a touch up to fix the place where she’d let her vulnerability out.

 

"Now, that's a sales pitch." Hawke declined another drink and slowly rose to his feet. "So, where exactly is my room?"

--

Daybreak brought with it a riotous clamor from the town square. The noise stirred Hawke from a restless sleep, his dreams shattered by the ghostly specter of a gunslinger seeking his life. Squinting through the window, he witnessed a throng of men, gathered in fevered discussion around the town's sheriff.

 

"We've yet to ascertain his identity, but we're on it," the sheriff declared, his grip tightened on the gun belt he'd seized from Hawke. "This, folks, is the adversary we face! Pure, undiluted evil!"

 

Dressed in his bare essentials, Hawke emerged from the saloon's entrance. His voice echoed through the square. “Luke 6:37: Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

 

A hush fell over the crowd as they swiveled to face him. Emotions played across their faces - fear, indignation, confusion.

 

"Good mornin', stranger. You sure know how to stir things up," said the sheriff.

 

“I want my weapon, sheriff."

 

"I'm sure you do. But see, I'm not quite inclined to return it just yet. Besides, you can see where it is. It's not lost, is it?" The sheriff fastened the gun belt around his own waist.

 

“Give me my weapon, Irons”

 

The sheriff began to walk back towards his office. “It's yours again when you leave, mister. No one carries a gun here in my town, except for me."

 

“The name's Barrett”

 

“Barrett, this here pistol will stay safe with me a while longer. Unless you're a lawman, it stays with me.”

 

As the crowd dispersed, Hawke retreated to the quiet safety to the saloon. However, a grizzled drunkard accosted him, clutching at his collar. “Beware the face of Evil, it ever watches, ever waits."

 

“Unhand me,” Hawke growled, shrugging off the old man's hold.

The man smelt of decay, and death, “Even now you are at risk, without your fear you are a fool.” He continued. “Your nature is surrounded by evil!”

 

“Well thanks for that” Hawke pushed the man over and into an empty trough.