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This seems like it could be a good candidate, right in the middle of these tapped-out mining spots.
It’s a perfect road through the cut for some outlaw screamers to come ripping out, howling like banshees and riding hard for Heart’s Edge to raise hell.
Makes sense, too.
With the mountains and the road running through, there are only two narrow ways in and out, it’s an easy place to defend.
Any white hat sheriff coming up here to take those boys out, they’d mow down that cop and every last one of his boys two at a time as they squeezed through the cut.
The scene plays through my head so vividly I can see it like I’m standing under the dusty sun watching it happen, six-shooters everywhere and bandits milling around.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I tell myself. But hell, this might be it.
If I can find anything that actually proves this town is Ursa and the home of those legendary gunslingers…
We’ve got this cat in the bag.
We could save Libby’s ranch.
I flick out my flashlight again, making my way slowly through the streets.
Best place to start looking, I think, would be that big building right in the middle, with a hitching post—a real honest-to-God hitching post—out front and swinging double doors that are still on their hinges.
The construction man in me can’t help but admire it.
Whoever put this place together did a beast of a job.
It’s got to be well over a hundred years old.
The big building looks like a saloon.
If it’s like any Wild West town I’ve ever heard of, it’d be the busiest place—and the most likely to leave behind some evidence.
I carefully push the swinging doors open.
I don’t want to disturb anything, accidentally break or muck up anything that might contribute to this being considered a historical site.
My flashlight sweeps over rows of dusty, empty bottles with their labels long worn off.
They’re lined up on shelves behind a bar that’s mostly just a bunch of flat planks bolted to a long table, but it confirms my guess. It’s a saloon.
Round ramshackle tables and chairs are scattered everywhere.
There’s an upper level with stairs leading up to a railing. I can almost see pretty painted ladies leaning over with their bodices half-buttoned, flashing hankies and whistling boys upstairs.
As I sweep that flashlight over the bar again, I get the living shit scared right out of me.
There’s someone there.
Sitting at the bar.
“Fuck!” I gasp, stumbling back with my heart zinging around my chest like it’s on a zipline, fingers clenched around the flashlight.
For a second, my head fills up with flashes of haunted saloons and old cowboys stalking through the room.
A chill sweeps down my spine.
But I take a wary step closer, holding the flashlight steady.
Whoever it is, they’re not moving.
My stomach fucking sinks.
I’ve found some evidence, all right.
Just not the kind I’m looking for.
Because I think this might be evidence of a fucking murder, and it’s got nothing to do with Wild West bandits at all.
There’s a skeleton slouched in one of the saloon chairs with its head propped up against the wall, held together by raggedy bits of skin and clothing gone dusty and frayed. Looks like he’s been here a while, undisturbed by predators or people…but not that long.
There’s still hair clinging to the corpse’s leathery scalp.
I’m no expert on old-timey clothes, but I’m pretty sure that mottled suit holding him together is fairly modern, no more than twenty or thirty years old.
And Rolex damn sure didn’t make ’em like the watch hanging on his wrist a hundred years ago.
That watch is one of the things that’s extra weird about this.
I flick the flashlight over the scene, barely even daring to breathe.
The old blood stains on his chest, his shirt are obvious—shot right in the heart.
Spent shell casing on the floor, looks like from a shotgun.
But he’s still got his watch.
His very expensive-looking watch.
Gold cufflinks, too.
Also, a briefcase, dropped on the floor, resting against the leg of the tall chair like it fell from his hand when he died and went limp.
So this wasn’t some kind of back country mugging gone wrong.
Somebody killed him, left his valuables, and ran.
There’s got to be a story here, but I’m not sure it’s one I should be privy to.
I’m not sure I should be here at all.
For now, I’m just glad I have gloves on, and I want to get the fuck out of here at lightning speed.
Still, I hesitate, then lean over and snatch the briefcase without getting any closer to the corpse than I have to.
That chill hits me again as my hand brushes too close to his skeletal fingers.
Then I back up, one step at a time, careful not to bump into anything else, before I turn and clatter down the steps of the saloon’s front walk.
I take off at a jog for the trail with that briefcase dangling from my hand.
