"Paradise Falls" by Lisa A. Smith

Lisa A. Smith

"So, what's it gonna be, cowboy?"

A solitary fly buzzed against the window, an intermittent staccato of sound. I stood alone in the room with the marshal. Heat lay heavy on me, stifling and stagnant. It was hard to breathe. I suspect that had as much to do with the decision I was facing as it did the heat.

Sweat trickled down from under my hat. I was weighing my options carefully. Above all, I longed to pull my gun. Only the certain knowledge that I would be dead before my gun cleared the holster stopped me. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a gunslinger. I'm not a hot-blooded man, dealing death at any excuse, like some I've come across. I've never used my gun against another man—never had the need to. ‘Course you may say that's unusual, considering the times in which we live. But I don't think so. Too many people shoot first, ask questions later, in my opinion. My father taught me that more can be accomplished with an easy manner and an upright life than with threats and bullying, and so I have discovered. No need to draw your gun against a friend.

But this marshal, now, he weren't no friend. He brought to mind a rattlesnake, all shifty and sly; full of venom. I felt twitchy under his gaze, pinned like a butterfly on display. It was the way he was looking at me, a slight smile shadowing his lips, eyes cold and hard. As I stood there, facing him, I remembered a conversation I had once with Reverend Brown. My ma used to call the reverend the wisest man this side of heaven, and so it was to him I would go with questions that stumped me. The day I'm thinking of, he must have preached a particularly fiery sermon, because I asked him, "Reverend, you ever see the Devil?"

The thing about the reverend was, he always took your questions seriously, even the questions from a boy with more spunk than brains. So he thought, real serious like, his lips pursed like they did when he was particularly intent.

"Well, now, Son, I believe I have, a time or two," he finally said. This answer surprised me, and more than a little scared me.

"So what did he look like?" I asked, all wide eyes and excitement. I remember he smiled a little bit, and turned to face me.

"Well, son, it's hard to explain. He looked like most people, I guess. It wasn't so much the way he looked." He paused again, thinking.

This was a bit disappointing to a boy who was expecting tales of cloven feet and horns, but I persisted anyway.

"Whaddya mean?" The reverend pondered a moment more, then sighed.

"It's hard to explain. It's something you'll discover when you get older. If you're careful. And if you keep your eyes open." And he would say no more, no matter how I pestered him.

Well, I was older now, and discovering what the reverend meant. I'd met some bad people a time or two, but none that made my skin crawl and my blood turn to ice the way the marshal did when I first saw him, when I rode into town earlier this afternoon.

I had come here like I had to so many other towns, looking for a way to make an honest dollar. Eight months back I had laid claim to a piece of land that lay sweet up against the foothills. Lush and green, perfect for the herd of cattle I could imagine growing fat on its offerings. I found a perfect spot for my cabin, sheltered up against a hill, beside a swiftly flowing stream. But I needed cattle, and some money, in order to put flesh on my dreams. So I knocked about, hitching up with a cattle drive here or helping with spring calving there. I figured I had about enough money to get a fine start on a herd, but felt the need to lay aside just a bit more. Perhaps that was my problem. Greed was calling, and the Devil answered.

You may think from all this talk about the Devil that I'm a particularly religious man. I don't consider myself so, not really. Least not in the way most folks think about it. I mind my Ps and Qs pretty carefully, and try my best to live honorably, like I've been taught. But not for me a stiff collar on a Sunday morning, sweating and snoozing to some preacher, not when the wide-open spaces beckon and the horse under me is fresh. I read my Bible and I believe in God. I make my way in the world carefully and keep my eyes open, as the reverend advised. Oh, I believe in the Devil, all right. You can't live too long in this world without seeing his footprints. But I had never made his acquaintance until that afternoon.

As I rode lazily down the main street, the summer sun was hot on my

shoulders. It felt even hotter here in the confines of the town than it had in the ride down through the hills that ringed this small settlement. I looked for a place to hitch my horse next to a water trough, and preferably close to a place where I could ask about any available prospects for a man willing to work hard. A post office, mercantile shop, blacksmithy, and a few other weather-worn buildings crowded close together along the dusty main street, their outlines wavering somewhat in the unrelenting heat. I saw a few people, here and there, going about their business, but didn't pay much mind until I tipped my hat to one man who crossed my path. He twitched like I had bit him, gave me a quick sidelong glance, then scampered out of my way. This curious response awoke my heat-dulled wits, and I began to pay more attention to the people of the town.

I saw then that all of them were furtive—taking sidelong glances at me, but not looking me in the eye. I sat up straighter in the saddle, my horse's head tossing as my leg muscles tightened involuntarily. My shoulder blades began to itch as I sensed a dozen pair of eyes following my passage down main street, but when I turned to look, no eyes met mine, no heads were turned my way. And the street itself was empty of traffic except for me. No carriages, no other mounted men. A few people on foot went to and fro on unknown errands, as I had noted, but nowhere did I see anyone engaged in a friendly conversation, or hear any laughter, or see any children. The people hurried—or scurried was perhaps a better description—to their destinations, faces turned from me as I went by, silent.

The place was strange. I should have turned tail and rode straight out of town right then and there, but my desire for a few more dollars overrode my caution. I promised myself I'd only stay a few days at the most.

Since I was as thirsty as my horse, I was mainly looking for the saloon. I have learned from experience that there would be the best place to both slake my thirst and start my search for work. I saw what appeared to be the likely building about half way down the road, where a few horses dozed, tied up to hitching posts conveniently located beside a sparkling full water trough. My horse, pace picking up as he spotted the water, nickered at the others. A slow swivel of an ear or two was the only response. It was just too hot to bother, it seemed.

I dismounted, hitching my horse to the post. He drank thirstily from the trough. I gave him a pat before I went inside. My usual practice would be to loosen the girth of the saddle, to give my horse some relief. But I didn't. The uneasiness I felt made me want to be able to leave quickly if I needed to. Instinct made me square my shoulders before I went in, bracing for trouble. The town had that kind of effect on a man.

Stepping in to the darker confines of the saloon, I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust. My ears were unhampered, however, and I wondered for a moment at the silence. No music, or conversation, or faint chime of one glass against another. Here again I felt the regard of eyes upon me, but as details became clearer I saw instead that those inside seemed to be doing their best to ignore me, just like their fellow townspeople outside.

The place was not crowded, by any means. Three men played a card game in the back corner, attended by the same determined silence that hung heavy in the room. Two or three others were scattered around the room, nursing solitary drinks, avoiding looking at one another, or me. The stuffy, hot air held the scents of tobacco and alcohol familiar to all the other saloons I had been in, and the same scuffed and well-worn chairs and tables sat randomly throughout the room. Along the right wall a staircase arose to an upper floor, presumably leading to rooms and women to be rented by the hour. A balcony rimmed all the walls except the front one, with doors exposed in regular intervals behind the railing. No sign of any of those offerings, though. The doors were shut, and all the occupants of the room were men. A piano sat silent in the opposite corner from the card game, with a gaudy lamp perched on top shedding dim light into the gloom. The heavy curtains of some dark color, I think it was red, barred the sunlight's entrance through the windows. The light coming in above and below the swinging double doors fought briefly against the shadows in the saloon, and lost. The room held to darkness grimly.

Probably most people would have turned and high-tailed it out of there, at least most sensible people. But being a man with more spunk than brains, and not willing to let this town beat me (for so I had already been thinking of winning and losing), I gathered my resolve and strode to the bar, which lined the back of the room opposite the door. The sound of my boots against the scratched and scuffed wooden floor was quickly swallowed up in the suffocating gloom.

The barkeep, who had been polishing the length of gleaming wood, looked up at me briefly as I settled down on a stool.

"What'll it be, stranger?" he asked, pausing in his labor. The silence in the room deepened. I got the sense of all ears in the place tuned to our conversation, breaths held in anticipation of my answer. I glanced casually over my shoulder, only to see everyone studiously ignoring me. I turned back to the man.

"Well, I need two things from you, if you please, mister." My voice sounded overloud in that tomblike silence, but I resisted the urge to speak in a whisper. I was not going to play their games. "First off, it's mighty hot out there, and I've been riding for a long time. I'll have a whiskey to wet my whistle."

The barkeep busied himself pouring my drink, and I gratefully raised it to my lips and drank. It was surprisingly good. Cool even. The barkeep had resumed his polishing, with no regard for me. Restored somewhat, I spoke again.

"Secondly, I wonder if you know of anyone who could use a man who's willing to do some honest work." A brief snicker sounded in the silence, from the direction of the card game. But when I turned to look, the three men were intent on their cards, clenching them tightly, playing as if their lives depended on it. I had the queer thought that maybe they did. I firmly turned my mind from such speculation and turned back to the bar.

The barkeep's eyes glanced off mine, so quick it seemed I had only imagined it.

"You'll have to ask the marshal, " he said, head bent as he rubbed at an invisible spot. A snicker again, this time from the other side of the room. I didn't bother to look around. I swallowed the last of my drink, determined suddenly to put this town behind me. I had tried, I figured. My pride would let me off the hook now.

"I see. Well, as he don't seem to be around, I guess I'll be leaving." The barkeep made no answer as I deposited my coins on the bar and stood to leave.

As if on cue, the saloon doors opened behind me, and I turned to face the marshal, for I knew as soon as I lay eyes on him that this was none other. The star on his chest proclaimed him such, for one thing, but he needed no visible sign of his authority. It rode easily on his shoulders, marking him as a man well broke to the ways of power. All around me, the atmosphere in that silent room had become charged. The barkeep rubbed harder at his spot, the solitary drinkers clutched their glasses tighter; the card game seemed to hold even higher stakes.

I mentioned before that my first glimpse of the marshal showed me what I was dealing with. The reverend was right. He did look like anyone else. He was as tall as I, with slicked back hair, wearing nothing different from anyone else in the room. But I took one look at him and knew I was in trouble. He stood self-assured in the doorway, all lean strength and controlled spite. Cruelty and disdain spoke large in the casual placement of his fists on his hips, the angle of his jaw. The best I could do was to tell myself to be careful and keep my eyes open, and then he started to speak, the pleasantness of his words belying his nature.

"Well, howdy, stranger. Heard you was lookin' for me." Before I could speak, the barkeep piped up behind me.

"He's lookin' for work, Marshal." His voice held an overtone of triumph, and supplication. The marshal didn't look at the other man, nor at anyone else in the room. He only had eyes for me, hard and probing eyes. It was all I could do not to squirm and shift uneasily, but I forced myself to stand upright, meeting his gaze squarely. Finally, he nodded, slightly.

"Well, that bein' the case, you need to come with me, cowboy. My office is down the street some. I dislike talking business in a place of pleasure." His teeth flashed slightly in a mocking grin. I thought it a stretch to call the strangely determined activities in the saloon pleasures, but I nodded slightly back at him and followed him outside on uneasy legs.

The hot sun bore down just as fiercely outside, which surprised me somewhat. It seemed like forever that I had been entombed in the bitter darkness of the saloon. The brightness made my eyes squint. The marshal strode off to the left, expecting me to follow, which I did. There was no thought now of leaving. A better man probably could have turned his back on the compulsion that moved my feet in his wake, but I was unable to stop myself. My place was set on the stage, and I had to see this thing through.

My horse whinnied at me and tossed his head. I gave him a silent promise to be back in a moment, one I intended to keep. Ahead, the marshal stepped into a doorway, confident of my continued obedience. Gritting my teeth, I followed behind.

This was obviously the local jailhouse. A desk dominated the room, to which the marshal made his way behind, stopping to hang his hat on a peg. I kept mine on my head. I hoped to be leaving in a hurry.

Beyond the desk, a narrow hallway led to what I presumed would be the jail cells. No sound escaped from the hallway—either there were no prisoners there, or they were silent as mice. I did not speculate on which was more likely, or the reasons for either.

A large chair sat behind the desk, a smaller one facing it across the desk. The marshal ignored his chair, however, and turned to face me. He nodded towards the smaller chair, an invitation to sit. I clenched my jaw and remained standing. His flat gaze slapped into mine once more. My heartbeat spiked up a notch, but I tried my best not to let my nervousness show. The air seemed full of possibilities.

"So, you're looking for work." His eyes raked up and down my form, assessing. "Well, you're in the right place. Here in Paradise Falls you'll find plenty of opportunities." He smiled, showing his teeth. "In fact, I'm sure I can find plenty of use for a man of your talents."

All at once I was sure that the talents he was referring to were not my skills with a horse or rope, but my less dubious qualities which suddenly sprung to my mind—my quick temper, my stubborn pride, my greed which had called me here. I would have hung my head in shame if I weren't sure that was precisely what he wanted to see. I opened my mouth to speak my refusal when he sprung the trap, neatly.

"I can offer you $100.00 for two days work. No more, no less."

My mouth snapped shut, and his eyes gleamed. A hundred dollars for two days work—the offer was more than generous. I had figured another 3-4 months at least before I got that much, which was of course the precise amount of money I had decided I needed to get started on my ranch. And two days? Surely I could stand this place for that long. I had been in worse, I reckoned. I would just be careful to keep out of the marshal's way.

I'm ashamed that my thoughts went this direction longer than I care to say. My only excuse is that I was beset with the same weakness of any man, when presented with an easy route to his heart's desire. We are so easily blinded to the truth when what we want is dangled in front of us like a carrot in front of a horse. We ignore the possibility of a worm hidden inside.

The silence in the room deepened, and then, the fly began to fling itself against the window, seeking escape.

It seems strange that the Almighty should use such a small creature as a fly as the instrument of my deliverance, but so it was. For in its futile attempts to escape I saw my own future, trapped in the web of the marshal's offer, two days stretching to ten, stretching to Creation only knew how many. Just so had the other townspeople been trapped here, I am sure. I imagine his proposal to each one had been different than the one he had given me, woven especially to the shape of their desires.

The marshal obviously knew he was losing me, for he spoke, trying to stop the flow of my thoughts.

"So, what's it going to be, cowboy?"

So there we stood in the room, the heat lying heavy on me, the decision before me. But he had lost, and I believe he knew it. We were only playing out the end of the game. I wrestled with the desire to shoot him where he stood, becoming a hero in the eyes of the townspeople, who would surely reward me handsomely. Oh, he was clever, that snake. I put a stop to those thoughts too. That was not my fight, and if I attempted it, I would lose. I knew that much. I forced my tense muscles to relax, and smiled, baring my teeth at him as he had bared his at me.

"Well, now, Marshal, that's mighty kind. But I find I have no stomach for the uses—" I emphasized the word slightly "—that you may have for me."

The marshal's eyes narrowed, fury barely masked. I stood lightly on my feet, ready for I didn't know what. Then the moment passed, and he nodded, jaw clenched. I knew I was free to leave.

At that moment, the fly, abandoning its attempts at the window, buzzed past the marshal. Quick as lightning, his hand snaked out and he captured it, closing his fist tightly. He dropped it to the ground and crushed it under his boot for good measure. His eyes never left mine.

Message received, I turned to leave, eager to put this town behind me. My refusal had broke the unseen chains that had held me before the marshal, but I moved stiffly as I opened the door and went outside. I didn't like having him at the back of me. I felt his eyes boring into me as I left, and kept my hand ready to draw, just in case. But he let me go without any trouble. I guess he had rules he had to follow.

I made my way quickly to my horse, untied him, and mounted. Turning his head, I forced him to walk down the street the way we had come in, although by the way he pulled at the reins I knew he was as eager to leave as I. But I wasn't going to let the marshal have the satisfaction of seeing my dust as I ran out of town. That he was watching I had no doubt. I could feel his furious eyes on my back.

As I ambled down Main Street, I realized something I should have seen as I was coming in, if I had been keeping my eyes open. There was no church spire showing white against the hard blue of the sky. Most towns built a church soon as folks settled down to one spot, usually the first public building to be erected. I say most, because I have come across a town or two that boasts a saloon as their first public building, but even in those towns a church came along close on its heels. I should have noticed its absence sooner. It'll be the first thing I look for the next town I'm in.

The people of that condemned town had stopped their busy, frantic activities. They stood in place silently and watched me as I rode past, some with despair in their eyes, some with fury. All of them, I guess, were wishing they had made a different decision in the marshal's office.

Pride is one thing; prudence, another. As soon as the town was out of sight behind me, I'm not ashamed to say that I let my horse have his head so he could carry us as fast as he could, away from Paradise Falls.

Lisa lives in Alberta, Canada. Her pastimes include reading, knitting, cross country skiing, and bicycling. Her full time job is being a mother to three kids. Writing is a passion that she indulges in as often as she can! She has had some short stories published in the Faithwriters.com anthologies (In the Beginning, A Year of Celebration). This is her second story to appear in The Sword Review.

Cover: "Dragon-Claus: at the end of a Monster list"

Paradise Falls

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