The Western Take

Chapter Two

The horse halted suddenly as Braun hit the floor with a hard thud. The soft, sandy terrain broke the fall somewhat, but his back-led impact still knocked the wind out of him. He groaned and rubbed his face as the harsh desert sunlight penetrated his eyes. The daylight surprised him; his last memory recalled riding through the pitch black with nothing more than a hopeful sense of direction.

It was hot, exceedingly hot, and despite his whole life being basked in near extreme heat, he'd never fully accustomed to it and longed to feel something else. It would often get chilly in the night, but he craved to feel an icy cold, the sort of low temperatures that would leave him just as uncomfortable at the other extreme, to feel something new and different. His frustration grew as he cursed himself for being so restless. He knew he'd soon tire of any alternative, and countless other people from lands afar would swap ten days of their deep painful cold for one day of sun-soaked radiance.

Climbing to his feet carefully, he winced as he looked down at his Long Johns. A sticky, moistened clump of material had stuck to the hairs of his left inside leg and prompted him to moan, "I've damn pissed myself." He slapped the side of the horse. "Hope I didn't get any on you, big fella."

He took a substantial swig of warm water, courtesy of a flask hanging from the horse's saddle, and poured a few drops over his head. The sun had not long risen but the heat was already kicking in, serving to aggravate an already fierce hangover. In a bid to cool down, he removed his inherited leather poncho, folded it over and placed it into a bag hanging from the saddle, as he tried to gather his bearings. The horse had covered sixty miles throughout the night, and Braun intuitively surmised that they were on the track to another town and hopefully somewhere that he could get a drink.

He fed the horse some water and checked to see if anybody was around before pouring two of the bags of money onto the sand. Lacking in any sort of education, he didn't know how to count big numbers, but he could plainly see that he was in the possession of a vast amount of money. Making a couple of piles with the notes, he flicked through them a few times before bringing a wad up to his nose. The notes and coins smelt musty and unpleasant, but the scent pleased him all the same, with assurances that the situation was real and not imaginary.

After struggling a couple of times, he eventually managed to climb back on top of the horse and carried on heading in the same direction for a further five hours until reaching civilization.

He arrived just after midday at a small town just inside San Diego. The year was 1880, and the newly developed area was flourishing following the gold rush. Braun had heard mutterings of this, but it hadn't influenced his decision to head there. He'd conceded that his working days were behind him, due to poor health brought on by chronic alcoholism. He was in his early forties and young enough for employment, but he felt and looked a much grander age. His face was ashen-tired and craggy, with a scruffy unkempt beard. Matted shoulder-length hair retained a few blond strands of youth but was mostly overpowered by a heavy influx of grey.

He was a mess, and his body struggled as the remaining remnants of alcohol in his system dissolved. Where can I get a drink? was the first thought that crossed his mind as he passed into the town. Travelling in, he'd decided that he was going to get a nice suit fitted before anything else, but now the raging urge for alcohol overwhelmed the more sensible option. In typical fashion of most towns during the period, he didn't have to venture too far before finding a suitable watering hole, as he spotted a sign advertising liquor outside of a barn. Braun smacked the horse's side, rolled off, and pulled some rope from out of the saddle bag. He tied the animal to a post next to three more horses surrounding a rusty, weather-beaten drinking trough.

Once satisfied that the knot was strong enough to keep the horse from running off, he eagerly walked up to the barn and pulled open a heavy wooden door. It was an old working farm space that had been converted into a saloon, and although it retained a lot of its old features, this wasn't designed to give the place character. It was thrown together in a slapdash manner, due to lack of funds and desire to give the place a homely feel. Tightly compacted bales of hay scattered across the room were used as makeshift benches, and a rickety old ladder leading to the upper mow of the barn remained if people wanted to risk climbing up to the top with their drinks. The bar itself consisted of stacked boxes and shelving units for the spirits. Braun dusted himself down and flinched as he realised that he should have put the poncho back on to preserve a degree of modesty over his Long John-clad appearance. This minor concern rapidly subsided as he looked up to see something that startled him to a point where he struggled to believe what was in front of him. The few patrons of the bar detected his obvious distress and looked over, prompting him to go back through the swing doors to get some much-needed fresh air.

Once outside, he staggered over to the horse's trough, ready to vomit, when an ageing, near jet-black stallion appeared to be aware that his water was about to be flavoured with barfed chunks of whiskey and bile.

Braun knelt and bowed his head ready for the inevitable. But the horse used his head to nudge him and released a sound steeped in frustration as it blew through thick, reverberating, rubbery lips. This knocked the weakened Braun to the floor, puking as he fell over.

He waited until he was sure all the vomit had pumped out of him, climbed to his feet, and scooped up some water from the trough, washing off the mess he'd made on himself until it was just another stain to join in with the dozens of others spread throughout his Long Johns. The reactionary reflex was unpleasant, but once released, part of his fear had passed, and he felt strangely compelled to re-enter the barn to face what had frightened him so much.

He stood outside the eight foot-high swing doors, taking several deep breaths, after which he slapped himself across the face several times - once or twice a little too hard. The rosy-cheeked burn proved a useful distraction as he pushed through the doors.

He squinted and held it for a second or two before slowly opening his eyes wider, adjusting them to the strange sight. This confirmed that what he'd prayed was a figment of his imagination, was not as such. What greeted him was the sight of a bartender and three men doing nothing particularly unusual, just the sort of laughing, brooding, and shit-talking that you'd expect in such an environment. But the difference lay in what Braun could see; something they all had in common. As clear as the tangible elements to the barn, across all the folk he could see smoky balls of colour living inside them, slightly across from the centre of their chests, and projecting through their flesh and clothing. The colours and sizes varied, but all were of a circular shape.

Braun sensed they were unaware of the strange phenomena that emanated from them, and he knew that addressing it could firstly draw attention to himself, and secondly create a scene, probably ending up with him labelled a nut and being forced to spend time in the local jail. For a split second, he considered the possibility that he had indeed lost his marbles, but this consideration quickly evaporated. His gut and intuitiveness told him this was not a trick of the mind.

As he stood in the doorway, a wrought sense from deep within was basking in its power, as though a longing was being nourished.

Within seconds of gazing at the mesmeric, strange, and beautiful impressions that fell before him, he realised that he was beginning to draw attention. So he dropped his head towards the sawdust-scattered wooden floor and slowly shuffled his way to the bar. Sweaty and shaky, he became acutely aware of all the eyes fixated on him.

A tiny, elderly bald man, with no more than six teeth in his mouth, was cleaning some glasses. Unimpressed as he glanced over at Braun, he rolled his yellowy eyes and started talking to three tough-looking men in their twenties propping up the bar.

Braun at this point saw something that frightened him. Standing behind the old barman was something of human size and shape but with a profile etched in a thin blue border. The form inside the border was of a similar colour but edged towards sky blue, just a shade or two lighter than the line of blue that framed the man.

The detail to it was fragile, like fog, but Braun could see through its shape and movement that it was an apparition of a man. His features and clothes could be made out, although any fleshy tones he may once have had were replaced by the misty texture swarming his entire presence. His clothes and bushy moustache were very much in the style of a citizen of the mid-to-late 1800s and typical of someone who had until recently been amongst the living. And just like seeing that first star in the night sky, it wasn't long before Braun started seeing more, and he watched as the ghost appeared to be playing out some bar duties. He served another of his kind, made from the same mysterious foggy apparition, but more sizeable in height and width. The phantom barman handed over a shape indicative of a small measure of drink.

Braun took a good look around, seeing several apparitions across the room with varying degrees of visibility. Some appeared to demonstrate behaviour based on a former human existence; others stood still and either...