fry you during the day, then it would freeze you after sunset. Nevertheless, the two had years of experience in that hostile land, so they never traveled without a blanket. Even Finn had one of his own. It was half worm-eaten and home to more than a few lice, but it was warm and that was all that mattered.
It wasn’t long until they spotted a group of eight individuals under the moonlight in the clearing below. They stopped their horses some distance from the town and sent a scout ahead. The scout removed his coat before he rolled in the dust and continued, on foot. They must have heard the rumors of the unconventional hospitality that Little Pit offered their guests when they arrived. The man, covered head to toe in filth, looked like a wretch of no interest to the townspeople. This would allow him to approach the watering hole undisturbed to feign drawing water while scanning the town.
He arrived in the town and was immediately approached by Studd Mash, a.k.a. Saloon. The man had one leg shorter than the other, which was how they recognized him from a distance and under the moonlight. With his slanted posture and his unbalanced gait he resembled the tattered old sign which was once Joe’s welcome sign, which incidentally seemed to have the word “Saloon” faded on its face, at least as far as Hugg could tell. They watched the man hobble over to the guest, roughing him up in a search for valuables and then leaving, shaking his arms in frustration. As he walked away, his hat fell to the ground and he picked it up.
"Paw, that coot is wearing our benefactor’s hat!"
“Crimany, son! How the heck do you see that?”
"I didn't see it, I guessed it. His would never have fallen to the ground because he has a string that keeps it tied under his chin. He put it on there so his hat wouldn’t keep falling off on account of his hobbling.”
"I think you might be right. Only Studd would be dumb enough to show off his stolen hat to the first drifter in sight. Well, ‘bout now I’m thinkin’ the town frolic is a sure thing.”
The incognito scout sat on the ground with his back against a planked wall pretending to rest. After some time, he slowly got up and disappeared behind a barn. Some moments later, a fire broke out. He must have hidden some burning fuel in his leather pouch. That must have also been the signal. While the townspeople came out into the open to try to tame the flames, the group of outlaws galloped toward them. They rode in like a wave of death and caught the townspeople by surprise, taking out anyone brave enough to draw their weapon. A few anxious moments were enough for the few surviving inhabitants of Little Pit to have been disarmed and lined up for interrogation. Of the assailants, only one seemed to have cashed in his chips.
Meanwhile, some of the outlaws began raiding homes to avoid being shot from behind. The risk was real. In fact, before they could react, someone had fired a couple of shotgun blasts from Sean's house. The first of the two made its mark, taking out another of the invaders.
“Only six left now”, said Hugg.
“Wrong... You didn’t count me.”
Clack
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked sent his words from the tip of his tongue down to the pits of his bowels.
Father and son both put their hands in the air and slowly turned around. A thin man with hate in his eyes was pointing the business end of a shotgun at them. With a barely-there mustache and a grin like a fox in a hen house, his appearance was a real slap in the face. He was, however, on the right end of the barrel, so all said and done he had the upper hand. Hugg, making the best of his predicament, contented himself with a smirk and spat on the ground.
“I came up this hill to get a bird’s eye view of the plain. Y’know, we don’t like surprises,” he tilted his head back, “Lo and behold, look who I find perched on top – two ugly ass buzzards ready to dine with the corpses.” The man ran his tongue across his lips. “C’mon! What you just standing there for? Unbuckle them holsters and throw ‘em under my feet. Any funny business and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
Their choices were few. They had to do what he said.
“All right now, maggots, kick that shootin’ iron over the cliff.”
It wasn’t just some old, shoddy gun, it was a buffalo gun, and a damn good one at that. Hugg hesitated for a moment. He instinctively looked for reassurance in his son’s eyes, but found none, as the boy was pointedly looking down at his feet. It was as though the man had asked him to drop his drawers. Without his precious Jagg he felt naked as a worm. The forefinger of his tormentor began to put pressure on the trigger and once again, Hugg had no choice but to do what he was told. He sent his weapon - his beloved weapon - to its violent end, smashed on the rocks below. If he got out of this alive he would first have to find himself another rifle, or at least a decent pistol.
"Come on, gentlemen! Let’s go join the others down there. You sure don’t wanna miss the party!” Badfinger realized he despised the man’s voice even more than he despised his face.
“You didn’t happen to’ve run into a gunslinger on horseback in the past few hours, did you? We’ve been searching for him all across the desert. He just means so much to us,” said the ruffian during their descent. He walked a few steps behind them keeping them at gunpoint.
In situations like this, it’s always best to keep one’s mouth shut. Both hostages stayed silent.
“I get it - you don’t want to sing. On the other hand, I always thought vultures loved to be heard. It’s pretty sad to have to go to a party without being able to serenade the crowd. But don’t worry; once we’re down there I’ll introduce you to Lane, and I guarantee you he knows how to make you sing like finches.”
Yep, he talked too damn much. In any case, Hugg felt his blood freeze in his veins at the prospect of being tortured.
The day had started out to be the best day he had ever had, but now it was on its way to conclude as the worst one.
BANG!
“You two! Turn around slowly.” That most certainly was not the same irritating voice as before.
Their former captor stared wide-eyed at the sky from a rocky shelf several feet down from the path. It seemed that his look of surprise was due in part to the hole in his forehead. A man with an icy glare and fairly well-groomed travel clothes peered at them from behind a Colt. He had another revolver on the left side of his belt, along which a battery of pre-loaded charges were visible. The guy was the very picture of a lawman.
"I'm Cardigan Smith. Texas Ranger. Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the company of that criminal?” He was a lawman, and a dangerous one. He wasn’t the usual high-ranking windbag. He was a Ranger. That meant that he was a skilled gunman or a former bounty hunter who had chosen to work for the state. The operative arm of the law.
"Thank you for saving us, Mr. Lieutenant. We’re nothing but poor pikes tryin’ to find a living in this cursed land," Hugg began.
"I'm not a Lieutenant... I wish. Anyhow, please continue.”
“Yessir. We live close by, in Little Pit. Up yonder is where I buried my beloved wife and my other son when they died of smallpox.” Hugg pointed to a nearby hill where he knew that there were two mounds without an inscription. The real story was that bodies of his spouse and his offspring had been left to rot in their old house in Louisiana. After having committed the crime he skipped town and was on the dodge. He pretended to choke back a sob, wiped away a non-existent tear and continued, “Today would’ve been our anniversary.
