Jack Westfield's Story

Jack had been working since early morning and been stuck with the same customer for hours now. Well he wouldn't call him customer, the man was what people would call a no good lousy execuse for a man. But Jack didn't mind, he just laughed the poor fool's attempts for more free drinks off. Jack was generous and kind but not kind enough to go against Mr. Hass too much. A free drink here and there didn't hurt anything but the man drinking it.

'' Pleashe... Jusht one more! I'll pay tomorrow.. '' The drunken fool splurred. He could barely sit up straight and his eyes were focused on anything BUT Jack. But good old Jack hadn't the heart to throw him out, he just gave the man a pat on his shoulder.

'' Look Mr. Peters you know the bossman's rules. You go have yourself a nice old nap and hangover you hear?'' He said and put the drunk's hat back on it's owners head. With a few curses that didn't make any sense the man stumbled away and out of the saloon. Jack sighed as he saw Mr. Peters fall down just outside of the saloon and pass out. Well he was the town's problem again untill he could raise enough money to bother Jack again. Unless he got himself thrown into jail again.

Jack went back to wiping the already clean bar and only stopped to pour up some liquor or say goodbye to one of the locals who had to get going. He liked standing behind the bar, it gave him time to watch the people inside. Like the troublemaker Steve McHaran who not only bothered the girls and Jack, he also bothered the law with every kind of crimes, everything from fighting, stealing or just being too rude was the way McHaran passed his time. People didn't take him seriously anymore. He was acting strange today though. Usually the girls would have to fend him off and Jack would have to keep a close eye on the bar but today he just came in pale as a corpse mumbling about ''The old Boss is in town, oh lordy''. He just paid for a whole bottle of scotch and was sitting in the corner drinking and his eyes kept looking at the doors and at the new people that came in with fear, it looked like he was expecting someone to walk in and shoot him. Strange man.

Morgan entered the Silver Spur, striding past Annie and Darby and heading straight for the bar. He didn't know what the marshal planned to do about the goings on in Splitcreek, and he didn't particularly care. The sheriff was off somewhere, presumably doing something important, and when he got back from doing whatever it was he was doing, he'd take care of the mess. At least, that was the hope. That was the way things were supposed to work. But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, they say. Good ol' Robert Burns.

Morgan took his usual seat at the bar, blowing out a long breath. Westfield was at the far side of the bar, taking care of a drunken Peters, who was very upset after having been cut off. He shook his head as the cross-eyed fool stumbled away, muttering about heading down the street for another bottle. What on earth had seemed so appealing about heading West? Most of the people you met were broke or would be by time you next saw them, and it seemed that everyday there was someone going on about a shoot out or a murder or some sorry soul who'd gotten scalped by savage Indians. There had to be something out here that made things...worth it.

Maybe it was liquor. Sometimes a trip to the saloon was all that was needed to clear away a man's darkest troubles, though he usually ended up doing something stupid or foolish the process of forgetting said troubles. And then you had your enterprising fellows like Hass, who were always ready to make a buck off another man's blunder. Yes, the Wild West really was a different world, and it certainly lived up to its name.

"Howdy, Westfield," he called, getting the barkeep's attention. "A Mule Skinner for me." The addition of blackberry liquor to the alcoholic concoction was just enough to disguise the lethal taste of the burning whiskey. A wicked beast, whiskey wasn't for the faint of heart, and Morgan didn't need to be shooting that coffin varnish this early. He'd need to stick around at least 'til things cleared up on the main street and he could see about getting that damn drunk Jenny'd shot out of his office.

Jack watched Peters stumble out of the saloon and into the streets. He was someone else's problem now untill he could make a few dollars, then he'd be here again. The young bartender made is way to the doctor and welcomed him with a bright smile. Crowe was a pleasent change from the usual drunks and cocky troublemakers.

'' Welcome back Doc. First one, on me. You know for keeping this place alive an' all '' He said as he poured him the drink. Seemed like people spent more time in the saloon then ever these days. Wasn't too bad, kept Jack's pockets filled with dollars and who could complain about that? Mr. Hass certainly didn't. That man lived for money and if he could put Jack in chains and make him work for free he'd do it. Crazy old german. He shook his head and looked up at the doctor again with another smile as he brushed the hair out of his face.

'' Lot of commotion outside Doc, everything alright? '' Jack asked as he instictively began dusting the bar off with his rag. Not that it needed cleaning but it kept Jack occupied and he always found himself doing it even when he told himself he wouldn't do it.

Morgan gave a half-hearted smile as Jack greeted him, gratefully accepting the drink. "Thanks, Jack. Don't know what I'd do if there wasn't free liquor to be had." He wished he could've said it more jokingly, but Morgan was too grave to joke much, especially when he knew there was a dead man rotting in his office. He clicked his tongue over his teeth, taking a sip from the drink. It burned all the way down, but he welcomed the fire of the alcohol, going back for more a minute later.

Jack made friendly talk with the tired doctor, attending the bar with vigor. He wasn't too much younger than Morgan, about 8 years difference or so, but the spry young man was in far better shape. Westfield was a charmer and quite the looker, save for his missing tooth, which he'd acquired in a bar fight some time ago. Morgan, while not unattractive, wore the wear and tear of the years on his face, and looked much older than his 34 years. He caught his reflection in the shiny bottles along the back of the bar- the sandy stubble growing in after a few days without a shave, the sunken blue eyes staring back at him from under the brim of his hat. His eyes flitted to his hands, wrapped tightly around the glass, the scarred palms that clutched the glass so fiercely.

Jack's question snapped him to attention, and he looked over his shoulder towards the main street behind him, giving a shrug. "Depends on your definition of 'alright', I suppose. Sentinel's certainly got his hands full. Somebody's been shot, and Hass is pitching a fit over stolen gold. You really should get out from the behind the bar more often, Westfield," he joked wryly, taking another generous drink

He nodded and gave the customary tip of his hat as Bonnie approached, fixing his eyes on the bottom of his glass. It'd been a rough day in Splitcreek, but the afternoon's were always the hardest, what with the scorching sun and buzzards circling the sky, creating a miserable and barren landscape. The approaching darkness provided cover for outlaws, but it also held some of Splitcreek's greatest entertainment. Who knew what the young night held?

Jack returned the half-hearted smile of the doctor with a bright smile of his own. The man was not much of a joker but Jack enjoyed his company. The young bartender pulled a hand through his hair as one of the girls called for him. She put in an order for glasses of whiskey and two cigars. Seemed like someone had some dollars to spend. With quick hands he filled the glasses and placed them and two cigars on the tray before flashing the girl a charming smile. She gave him a wink and walked away to the customers. With that he turned his attention back to the doctor who had a grim look on him as he stared into the bottom of his glass. Perhaps he was true, Jack had to get out more.

'' Well Doc. If I got out more you would have to pay for you drinks and we can't let that happened can we now? '' He said and chuckled and gave Morgan a friendly pat on the shoulder.

'' So Mr. Hass is out there throwin' a fit again? Do you think anger can kill people Doc? '' Jack asked with a cheerful tone followed by a warm laugh. It didn't surprise him one bit that one of his miners grew tired of his abuse and decided to skip town with the gold. Wouldn't even surprise him if one day the whole Saloon were gone and Mr. Hass would be left with nothing but the dirt he walked on to boss around.

Morgan watched Jack's quick hands fill the glasses and send them on their way, completing the task in seconds. He was a skilled and diligent worker, no doubt, and smart, too. But here he was, tending bar in some dusty saloon. Perhaps he ought to talk to him about an apprenticeship at the office, see if he couldn't teach him a thing or two about medicine. Morgan wasn't much of a teacher, though, nor was he particularly sociable, and he'd grown accustomed to his one-man-show as Splitcreek's doctor.

"With all the business trouble in town brings, I might be able to afford it," said Morgan, shaking his head. "Had a fellow come in just today with a nasty gash across his chest. Didn't say where he'd got it from, but he seemed suspicious." The doctor shrugged, downing the last of his drink. Yes, he was wary of many people in Splitcreek, but it wasn't proper to say so, and he wasn't particularly interested in trading in his salves and bandages for a shiny badge.

Jack discussed his boss's troubles as though he hadn't a care in the world. The plucky young man was un-phased by the threat of thieving outlaws and bloodthirsty bandits, and why should he be? There wasn't a man in Splitcreek who didn't like Westfield, and he was employed by one of the richest men in town. Really, Jack was about as safe as one could be in the Wild West (which, to be fair, still wasn't all that safe).

"Anger's a powerful thing. Makes people do all sorts of things," muttered Morgan, trailing his finger around the rim of his empty glass. "You just...be careful, Jack," he said, shaking his head. "'Specially around Hass. Ain't one person in Splitcreek who wouldn't like to see that man gone, and you don't need to go protecting anybody on principle."

Jack shrugged at Morgan's remark about Hass. He knew the german was hated and mean to his staff but the kind-hearted farmboy didn't wish him any real harm. It was enough with the curses and names others threw at the german, he didn't need his bartender doing the same. With a troubled gaze he filled the doctor's glass again.

'' You don't worry 'bout me Doc. You just finish the free drink. '' Jack said jokingly. His face had gone back to looking carefree and happy as usual. His eyes wandered over the saloon and stopped at Steve McHaran that stilled cluthed the bottle of whiskey like it contained the essence of life, his eyes kept scanning the saloon and people as before.

'' Doc.. You know anything 'bout a man's mind? I think somethin' is wrong with McHaran. '' Jack mumbled and slowly let his gaze fall on the doctor again. While McHaran wasn't a favored customer or associate Jack felt worried about him and if anyone could help it was either a preacher or a doctor. Since there weren't many preaching men around these parts a tipsy doctor would do.

Morgan shook his head as Jack dutifully refilled his glass, a sad smile on his lips. "Dammit, Westfield, you're makin' a drunkard of me." Not that Morgan had any qualms with that; alcohol was a man's best friend in times like these. He pulled out one of the crisp bills Bell had given him as payment and slapped it on the bar, taking another long pull on his drink. The mention of McHaran got his nose out of his glass, and he thought back to the last time he'd seen the man. (This, if you're curious, was about a week ago in his office when he'd spent an hour dressing the wounds of the idiot Scotsman, who'd fallen into a tangle of barbed wire after a long night at the Silver Spur.)

"Matters of the mind ain't really my department," Morgan frowned, looking over his shoulder at the trembling McHaran. "But the way he's shaking I 'spose somebody ought to take a look at him." He looked back at his half-full glass and pushed it aside with a heavy sigh, resettling his hat on his head before standing up from the bar.

He approached McHaran the way one might a frightened jack rabbit, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the man. McHaran had always been a nervous fellow (not very bright, either), but today he looked especially spooked. His wild green eyes flashed to Morgan, and he immediately launched into his spiel, punctuating his words with wild hand gestures and eyes as wide as saucers.

"He's a comin'! Keep low, Doc, keep low!" McHaran whispered, clutching his whiskey tightly to his chest. It wasn't any secret that McHaran's brain cavity wouldn't make a drinking cup for a canary, but this wasn't stupidity...it was terror. Morgan looked back towards Jack, shaking his head in puzzlement.

Morgan pulled up a chair and eased himself into the seat, moving closer to the terrified man. "Now Steve, calm down. Ain't nobody after you," he said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder to get his attention. "Who's comin'?"

"He is! The Boss is comin'! I told you! I told you!" he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. Unphased by the shouts and cries, Morgan moved to take the bottle of whiskey from McHaran's pale hand, but every time he got within reach the crazy Scotsman whipped his hand away, diving into his next rambling. Finally, Morgan wrenched the bottle from his clutching fingers and set it aside, looking McHaran dead in the eye.

"Now you listen to me. This is what you're gonna do: You're gonna get one of these nice gentleman from the bar to walk you home, you're gonna get yourself into bed, and you're gonna have yourself a good long sleep. Clear?" McHaran gave a shaky nod, and Morgan patted him on the shoulder. "Good man."

He snatched up the bottle of whiskey before the Scotsman could make a grab for it and headed back to the bar, setting the bottle down in front of Jack. "Aw hell, Westfield, it could be anything. Too much to drink or too much time in the sun, or maybe there really is someone after him. In this town, that's a real possibility. Most I can do for him is send him home and hope he sleeps it off. I'll check on him in the morning if it'll make you feel any better." McHaran was crazy enough to eat the devil with his horn's on, and there wasn't anything the good doctor could do to reassure him.

Bonnie smile at the Doc before turning back towards her drink, which today was a great glass of bourbon, she took Damian turning away from her an indication that he didn't want to talk, not that she blamed him, poor fellow looed exhausted "well if you need anything I'll more than likely be at the school house" she smiled offering him the friendly gesture for him to take or leave as he pleased. Bonnie didn't know how long he was planning on staying for in Splitcreek but she figured it would perhaps make this town a little less daunting for the man, though she figured he had probably seen worse places.

Emptying her glass, the blonde frowned before rubbing her throbbing head, today had been so long but at least everything at the school was completed, now all that was left to do was inform the children of the town and try and persuade their parents that it was a good idea to let their children get an education. For her that would be given, but you'd be surprised how many parents discouraged the idea, shaking her head she shook those thoughts away, they were for tomorrow. "Jack can I have another bourbon please?" she asked with a small tired smile, sliding a silver dollar across the bar.

With a sigh, Bonnie ran a hand through her hair as she observed the people around her, people chatting idly as they played games of cards and drank heavily. She knew she didn't belong here, people quite often told her personally but she would smile sweetly and tell them to shove it where the sun don't shine, she wasn't as fragile as people assumed, the war not only changed men but women too.

Waiting for her drink, Bon drummed her nails on the bar only to hear the shattering of glass coming from outside, startled she jumped slightly before going to see what had caused the noise, frowning to see it was a drunken man on his knees amongst the glass, she picked up the hat that was beside him, holding it out for him "this yours?" she waiting for him to take, her eyes quickly searching for the sheriff, he he saw this the man would spend the next 24 hours in jail.

Jack had tried to remain calm as he heard the gunfire outside and the screams of the people. When one of them spoke up speaking of a message to Mr. Hass Jack noticed how McHaran had gone stiff and then ducked under the table clutching the bottle of whiskey in his hands. Morgan had rushes out of the saloon and a few minutes after Jack joined him and the crowd outside. It was a horrible sight before him. A man beaten to the point where he didn't even look like a man anymore. Jack tried to push away the feeling that he needed to throw up and he looked away.

Alright Jack shape up you're going home to pa' and ma' remember? Cheer up. He thought to himself as he said his good bye to Thomas Burkins whose shift had just started. Jack could see that Thomas didn't like the way his shift started and the middle aged man wiped some sweat from his wrinkled forehead. Jack also noticed his boss Mr. Hass throwing a fit and yelling at.. Bill!? May the lord have mercy on the poor man's soul and may he strike down Hass who was cursing and shaking the dying Bill on the ground screaming about his gold.

'' You stay safe now Jack, ain't safe no more with them outlaws riding 'round town.'' Thomas said and gave the young bartender a comforting pat on the back before he went inside the bar which would probably get crowded today considering the recent events. Jack gave Thomas a weak smile as he began walking over to his horse that hads been in his possession for as long as he can remember. As he untied the reins he looked over to the doctor doing his best to take the pain away from Bill. Jack sighed and grabbed the reins as he walked over to the doctor.

'' Doc.. Ain't no use I think he's done for, he needs a someone to pray for him I reckon. I.. I just need to get home to the ranch.. If this is happening here in town imagine what could happened to the folks out in the wilderness y'know? Take care..'' The otherwise cheerful Jack seemed very troubled as he mounted up and got his horse into a trot out of town.


When he finally reached his family home and he saw his father waiting by the fence for him with his old pipe between his lips and a cloud of smoke over his head. Old fool loved the pipe as much as he loved his family. Jack jumped down from his horse and his father took the reins.

'' You's early boy just in time for supper.. Old Hass chased ye' out of town or sumin'?'' Jack's father mumbled and put his other arm around his son's shoulder while they walked to the small barn. Jack spoke of last weeks' events put left out the part with a half dead man dragged through town for now. Jack asked about his mother and siblings and his father gave the usual replies: The brats ate too much and didn't help out enough and his hag of a wife was only complaining.

'' You can try acting like a cold hearted man Pa' but we all know you's a big softy.'' Jack laughed and dodged the weak slap his father threw his way.

'' The others are waitin' for ya' Jackie, and you don' keep you ma' waitin'.'' The old man said and walked with his son into the house where the whole family was and greeted him with hugs. It felt like all the troubles of the world didn't exsist here with his family, and it was great.

Morgan was absorbed in his work, his hands going from the bucket to the man and back again. He knew it was hopeless, knew there was no point in wiping away blood that came up fresh a minute later, but he couldn't help himself. Something kept his arms pumping in their mechanic way, and he busied himself wringing out the blood-soaked rag, tending his patient in the dutiful, tireless way he'd been trained. It was instinct- instinct to crouch over this bloody body, instinct to stop and feel for the weak pulse running under the dark skin.

Out of nowhere came the angry shouts of Hass, and the stout German appeared on the scene, shouldering his way past Morgan and grabbing Bill's bloody body. He had no concern for the beaten man, no pity for the gouged face or broken limbs. He was a vicious thing, his grubby little fingers clawing and snatching and grabbing for what was his. Upon finding the letter he roared to the sky and descended on Bill, beating the already senseless man. Morgan lunged for him, wrapping his arms around the man's compact frame and effectively pinning his arms to his sides. He tossed Hass aside, his eyes wide and unblinking as crumpled to his knees, staring at the broken creature before him.

He looked at Bill as if in a trance, his hands shaking at his sides. From some distant place Jack's quiet voice reached his ears, informing him of his defeat. Westfield was right. There wasn't anything he could do. There was never anything he could do, it seemed. So many hours wasted. So many men wasted. For greed or for revenge or for hate, it didn't matter.

He stared at his bloody hands, now folded neatly in his lap. He would never wash his hands of the blood of Splitcreek. It was a dark and ugly stain, and the sight of it made him wretch. He had to get out of here. Another voice, low and grave, snapped him from his dazed state, and he turned to look up at the sheriff. What had happened? Suddenly he couldn't remember. There was blood. It was all over him.

"I...Hass..." he sighed, took a breath. Slowly, he got to his feet, turning his back on the dying man. "Hass is your man, Sheriff. I didn't see it happen. I'm just here to clean up the mess," he said, his eyes drifting to his bloody hands once more.

Samuel stood for a moment and smiled down at the girl, as he held out his hand to help her into the saddle he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of misfortune permeate the air.

"You don't got nothin to worry about Miss Quinn, old Gaiter can carry us both no problem, forgive me but you'll have to ride in the back, I'm a bit too large to accommodate a lady passenger these days, I've yet to find a saddle that fits proper.

Untying his bedroll Samuel made a makeshift pad for the lady to sit upon. As he mounted himself he took a moment to tie his hair back to avoid lashing her repeatedly as they rode. She seemed the pretty sort if you went for those little blondes, Sam was sure this one had caused a heartache or two in her day.

"I had a sister that looked a bit like you Miss, she'd even be your age by now; lives up north with her man and my nephews."

As they rode along Samuel continued making small talk but couldn't shake the feeling something about this girl wasn't right. Most women her age wouldn't stop talking for the life of them, but this one kept scanning the horizon as if searching for something to ride out of the setting sun.

"We'll be in town shortly Miss. I'll be dropping you by the Silver Spur, good place for a hot meal and a clean bed. If you haven't the funds for tonight theres a good looking fella what tends the bar down there name of Jack Westfield. He's a good man tell him to put whatever you need on my credit and I'll take care of it come tomorrow, I've some more business too attend."

Moments later they arrived in town, dismounting Samuel lifted the girl down and stopped alongside the "Spur".

"You stay safe now little Miss, you need anything you come for me or Sheriff Hadwin, we'll keep in touch."

There was quite a commotion in town but Sam reasoned the other Marshall had dealt with it earlier in the day. Mounting Gaiter once more Samuel rode off in the direction of the Thomas ranch, he had been a longtime friend of the father Henry. They were a good family, Sam was particularly fond of the youngest girl Emma, she was a sweet little thing, his own daughter would've been the same age. Sam often fantasized they would have been friends.

The sun was setting even deeper as he rode toward the ranch, the song of the cicadas began even as he rode on by. Sam was fond of the sound it brought him warm memories.