Chapter 1 - The Dust and the Argument
The heavy pine doors of the Lucky Star Saloon groaned on their rusted iron hinges, swinging inward to release a foul cocktail of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and unwashed humanity. Caleb stood over the two little girls, his boots planted firmly in the alkaline dust of the desolate street. He kept his knees slightly bent, his dark overcoat brushing the dirt, unwilling to tower over them completely yet unable to shake the crushing weight in his chest. The twins—mirror images of ruin with their matted dark hair and torn yellow dresses—clutched a single, hardened heel of bread between them like it was an ancient relic.
Caleb’s jaw tightened beneath his rugged beard. He had seen too much blood on the frontier to ignore the ghost towns, but this felt different. This felt intentional.
"Where are your mother and father?" Caleb asked softly, his voice gravelly from the dry wind.
Before either girl could blink, the swinging doors behind Caleb banged against the cedar siding. A heavy-set man in a greasy white apron, holding a stained bar rag, stepped out onto the warped boardwalk. His face was flushed purple with cheap liquor and sudden fury.
"Get away from those little rats, stranger!" the bartender shouted, pointing a thick, stubby finger at Caleb. "They ain't your concern. They belong to the ditch."
Caleb didn't stand up. He kept his eyes locked on the twin on the left, whose small shoulder was gripped protectively by her sister.
"They're children, mister," Caleb said, his voice dropping an octave, cold and level. "Where do you sleep?" he asked the girls again, ignoring the man on the boardwalk entirely.
The bartender stomped down the wooden steps, his boots thudding aggressively in the dust. He grabbed Caleb by the heavy wool of his dark overcoat, trying to yank him upright.
"I said leave 'em be!" the bartender snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "You bring that kind of charity into Red Creek, you're inviting a hanging. Them kids are cursed. Ask anyone in this God-forsaken county. Their old man burned the homestead down with his wife inside it three nights ago, and those little freaks walked right out of the ashes without a single blister!"
Caleb slowly rose to his full height, towering over the bartender, his hand resting casually near the carved bone handle of his revolver.
"Is that a fact?" Caleb whispered, his eyes narrowing.
"It's gospel," the bartender sneer-whispered, leaning in close. "And if you know what's good for your health, you'll look inside that wooden barrel behind them before you decide to play hero."
May you like
Caleb slowly turned his head away from the angry man and looked down at the barrel. Resting right on top of the gray rocks was a silver locket he recognized instantly.
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