The Rider

CLIFTON

Black Bill Clifton rested on the back legs of the wooden chair and placed his boots up on the table in front of him.

The China Doll had been overrun by his gang. His men commanded control and each sat at separate tables, surrounded by a harem of women. The wizened old man who owned the bordello didn't have the fortitude to dispute Clifton's presence and the men in his employee to maintain order fled when the barkeep Bill had left on his back was dragged from the place. Nobody was left to intervene and tell Clifton, or a member of his gang, they would have to drink at another establishment. Monte Elliot had his run of the liquor and Sergio didn't seem to mind the girls dressed up like red skin savages, taking his pick of whores.

Left to his own devices was Clifton. It was how he preferred it.

He doused the lantern on the table, pinching the flame between his fingers. He held it there until smoke rose between them. Taking up residence in the shadows, Bill kept his back to the wall and drew his hat down, its brim masking his face from view. His hand brushed against his chin, the stubble bristling against his fingers. He dreaded to think of his current appearance. He needed to shave. He would do so before they set out again.

Then there was the matter of his sullied jacket. Clifton's mouth became a thin line. He took what remained of the whisky, poured himself a glass and drank in silence.

On the table before him laid a dime novel. It was battered and faded, the spine creased, the page's dog-eared and torn. He dragged it towards him and saw the likeness of Wyatt Fischer on the cover. It was drawn in crude detail, exaggerated from rumour, and depicted him ambushing a stagecoach in daring fashion. Leafing through the pages, Wyatt's name leapt out at him and made his expression tighten all the more. Nowhere in Wyatt Fischer's fictionalised tales did the name Bill Clifton appear.

Monte lumbered over with a woman on each arm. One was pale as milk, made all the paler by her white paint decorating her delicate features. The other was tan and might have been mistaken for a native if it weren't for the slant to her eyes. She's a china woman, thought Bill, one of the few in the China Doll. By the state of her dress, Monte had already had his way with her. His breath smelt of liquor and things Clifton would rather not think about. "They'll be writing stories about you soon enough, Billy."

Raising his head, Clifton pushed the flat-brimmed hat to rest on the back of his head. His face was frozen, save for the bitterness he conveyed with his eyes. The whores on Monte's arm clung to him a little closer and the negro knew better than to aggravate Clifton further. He backed away, taking the women with him. Clifton watched Monte leave and saw him shoot glances at Sergio and the others, letting them know Bill did not wish to be disturbed.

The dime novel was still in his hand.

Clifton strengthened his grip around it, screwing up the book until the words were no longer legible on the faded pulp paper. He glowered at it a final time, then discarded it on the floor.

Some time later, when he'd had his fill of drinking alone, Clifton emerged from the shadows and joined the merriment. Still, he did not smile.

There was no longer a barkeep to keep order of the drinks, which should have drawn a larger crowd by rights, but those who dared venture inside the China Doll remained civilised and kept order, allowing the men who rode with Bill Clifton to run roughshod over the alcohol.

When they saw him, they made way and allowed him to pass unimpeded. Word spread fast through Dodge City and after what he'd done to the bartender, nobody was prepared to provoke him further. Given how he felt, Clifton half hoped they would.