Chapter 5

The journey was fraught with tension, the air thick with the memory of the stagecoach robbery. They rode hard, pausing only briefly to rest and water the horses. Smokes took the lead, his eyes sharp and vigilant, scanning the landscape for any signs of pursuit. The sun climbed higher, its relentless glare a stark reminder of the dangers they faced in the unforgiving desert.

As the day wore on, the landscape began to change. The monotonous sands and rocks grew sparse, giving way to an eerie silence that seemed to stretch for miles. And then, as if conjured by a mirage, the ghost town of Kilkenny appeared on the horizon. The sight of it was both haunting and beautiful, a stark contrast to the vibrant, albeit treacherous, life of Dreadworth.

The buildings stood tall and proud, their wooden structures weathered by time and the relentless desert sun. The paint had long since flaked away, leaving behind a skeletal framework of gray and brown. The wind whispered through the empty streets, carrying with it the echoes of laughter and gunfire that had once filled the air. The town looked as though it had been abandoned in a hurry, with doors hanging open and windows shattered, their glass long since claimed by the desert.

Sue and Mrs. Stephens exchanged worried glances as they followed Smokes into the ghostly embrace of the town. Erick, perched in front of his mother, clung tightly to her waist, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and wonder. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional squeak of a loose board or the distant howl of a coyote.

The horses’ hooves echoed through the abandoned streets, the sound bouncing off the dilapidated buildings like whispers of a forgotten past. As they ventured deeper into the heart of Kilkenny, the signs of life grew more pronounced. A lone cactus had pushed its way through the cracked wooden planks of what was once a general store, its vibrant green a stark contrast to the brown and gray of decay. A family of rabbits darted across the road, their white tails disappearing into the overgrown brush that had once been a meticulously kept garden.

The saloon, once the lifeblood of the town, stood with its doors swinging lazily on their hinges. The paint peeled away from the sun-bleached wood, revealing the skeletal structure beneath. The swinging doors groaned mournfully in the breeze, as if beckoning the trio inside to share in the secrets of its haunted halls. Smokes steered them away, his eyes lingering on the building with a mix of nostalgia and regret. He knew the stories that walls could tell, and he had no desire to relive the darker moments of his life.

Yet, as the shadows grew longer and the sun dipped closer to the horizon, the need for shelter grew more pressing. With a heavy sigh, he dismounted, his knees popping with the effort. He turned to Sue and Mrs. Stephens. “We’ll spend the night here,” he said, his voice low. “It’s as safe as anywhere in this forsaken place.”

They dismounted, the horses’ breaths huffing in the stillness of the abandoned saloon. The air was thick with dust and the fading scent of stale whiskey. Sue took Erick’s hand, leading him inside with a gentle nod. Mrs. Stephens followed, her eyes wide with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. The saloon’s floorboards creaked beneath their weight, the sound echoing through the empty space like the sighs of lost souls.

Sue pulled out a small box of matches from her saddle bag, the strike of the flint against the box sending a spark into the air. The candles they had salvaged from the stagecoach were arranged on a dusty table, and she lit one with trembling hands. The flame danced in the dimness, casting a flickering glow across the room.

The candle’s light grew stronger, reaching upward like a beacon in the gloom. It illuminated a staircase, the wood worn from years of use, leading to a second floor that groaned with the weight of forgotten memories. Smokes’ gaze followed the trail of smoke, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay above. He had seen many towns like this, once bustling with life, now reduced to silent sentinels of a bygone era.

With a nod to the women, he began the ascent, his boots echoing on each step. The smoke danced around him, twisting and turning as if guiding him through the saloon’s spectral corridors. At the top of the stairs, two doors beckoned, both with peeling paint and warped frames. The first, a small room with a single bed, looked like it hadn’t seen a soul in decades. The bed was bare, the mattress a sad reminder of the countless nights of restless sleep it had borne witness to.

The second door creaked open under his touch, revealing a large space with a big washbasin in the corner. The porcelain was chipped and stained, the water in the basin long ago evaporated into the desert air. The mirror above it had shattered, leaving only jagged shards to reflect the flickering candlelight. The floor was littered with debris and the faint scent of decay, hinting at the harsh reality of life in the unforgiving west.