--1--    

    He had walked into Allister just after dawn because someone had stolen his horse twenty-one miles northeast in Abilene and a prostitute had taken his money in some nameless township six miles down the road so he had had no way of buying a new mare--two events that had spurned Winters McCormick's unwavering disdain for humanity all within six hours.
     Had he been on horseback, he would have undoubtedly missed Allister.  He would have rode straight through during the night without even realizing he had ridden through a town at all.  But he figured that a lot of people probably did that.  Allister was small and could barely even be considered a town.  A single street ran through its entirety, east to west and only four buildings stood within the city limits. The structures were all built of sturdy wood that had been bleached from years of exposure to the sun, but they looked well maintained.  One was a general store that probably only carried necessities.  It had the word STORE painted directly on the front of the building.  Another of the buildings had two floors--the bottom was a saloon operated by some alcoholic and the top was a hotel owned by the local sheriff.  Directly across the street from the bar was a small jail.  The fourth building was a barn with five stalls inside and a carved sign reading LIVERY outside.  McCormick couldn't see a point in it.  There were no horses in Allister as far as he could tell.
    He had waited inside the saloon until the bartender stumbled down the stairs from the hotel above and had asked for a drink on the credit.  After the bartender had denied his request, McCormick had walked back outside and sat down on an old chair next to the building's front entrance.
    And he was still sitting there two hours later.  He watched the owner of the general store leave from the hotel and out from the saloon.  He was a stocky gentleman with silver hair, a large gut, and a fancy cigar jutting out from between pursed lips.  He shot McCormick a disgusted look as he passed and he crossed the street at an angle to his store and then disappeared inside.  McCormick figured the old man had taken him for a vagrant, but he couldn't really blame him.  He was a vagrant.  He had no home, no horse, no money.  He was unshaven and scruffy and his long and curly unkempt hair tumbled down to his shoulders from beneath his weathered old hat.  He was a pathetic sight. 
    He clanked his useless spurs against one of the chair's legs and continued watching the town.  Nothing happened for a long time.  It was almost noon before the sheriff arrived.  He stowed his horse away in the livery stable and sauntered into the general store without even noticing the stranger sitting outside his hotel.  McCormick developed an instantaneous abhorrence for the sheriff, but wasn't quite sure why.  The lawman was relatively young--mid-twenties, maybe--and he appeared clean.
    McCormick could see the fat man with the cigar through the store's front windows as he talked to the sheriff.  He was waving a pudgy hand in the air as if expressing some annoyance to his customer and then he pointed directly at McCormick.  The sheriff nodded and left the store.  McCormick could see him craning his neck left and right, evaluating the threat level. McCormick raised his hands from his holsters and smiled.  The sheriff, apparently satisfied, shuffled across the street to where McCormick was sitting.  He didn't stand too close, but he didn't stand too far away either.
    Smart man.
    "Where ya from?"
    "Come in from Abilene," McCormick lied.  "Not really from nowhere in particular."
    The sheriff bowed his head and paused as if deep in thought.
    "Herschel--that's the shop owner over there--he says you've been sittin' here a spell," he said.
    McCormick nodded.  "Round five hours, I guess."
    "Why though? Hotel right behind ya."
    "Ain't got no money.  Some whore took it last night."
    The sheriff shook his head.
    "She had a gun though," McCormick added.
    The sheriff paused, made a clicking sound with his tongue.
    "What about your horse?"
    "Got stole when I was playin' cards," McCormick said.
    "When was this?"
    "Last night."
    The sheriff shook his head again.
    "So ya ain't got no money and ya ain't got no horse?"
    McCormick nodded.
    The sheriff scratched his head.  McCormick could tell that he didn't really want to be having this conversation.
    "Well," the sheriff said, "Ol' Herschel--he says ya been pesterin' the townsfolk too."
    "Well, Herschel’s a damn liar.  There's ain't any townsfolk here to pester."
    "Just goin' by what I'm told."
    "You need a new source of information from what I can see," McCormick said.  "Herschel don't seem too reliable."
    The sheriff ignored him.
    "Ain't too many people come through here.  Cattle rustlers mainly."
    McCormick said nothing.
    "Ya got a name?"
    "Winters McCormick."
    "Well," the sheriff said, " I hate to do it, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to arrest ya."
    "For what?"
    "Vagrancy, I guess. There's a city ordinance."
    "You can't have a city ordinance without a city," McCormick said.
    The sheriff ignored the statement.
    "I'd be awful grateful if you'd cooperate," he said.
    "I'd be awful grateful if you didn't arrest me," McCormick said.  He could see now why he disliked the sheriff.
    "Mr. McCormick, I'd rather not pull my gun."
    McCormick laughed.  "Son, I wouldn't advise that."  He paused a beat.  "I'll tell you what--I'll cooperate with you this time.  I don't feel like killin' anybody today."
    "I'll need your pistols," the sheriff said.
    McCormick stood up slowly and unfastened his belt and tossed it at the sheriff's feet.  It wasn't the first time he had ever been arrested and probably wasn't going to be the last.
    The sheriff bent over and picked it up.
    "Come on then," the sheriff said.  "Jail's right there."  He pointed across the street.
    McCormick stepped off the saloon's stoop and walked toward the jail with the sheriff close behind.  He walked through the door and into the cell without presenting any problems.  The sheriff locked him in.
    "If ya need anything, just give me a holler," he said.
    "I could use a cup of coffee," McCormick said.
    The sheriff nodded.  "Alright."
    He shuffled over to a blue tin coffee pot and poured McCormick's cup full, handed it through the bars, and then left the jail.
    McCormick sipped his coffee--cold and weak.  Stolen horse, stolen money, arrested, bad coffee--he couldn't remember a worse day.

--2--

    Sleep didn't come easy.  The provided cot was an overturned trough with a thin mattress stuffed with straw sprawled across it.  McCormick had tried rattling the bars after the sheriff had left in hopes that the hinges were worn but, just like the buildings, the cell was well constructed and well maintained and the hinges had been oiled and were probably new.  McCormick figured the jail was rarely used.  He gave up on escaping around thirty minutes later and collapsed on the cot to regroup.  It was well into the night before he finally dozed off and he still hadn't seen the sheriff again.  Maybe he was getting drunk over at the saloon in which case McCormick might be able to con him into opening the cell door somehow so he could overpower him.  But then again, he didn't have a horse and there were miles of nothingness in all directions save for the east and McCormick had never cared for traveling backwards.  Plus, he feared he would land himself in jail  for murder if he happened upon the thieving whore who had stolen his money.  He had decided to stay where he was.
    The jail was cold even though it lacked windows and the door had been closed.  McCormick didn't have a blanket, but he had been in more uncomfortable situations.  He dreamed of his younger days--running and rolling on the grasslands, causing goats to faint, pushing the cows over, blowing out the candles in his father's small study every chance he got.  He had been a devious child.  He dreamed of the only train he had ever robbed, the first man he had ever killed, his affair with his late brother's wife--he had been a detestable young man.  His slumbering mind conjured back images of his first days as a deputy in Little Rock and his last days as a sheriff in Aurora.  He had been a decent man.  And then he dreamed of the sheriff who had arrested him in Allister and the shop owner who had in all likelihood been responsible.  But not even his dreams brought to the forefront of consciousness the reason he had been incarcerated, but they did reveal one small detail--everyone seemed to live in the hotel and the hotel was ran  by the sheriff.  And just where was the sheriff?  And why hadn't McCormick heard the sound of a single hoof beat since he had been in Allister? 
    The dreams played on. . .

--3--

    The golden fingers of dawn were groping the eastern skies by the time the sheriff came back to check on McCormick who had already been awake for a couple hours.  The lawman looked tired, lethargic.  He glanced at McCormick and moved his hand in some lazy arch through the air which McCormick took to be a wave.  He didn't wave back.
    "How long you keepin' me?"
    The sheriff shrugged, but didn't say anything.
    McCormick grinned.
    "Looks like you had a helluva night.  Maybe out with some pretty little whore."
    The sheriff poured himself a cup of cold coffee and sat down behind a small and scuffed desk, ignoring McCormick.
    "Might've even been the whore that took my money.  She have red hair?"
    The sheriff didn't reply.  He just sat and sipped his coffee.
    McCormick stood up off his cot and pressed himself up against the bars.
    "You deaf?"
    The sheriff looked up at him.  His eyes were grey with fatigue.
    "I'm not deaf," he said.  "Just not much in the mood for talkin'."
    McCormick nodded.  "I ain't either, but I'm the one sittin' in a cell."
    The sheriff set his cup down on his desk and stared at the floor.
    "What's the problem, Mr. McCormick?"
    "Problem is that I don't see no reason for me to be locked up," McCormick said.
    "Vagrancy," the sheriff said.
    "There ain't no vagrancy ordinance in this town 'cause this ain't a town," McCormick said.  "At least this ain't like no town I've ever been in."
    The sheriff sighed and looked up.
    "You're in here for your own safety and the safety of the townsfolk," he said.
    "I've made it thirty-six years without the protection of the law and I don't reckon I need no protection now.  And there ain't no townsfolk.  I've seen three people the whole time I've been here."
    "That's 'cause you've been in here, locked up."
    "Maybe, maybe not.  I don't think this is a town at all.  I think it's all horseshit."
    The sheriff paused, looked down at his coffee cup, and then back up at McCormick.
    "It don't matter what ya think, I don't reckon.  What matters is this is a town and it's a town with rules and laws."
    McCormick shook his head.  "Whatever you say, sheriff.  But just open these doors and I'll be on my way."
    The sheriff shook his head.  "'Fraid I can't do that.  There's laws here."
    McCormick sat back down on his bunk, frustrated.  "Well, I can't ever hope to be nothin' but a vagrant if you don't ever let me go."
    The sheriff didn't reply.  Just went back to sipping his cold coffee.
    There was a long period of silence.
    "I used to be a lawman," McCormick said.  "Way back.  I was a deputy in Arkansas and a sheriff down in Texas."
    The sheriff scoffed.
    McCormick said, "But in all my days as a lawman, I don't ever recall bein' as sorry as you are."
    "Ya don't understand," the sheriff said.
    "No," McCormick said.  "No, I don't understand.  I don't understand how anybody could be as sorry as you are.  Matter of fact, I think you're prob'ly just about as sorry as a man could get."
    The sheriff stared at the floor.  "Ya don't understand," he said again.
    "In my day, I'd have shot a runt like you.  Just 'cause you're ugly and don't look to suit me.  You're disgraceful is what you are."
    "Shut up," the sheriff said.
    "Go to hell," McCormick said.  "I'll be glad to send you if you'd hand me my pistol."
    "Shut up," the sheriff said again.
    "Son, let's get somethin' straight.  I might be in this cell and you might be out there but there ain't no man that's gonna tell me what to do.  I'll talk all I want to and if you've got a problem with it, you've got two options I reckon.  One is to get out of my sight and the other is to come over here and do somethin' and I don't think you're gonna be doin' that."
    The sheriff stood up.  "I've got a gun."
    "I'm not worried about your gun.  You prob'ly couldn't hit nothin' with it anyway.  I bet it's just for looks.  Somethin' to scare off the bullies.  You're a disgrace. And I don't mean just to the law.  I mean to mankind.  You're weak and you're scared."
    "I ain't scared of nobody, Mr. McCormick.  Ya best keep that in mind."
    "So I guess you're shakin' for no damn good reason then, huh?"
    The sheriff looked down and saw that he was, indeed, trembling and then he looked back up at McCormick.
    "Ya don't understand," he said for a third time.  And then he turned around and left the jail again, slamming the door on his way out.
    McCormick smiled.  Cowards were always the easiest to manipulate.

--4--

    The next time the door opened, it was almost dark again and the sheriff wasn't the first through the door.  A young woman with flaming red hair and a plump face staggered in and he followed close behind.  McCormick sat up on his bunk to see the new arrival and then grunted.  It was the prostitute who had stolen his money.  The sheriff pushed her into the cell next to McCormick's, locked the door and then left again.  The whore seemed drunk.  McCormick studied her for a moment.  She was more plain than he remembered.  She was wearing a faded red dress with a frilly hem that had been white at one time, but was now stained with dirt.  Her shoes were old and scuffed and dirty and her hair was matted and tangled.  She seemed unaware of McCormick's presence, but he couldn't determine whether she was too drunk to notice him or was just ignoring him.
    "I expect you spent all my money on liquor," he said.
    She looked at him.  She had been crying.
    "Who are you," she said.
    "Man you robbed couple nights back.  About eleven, twelve miles from here."
    She looked away, paused a beat, and then nodded solemnly.  "I think I remember," she said.
    "You ought to.  Held me at gunpoint."
    The whore said nothing.  She just looked on, in a daze.
    "I'd appreciate it if you'd give me what you owe me," McCormick said.
    "We're in different cells," the whore said.
    "I ain't talkin' about that," McCormick said.  "I want my money back.  I wouldn't fuck you now if you rubbed it all over me."
    The whore was silent for a long while and then said, "How much?"
    "Sixty-three dollars if I ain't mistaken," McCormick said.  "Forty-six in bills and the rest in coins."
    The whore nodded and started rummaging around beneath her dress.  She produced a small bag of coins and a wad of bills and passed them through the bars between the two cells.  McCormick took them and shoved them into his pocket.
    "I'm gonna count come morning," he said.  "Too dark now."
    The whore nodded, but didn't say anything.
    "So what'd he haul you in for," McCormick said.
    "Vagrancy."
    "Me too.  I don't guess you told him that you're a thievin' whore did you?"
    The whore didn't reply.
    "Why don't you whores ever talk unless folks pay you to?"
    "I have a name," the whore said.
    "I'm sure you do," McCormick said.  "I just don't care to know it."
    The whore was silent for awhile and then began to sob.  McCormick wanted to tell her to shut up, wanted to be mean to her, wanted to make her cry even more.  She had been mean to him, stealing his money.  She hadn't seemed to care what hardships she might have brought upon him.  She hadn't seemed to care about him at all.
    Instead, he said, "I'm sorry. My name's Winters McCormick.  What's yours?"
    She didn't reply at first.  Just kept crying and sniffing.  "It's Katherine," she said finally.  "Katherine Monroe."
    McCormick nodded.  As much as he didn't want to feel sorry for her, he couldn't help but to sympathize.  Outside, when she had stolen his money, she had appeared as some wicked devil, but within the confinements of the jail cell, she reminded him of a wounded animal.  He couldn't explain it, but that was the case.
    "Well, Ms. Monroe," he said, "you had might as well just settle in and get comfortable 'cause it ain't lookin' much like we're gonna be gettin' outta here any time soon."
    And that was the extent of the conversation.  McCormick sprawled himself across his bunk and after she had finished crying, Monroe did the same and neither of them spoke another word.  They just rested in dark, listening to the rings of silence.

--5--

    Katherine Monroe's muffled cries woke McCormick four hours after he had fallen asleep.  He rolled over to face her cell, but couldn't see anything.  There was definitely some sort of struggle going on.  He could hear stomping and the metallic clinking of belt buckles and the sounds of cloth being torn and leather against flesh.  He stood up and crept toward Monroe's cell, careful not to make any noise.  And then he heard a voice. It was deep and rough--a man's voice.
    "Take her," it said.  "I'm done."
    There was a grunt of agreement from some other man and then more shuffling sounds.  McCormick shoved his hands through the bars and groped around in the dark until he felt the lapels of a coat and then he pulled back hard, driving the man's head into the steel of the cell.  He grabbed a handful of hair and continued his assault on the man until he fell limp in McCormick's grasp.  From the sounds of things, the other man had aborted his sexual activity with Monroe and was probably fumbling with his pants and undergarments.  McCormick found the unconcious man's holster and withdrew his pistol.  His first instinct was to fire at the other man, but it was dark and he didn't want to shoot Monroe by mistake.  Plus, he figured that a gunshot in the middle of the night in a town as dead as Allister was uncommon and would certainly draw unwanted attention.  So instead, he just pulled the hammer back until it clicked.  The other man got the point and fled out of the jail, without closing Monroe's cell door.
    McCormick waited until he was sure the man wasn't going to come back to shoot at him and then bent close to the bars dividing his cell from Monroe's.
    "Ms. Monroe," he whispered.
    No response.
    "Katherine?"
    He heard her move and moan.
    "Katherine," he said.  "Your cell's not locked.  I need you to go out there and get the key."
    He heard her move again.
    "I need the key, Katherine," he said.  It's prob'ly in the desk.  Go get it."
    It was silent for a moment.  "What if they come back?"  Her voice was weak.
    "There's only one out there now," McCormick said.  "The others right here.  I've got him by his coat and he's out of it.  And I got his gun.  The other ain't comin' back.  Go get the key."
    He heard her move around, probably trying to stand up.  Then he felt the unconcious man slide a bit as she stumbled over him.  He could hear her move the cell door and shuffle away toward the desk.  Then he heard the drawers open and the sounds of rustling paper and then finally the clinking of keys.  He heard her stumble toward him.
    "Here," she said.
    "Unlock it for me," McCormick said.
    Monroe paused and then said, "Are you gonna hurt me?"
    "I reckon if I wanted you hurt I would've let these boys had their way with you."
    There was another pause--and then he could hear her feeling around for the lock.  She found it and pulled the cell door open.
    McCormick released the man's lapel and stood up.  He handed Monroe the stolen pistol.
    "Here," he said.  "Take this and go someplace and hide. I'm gonna try and find the sheriff to see just what the hell's happenin' round here."
    Monroe took the gun and McCormick listened as she left the jail.  He started feeling his way around in the darkness, looking for the desk.  He wanted his pistols back.  He found the desk, found the drawers, felt around and located a belt with two holsters.  He found the handles of the pistols they held and felt for the three notches he had carved into each of them.  It was his belt.  He put it on, a process that took only thirty seconds even in the dark and then he locked the unconcious man inside Monroe's cell and crept through the jail's only door and into the street beyond.