Strangers in Purgatory: An Existential Western

The stranger came into town from the west, riding in out of the sunset.

He dismounted at the saloon and hitched his horse’s halter to the rail. He removed his duster, flapped it to free a billowing cloud of dust, and tossed it across the saddle. He entered the building.

The mirror behind the bar, cracked during its arduous journey west and then shattered and reassembled in ever-smaller iterations following countless alcohol-fueled brawls, sent kaleidoscopic glitterings of orange sunlight dancing about the room.

“Evenin’, stranger,” the saloon keeper said from behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

The stranger strode stiffly to the bar and carefully laid down three worn silver dollars. “Whiskey. Your best.”

“Yessir!” The barman held a glass up and examined it critically, polished it with a white towel, then opened a cabinet below the much-fractured mirror and withdrew a cut-glass bottle. He filled the glass with honey-colored spirit and set it before the stranger.

The tall man nodded and touched the brim of his black hat. The dust on his black shirt glittered like tiny rhinestones in the last rays of the sun. “Thank you.”

He took a tentative sip, considered it, then nodded. “That’s good. Tennessee?”

The barman nodded. “You know your whiskey, stranger!”

The stranger ignored the compliment. Instead, he asked, “What is this town?”

The saloon keeper grinned broadly and said, “Well, we like to call it Paradise!” The joke fell flat; the stranger only squinted unreacting at the barman, still waiting for his question to be answered. The barkeeper’s merriment broke, and, with some embarrassment, he told the stranger, “But, uh, them that named it named it Purgatory.”

The stranger said nothing, but sipped his whiskey, savoring it. The barman stood attentively by at first, but when the stranger showed no inclination to converse, he returned to his preparations.

“Pardon me, pardner,” the stranger said eventually, and the saloon keeper looked up. “I’d like another, please. And supper.”

The bartender refilled the stranger’s empty glass. “Sure thing, stranger. Anything else?”

Again, the stranger sipped his whiskey and rolled it around his mouth while the barman waited.

“I’ll want a bath and a bed. Stable for my horse. I’ve got an inclination to stay here for a few nights.”

“Sure thing, stranger. The kitchen’ll heat up bathwater for you whenever you’re ready. And the stable’s at the end of the street, back behind.” He jerked with his thumb to indicate the direction.

The stranger nodded his understanding and took another sip.

“So,” the barkeep asked affably, “got a name?”

The stranger stared stoically at his questioner through a permanent sun-seared squint until the saloon keeper said with a nervous laugh, “I mean, I can’t just keep calling you ‘stranger’.”

The stranger took another sip of whiskey, never taking his eyes from the bartender’s. “Don’t seem to be a problem so far.”

The saloon keeper’s smile faltered and he broke from the stranger’s gaze.

“Fair enough,” he said, ducking his head subconsciously. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go tell the cook to get your supper.”

#

The stranger rode into town out of the south, casting almost no shadow beneath the unremitting noonday sun.

He tied his steed outside the saloon and brushed the trail dust from the shoulders of his dirty white shirt. He breathed deeply the savory smells of the food within and patted his paunch.

Inside the saloon the harsh sunlight was immediately softened, swimming lazily through a hazy pall of tobacco smoke that floated in the upper half of the spacious room. The few tables were occupied with tradespeople and ranch hands at their luncheons, so the stranger sauntered to the bar.

“Beer,” he told the bartender. “Cold, if you can.”

The saloon keeper opened the ice chest and took out a glass that steamed in the sudden heat; he filled it from the cask that sat beside the broken-and-reconstituted mirror.

The stranger slapped two bits onto the bar beside his beer. The barkeep picked up the coin, and the stranger picked up his mug.

“Cheers,” he said to the man beside him. The man was tall — the top of the stranger’s camel-colored hat reached to just below the other man’s black brim.

The stranger held out his mug, but the other man did not react. He picked up his own glass of whiskey, took a dainty sip, and set his glass back on the bar, all the while intently squinting straight ahead into the mirror as though scrutinizing his own soul.

The stranger shrugged and lifted his mug to his mouth, then quaffed deeply.

He drank quickly to quench his thirst, finishing before the chill from the glass could transfer to the beer itself, so he bounced another quarter onto the bar and called for another round.

“What brings you to town?” the saloon keeper asked.

“I may just be passing through,” the stranger said mysteriously. “Or I may have business here. But if I do, it’s my own.”

“Fair enough. What’s your name?”

“That’s my own business, too,” the stranger scowled. “You can just call me ‘stranger’ if you need to call me anything.”

The saloon keeper laughed uncertainly, his eyes darting to the tall black-clad man beside the stranger. “Well,” he said nervously, “I don’t know how well that’ll work. This gentleman here’s already laid claim to that moniker.”

The stranger narrowed his eyes at the whiskey-sipping man next to him. “Is that right?”

The other man continued to stare into his own reflection, ignoring the stranger’s gaze. He lifted his glass and took a small sip of whiskey; he held the liquid in his mouth for a spell, then swallowed and set the glass back down.

“That’s right,” he said at last.

The stranger bristled. “That might be a difficulty.”

“Might it?” the tall man asked.

The stranger appraised the other man for several long seconds. He drew on his mug, savored the taste and the feel of the now-icy beer in his mouth; he held it there until it began to warm, then swallowed.

“Might,” he said at last.

The other man scratched absently at his waist, just above his holster. “That’d be unfortunate.”

The stranger nodded. “It surely would be.”

#

Upon leaving the stable, where he had been checking on his horse, the stranger stood in the shade of the building and smoked the stub of his last cheroot. When it was gone, he tugged the brim of his black hat down low over his brow to shield his eyes against the glaring afternoon sun and strode through the heat to the general store.

“Afternoon, stranger,” the shopkeeper said. “What can I get for you today?”

The stranger politely touched his brim in greeting. “Cheroot,” he drawled. “I’m plum out.”

The shopkeeper favored him with a rueful smile. “Hate to say it, but so am I. I’ve got chewin’ tobacco.”

The stranger shook his head.

“We haven’t had a coach in a couple of weeks,” the shopkeeper explained. “And I just sold my last handful of cheroots two minutes ago. If you can catch up with the fellow who bought ’em, you might convince him to part with one or two.”

The stranger mulled this possibility. “Who might he be?”

“Ain’t seen him before,” the shopkeeper replied. “He’s a stranger in town, like you. But he was —”

“Bit shorter, stout, tan hat?”

The shopkeeper nodded warily. “That’s right.”

The stranger squinted hard at the merchant for several tense seconds. At last, he touched his brim again and walked out without a word.

For reasons he didn’t fully understand, the shopkeeper breathed a deep sigh of relief.

#

Night was soaking into the sky like spilled ink by the time the stranger finished his constitutional. The lamplight sparkling off the glassware and shining across the dark street drew him comfortingly into the saloon.

Noting with some satisfaction the absence of his rival, the stranger sauntered to the bar and caught the keeper’s eye. The barman nodded and fetched him a mug.

The stranger drank deeply, smacked his lips, and sighed audibly. He stood with his back against the bar and surveyed the room. Three separate card games, two tables of men telling raucous stories, and a smattering of hard-drinkers sitting by themselves as they contemplated their own mysterious miseries; the stranger held himself aloof from them all, superior and satisfied.

Movement attracted his attention. A woman — an attractive woman — descended the stairs from the boarding rooms above, her petticoats dragging behind her with each step down toward the barroom.

“You’re a mighty fine-looking woman,” the stranger said amiably. “Why don’t you set yourself down and let me buy you a drink?”

The woman glared at him. “Whorehouse is at the end of the street, mister.”

“You can just call me ‘stranger’.”

“I’ll call you what I will, mister — and that’s all I care to call you. I got no time for the likes of you — I cook the food here and sometimes I serve it if it’s busy, I clean the rooms upstairs, and if I ever do have time for myself I spend it reading or playing that piano over there, when you lot aren’t too rowdy. I do not spend my time drinking with men I don’t know.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” said a gravelly voice behind the stranger. He turned suddenly, startled and ashamed of it, his hand dropping to his gun.

The tall interloper touched the brim of his black hat and addressed the pretty woman. “Did you say you play that piano?”

“I did and I do. Properly, too — I had real lessons when I was a girl back East.”

“I sure would be mighty obliged if you could play some tonight. It’s been a long spell since I heard a piano played by a woman. Especially played proper.”

The woman swept dismissively past the stranger to speak to his rival. “Well, stranger, since you ask so nice, I’ll do what I can.” She smiled at the man. “And if these gents are too rowdy all night, maybe I’ll just have to play for you privately later on.”

She gave him a wink and glided away to the kitchen.

The stranger glared at the other man, as upset by the woman’s bestowing his own soubriquet on the tall man as by the favor she had shown him.

The tall man in black stared back, unblinking through his perpetual squint. He said nothing.

Neither did the stranger.

They stood that way for a long time.

#

The morning dawned hot and dusty, with a gusty, dry wind blustering through the town.

The stranger slept late after a long, full night. He woke to the sound of the wind rasping past the building, feeling the static in the air like an ill omen. Tension was building all around. It was a day made for confrontation.

He rose and splashed water from the tin basin onto his face. His hands felt the prickle of his whiskers; he needed a shave.

He dressed slowly, sluggish in the brooding heat. Downstairs, he lingered over a breakfast of eggs, ham, flapjacks, and plenty of coffee.

He wished he had a cheroot.

His eyes settled on the stout man breakfasting across the room, and he squinted his squint a little harder. The other man ignored him.

“More coffee, stranger?” asked the young girl who appeared beside him holding the kettle.

“Much obliged.”

“Oops, that’s the last of it,” the serving girl said as she upended the kettle into his mug. “Hope it’s not too gritty.”

“I like it that way,” the stranger told her.

The girl smiled. “Can I get that platter for you?”

The stranger sat back, and the girl picked up his empty plate. She started to carry it back to the kitchen but stopped when the stout man called from across the room, “Can I get some of that coffee?”

“Sorry, mister,” the girl told him. “This stranger here just got the last of it. I can have the cook make more, but it’ll take a bit.”

The stout man said nothing, but glared at the stranger. He pulled the napkin from his shirt collar and bunched it up in his hand, squeezing hard, before throwing it onto his plate. He stood, slowly settled his tan hat onto his head, and, still glaring hatefully at the stranger, stalked out the door into the hot, windy morning.

The serving girl and all of the other diners looked nervously at the stranger, knowing trouble was brewing.

The stranger just relaxed in his chair and stared squinting into the distance as he drank his coffee. He took his own good time, savoring every sip.

When he finished, he headed out into the heat and sauntered down the street toward the barber’s shop.

The people he passed on the street regarded him guardedly. He nodded to the few he recognized from the saloon and ignored the rest.

The barber stood looking out through his glass door. He opened it as the stranger stepped up from the street onto the plank sidewalk.

“I’d like a shave, please,” the stranger told him, rubbing a palm over his stubbled cheek for emphasis.

The barber indicated a bench. “If you’d care to have a seat. I’ve got a gentleman ahead of you for a shave and a haircut — I’m just waiting for the towels.”

The stranger glanced at the hatrack and saw a camel-colored hat. His lips tightened.

The barber swiveled his chair around and removed the swaddling of steaming towels from the head of the stout man seated there. The man grinned with satisfaction.

“How long?” the stranger asked.

“Half an hour?” the barber replied.

“I’ll be outside.”

The stranger stood in the shade of the porch, staring into the distance and wishing he had a cheroot.

Eventually the door opened. The shorter man came out onto the porch, smelling of pomade. He settled his hat onto his head with special, prideful care and satisfaction. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a cheroot. He lit it; the smoke blew into the stranger’s face, making his squinting eyes water. He coughed and glared at the other man.

The barber appeared in the doorway. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The stranger ignored him, and continued to glare at the other man. The stout man noticed, and returned the glare.

“I told you there’d be trouble.”

“You said there might.”

“And I was right!” the stout man shouted angrily.

“You said there might,” the tall man said again, and the other man was suddenly unsure if he was arguing or agreeing. He chewed on his cheroot and spat into the street.

People walking past stopped and watched the two man warily. The barber glanced nervously back and forth from one man to the other. He took a step back from the doorway, retreating into his shop. “Now, strangers, there ain’t no need for trouble.”

“There’s already trouble,” the taller man told him.

“Trouble is,” the man in the tan hat said, “this town is too small for the two of us.”

The two men faced each other tensely, heedless of the crowd gathering a cautious distance away.

“I ain’t of a mind to leave just yet.” The man with the black hat reached up and scratched his still-stubbled chin.

“Nor am I,” said the other.

The taller man slowly lowered his hand, and the crowd tensed.

“Well, then,” he said.

The stout man moved his own hand toward his hip. “I reckon there’s only one thing to do.”

The crowd tensed more, and people moved quickly away.

“I’d be mighty sorry to inconvenience these folks,” the black-hatted man said.

“What do you suggest, then?”

The two rivals continued to stare one another down. The taller man narrowed his squint. He slowly stretched out his neck, pointing into the distance with his chin.

“Off by yonder hill,” he said. “Noon.”

The stout man glanced around. “Which hill?”

“Yonder.”

The man with the black hat moved his chin again. The other man looked in that direction, then squinted at his adversary.

“Noon,” he agreed.

The tall man nodded once, then stepped into the barber’s shop and shut the door behind him.

The man with the tan hat blew a puff of smoke after him. He stepped off the porch and crossed the street. The crowd scattered to give him room. They watched as he walked purposefully toward the saloon.

“Well,” the undertaker said to the blacksmith, who was standing next to him, “reckon I should git. Looks like I’d better get a coffin ready and carve a tombstone.”

The blacksmith seemed surprised. “Tombstone? But you don’t even know what name to put on it.”

The undertaker winked at his companion. “Doesn’t matter, does it?” he asked, unable to contain a grin at his own cleverness as he started to walk away. “The same tombstone will do for either one.”

“What if they both kill each other?” the blacksmith asked.

The undertaker stopped in his tracks. He closed his eyes and pursed his mouth sourly in annoyance at having his witty exit ruined. He drew in a breath and exhaled sharply.

“Then I’ll just have to carve a second one, won’t I?” he growled, and stomped away into the savage morning sunlight.

END

BIO: James C. Bassett’s fiction has appeared in a wide variety of markets around the world and online. He co-edited the anthologies Zombiesque (DAW Books) and Clockwork Fairy Tales (ROC). He co-wrote and co-starred in the 1987 film Twisted Issues, a “psycho-punk splatter comedy” that Film Threat Video Guide named to its list of “25 underground films you must see” and that is receiving rave reviews in its remastered Blu-ray release. He also is an award-winning stone and wood sculptor. He lives on the wind-swept coast of Ireland.

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