Mad Dogs

Behold the Sheriff, the sweat which spangles his brow. Droplets cascade his pale countenance. His blue eyes dart to and fro as he surveys the trio of ornery bandits. The MacLooneys poison the very air about them with the stench of death and blight.

The sight of them brings to Clifton’s gut a punch of dread. Their sun-pawed hides and russet shades of locks are hardly a notable feature, eclipsed by the derangement darkening their grim eyes. The rage—restrained within their cores by loose and splitting cords—dribbles through their very stares as warning flames. It is this wretchedness which twists the core of Clifton Romero, binding his attention to the pack of Mad Dogs. He watches them as though they are characters in a book he'd read, sensing the tangled web of history behind their skulls. To him they are tragedies in a play, not villains fueled by a taste for blood alone.

Standing next to the Sheriff is the lofty Roscoe Calding. The loyal deputy’s old calvary hat rests low atop his umber-skinned head; his chestnut eyes are set deeply into the chiseled features of his face. A peppered black beard coats cheekbones to jaw, arched over his lips and steeped down the chin. Thick crimped eyebrows lower on his countenance.

They both note which men they recognize, knowing the entire trio by name. Kore “Gore” MacLooney snarls opposite of Clifton; his rusty brown hat shadows disfigurement—a jowl so mangled the yellow teeth show through the ribboned flesh.

“We’re here f’r Creed.” The man clenches his teeth after he vocalizes. His rotting incisors clack cadaverously.

“Like hell we’d let that bastard out. He’s paying for his inhibitions.” Roscoe’s nose wrinkles as he makes his assertation. “You lot are delusional mongrels; you’ll never see him again.”

“Pay?” The pitiful caterwauling begins from Johnny, the twin of the imprisoned culprit. He is equally wicked, irate, and ugly as the others. His malady is an empty hole haunting his right orbital bone, opposite to the one his own kin dawned. The two had made voids of the others’ eye with forks, according to the rumors. “We MacLooneys don’t pay for shit!”

The Sheriff and his deputy continue their watch, answering with silence. The third of the Mad Dogs is Sal. He is distinguished by the missing ear, having been ripped from his skull by an explosion in his days of yore. The pitiful sycophant is able to hear, though the task proved arduous. Standing like a beast, this brigand’s tongue flicks over his desiccated lips, enhancing his reptile semblance. He does not flap his lips as his brothers do, instead watching as silently as Roscoe and Clifton now do.

Though throttled by the silence, the two lawmen shift slowly. Clifton’s hand lingers above his gun holster, fingering at the revolver. He can feel the familiar ivory handle of the silver piece; his skin is pressing against it with caution. He continues to inquire the eyes of the swine, searching vainly for any sign of stirring deed. He searches for any sign of hope; any goodness left within the souls of the men. An inconspicuous twitch of Kore’s cheek is unable to slip past his grasp at the thread that will unravel the violence before it begins.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Kore hisses. “All’s we want is our brother back, then we c’n get on our way.”

“He lies,” a voice says from behind Clifton. It is quiet, faint, only heard to the Sheriff and deputy.

Roscoe continues to stare at Kore. “He ain’t here,” he finally speaks.

Johnny’s wild eye bucks like a mad horse. “He—he ain’t here, you says?” His teeth clench, ugly lips drawn back in a houndsmile.

“That’s right, we sent him off,” says Clifton. “Far away.”

Johnny now closes in, his face closing in on the Sheriff’s. His fists are balled, close to his gun. The lawmen grip their pieces, praying speed is on their side.

“Where?” the brother barks. Met with silence, he snarls again. “FUCKING WHERE, YOU SONUVA—”

His eyes train onto the Clifton eclipses. He shares the Sheriff’s face, though his eyes are cold. His hair is the color of night, void of the warmth his brother’s sun-kissed hair glows with in the light.  

“He’s in Hell,” the man speaks. “I’ll send you all there.”

Johnny’s face turns to stone. He retreats from the Sheriff, breath deepening.

“You know I’d just hate to shoot out your other eye. Kore, how awful would it be to have two holes in your mouth? Sal, how much worse can your hearing get?” Veron Romero blows a puff of smoke from his lips and nostrils, sending it into the sunlight. He stands beside his brother now, still a shadow to the man. His hand is behind his back, holding his dark pistol. He clicks it. Johnny steps back as though he’d stumbled across a chattering rattlesnake.

“Can’t shoot you if you get out of town,” Veron continues. “Pretty good odds for me. Yours are better if you keep moving.”

Kore studies the man in black, nose crinkling. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. He seizes Johnny in his stupor, pulling him back by the collar.

“C’mon!” Kore barks. His hand shifts to the back of the man’s neck, hauling him away. Sal glances at the three men, tipping his hat before he follows his brothers.

Roscoe returns the gesture, muscles and posture softening.

…

The men shadowed the Mad Dogs, sauntering the streets as they ensured their trouble-making remained as thoughts and desires in their heads. Faces of concerned civilians peered from windows, doors, and corners. Relief spread across their faces as they admired the control the lawmen displayed.

Each of the buildings in town were sun-bleached. Shops, restaurants, saloons, the launder, the stables, the blacksmith’s barn, and the like lined either side of the dusty street. Stained by the rusty specks of clay blown from the mesa mountains, each building was unique despite their cohesive color.

Old Chapel loomed over Main Street as a symbol of hope everlasting. It stood as the oldest remaining place of the town’s deep roots. It had been built to last; erected upon the hill which plateaued before climbing into the peaks of the mesa range. The building shone, untainted by the dust as it was often cleaned. Ivory gilded the wood and adobe structure which was formed into a Spanish-colonial style. A tall cross endured upon the center peak of the chapel, echoed by two others which crowned the tops of twin steeples. Beneath the twin crosses hung massive gold bells which rang at sunrise, noon, and sunset for the trinity. The church always glowed as a grounded moon to the sun himself.

Clifton watched ever more carefully as the MacLooneys trotted past the bank, taking a sharp right towards Station Street. Here was placed one of four stables—which stood to the north, east, south, and west points of town. It neighbored the train and wagon station. The lawmen stood within the shady shelter of the station as they watched the men mount their silver and black horses, riding away onto the beaten path.

“Never a dull moment, eh?” Roscoe peeked down at his fair-haired partner and nudged his shoulder with his elbow.

“Not here,” Clifton answered. He pulled a cigarette from its case within his pants pocket. With his flint lighter he ignited it, puffing it in his lips after. “Want one?”

Roscoe nodded, retrieving a cigarette from him.

“If they come back, what will you do?” Veron asked from the shadows of the station covering.

Clifton puffed his cigarette again, then turned towards his twin. “Send them to where we sent Creed, since they want to be with him again so badly.”

Veron cracked his neck, his jaw clenched around his cigarette. Disappointment for the lack of blood clawed at his insides. “Just so they can break out?”

“There’s no breaking out of Everlow,” Clifton responded.

Veron answered with a snort and a chuckle. “There’s no one to worry about breaking out of Everlow if they’re dead.”

Roscoe nodded, watching as the MacLooneys rode off on their horses, small as ants in the horizon. “A dead bad man is a good thing.”

“And I’m good at making that a reality,” Veron hissed.

Clifton’s shoulders rose. “But there’s more of them.”

“Yeah? How many?” Veron’s spine prickled at the thought of more of them. Surely as he walked this earth, he would see them all dead, sooner or later.

“Lots. Mama MacLooney had lots of kids, and those kids had kids. They’ll keep showing up, Ver. We don’t want another war with a mad gang.”

Veron licked his teeth in response. He pulled at the bloodred ascot around his throat, scratching at the noose-marred skin beneath. “If you lock ‘em up, they’ll be more vengeful. Better kill ‘em all as soon as we can.”

“If they shoot, shoot them,” Clifton said. “Otherwise we’ll bring ‘em in to rot.”

Veron rolled his head.

“That’s an order. I won’t have you stomping any of their heads into the ground in front of everyone.”

Veron pursed his lips and flicked his cigarette into the ground, stomping onto it.
He wished it could crack like a bone. “You’ll do great handling them next time they come around. Make sure you put me down for a nap when they do.” His voice was low, his nose scrunched up. “I’m gonna check on Bury. Make sure she feels safe. You can join me if you want.” The brother began to trudge off back towards town, kicking up red dust behind him.

Clifton nodded to Roscoe.

“He’s right,” the deputy said lowly.