Mad Dogs

Sweat spangled Clifton’s brow, his blue eyes darting to and fro as he surveyed the trio of ornery bandits. The MacLooneys threatened the amiable nature of Blood Ridge, poisoning the air about them with the stench of death and blight.

Every soul who knew their looks dreaded catching a mere glimpse of them. Their sun-pawed hides and russet shades of locks were hardly a notable feature, eclipsed by the derangement darkening their grim eyes. The rage—restrained within their cores by loose and splitting cords—dribbled through their very stares as warning flames. It was this wretchedness which so often snapped its bindings that thereby earned them their horrible moniker: the Mad Dogs.

Stood next to the noble Sheriff Clifton Romero was the lofty Roscoe Calding. The loyal deputy’s old calvary hat rested low atop his umber-skinned head; his chestnut eyes were set deeply into the chiseled features of his face. A peppered black beard coated cheekbones to jaw, arched over his lips and steeped over the chin. Thick crimped eyebrows lowered on his countenance while a calculating and sensible mind worked to discern the circumstances.

All the worst MacLooneys were prowling about this day. Kore “Gore” MacLooney snarled opposite of Clifton; his rusty blood-brown hat shadowed quite the disfigurement – a jowl so mangled it allowed the yellow teeth to be visible on the left side of his face. Indeed, he was the first to vocalize, and Clifton watched with disgust as the warping of his flesh deformed at his words.

“We’re here f’r Creed.” He clenched his teeth after he spoke, allowing the Sheriff to distinctly hear the rotted incisors clacking cadaverously.

“Like hell we’d let that bastard out after what he tried to do to Miss Blackwood,” Roscoe’s nose wrinkled as he made his assertion. “You’re delusional mongrels if you think we’d even let you do as much as see him again.”

“Seems like she didn’t wanna have no fun!”

The pitiful caterwauling belonged to Johnny, blood twin of the culprit, Creed. He was equally wicked, irate, and ugly as the others, though individuated by the patchy unkempt spots of beard dusting his scruffy chin. His malady was an empty socket haunting his right orbital bone. As young men, the two brothers had gouged one another’s eyes from their sockets, and with forks no less. Creed was bereft of his opposite eye; he now stood as a mirror to his brother whenever they were near.

For the Mad Dogs, to be maimed was to be esteemed.

The third of the worst MacLooneys—other than the horrible Creed—was Sal. His right ear had been ripped from his skull by an explosion in his days of yore. The pitiful sycophant was able to hear only from his remaining ear, though the task was arduous. This brigand, with his greying beard and greasy hair clinging to his skull, stood by like a beast. His tongue flicking over his desiccated lips along with the sight of his missing auricle enhanced his reptile semblance. He was not one to race his mouth as his brothers did, something Clifton had decided was because he would regularly misunderstand what was happening by dint of his inability to correctly hear the speech of others.

Though they were throttled by the silence, the Sheriff and Deputy maintained their resolute frigidity. One could more feasibly triumph in an argument with a rabid wolf than with these deplorables. Survival relied on the treatment of them, as such was also the nature of wolves: Never turn an eye away and always end things quickly in the face of inevitable violence.

Clifton’s hand lingered above his gun holster, fingering at the revolver. He could feel the familiar ivory handle of the silver piece, his skin pressing against it with caution. He continued to inquire the eyes of the swine, searching vainly for any sign of stirring deed. He noticed an inconspicuous twitch of Kore’s mangled cheek as he appeared to grow agitated. The Mad Dogs, though accustomed to getting their way in other towns, held no sway within Blood Ridge. Clifton would make certain of that.

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

“More like get back to terrorizin’ the innocent,” Roscoe boomed in a stern voice.

It was enough to make Kore himself recede for but a moment.

“You’d be best to keep movin’ on if you don’t want a hole in your other ugly cheek.” Roscoe tapped a gloved hand against his chop before tipping his hat. “Otherwise, if you’re crazy enough to test me…be my guest.”

Clifton tapped his gun holster twice in response to Roscoe’s words, utilizing the “chance code” the two of them had built up over years. Two taps: Fifty-fifty. Undecided.

They may go for it.

“You ain’t in no place to tell Kore MacLooney what to do!” The grotesque man spat as he snarled, his skin folding as if it were fitted loosely over his skull.

“I’m not tellin’ ya; I’m giving you a choice.” Roscoe pressed his lips together firmly for a moment before speaking once more. “I’ll bet you  it’s a hell of a lot harder to run your mouth with holes on both sides of your face.”

Not hiding his anger towards the taunting of his older brother, Johnny paced back and forth, his lone eye flaring with bloodlust as Clifton kept his watch on him. He sensed the sauntering hound could choose to chomp at the bait any moment.

Sal’s attention darted from Kore, to Johnny, to Cliff, then to Roscoe, fingers twitching.

Roscoe’s hand dropped down to his holster once more. Kore’s face hardened. His jittery hand descended to his own sheath while straining to mirror the Deputy’s stoicism. Roscoe met the man’s emulation with a coy smile.

The shine of Roscoe’s pearly teeth sent a shiver down Kore’s spine.

He let out the grunt of a bested man.

“C’mon, boys. We’ll come back some oth’r day.”

Johnny gawked back and forth at his brothers, wild and with a fix of primal emotion.

“What? We can’t just leave Creed!” His red tongue launched droplets of saliva as he barked. “We gotta get him out!”

Kore whirled to him, seizing him by the collar and yanking him in close.

“You wanna test those men? Go ahead, you stupid bastard! Gettin’ yer mouth cut open’s a lot diff’rent than gettin’ it shot!” He said before dropping Johnny. The younger man scuttled back upright. He searched Roscoe, then Cliff.

The Sheriff tipped his hat and gave him a wink, continuing with the taunting Roscoe had begun, knowing that displaying a lack of fear was the only way to reason with these criminals.

“You go ahead and feel free to find out, Johnny, but know that every madman to walk my town sooner or later found himself in a straight coat. Every criminal found himself rotting, whether it be underground, or in a cell.” Sheriff Romero twitched his golden mustache. “We’re the first town to have ever arrested one of you sorry bastards! And don’t you go worrying about Creed in our jail cell. He ain’t there. Instead he’s well-secured and safe from you curs in Everlow Prison. Sent him out last week.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Roscoe finished the thought.

Johnny only grew all the angrier.

“YOU SENT HIM TO EVERLOW?! YOU BASTARDS!” He snarled, face turning beet-red.

Kore seized Johnny yet again, yanking him back by his shirt collar. He was seen to have whispered something hoarsely into the twin’s ear. Grabbing the back of Johnny’s neck, Kore began to haul him away.

Sal glanced at the Sheriff and Deputy for a moment, then tipped his hat and followed behind his brothers.

Roscoe returned the tipping gesture, his muscles and posture softening. He remained honed on the Mad Dogs as they sauntered down the street, ensuring that they would not turn around to insight more trouble.

Faces of concerned civilians once more began to peer from the shop doors and windows and from around corners, relief breaking across many of their demeanors as they beheld the control Roscoe and Clifton 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.

The Deputy turned and the Sheriff shadowed him. Side-by-side they walked, trailing the gang of brothers like sheep dogs repelling wolves.

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 two 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, Cliff?” Roscoe peeked down at his fair-haired partner and nudged his shoulder with his elbow.

“Not in Blood Ridge. First it was dealing with Creed’s shit, now this. But I guess they’re Everlow’s problem now.” Clifton pulled a cigarette out from its case from within his pants pocket. With his flint lighter he ignited it, then puffed it in-between his lips. “Want one?”

Roscoe nodded and Clifton handed him a lit cigarette thereafter. The flaxen-haired man continued to speak. “And if they come back and start trouble again, I say we turn ‘em in. I know they’ve caused trouble in other towns, but it’s up to those Sheriffs to do their business.”

The Deputy placed the cigarette into his mouth and puffed it. “Next time any of ‘em touch somebody else, we’ll lock ‘em all up. They made wise decision today, for once. But we won’t waste anymore chances on ‘em.”

Clifton twiddled his hands around his neck, sliding his fingers between his shirt collar and his skin, feeling the roughness of the veiled blight around his neck. Roscoe noticed the movement, his shoulders slumping as unspoken recollection hung in the air.

“I’ll be honest,” Clifton finally spoke, placing his collar back in place. His fists grew tight, muscles tensing like a cat about to pounce. “I would celebrate if they were shot dead. But I know they won’t quite like Everlow very much either. In fact, I hope that bastard Creed is suffering day in and day out for what he tried to do to Miss Blackwood.” Clifton blew out a trail of dragon smoke.

“A rabid animal is better off dead,” Roscoe agreed.

“You think we’re being too easy on ‘em, then?” Clifton asked.

The MacLooneys were beginning to shrink from discernible figures to ants as they sped off on the trail, finally disappearing over one of the far-off hills.

Roscoe expelled smoke like a steam engine for a long moment. “Probably. We may be resorting to the easiest way of doin’ things.”

“I’m just afraid that people will think the likes of you and I have grown too soft. We don’t want anybody getting any mere idea that they can do somethin’ like what Creed tried and get away with it. We used to be tougher.”

“Lawmen used to be able to be tougher,” Roscoe replied, looking to Clifton’s throat once more, the scar peeking out from beneath his collar as the Sheriff adjusted his shirt once more. “’Sides, we did make a good example out of Creed. Men would rather hang and rot in the desert than wind up in Everlow. I know I would.” He took another puff. “Say, we should check in on Miss Blackwood. I reckon she was quite upset hearin’ the MacLooneys were back in town.”

Clifton agreed and the two began walking back down Station Street, turning onto Main Street. The town was once again bustling with its usual activity following the MacLooney exodus. Men rode on horses and wagons, continuing their hauls. Plenty of townsfolk tipped their hats, curtsied, or waved as the two lawmen passed by.

The Blackwoods owned a quite respectable undertaker service. They were known for their decorous care over the dead, always returning their customers to the earth with untarnished dignity. Their embalming techniques were wholly prolific, and they fit their dead with caskets, hand-crafted with upmost care. The mortuary was closest to the church, for the graveyard bordered it.

Mr. Blackwood had noticed the duo, opening the door to welcome them both. “I hear no news of MacLooney death. Must I admit I am quite disappointed that I do not have the pleasure of building a coffin for them?”

His voice was rich and smooth as river rocks, rolling from his tongue in a heavy Romanian accent. Though the Blackwoods had been in America for many generations, they often married other Romanians, retaining their idiom and tradition.

Clifton and Roscoe filed in, removing their hats to hang them near the door.

“You’d be correct that we did not have to put any of those dogs down today,” Roscoe responded. “I sympathize with your disappointment.”

Mr. Blackwood bobbed his head and shut the door behind him.

“Mind not the dark. It is horribly hot outside, so I try to keep it like cave inside, so no bodies under my care may begin to rot.”

The man donned his usual black suit and tie, the stovepipe hat which he habitually wore rested on the table. His skin was chalkier than the average sun-kissed shade of the burghers, seeing as most of his toil was completed thoroughly hidden from the sunlight, as it was much less sweat to dig a grave in Arizona by moonlight.

The Undertaker continued: “Alas, if it were the bodies of those MacLooneys you’d brought me? Pheh! I would have let them rot in sun! Vultures make excellent decomposers.”

Clifton nodded. “I’d understand.”

“Aha, but you do not understand as father.” Vincent Blackwood ran his hands briefly though his slicked back black hair, then to his trembling narrow pointed mustache and goatee. “You have not any children, you know not of what it is to have a daughter attacked and nearly violated such as she.” He shook his head soberly, closed his purple-bagged eyes. “If I had been the one to discover my poor dear Bury was about to be ravaged; I would have buried the bastard who were to do it alive.”

“I promise you, if they come back, we will send them straight to you once they’ve been filled with bullets,” Roscoe said.

Clifton stared at the map of skin upon his hands, eyes tracing the weathered line of long-forgotten paths.

Paths better forgotten.

“Ah, you will. You will fill them with bullets upon the moment they return. You will want them to bleed their last once you hear from my poor autumn child.” Vincent’s spindly frame grew taut as he rapped upon the wall three times. Footsteps promptly thumped around upstairs, light and quick, those of a small woman.

Bury Blackwood made her appearance, dipping down the stairs, her inky black dress folds following her like a shadow. With skin as bloodless as her father’s, she always did her makeup dark around her piercing grey-blue eyes. Her hair was an extraordinary shade of blonde, being almost a silver white. As she beheld the guests, she slinked to the bottom step. She eyed them as a cat would eye another. She tardily found her way to one of the tables. Vincent drew a chair out for her then gestured for the two lawmen to sit.

The air hung like a spirit silent, cloaked in the weight of speechless strain. Miss Blackwood glanced around between the suspended faces.

“I heard you didn’t bring me back a MacLooney body.” Her voice was full of sing-song, though lacking the firm Romanian accent of her father.

“We did not, I’m quite sorry, Miss Blackwood,” Clifton said, leaning forward. “We’ve only sent Creed off to Everlow because of what he tried to do to you. The others have not yet committed any crimes within our county’s borders.”

Bury drew in a deep sigh. Her jaw clenched, stormy eyes filling with a thin veil of tears. She swallowed, attempted to collect herself, but the attempt was futile. “I wish you had shot them all dead!” Her voice quaked at her exclamation. “Because you know exactly what those god-damned bastards are going to do to me if they get out, Clifton Romero!”

She pointed across the table right to Clifton’s throat, whose hand instinctively went up to his collar to hide the marks history had marred upon his throat.

Roscoe placed a palm hand on the table and Bury lowered her arm. “We’re goin’ to make sure none of that happens, Miss Blackwood. Besides, I think they are all quite too stupid to get Creed outta that hellhole.”

“They weren’t stupid enough! They nearly raped me, Roscoe,” the woman hissed. She shook as she drew in breaths, tears creating gloomy rivers down her face. “They all deserve to rot. Just as Pa said.”

“I could not agree with you more,” Roscoe nodded, gently taking her hand up in his. His amiable eyes, the color of warm and welcoming silt met her tempest grey ones as sky and earth, immediately understanding each other’s roles in the world. “If they ever come back, we won’t be making any hesitations at putting them down.”

“We were on their tails today,” Clifton interceded. “The moment they were in town, we knew about it. The only reason they are not dead is ‘cause they listened.”

Roscoe shook his head again. “See? We swore a solemn oath to protect this town. We shall always uphold the end of our duties.”

Bury studied the two men, then her father.

“I trust you two,” Vincent spoke. “Even though I wish you’d brought me bodies today. Especially that of the twin.”

Bury shuddered. “That bastard laughed as Creed…” Her voice trailed. Her delicate pale hands clenched Roscoe’s atop the table. “As he tried what he wanted to do.”

Clifton searched sincerely into her eyes, nodding. “I’m so very thankful to Kilmer for rescuing you. He said he’d also be on the lookout. You are safe, Miss Blackwood. I can promise you that. If anything happened, your father himself may turn Roscoe and I into business opportunities.”

Vincent huffed out a solitary laugh. “Is that a deal you are willing to make?”

Clifton nodded. “Why, yes. As one of the people I’m sworn to protect, you deserve my Sheriff’s word.

“Very well. But I must say Roscoe’s coffin would cost quite much,” Vincent said.

Even as Roscoe sat, he loomed over the others. His broad shoulders blocked out the chunk of sunlight which was able to pierce through the dark curtains.

“It would require many men to lift him onto my wagon,” Vincent continued.

Roscoe chuckled. “As long as you give me plenty of room to rest, my brother will indeed bring you a pretty penny to have me buried by your skillful hands.”

The dark realizations of death and humor around it seemed to lift Miss Blackwood’s spirit. “I am quite grateful such noble men live here to scare away the dogs. If it weren’t for Kilmer, I dunno how much worse off it could have been if it weren’t for you—”

“Don’t mention it,” Roscoe smiled. “We’ll never let it happen.”

Silently, long dark legs skittered along the black curtains. The silk-weaver bore witness to the congregation of mortal men below.