A Gate over New Dakota ---STEEMIT EXCLUSIVE SERIES--- PART 5.2

   An old west tale... in space.     

Part 5.2

     He crossed the street. There was another saloon here, the Jewel, a little more pretentious, a little bit cleaner, more the Dark Man’s type.

     He didn’t go in. He could feel it enveloping him, the nothingness. Now time would fly or it would slow down, it really depended on the situation. 

     The situation today was Mister Ramon Montero. 

     He leaned against the wall on the balcony of the saloon. They wouldn’t bother him for the loitering. They all knew him, knew both of his trades. Both earned him respect, earned him his space.

     He didn’t know how long it took Ramon Montero to come out of Lazlo’s. It could’ve been fifteen minutes. It could’ve been eight hours. The nothingness made that whole time thing meaningless. 

     When he came out it was dawn, though the Dawn Bugs weren’t buzzing yet. 

     Montero was even more haggard than he had been when the Dark Man had seen him earlier, his ivory handled revolver sticking crookedly out of his belt. The drinking had him fairly beaten. 

     The ape wasn’t too far behind him, not as drunk as his boss, a triple barreled shotgun in his hands. He saw the Dark Man coming before Montero did. His eyes widened as he realized the Dark Man’s intentions. 

     It might’ve saved him if Doc Hemingway had been any other man.

     Doc’s Colt took him in the chest before he could raise his cannon. He fell with a loud thud. 

     Montero perked up, his face wild with fear and shock. 

     His eyes went back and forth between Doc Hemingway and the dead ape. 

     Hemingway lowered the barrel of the Colt. Montero was his focal point, there was nothing else in all of New Dakota. 

     Montero snarled, spittle and something unintelligible escaped his lips. 

     The Colt slammed one hole through his heart and one through his brain the moment his fingers closed on that ivory handle. Slowly, very slowly Montero fell forward into the dirt and twitched a few times before expiring. 

     After it was done, Hemingway vanished again and the Dark Man returned.

     The Dark Man reloaded the old Colt, taking his time with each round before returning it to its holster. 

     Slowly, methodically he went back into Lazlo’s, the nothingness pouring out of him with each step. 

     Old man Lazlo was at the bar still, his body stiff, his jaw clenched shut.

     The Dark Man took his black hat off the counter top where he’d left it, put it on his head and looked the old bartender in the eye. 

     “Alright, Lazlo, what is it that ails you?”