When the town of HEEDONVILLE—or rather, the original buildings Heedonville was built around—was first constructed, there was little need to worry about insulating the walls.
For one, the walls were built of thick, hard, dense rock. Others were built of short, wide brick. Neither had any real need for insulation.
Second, the weather where these particular buildings stood was mild year-round. There was no reason to keep heat in, and somehow the insides of the buildings never seemed to climb above seventy-eight degrees.
Third—and strangest of all—sound seemed to bounce off every wall. Each building behaved like an echo chamber, noise ricocheting endlessly, hardly escaping at all.
Nobody in town noticed any of this.
But if the image of one of those brick walls didn't force itself into the mind of old Point as he painfully pulled himself awake the next day, it would have been a miracle. He came to consciousness to the sound of CHARLOTTE having her head bounced off the headboard—
the headboard bouncing off the very boards that made up the wall across the room—
in the bed Point found himself in that morning.
Point's room mirrored the saloon downstairs, only far more modest. The wood glowed from the morning sun, though the boards were narrower and not quite as polished. Brass fittings caught the flicker of the wall sconces, but lacked the flourish of the bar's intricate carvings. No shelves only hooks and nails for girls to hang things from. Mirrors framed in simple sticks made the room feel bigger than it was, and the floorboards creaked underfoot, reminding anyone moving through that the place was lived-in. A faint scent of sweat and whiskey lingered in the air giving it a sleazy, human feel. Enough comfort to rest, not much more.
After dressing, Point struggled to get his boots on, moving on pure habit. His consinece was still asleep, resisting every step. Now, Point had no issues rising with the sun—he just had an aversion to waking to the sound of a snare drum three feet from his head.
He slid out into the hallway that ran the perimeter of his second floor room of the TSAVORITE saloon and whorehouse. Elevated strength from the early morning frustration had caused him to close his door harder than needed. A mount of prong horn antlers that hung between his room and Charlotte's fell onto the floor with a clatter. Point lifted his head, clenched his jaw, he looked up at the ceiling and whispered to himself, "One of them? One of them days? Then took a deep breath.
He bent down, lifted the fallen mount, and carefully began placing it back on the wall. He took his time, adjusting it, leveling it, returning it in a better state than he'd found it.
ADELINE DONNELLY, the head whore, was in charge of keeping the other girls in line.
"It is 7 in the AM and I got enough noise commin from Charlotte already…"
Her words stopped blunt as her eyes lifted and met Point's.
Addy had been working since before Point had gotten threw with his tub. She hadn't expected the man who stood before her. When Point entered the town he looked like he had been rode hard and put away wet.
It was about how he looked. The way his eyes held focus, the quiet strength in his stance, the presence that seemed to fill the room without trying. Something about him made her pause, something she had never seen in the men who wandered through the doors day in and day out.
That to her—from now on—this would be the man who carries the ass whence the sun doth emerge!
Addy had a good heart.
She had been around men for so long that were ridged, cold, purely physical—men with no real need or desire to connect on any level except the physical. That was no mystery to her. She had known the score before she'd ever gotten into this line of work.
For someone like Addy, someone who still wished—quietly, stubbornly—to one day connect on a deep level, it got old fast. If one wasn't careful, it could make you jaded.
Eventually, a person could lose the ability to connect to anyone new ever again.
One of the ironies of the human condition: wanting something so badly that you become someone who can never get the thing you want most.
Somewhere deep down, Addy knew this.
It was why her personality came off the way it did—guarded, sharp, quick to react, but not without heart.
When Addy's eyes met Point's, her mind went blank.
This was a man who had survived adversaries that would have crushed others.
Nothing in his gaze held quit.
"Something I can help you with ma'am?" he said, as if sensing she'd been momentarily stunned.
She finally found her way out of his eyes long enough to speak.
"We have enough noise and violence in this place day to day, can you please not slam doors?"
Finding her composure, she added, "Thank you."
Point pinched the front of his hat and nodded.
Point moved to the bar and took the same seat he'd taken yesterday, the polished wood gleaming under his hand.
Clem was working the log this morning. Large, thick through the chest and arms, not the smartest man, but cleverer than he appeared. Point figured Clem had either been raised off the street or shaped under Conor's wing as a protégé.
"Conor have a late night?" Point asked.
"Oh, Conor seems to make most nights late if we open OR closed."
Point jerked his chin upward slightly. "Point, I'm in the room on the end."
"You want me to point?" Clem responded.
Point grinned. "Sorry, my name is Point. I am stayen on the room at the end of the hall."
Clem shook his head slowly, then twice more in quick succession, as he walked away. He moved to the tap, drawing a large beer, foam spilling slightly over the rim.
Setting it down in front of Point, he said, "This is a free breakfast for anyone who pays for a room."
"Well thank you," Point said. "That is mighty hospitable of you."
Point took a healthy swallow.
Just as he set his drink down, Rex burst through the dutch doors at the front of the bar, kicking up enough dust to dim the sunlight.
"Inyins!! Injins are commin!! EVERYONE get your pistols at the ready!"
Before the word pistol had left Rex's mouth, Point's left foot was off the chair and his pistol drawn and cocked. He had been relaxed, not fully awake, and it took two extra seconds to set the footing of his non-dominant foot and draw the second gun.
Clem pulled a 12-gauge from under the bar. "They driving up there again?"
Rex shook his head up and down like a scared boy.
Point furrowed his brow, then glanced to Clem, squinting his eyes.
Clem leaned in, voice low. "A couple miles north of here is a large piece of land, jis above the old McKay place. They tryen ta set up a shop ur sumthin, but the Indians that live up there don't wanna move. So every couple days the mayor sends a group a fellas thata way to drive em off. As a retaliation of the hostilities, the Indians ride in town after they get the women and children to a safe place. They try scare everyone into lettin them be. They shoot arrows but they never hit noone yet."
Point blinked. "They don't hit anyone?"
Clem tried to clarify. "They are tryen to scare everyone, but the ones need scaren ain't even here. The mayor the one that send dem boys up that way. They don't figur out they need to move on in the next few weeks they wont need to move. Mayor just kill em."
Point's eyes widened. "KILL EM'… and they ain't hurt no one?"
Clem shook his head, just as the sound of horses echoed between the buildings. A couple arrows whistled over the dutch door. Then silence returned as the riders left town.
Point found his holster and returned his 1858 blue steel Colt Army—with its bluing finish—to its rightful place. The black finish made the brass of the trigger guard gleam like a five-carat diamond on a two-cent whore.
Everyone stopped and looked at Point as he put his guns away.
At that moment, everyone understood he was far more than just a man passin through.
A regular man—even one not afraid to go healed—did NOT carry guns like that unless he had no fear about drawing attention to himself. Any man in the West who saw Point carrying guns like those knew.
He didn't think. He knew. That he could make a name for himself killing a man with guns like that.
Clem, very slowly, put his 12-gauge back under the bar.
The Sheriff slipped out of the bar with almost the same speed he'd entered it.
Clem, his voice cautious, leaned toward Point. "Fancy guns ya got there, fella. You got a job around here you fixen ta do?"
Point shook his head slowly. "Nooo. Is there a job I should be doin'?"
Clem, still unsure, shrugged. "We got a small town here, sir. Don't want any trouble for someone just ridin' through."
Point lowered his chin. "I have no intention of causing any trouble. Not with you people, anyway."
Clem's eyes narrowed. "I'm gunna go get Conor."
And with that, he tore ass from behind the bar, running up the stairs and all the way around the perimeter of the building, back over to the lone room above the bar. He stopped and knocked very gently on the door. A second knock followed, slightly louder.
"COME IN!" Conor's voice boomed from behind the door.
Murmurs drifted from inside. By now, all three girls had emerged from their rooms, along with the man Charlotte had been with. The one-armed, one-legged man lingered at the back of the bar, and two drunks had shuffled to the side. Everyone's eyes were locked on Point as if he were Jesus Christ himself.
Clem walked out of the room, made his way around the perimeter, rounded the stairs, and returned behind the bar. He grabbed a rag and began wiping a single spot over and over, head down, never taking his eyes off Point.
Conor emerged from his room, sliding the straps of his suspenders over each shoulder. He made his way downstairs and dropped into the seat right next to Point.
He didn't face the bar. His body was turned fully toward Point, leaning in so his face hovered just inches from Point's ear.
Point took another long drink from his breakfast.
Conor's voice was low. "They tell me you have an instrument worth playin'. Can I have a look-see?"
Point spun in his seat to face Conor. He hopped off quickly, and the motion made everyone in the bar jump from their skin.
Slowly, deliberately, Point peeled back his coat to reveal his holster on his left side. The handle of the revolver now brandished him for cross-draw access.
Conor leaned in, fingers grazing the grip.
Just before he could touch it, Point dropped the lapel of his coat and drew the other gun, letting Conor know — anyone who wore a gun would never allow anyone to touch it, friend or brother. He was lightning fast. The gun spun in his hand, then slid back into the holster mid-spin.
The man moved like time itself.
Addy leaned over the rail, frozen since the earlier dust-up with the Natives. Her legs trembled beneath her small frame; she wasn't trying to get a better view. She was floating. Every time Point appeared in her line of sight, it was like the floor had dropped from beneath her.
Point slid back into the seat next to Conor.
Conor, still holding Point's gaze and not entirely pleased with the display, said, "You do realize you're in my chapel?"
Point smiled. "This may be your chapel, but my sermon was clearly one that hadn't been gone over near enough."
Conor flinched slightly, holding the gaze. "Touché. Clem, give this man a shot of whiskey."
Clem produced a bottle and three glasses. The shots were set. Point turned back to Conor.
"What is this business with the mayor?" he asked. "He's attempting to get the Indians to move on their own?"
Conor nodded. "That seems to be his master plan. I've never heard of Indians movin' just because they're pushed. Even peaceful ones will fight back before they move."
Point leaned in. "Where is this land they live on exactly?"
Conor replied, "About a quarter, maybe half a mile past the old McKay property."
Point's brow furrowed. "McKay? Clem said the same thing. What's so old about the McKay place?"
Conor stared. "You're not from around here, so you won't know. You know Addy upstairs? The other two girls working here are the McKay sisters. That was their home until…"
Point brought all his focus to the story.
Conor continued, voice low, tense. "What happened to those girls was a crime. I set them up here 'cause there was nowhere else for em to go. At least I might be able to help 'em from time to time, need be. That mayor… he's a right son of a bitch."