By John McDonnell
Artwork by Rabidwire

Jed Smoot had a powerful thirst when he rode into town that day. Maybe it was the dust from the West Texas plains he’d been riding through the last few months, but maybe it was also from the need to blot out the pictures he had in his mind. They were pictures of Indian women and children, frozen in death, in villages that he’d found for the cavalry. "I’m a scout, not a killer," he’d told the general. "I won’t shoot them people." It salved his conscience, but only for a little while. Maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he’d led the men who did to the villages.

Now he needed to forget. He went into the first saloon he could find in the dusty cowtown, pulled out a wad of bills and told the bartender to keep his glass filled with whiskey. It wasn’t long before he was howling like a wolf and shooting out the crystal chandelier, staggering drunk and looking for love anywhere he could find it.

His cockeyed gaze lit upon a certain dance hall girl who was swathed in ruffles and lace. Her name, she told him, was Angela. She suggested they go upstairs and get comfortable, and he agreed that was a good idea.

When they got up to her room, he sat heavily on the bed, the room already beginning to spin. "Where are ya, gal?" he said. "We better get started, ‘cause I ain’t gonna last long."

"No," a quiet, whispery voice said. "You aren’t."

He turned to see his Angela, but instead saw a huge owl at the end of the bed. It was staring at him with fathomless black eyes, its sharp curved beak almost smiling. "You led them to my people," the owl said.

Jed tried to stand up, but he couldn’t move his limbs. He moved his lips, but no sound came out.

In the saloon, the noise of the raucous crowd drowned out the screams coming from upstairs.

THE END