The Hollow Hunter

II.

The hunter sits on the second story balcony of the town inn, boots on the railing, rolling a cigarette paper around a pinch of sweet tobacco. To the passing stranger the hunter looks at ease, a man enjoying the warm sun and gentle morning breeze, but under the shroud of his cloak he remains tense and vigilant. His eyes search over every man and woman who steps out into the street.

He watches as a pair of wagons carrying a party of soot-stained men in overalls and mining caps roll into town and stop at the saloon across the street from him. None of the men appear to be armed. The weary miners unload and walk up the steps and in, laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder. Soon after, an identical group of miners, these ones fresh and clean, push out of the saloon doors and load up into two wagons parked out front. Once the men are all loaded up, the drivers urge their horses into a trot. The wagons turn around and begin to trundle back to the edge of town and up the twisting path towards the mines scattered across the mountain faces guarding the western horizon. The whole shift transition takes less than five minutes.

The hunter pops a match on the sole of his boot and touches flame to tobacco. As he sits blowing smoke rings onto the breeze he suddenly notices movement on the rooftop of the saloon across the street. In the shadow of the chimney he thinks he can just make out a pair of pinprick eyes staring back at him. Suddenly he hears the balcony door whip open and curt bootsteps walk out and stop a few paces behind his chair. He fingers the hilt of his gun under his cloak and turns around to see a gangly man wearing a wide brim hat and a cowhide vest over a dirty white shirt. A silver peacekeeper's badge is pinned to his vest, over his heart. The hunter casts a glance back across to the saloon roof but there is no sign of the shadowy figure.

"If you don't mind getting up and following me," the deputy says. "The sheriff wants a few words." He turns on his heel and marches back toward the door. Seeing the hunter make no move to follow, he turns back and places a hand on the pistol slung to his hip. "It ain't a request."

The hunter sighs and gets up, taking a few more puffs from his roll before flicking the smoldering remains over the railing.

He follows the deputy down the dusty avenue to a dirty two-story stucco building with the sigil of the peacekeepers emblazoned over the door in chipped blue paint. The deputy opens the door and ushers the hunter in first.

The interior of the peacekeeper's station is cluttered and dimly lit. Gas lamps hang in sconces along the walls and the whole place reeks of sawdust, gun oil, and stale tobacco. The first floor serves as a bullpen for the deputies, three desks sit evenly spaced across the floor, each strewn with papers and a few personal pictures and belongings. The other two deputies sit at their desks, one clacking away at the keys on a typewriter while the other cleans a double-barreled shotgun disassembled across his desktop. They both look up when they hear the door open and size up the hunter as he steps inside.

"So this is the newcomer," the one with the shotgun says, eyes searching the slim hooded man concealed within a dusty riding cloak. "Don't look like much."

"Looks can be deceiving," the hunter replies.

The shotgun deputy smiles and stands, the legs of his chair scraping across the plank floorboards. "That so, little man?"

He looms several inches taller than the hunter who stares calmly back until the gangly deputy shoves him forward. "Head into the office in back," he nods toward the lit room situated in the far corner of the space, partitioned off from the rest of the floor by two walls of plywood adorned with frosted glass. "Don't keep the boss waiting."

The hunter scowls and looks back at the two deputies for a moment before pacing to the office door, watching an indistinct shadow move behind the translucent pane.