The Miller's Curse

The Encounter

     
      The smoke filled his nostrils and watered his eyes. He coughed and shielded his face from the low hanging branches as he galloped through the dark woods. He could hear the men yelling and the dogs barking behind him. He wanted more than anything to turn around, to unleash the anger he had on the evil fucks that trailed behind him. He knew that he would die if he did, but part of him didn't care, on some primal level he was okay with that, if he could just take some of the trash out with him. It was his fear of death that propelled him forward, following behind the only friend he had left in the world. He could see him a few yards ahead through the brush, occasionally looking behind to make sure that his companion hadn’t given in to his anger, and turned towards his death. No, he said to himself. He would not die today. Not until he could make them suffer, just as she did. With tears streaming down his face, he swore he would survive until then, no matter what.

      The afternoon sun laid upon the sand like the last embrace of a lover before rolling off to sleep. The horses meandered down the trail, carrying two rugged cowboys in hopes of good grain and a cold trough. It was nearly dusk when they rode into the town, vibrant sunset colors painted the sky, as wild as the land it oversaw. The cowboys dismounted in front of the small, wind-worn saloon, tying off the horses who drank gratefully from the trough below.

Inside the saloon was mostly empty, save for the bartender and a few dusty drifters. It smelled of old wood, spilled liquor and tobacco smoke. To travelers like them, it was a warm, welcoming smell. As they entered, the patrons gave them brief, cursory glances before returning to their drinks, smokes and cards. The barkeep regarded them politely as they sat, and they handed over a small bundle of canteens to be refilled with refreshing water.

The bartender returned promptly, canteens swinging with the weight of the cool liquid, and each of the cowboys took a deep swig. He waited, patiently as always, for the men to drink their fill and wipe the droplets from their long, untrimmed beards.

“So my friends, what’ll it be?”

“Brandy on the rocks, please sir.” Said one cowboy, and the other grunted in agreement.

The bartender nodded and prepared their drinks while one of them rolled a cigarette. He served them with a smile, and with a small tap of the glass on the bar, they downed them gratefully. The barkeep eyed them like he does all his patrons, such was his job. The length and hardship of their journey apparent in the dirt on their clothes and subsequent sighs of contentment upon finishing their drinks.

“You boys been on the trail for a while I reckon. Where y’all coming from?”

“California.” The cowboy said tersely.

The bartender exclaimed “Phew! That sure is a ways to travel. What brings y’all to New Mexico?”

The cowboys tensed up ever so slightly, which told the bartender that he had asked the wrong question. If there’s one thing he had learned in his years working this bar, it’s that every man has his secrets. One of the men reached into his shirt pocket and produced a few crumpled up bills. The barkeep nodded somewhat apologetically and turned to fix them another round of drinks.

“We’re looking for work” the cowboy who produced the money said, “know where we might find any?”

The bartender turned, drinks in hand, wearing a face that didn’t show confidence in his answer.

“Well, the Millers own a farm bout five miles south of here. It's off the trail, and no one's heard from them in a good bit. If they haven't packed up and left like most of the town, they might have some work for ya.”

“If I'm to be honest…” he started hesitantly “yer best bet would be to head east. This town is drying up, has been for awhile now. I hate to drive away new clientele, but there's naught much for y'all out here other than buzzards and tumbleweeds.”