Death Whispers In The Wind

Chapter 1

Sheriff Castor Feenix desperately needed to wash and wipe away the dried blood speckle and spatter which stained and covered most of his weathered old face. It happened just a few short hours ago, when the spilt blood first stained his face, leaving it a painted mask of a horridly gruesome red crimson-like color. The blood spatter had spread across most of his face, as is it was paired with an already tired, well-worn and exhausted expression on Castor's face. This dreary and morbid appearance of Castor's current state would've undoubtedly caused great concern if one were to have seen him like this, even alarm someone if they were to of found themselves in close proximity and happened to walk past Castor in that moment and glance upon his bloody crimson-tattered face.

But the day was now drawing to a close and the sun had slowly began its descent, as it sank in the clear blue summer sky until it fell behind the large rolling hills in the distance and then started to set over the vast horizon of the western frontier, it was now dusk.

The fast fading daylight had helped to conceal Castor while he stood perfectly and quietly still, remaining in a somewhat rigid stance at the edge of a mildly dark and narrow alleyway, wedged between a pair of 2-story buildings.

Castor appeared stoically calm, even reserved while he stood near motionless within the shadowy darkness of what was a very awful and dank-smelling alleyway, which reeked of something incredibly foul and the smell was nearly unbearable. But Castor withstood the foul and persistent odor that permeated the entire alleyway, as it were the only spot that aided his concealment and also offered him a vantage point with a view he desperately needed and required. For if any random townsfolk casually walked past the alley, they'd haven't the slightest clue of his presence. Completely hidden as he stood utterly still and frozen within the shadows of the alleyway, Castor's view from this vantage point was overlooking a loud, busy and bustling saloon which stood directly across the street.

He kept his eyes firm and steady, his constant glare polarizing and more specifically was transfixed on 5 very particular men within the establishment of the saloon. The seedy establishment was called 'Farber Bogart's Billiards & Spirits Saloon' and there were many within the saloon who were frequent regulars, this was a wild and altogether rambunctious collective of common gamblers and swindlers, all sorts of crooked con men, a handful of conniving hustlers and thieving prostitutes as well as a hodgepodge of corrupt politicians and then there were always several wanted criminals or outlaws. As the night rapidly approached, 'Farber Bogart's' saloon would also have the unsavory sum of 5 distinct men that were of profound interest to Castor and this were a group of men who he believed made up the Bannister gang. The gang was, at the moment, a very select group of universally loud, obnoxiously volatile, highly inebriated and altogether drunken men, three of which were sitting at a round-table playing 7-stud poker, whereas the other two men were downing liquor, bumbling here or there and all about the fairly crowded saloon in a drunken stupor.

Castor had started meticulously taking stock of what he was seeing, taking a mental note of each of the many occupants that resided within the saloon. Gauging which men were most likely to engage him in a shootout, how many of these unruly men would in return, unleash a steady stream of hair-triggered tempers, followed by a barrage of bullets and then contrasting that, which of those residing in the saloon that wouldn't. How many would avoid a gunfight, cower and cut tail?

After Castor considered his odds for a brief minute, his demeanor radically began to change and his once-calm and cool behavior gave way to a much more outspoken, more brash and more wildly abrasive Castor that was completely different and it was almost like turning on a switch. There were two distinct sides to Castor where one was overtly cool, supremely calm, overwhelmingly collected and then the other was that of a bubbling ferocity and unpredictability, a radical side constantly on the verge of snapping at any given moment. It were as if Castor was a stick of dynamite with an incredibly short fuse.