NYC Midnight Fiction Challenge No. 1 2022
Synopsis:
It’s 1850 in wild west Colorado and the gold rush is in full swing. When someone starts emptying rain barrels in drought-affected Guadalupe the townsfolk take matters into their own hands.
Sherriff Maxwell raised his hands to still the crowd. His deputy fingered his six-shooter. Deputy Beck was always at the ready. The townsfolk had gathered outside the weatherboard church in Guadalupe in the absence of anywhere else to congregate. An empty rain barrel stood by the door.
Father O’Reilly was pleased to have such a crowd. His twelve months in Guadalupe had seen only the faithful arrive every Sunday. A handful of women and reluctant children; boys scrubbed and forced into cotton shirts and wool trousers, and girls in their only Sunday dress. The endless funerals were the only reason most people entered the dusty church.
The reverend pushed the door open and set his face to a smile. As the townspeople shuffled past him; some caught his eye but most ignored the proffered welcome. They weren’t here for pleasantries, and frankly, most of them felt guilt that they hadn’t been inside the church since Padre Lugo had passed the year prior.
Men left their guns at the door, the only concession to the location of this extraordinary gathering. When the deputy passed the reverend, he made no move to disarm until he saw the raised brow of the small Irish priest.
“If ye don’t mind”, he indicated the holster and shooter at Beck’s waist.
Beck grunted, and reluctantly unbuckled the leather holster before entering.
The town’s businessmen took up the front row and sat staring straight ahead; gold prospectors and a few Mexican farmers sidled into the remaining rows while the women and children crowded in the aisle and to the sides of the wooden pews. Charlotte McFee, the wife of John McFee, the general store owner, slapped her son’s hand away from his nose.
“Don’t be doing that here; the Lord is watching ye!” Her floor-length dress was ragged from wear, and her hair escaped the pins. She stood proudly behind the men, her hand firmly on her boy’s shoulders.
The crowd stilled as the Sherriff Maxwell made his way to the pulpit, leaving dusty prints on the wooden dais. The crowd stilled, so the only sound to be heard was the whistling wind and a newborn babe before his mother pushed her nipple into its mewling mouth.
Maxwell cleared his throat and took a puff on his pipe before addressing the crowd.
“Y’all know why we are here,” he started. “I hope we can discuss this calmly and rationally.”
There was a murmur from the men at the front. The town banker, Mr Sanders, pulled a kerchief from his top pocket and blew his nose loudly. The shop owner’s son stifled a giggle. One look from his Ma and his head dropped. Charlotte squeezed his shoulders tightly and made him squirm.
Guadalupe was built on the foundations of Spanish rancheros, so Mexican settlers outnumbered the Irish immigrants two to one. Father O’Reilly had taken over the church following the death of Padre Lugo in 1849. He knew why the rancheros did not come to church; the 1848 treaty had taken care of that. He hoped today would see an end to segregation. There was bad blood in the town following the recent rain barrel incidents and the drought had taken its toll on a river already decimated by the gold rush.
“Things have been tough for everyone,” Sherriff Maxwell continued, “and I’m sure y’all can appreciate how difficult it is to get to the bottom of this.”
The prospectors in the middle rows started muttering amongst themselves; some turned to speak with those on the pew behind them. They seemed to come to a consensus as one middle-aged gold miner was thrust up from his seat. Manuel Lopez removed his hat and clutched it to his chest; his flattened hair made him appear vulnerable.
Sherriff was trying to ignore the fuss as he continued to speak. “I believe Mr Lopez and Mr O’Keefe had their rain barrels upended yesterday. Mr Lopez, can you stand, please?”
Manuel Lopez raised his hat from his chest and nodded in the direction of the Sherriff.
“Can you tell these folks what happened?”
“I-I-I went to check on my lot this morning,” he stuttered, “and my barrels were all tipped over.” He holds up his hands in disbelief. “I have no water for the gold now.” He sits down heavily as the men around him start up again.
“Mr O’Keefe?” the County Sherriff scanned the room.
“Yeah, Sherriff Maxwell, sir,” a tall man with red hair made his way to his feet.
“Can you tell us what happened to your rain barrels?”
The red-headed man held his empty holster, turned, and pointed to a man in the crowd.
“That man there, Sherriff sir, I saw him with my own eyes! He tipped my barrel over and damned well emptied the whole thing.”
The crowd erupted as all eyes followed Mr O’Keefe’s arm. There sat a man no one recognised, a newcomer in town. The nondescript but well-dressed man sat perfectly still while people shouted. He appeared unmoved by the accusation.
Maxwell searched the crowd for his deputy as the crowd jostled and pushed. Father O’Reilly flapped his arms to settle the townspeople. He feared they would lynch the stranger; water was almost worth more than gold right now.
The Sherriff fumbled for his gun, but it wasn’t in his holster; he swore under his breath, still searching wildly for his deputy in the crowd. There was nothing he could do. A group of men had hoisted the stranger out of his seat and carried him towards the door.
The stranger was now struggling against the men who held him. Charlotte McFee followed behind with her son in tow. The boy’s eyes fixed on the stranger. As Sherriff watched the faces of the angry townspeople, he knew nothing he could do would stop them. Resignedly, he sat on the pew and puffed his pipe. They were headed for the empty rain barrel outside the church. He sighed. Men had been hung for less.
