August 15, 2017

PodCastle 483: Thirteen Bullets

* Author : Laurence Raphael Brothers

* Narrator : Austin Malone

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

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PodCastle 483: Thirteen Bullets is a PodCastle original.

Rated R for adult themes

Thirteen Bullets

by Laurence Raphael Brothers

The stagecoach lurches to a halt in a clearing beside the road. Four wild-eyed black geldings rear up and whinny as the top-hatted stage driver cracks a whip over their heads.

“Nous sommes ici,” says the driver. “Cimetière. La fin de la ligne!”

The coach door slams open and the No-Good Kid clambers out, bleary-eyed, cursing, unsteady on his feet. His blond hair is tousled and mussed. He had to leave Albuquerque without his hat but it’s obvious what color it was because all the rest of his gear is white. Or it used to be white. Now it’s dingy with the dust of the journey. Not the best choice for hard travelling, but then he didn’t have much time to pack. His luggage consists mainly of card decks and empty whiskey bottles.

“This it?” The Kid’s voice is cracked and raw. He desperately needs a drink. There’s got to be a full bottle left in there someplace.

“Oui. Cimetière.” The driver is a short man; so short his black cloak has swallowed him completely except for his face, which is dominated by the inhumanly long, thin spike of his nose.

“You know I can’t hardly speak your lingo. This Tombstone or ain’t it?”

The coachman cackles. “Ce sera votre tombe si vous ne partez pas avant l’aube.”

The Kid shakes his head and spits. He heard the word ‘tomb’ in there: that’s something, anyway. Then he looks around. It’s just after sunset, but the sky is still orange in the west, with streaks of red and pink and violet stretching all the way to the zenith. There’s a wooden building here with a stables behind it, likely the station house for the stage. A ways off down the road he can see a larger and much grander structure, a mansion or something like, behind a wrought-iron fence.

“Hey, this place is kinda… small, wouldn’t ya say? Ain’t there s’posed to be more to Tombstone than just this?”

The coachman doesn’t answer, not even in French; he just chuckles. Then he coughs. He pulls a tarnished silver flask out from under his cloak and takes a snort. The Kid reaches up and snags the flask. He drains it in a long gulp before handing it back. “Damn,” he says. “You had this fine brandy all along and I had to make do with rotgut? That ain’t neighborly.”

The coachman’s beady eyes are red with resentment somewhere a long way back of his nose, but he makes no protest.

“Guess this here is just the stage station. Guess they keep it out of town?”

There’s no reply from the driver. The Kid looks around some more. “Gotta say, I thought Arizona territory’d be dryer than this. More, y’know, desert-like.” The earth here is black and moist, and there are mossy cypresses everywhere.

“Y’know….” The Kid rounds on the coachman. “I’d almost be willing to say I ain’t in Arizona ‘tall. I’d almost be willing to say the driver I paid twenty US dollars for a private coach to Tombstone took me for a ride all right. But if I was to say that,

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