The Coffin Maker [Black]

The Coffin Maker

     Erwin had always loved the sound of nails hammering into wood. From between his long tangles of black hair he watched as his apprentice put together a coffin made of African Blackwood. The material was darker than any he had ever worked with and had been special ordered months earlier. The man who brought it had been clad head to toe in desert robes, never revealing his face, but the product was superior. The man who ordered it was the cautious owner of the saloon. With the rate that the town was dying, it wasn’t all that strange, and it kept Erwin busy. They were more inclined to invest their money in lavish after-death ornaments, than in their own protection. Not my fault, it’s just good business, he thought, running his hands over the smooth wood of a freshly varnished coffin.

     “Keep at it Reg, I’m going to step outside.” Reg nodded and continued to hammer. The shop was hot from the trapped midday air, but outside it was cool. A pleasant wind blew from the south, bringing with it an air of malice. Erwin pulled a long pipe from a leather pouch at his side and packed it with tobacco. The firelight from his match glowed like a beacon in the otherwise darkened street. It was well past midnight, and the town died down around eleven.

     He took a drag off of the glowing coals, savoring the black smoke on his breath. This is freedom. The silence didn’t last long. In the distance he heard hoof beats. The ground vibrated slightly with their tremor. He stole a wistful glance at the tobacco still smoldering at the end of his pipe and dumped it out. Riders in the night meant nothing but trouble, and being in the streets unarmed was a death sentence. Hot air assaulted him as he reentered the shop, and the sound of Reg’s hammering was suddenly far too loud.

     “Quiet you idiot,” he said, slapping the hammer out of Reg’s hands to the dusty floor. “Do you hear that?” Reg craned his neck, but shook his head. Erwin grabbed him by his greasy brown hair and pushed his head to the ground. “Horses, there’s going to be blood tonight.” He was speaking in a terse whisper, both afraid at the thought of impending death, and excited at the boom their business was about to receive. When he was satisfied with Reg’s fear, Erwin made his way over to a small cabinet. Inside were a shotgun and a pile of shells. Erwin picked them up and filled his pockets.

     “Reg, grab your pistol and the tape measurer.” By the time they had stepped back into the night air, a cloud of dust was blowing through the dimly lit street. “Whatever you do, don’t say a word. Let me do the talking.” Reg remained silent and nodded. On both sides of the street windows were being shuttered and doors barred. A few men stood in their doorways, armed to the teeth, quaking in their boots.

     Erwin wasn’t a man to fear death. He had worked around it his entire life, and had become accustomed to its presence. Tonight’s not the night, he thought with a reassuring pat to the gun at his side. Riders were always tense, and their presence almost invariably ended in a gun fight. Over the years Erwin had learned that chances of dying were lower if he left his gun holstered. The old sheriff had been standing with his rifle pointed last time riders had come. He caught a bullet for it, but the coffin he was buried in was mighty fine.

     Through the smoke the outlines of the riders looked like ghosts. The hoof beats of their horses shook the weakened wooden frames of the town with a thunderous rumble. Erwin thought the sound would never end, and then it did. Just as suddenly as it had emerged in the distance, the hoof beats stopped. Dust swirled around a group of what looked to be at least twenty men, all sitting tall in their saddles, long rifles slung across their backs.

     One man rode in front of the rest on a horse so large it looked like something out of a myth. He stepped off, patting the beast’s massive head as he did so. The man walked forward through the cloud and into the open air. Erwin thought he was the spitting image of death himself, come to claim what was rightfully his. A tremor shook his hand, but he steadied it with thoughts of money.

     The man stood in the center of the street, looking up and down at the men who were suddenly statues in fear. Erwin stood fast at the edge of his shop with Reg cowering behind him. A cold chill ran down his spine as the man walked toward him with muted purpose. The town was deathly quiet, with the only sound being the clanking of spurs on the dirt.

     Up close Erwin could see that the man’s face was covered in a series of scars. One of them crossed his face from ear to chin, giving the impression that he was grinning. There was something wicked about the man that brought a fear that Erwin had never felt before. He knew that in that moment he was standing before the end of the line, and one wrong move would send him on to the place beyond.

     “Evening,” said the man with a voice cracked by dry, desert air.

     “Hello. How can I help you?” Erwin’s voice quavered, betraying the fear he felt.

     “Such hospitality. I like that. Maybe this will be easier than I thought.” The man brushed his coat aside to reveal a small, jet black revolver. “I’m looking for a man. He would have rode in here sometime around this morning. He’s got something that belongs to me; something I have a right mind to reacquire. Have you seen him?”

     Erwin thought back through the day. He had conducted business with a few patrons, no one of note, and gone for a drink at the saloon before returning to the shop. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen anyone new around. I was in the shop most of the day.”

     The rider exhaled loudly and pulled the pistol from his belt. “I really don’t like doing this.” There was a soft click as he pulled back the hammer and leveled the pistol at Erwin. “Let’s try again, before I have to make a mess. He would have ridden in this morning, with a horse that needed to be stabled. Tall man, probably looked like he’d been running from the devil all night.”

     “I swear, I haven’t seen anyone.” A pained look crossed the rider’s face and Erwin felt his hand drop closer to his gun.

     “I wouldn’t be doing that. This gun has taken more lives than you’ve got buried in that little cemetery out back. While I have a right mind to believe you and let you go, this fella is a different story.” He patted the revolver, malice creeping into his black eyes. “Now you’ve got one more chance, and you’d better make it count. Tell me something worth knowing, so that I can turn around, and leave you standing here.”

     Erwin sweat, each drop chilling him more than the last. Already he felt like one of the dead, cold and lifeless. He had nothing to tell the man, he had not seen anything. Think. You need something if you want to continue this wretched dance any longer. The more he thought, the emptier his memory became, and his one option became clearer. A lie was better than a bullet for the truth. “I saw a man, sitting in the corner of the saloon earlier today, didn’t recognize him. Might be the man that you were looking for.”

     “That wasn’t so hard was it?” The man’s voice was quiet, like a viper curling up to strike. Erwin felt his shoulders relax as the man holstered his gun and turned away. The sweet smell of desert air was more pungent than it had ever been before, and the prospect of the next day was bright with excitement. “On the other hand. You still lied to me, and I can’t abide by that.” The man turned in a swift motion.

     Erwin heard a loud pop, and felt a warm feeling in the center of his forehead. Confusion sprung through him as he fell backwards to the ground, trying to understand what was happening. A dark tunnel formed around the edges of his vision, and he was aware of a searing pain in his head. The last thing he saw was Reg hovering over him with the tape measurer. Better make it a nice one, he thought and then everything went black.