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"Bullshit. You''re telling me you don't have a drop of the stuff?! Take me for a fool?!!" Hugh slammed his fist down on the worn mahogany surface. The counter top itself was older than the saloon, having been delivered from back East along with many other supplies when the owner had opened the business just an hour south of Alamogordo, one of the fastest growing cities in New Mexico territory.
The same could not be said about Jacobs Station, the saloon's resting place. Few years back a steady stream of silver had issued forth from Jacob's Mine. Employing most of the town. Those that didn't make a living off the metal earned it by other means, regardless of the honesty of such, the town had prospered. Now that stream had all but been brought to a halt. Workers had packed up and shipped out of the town in droves. Some said the silver had run out, used up as these deposits always seemed to be. The owner however was insistent, absolutely vehement that there was still silver to be had. He urged the workers to stay, but as the old mustached man described, his words fell on deaf ears. Not a single one of the workers bothered to give him a response, or even look in his direction.
That, is how a man named Hugh Marcus Jakson had come to be in this godforsaken town in the middle of the New Mexico desert in search for his fix. A fix which came in the form of a warm fiery amber colored liquid called whisky. Whisky which the bartender didn't seem to have, nor even recall. Something that made the cowboy agitated to say the least. He hadn't traveled all this way in response to an add to find out the place of his destination didn't have alcohol. It just didn't sit right with the man.
Hugh grabbed the small bartender by the scruff of his collar, the timid man flinched as Hugh brought him closer, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Now you listen here runt. If you're holding out on me I swear to the good lord you're going to wish you were at his gates. Fix me a drink, or I'll fix your face with a new look. Understand?" The bartender's pencil thin mustache quivered with fright, and he stuttered to form words. "Y-yes sir. I-i would gladly fix you a drink, b-but the liqueur is all gone. Has been for a m-month sir. T-town's about out of supplies."
"The hell am I doing here then!" Hugh said in disgust, letting go of the man with a gentle shove, causing the bartender to stumble just slightly. Hugh had come in response to the mine owner's add seeking new workers. A hunter by trade, the work didn't suit him as much as most folk. Especially considering that Hugh liked to hunt big game, be it the four legged kind or otherwise. His bounty hunting days were over though. Hugh had promised that after digging out a bullet lodged in his shoulder back in West Virginia. Taking up bear hunting there instead. A year passed, but with the demand for pelts so high, the source of the great beasts soon became diminished, and he had to go looking for work elsewhere. Slowly but surely, over the next three years, he made his way back towards his birthplace in the West, taking on whatever jobs he could to pay his way.
Hugh scoffed, hacking up some mucus lodged in his dry throat, walking out of the saloon intent on finding the owner of this mine and finding out exactly why his town didn't have one of the basic necessities of life. Pushing open the sing doors of the saloon, he stepped out into the chilly air of the early evening, unto the empty streets of Jacob's Station.
Wasn't there anyone in this blasted town? Surely someone else had to have responded to the add. He couldn't be the only dipshit that had fallen for the mine owner's promises. The man was offering double what he could make in a year of bear hunting, which was already good pay. So why hadn't anyone showed up?
His boots crunched the dirt underneath his worn soles as he made his way down the abandoned street. Alone in the night. Not a single lamp was lit besides those in the saloon, and he wondered if this was perhaps normal in these parts. Miners going to bed early to work their shifts... But that don't make no sense. He thought to himself. Didn't matter how tired a man was at the end of the day, there was always someone in the saloon.
His breath could be seen in the air, something he also found strange, given that it was only the beginning of September, and the desert heat had yet to bleed off from the summer. The cowboy shoved his hands into his overcoat, but no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in it, the chill of the night still seemed to find a way through. Looking up the hill in the direction of the mine, Hugh felt his stomach churn as a voice called out to him. Unlike anything he had ever before heard.
"Child...child of Cain. Come to me. Embrace me. Let me heal your sorrows.."
The disembodied voice seemed to come from all around him. It filled his every thought.
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