ON THE GOOD, RED ROAD
a short story by
Blake Crouch
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Blake Crouch on Smashwords
Copyright 2010 by Blake Crouch
Cover art copyright 2010 by Jeroen ten Berge
All rights reserved.
PRAISE FOR BLAKE CROUCH
Crouch quite simply is a marvel. Highest possible recommendation.
BOOKREPORTER
Blake Crouch is the most exciting new thriller writer I've read in years.
DAVID MORRELL
ON THE GOOD, RED ROAD is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
"On the Good, Red Road" originally appeared in the Brilliance Audio edition of Abandon by Blake Crouch, July 2009.
For more information about the author, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.
For more information about the artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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ON THE GOOD, RED ROAD
October 1893
San Juan Mountains
Southwest Colorado
If Durango was on the road to hell, Silverton had already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses, dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the size.
Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him.
“Bet you could use a trim,” she said.
“Not tonight.”
She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar.
He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!”
Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.
“Happy to share.”
Oatha relinquished his place in line and threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d already pushed out the last remaining chair. Oatha sat, extended his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.
“Oatha Wallace.”
“Nathan Curtice. This is Marion McClurg and Daniel Smith.”
“Boys.”
McClurg, a larded beast of a man, reached forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan eyed Oatha.
“Play cards?” Nathan asked.
“Not often.”
Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the glass to Oatha, who took it up and tossed it back with a fleeting grimace.
“Two dollars gets you in on the next hand.”
“Well, I’m trying to save my money—”
“For what?”
“A horse.”
“A horse.”
“I’m traveling on to Abandon. Got a job with the Godsend Mine.”
“No shit,” Nathan said. “I’m headed that very direction myself to visit my brother. He’s sheriff up there. Maybe you heard of him…Ezekiel Curtice.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yeah, I can’t quite believe what that outlaw’s become myself.”
McClurg shuffled the cards while Dan refilled the tumblers.
“You been to Abandon?” Nathan asked.
“First time.”
“What I heard, even across lots, it’s a twenty mile ride through hard country.”
Oatha felt the cards sliding under his fingers, McClurg already dealing.
“Don’t wanna play.”
“Few hands won’t kill ye,” Nathan said.
Dan muttered, “Man bought you two drinks already. ‘Less you some boiled shirt, least you can do is play a hand.” Oatha looked over at Dan, the man thin as a totem, gant up and blanched like he carried some parasite. Oatha reached into his leather pouch, selected several pieces of hard chink, and tossed the coins into the middle of the table.
Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his supper against the clapboard.
Nathan stood chuckling behind him. “You can’t play cards for shit.”
“Yeah,” Oatha groaned as he leaned against the wall, bracing for the next round of nausea. “And I got barely the money for a horse now.”
“Wouldn’t fret.”
Oatha spit. “Why’s that?”
“Like I said, me and the boys headin to Abandon in two days. Travel with us, you want. Dan’s got a mule you can ride.”
“A mule.”
“Mean son of a bitch name a Rusty.”
Oatha straightened, tried to center himself over his feet, the world tilting. On the second floor of a false-fronted building across the street, a headboard smacked repeatedly into a wall and bedsprings squealed like ravenous pigs. Against the dark, Nathan was just a silhouette.
“You sure?” Oatha asked.
“Yeah, you don’t wanna be takin that trail to Abandon on your own anyhow. Wild country out there, bad people in it.”
“I’m obliged,” Oatha said, though he wasn’t. Last thing he wanted was these men for extended company.
“You get yourself home?” Nathan asked.
“Believe so.”
“I’m gonna go scare up a little snatch.”
Nathan wandered off toward Blair Street, an assured elegance to his drunken gait, and Oatha sat down against the back of the saloon to let his head clear, get his bearings straight for the long stagger back to the hotel.
He woke stiff and cold some hours later, still sitting up against the back of the saloon, his
gray frockcoat glazed with a heavy frost. The throbbing at the base of his skull was his
pulse, and it quickened as he struggled to his feet in the thin air.
The predawn sky held a deep lavender tint, the surrounding peaks stark black against it, like patches of starless space, and aside from the candleflames in the windows of the cribs, this boom town stood as still and dark as a man might hope to see it.
Oatha bought a lineback canelo from a greaser at the livery, an old saddle, and provisions for two days, including tobacco and a quart of whiskey. Struck out of Silverton in the late afternoon, even as the sun perched on a jagged ridge of peaks in the west.
