C4 antho - Chamber Four

Dragon ~161~
traffic light and idles into the crumbling downtown. All but a
few of the quaint brick buildings are boarded up, the commerce
moving south long ago with the coming of the Interstate.
Pickups fill the spaces around Swede’s Steakhouse.
Inside, a menagerie of mounted beasts, all horns and fangs,
peers down from the walls. A mountain goat sports Ray-
Bans, a cigarette tucked in its hardened lips. The bartender
draws Wyatt a foamy beer.
Hours later, Simms enters with a flourish, tossing back
the hood of a fur-trimmed parka, stamping snow from his
boots. “Damn! The stuff you see when ya ain’t got a gun,” he
yells. Farmhands and implement peddlers and big-haired
women look toward Wyatt, who feels a sudden chill, imagines
himself in their cross-hairs. Simms throws an arm
around Wyatt, introduces Darla, tall and square-shouldered,
her Nordic presence magnified by a red down duster and riding
boots. Wyatt needs a long glance to take her all in.
Simms grins. “Where’s the little woman?” he asks.
“Home with the kid. Just passing through. Wondering
what you were up to these days.”
The three take a booth, where a robust barmaid deposits
a pitcher and frosted mugs. Simms pours a round, his eyes
swimming as if he’s already had a few, and starts telling stories.
Darla hangs her coat and scarf on the rack of an elk,
drapes a thick blond braid alongside dramatic cleavage.
“I got pissed off this morning and decided to get the hell
out,” Wyatt says. “I don’t know what’s going to hit me when I
get home.”
Simms laughs and slaps the table. Darla eyes him sideways,
runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “This fool
could have had all the chicks,” Simms tells her. “Look at him.
Had to fall for the first one I fixed him up with.”