Back in Creekbend, Cort meets the Sheriff.

Below is the latest bit to the Creekbend stories....enjoy.

---

 -- Meet the sheriff --

   Dawn, the following day.

         Cort woke up to a knocking at his door. The night before Louisa had shown him to his room on the 2nd floor of the inn, and he'd fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Sitting up, his eyes swept the room slowly getting oriented. The knocking continued.

         Cort rubbed his face with the hands as he uttered, "Yeah?"

         Louisa's voice carried into the room, "Best come down Mr. Anderson. The Sheriff has arrived."

Cort swung his legs around and his feet touched the ground, with a soft thump. "Right."

        Cort made his way over to the small table, chair, and washbin that was across from his bed. Last night's, pants and shirt  hung over the chair. His hat was atop the bedpost at the end of his bed, but he decided to leave it. His gun and the holster he snagged off the left bedpost near the top of the bed. His gun rested in the right holster, and he plucked the chain up and out of his left holster, which revealed a copper colored pocket watch attached to it.

6:18 am. Felt like it.

Cort exited his room and walked around the railed walway that encirlcd the top floor leading to the stairway in the NE corner of Brennigan's. Voices carried , in spurts, from down below. Cort guessed the main room was quieter this early in the morning than late at night. Cort thought he was probably the only traveller staying here overnight.

As Cort made his way down the stairway, an older man's voice caught his ear. The tone wasn't pleasant, it reminded Cort of his school teacher as a kid, lecturing him for making a mistake. 

     "Shouldn't have let that boy sleep here Irish. He could've skipped town as you and your Injun slept."

    Cort's eyes caught sight of two men at the bar, one was the bright eyed face of Brennigan. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee as the man across from him spoke to him. The man  was just over 6 feet tall, his white hat was pushed up from his brow, but gray hair was visible running down his neck and curling slightly at the neck collar of the man's red shirt. A brown vest was over his shoulders and gold colored glint could be picked out on the man's left breast. Two guns were stored in their holsters that circled his waste. Tan pants and boots completed his attire. His skin was tanned by the sun, but lines could be seen on his face, betraying an age, older than his own.

Brennigan lowed his cup after sipping his coffee. "The man doesn't have a reason to run like I told you Sheriff. Bet those Peter's boys might even call him a hero."

Cort saw the sheriff turn blue-gray eyes in his direction. He noticed a third man who was casually seated at the table nearest to the bar and the Sheriff. This man, also turned his head in Cort's direction. The gun and the glint of a badge meant he was a deputy. A morning beer rested near his left hand.

The sheriff turned to face Cort as Cort approached the bar. Cort gave a slght nod to Brennigan as he approached. Brennigan shot Cort a quick smile, but glanced left at the Sheriff as if to remind Cort to watch himself.  The sheriff matched Cort in height, and Cort guessed the sheriff might be in his 50's, now that he could see the lines in his face and the gray in his hair more clearly. The sheriff offered no handshake, but got right into things.

     "Cort Lee Anderson." The Sheriff stood upright, shifting from the lean he'd had going against the bar.

"I'm him, but you can skip the Lee. Cort's just fine." Cort rested his right hand against the bar as he talked, and he let his gaze shift to the deputy who was still seated , but watching everything.

" I'm Sheriff Cutler. You killed a man in my town last night, " The sheriff stated.

Cort nodded, and the fingers on his right hand tapped out the hold marching drumbeats softly on the tabletop of the bar. "From what folks told me, I saved you  some trouble."

The Sheriff shot Brennigan an annoyed look, but returned his gaze to Cort. 

"Most folks don't take killing a man so lightly, " The Sheriff pointed out. 

Cort tried to keep an eye on the deputy and one on the Sheriff ss he replied, "I saw enough killing and did enough killing in the War.  It's never taken lightly, Sheriff."

The Sheriff glanced at Cort's pistol as Cort spoke, and a disgusted smile appeared on his face as he fired a question at Cort, 

"How long are you staying in my town, Johnny Reb?"

Cort noticed the deputy sat up straighter as his boss uttered those branding words. Cort fingers tapped out 'Dixie" as he replied.

"Maybe just a couple days.I got a road weary horse and I could use some  R & R myself." Cort put on his best, casual smile.

The Sheriff gave a displeased harumpf and shortly followed a single whistle. Cort saw the deputy get to his feet and place his right hand near his gun in it's holster. Close, but not pulling out the gun.

Cort raised his left eyebrow, impressed at the training. His attention went back to the Sheriff as the man spoke.

"I'll need to take  your gun while you're in town."

Cort gentle tapping stopped as he asked, "Come again?"

"Guns are not permitted in town limits. You turn it over and I'll keep it in a safe, and when you're ready to leave. You can come by and get it.

Cort leaned to his right, resting his weight against his right arm as it propped him up alongside the bar.

"Didn't seem to stop the lcoals. Both this Rickett's and those Peters' boys were packing iron.

Cutler's eyes flashed anger at the insult, and the deputy slipped his gun halfway up the holster, waiting for a signal. 

"Ned, " Cutler barked.

Cort started to turn fully to his left side, but Ned had already drawn his revolver and was pointing it at Cort's face. Cort shifted a half step back.

"Hand it over, Mr. Anderson." came Cutler's order.

Cort got a quick nod from Brennigan, and Cort noted the deputy's hands didn't shake pointing the gun at his face. Cort began to pull his gun out of his holster. "Alright." Placing the gun on the bar, he slide it over to the Sheriff. "Keep it safe, Sheriff. It was my father's."

Cutler picked up the gun with his left hand and looked it over. Carrying it in his left hand, he moved away from the bar, ready to leave. 

"After I talk to the other witnesses, I'm sure we'll talk again, Mr. Anderson."

The Sheriff walking out , gave a whistle. Deputy Ned, holstered his gun, flashed a smug grin at Cort , and  followed behind his boss.

Cort looked to his right, to see Brennigan's shoulders relax. Brennigan pulled out a cup  from under the bar, and gestured with the pot of coffee in his right hand. "Cup o' Joe?'

After a few sips of the coffee, Cort noticed Louisa come in from the kitchen. "That bastard gone?"

Brennigan gave a nod. "All clear."

Cort gave a quick smile, "What's Cutler's issue?"

Brennigan puts his own cup of coffee on the shelf behind him. He runs his left hand across his chin, "He blames the Rebs for loosing his two sons in the War. He blames the Indians, for being here first."

Louisa snapped as she, straightened the chairs form the where the deputy had sat. "The Nez Perce were here long before his mom spat him out."

Brennigan tried to lighten her mood, "I don't doubt ya darlin', but right now, you're better off laying low."

Brennigan looked at Cort as well, "You best do the same , whlle your here, Cort."   

coming soon

Finally on the med after being sick for about 2 weeks, planning to get the next segement of the Western story online this week, still making my May deadline. Looking forward to picking up some comics on Tuesday as well.

Ongoing

  May somehow crept up on me, but I survived the scare. Although to my annoyance, I couldn't find my original story notes for the Fountain comic I'm trying to flush out. Luckily, I have enough still in my head to restart it.

   For the Creeksbend story featured below, I plan to have a 2nd adventure written up and posted by the end of the month. Portland has managed a few sunny days the past 2 weeks, which has all us locals in shock and unsure what that bright yellow orb is.

   Until next time...

Welcome to Creekbend

Evening Ladies and Gents,
Below you'll find the beginning of a new Western story, I'm hoping to make into a regular montly web entry. Let me know what you think.

---
Characters and location are fictional, copyright Brad DeMaagd @2009

Brennigan’s Boy


1871 – The Old West
Eastern Oregon – Town of Creekbend


His boots scuffled as he walked up the steps, his legs were sore and he stopped once at the plank sidewalk to stretch his body. His gray pants and red shirt had acquired a healthy brown dust from the journey in. He looked back over at his horse, tied to the rail, it bobbed its black head drinking from the troth nearby, a streak of brown lay over its right eye.

The man orders, “Stay there, Jeb.”

The man turned back to a bar whose name was scripted onto the window of the bar, Brennigan’s. He took off the drooping hat, giving it a smack on his pants and running a hand through his hair. He paused and touched the beard that had begun to fill on this trip. He’d want a shave soon.

Pushing through the swinging doors, Cort Lee Anderson entered a sight he’d seen many times already on his trip. Rounded tables with chairs, one in the far northwest corner played host to 4 old timers, working on winning each others drinking money. Couple younger men sat facing the door at another table. Their table was situated just out of line with the east facing window. This same window gave a view towards the road that led into town.

Across from this window was situated the bar – bottles lined the walls. Behind the bar, a tall man, bald headed, but sporting a neatly kept reddish-brown beard. He wore a white shirt, brown vest, an apron around his waist, covering his brown pants from view. His arms showed a previous life of hard labor. Cort wondered if he’d come with the trains.

The bartender was talking to a single barmaid. Her naturally tan skin made her stand out from every other sun burnt body in this place. Coal black hair was tied into a pony tail , that fell just below her shoulders. She wore a forest green dress, that purposefully hugged her assets. Cort for a moment, became a brief celebrity as all eyes swiveled toward him. The moment passed as they all returned to their duties, the waitress wandered around the north end of the bar, toward the kitchen. The bartender turned toward him a smile.

“Evenin’ lad. My name is Brennigan. What can I get you?”

“Shot of whiskey, “ Cort slid onto a stool, and tried not to sigh in relief. Beat a saddle’s daily abuse. Cort stopped the bartender with a reach of his hand, “And a water.”

The bartender gave a grin and headed to get the glasses, casting an eye over at his other customers. All too interested in other things, his eyes linked on the youngsters on the table , one of them always had their eyes on the front entry.

Cort dug out his pouch, pulling out coins and crumbled dollar bills. The bartender put down his drinks, but didn’t let them go as he saw the money.

“Son, we can’t take that money here,” The bartender lowered his voice , so as not to carry to the other customers. “Do ye have anything else?”

Cort paused and started to pick through his money. “Sorry, forgot I had it… I’ll …”

Brennigan, left the water, but pulled back the whiskey. “That’s on me lad. You keep looking.”

Brennigan set the drink under the counter and looked right as his doors swung inward, and he skipped his greeting. Instead, he reached for the gun he kept under the counter. Loaded and familiar, his Kerr revolver was all he’d kept after it ended.

Under his breath, Brennigan, the bartender muttered, “Damn that boy.”

Walking into the bar came the mustached figure of Hyde Rickett. Hyde’s dark grey eyes flashed from the newcomer, to Brennigan, to the old men, at the table, and to the two youngsters next. Rickett wore a black suit, red vest. The two youngsters appeared ready to get to their feet. Brennigan grumbled, “Aw hell.”

Now, standing the young men could be easier seen as brothers their age difference was minimal. Short blonde hair, it had been bleached by the sun, their sun worn skin marked them as outdoorsmen on some level. Blue button down shirts and jeans completed the out fit of the brother on the left, closest to the bar. The brother on the right wore jeans as well, but wore a white shirt. Neither men had their hats on , both were resting over the back of their chairs.

The kitchen door burst open as a young lad maybe 16 came running in, his shirt was untucked, which he vigorously tried to tuck back in. Lipstick was on his neck as he came in looking for Brennigan.

“Mr. Brennigan it’s --- Unnh!!”

Johnny Creek’s next works, “Hyde coming down the road.” died as the brother in blue had drawn his gun and fired at the boy thinking it was a trap. The boy crumbled as a smoking hole lay in the middle of his chest, blood dying the untucked shirt. Brennigan let out a curse as he went to grab the boy.

By now, guns were drawn, as Brennigan yelled at Louisa to go get the Dr and the Sheriff. The two youngsters were stepping away from their chairs, guns out. The fired gun still smoking from the shot. Hyde Rickett had his two colts trained on them.

Cort let his right hand slide towards his own pistol, waiting. He’d turned slightly on his stool to face the showdown. It had been his father’s gun in the war. It was the cleanest thing on him.







Rickett grinned at the two boys holding their guns at him, the left brother's gun shook just slightly. Rickett barely cared that Brennigan was yelling at him to take it outside ; that damned fool had his hands full trying to save a dead boy. Not even Doc. Weatherspoon could save him. Rickett had more important business.

“Alright boys, we got business to square away. You got my friend locked up and I aim to set him free. Now you drop them charges and you get to walk out of here,” Rickett walked toward the pair. Just putting Cort out of his view.

“Ain’t happening Rickett, Lucas stole our horses , we caught him and he’s going to hang for it.”

“Wrong answer Tom.”

Rickett’s gun barked first and took Tom in the neck, the boy’s shot went wide left taking out a piece of the wall as he fell holding his neck. Tom dropped his own gun, his blood dying his white shirt as he fell to his knees.
Michael shot, but Rickett had already stepped into the shot. Mike’s bullet hitting the wall, parallel to his brother, Cort pistol whipped Michael before he could aim again driving the boy back off his feet and his gun slipped out his right hand.


Rickett stood over the boy, “Drop them charges Michael and you might get to save your brother.”

“Up yours, Rickett!’ Micheal spat back.


“Damn, shame.” Rickett cocked his pistol. A shot rang out , and the gun aimed at Michael’s head flew from Rickett’s hand, spinning into the spittoon near the card table.
Rickett turns looking to Brennigan, but finds the bartender looking over at Cort. Cort is still seated, but his gun pointed in Rickett’s direction.

“Who the ---“

Cort cocks his gun , as Louisa comes in the with Doctor Weatherton. The Doctor takes one look at the boy, shakes his head, and starts to head toward Tom, but Rickett keeps other his gun on Michael.

“This ain’t your business stranger, now I’ll let you walk out and you just let me finish my business here.”

Michael looking at both men, “Please my brother.” Tom is gasping for air as blood both slips from his throat and slides into is lungs. Brennigan is going for his own gun as the Dr. is waiting.

Rickett cocks his gun at Michael, “You gonna have both these boys on your conscious , stranger. You want that?”

Cort fires, hits Rickett in the forehead, and kills him.

Rickett falls to his right side, dead. Michael and the Dr. run over to Tom. Brennigan is on his feet, looking at Cort. Louisa is hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, taking it all in. Death is something she’s seen before.

Cort slides his gun back into his holster, eyes on the old men at the cart table. One of them with a heard down to his collar, gives Cort a nod and turns back to his cards.

A glass clinks next to his left arm. Cort sees Brennigan placing his whiskey next to his water. Brennigan flashes him a wink as his attention goes back to the bodies on his floor.

Louisa from the doorway says, “Sheriff’s rode out this morning, some trouble at Keller ranch. “

Brennigan has picked up the boy and is going to bring him to the Dr’s office for now. Tom and the Doctor have Michael.

Brennigan grumbles, “The dead aren’t walking away. They’ll be waiting for him. Watch the bar Louisa.”

Louisa nods, her eyes drifting over to Cort, Brennigan as he’s leaving adds, “Set him up with a tab for now.”

Few minutes later, the four card players get up, and the drag out Rickett’s body by the feet. His head smacks as it goes down the steps.

Louisa and Cort are alone. Cort is his 2nd water. Louisa leaning on her right arm, she’s just off of Cort’s left shoulder.

“Why’d you get involved? It wasn’t your business.” Louisa is making a coin dance on her her left knuckles. It’s a confederate coin of Cort’s. He’d left his pouch on the table by his drinks.

“ 'Cos that man was a liar.” Cort remarked. His right hand flips another coin toward Louisa’s left hand where she makes two coins walk along her knuckles.

Louisa raises her eyebrows, wanting more information.

Cort looks up a Louisa, who is caught by his green eyes for a moment. They are hard as an emerald , chiseled from war and death.

“He talked too much. Like a magician, he keeps you listening, not watching his hands.”

Louisa gasps as Cort has snatched the two coins off her dancing knuckles. They sit now in his right palm.

“He was pulling the trigger, long before that Tom guy said no.”

Louisa slides the whiskey bottle over, “Want another?”

The end

First early write up of a possible old west story for a character named Cort L. Anderson. Happy with it so far, after some polish, hope to put it up here next week.

Snarky - In the Beginning

Here is a copy of the original write up that would become Snarky.

Snarky

Busted AC unit. Sweat soaked through my one good shirt. Keeps my back from sticking to the chair. Getting it fixed will depend on two things: if my money is still good here and if they'll deal with humans. I'm guessing the answer will be "no" to the later.

I’ve been on Rex 9 for the past three years, or is thirteen, some days I can't tell. I came here chasing a lead B my own sister. She left ghosts here, ghosts that came calling back home. They had guns and they killed her child, her husband. I was off world, that world being Earth's Moon, now dubbed Luna for colonization purposes. I guess saying you lived on the Moon, made it sound more like a hunk of rock than a home.

Rex 9 is a hunk of rock, past Pluto and before Andromeda. I never paid much attention to star charts, mostly just what liner went where and how much money I had to loose. Back on Luna, my badge meant something B to some people. Here on Rex 9 I could pawn it, might buy me food for a week. On this planet being a private eye doesn't mean squat, after all they have Trackers here. Five man teams of the native race, reptillian in appearance they go by the name Ophidian. They hunt down any law breakers with a relish and ruthlessness Luna reserved for serial killers. Different strokes for different folks.

Why am I still here?

Certainly not family. Bridget only left clues, but she forgot to leave me cash.

Friends? If I;m lucky my old partner might write back every six months - each time promising to come by and get me off this rock. Did I mention that was 3 years ago?

Cash? I have enough to buy passage off, but not to where I need to go. Trouble is saving all depends on steady work, and on Rex 9 that depends on who can move beyond their xenophobia and knock on my door.

So right now, I stay as a novelty act. You could say I'm waiting for the big pay off, and then zoom off to the stars.

Sweat dribbles onto the paper.

Oh hell, I got to get this AC fixed.

Copyright 2006 @ Brad DeMaagd

In the Beginning

So, where did the Tao of Snarky come from ? Well, to begin, the gentleman who became the Editor of Comics Obscura, Mr. Jay Jacot was a coworker of mine. We started talking shop one day on the job and we learned one of us could draw and one of us could write. A few months later, he came to me stating that himself and a few other artists from LCC (Lansing Community College) were going to throw their hats in the ring and put out a comic.
Having previously only written short stories and novelettes, I hadn't done any script writing in the styles used in the comic industry. I was , however, a reader and collector of comics , therefore I was familiar with the medium in that respect. So, I said I'd be happy to try and help.
Jay came to me with a couple drawings of a long nosed cop, just some single shots and he said something to the effect , that this character was in his head, and he wondered if I could come up with something. So, I took the images home and for a couple days, I let them stare at me. Finally, in July of 2006 I think , I was sitting at my keyboard and a single page write up emerged that would become J.W. Snarky.