The Empty Door

by E. R. Mason

A banner across a dusty dirt street read, “Welcome to Dodge City.” In every direction, Markman saw horses, people and weathered old wooden buildings. To the right, he could see the full length of main street, most of which was bordered on either side by worn, gray, planked boardwalks. The air was filled with the smell of horses, hay and leather, and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the distance.

  Halfway down, on the opposite side of the rutted roadway was a saloon with horses tied to a hitching post out front. Occasionally men with guns would enter or leave through the short swinging doors. There was an undertaker’s office, a supply store, and a telegraph office nearby. A group of ranch hands stood outside the telegraph office, arguing about something and pointing at the saloon.

  To the left was a livery stable and a blacksmith’s lean-to, and when he turned to look for the SCIP door, Markman discovered he had stepped out of the glass window of a dress shop. The reflection of the SCIP passageway was obtrusively apparent, and as usual no one else seemed to notice.

  Overall the vision was a thing of awesome beauty and meaning. It was rustic and picturesque. Markman had dreamed of such a place many times and now felt strangely at home. In fact, growing up his favorite fantasy had been to be a sheriff in the old west—a fast gun in the way of lawlessness. Draw and fire shooting range contests back in the real world were the closest he had been able to come, though he had never done particularly well in them. Suddenly, here was the dream, in full splendor before him.

  “Sheriff, boy am Ah glad to see you, get in here a second.”

  Startled, he looked around, and to his amazement found the gunsmith from the Dreamland carnival motioning furiously at him.

  “Me?”

  “Of course you, who the hell else is sheriff around here? This ain’t no time to lose yer wits. Come in here will ya before he sees us.”

  Markman smiled, shrugged, and followed the scraggly-looking craftsman into his place of business. The small creaky wooden salesroom smelled like gun oil. A large oak counter separated customers from a rough-shelved wall of various types of handguns. Higher up, racks displayed a dozen different rifles, some notched, most well used. The gunsmith waited nervously against the counter facing him.

  “He got back early this mornin’ and it ain’t no secret he’s gunnin’ fer you and me. Ah’m bettin’ it’s me first, thet wey you got ta go lookin’ fer em and thet’s what he’s a wantin’.” The short little man fidgeted nervously with his hands, while frequently staring over Markman’s shoulder.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Are you batty er somethin’? Ah’m talkin’ bout Slaton. He said soon as he got out, he was comin’ back here ta get even. Both his brothers been braggin’ to the whole town ‘bout him bein’ back. He’s over in the saloon right now. Don’t be standin’ out on the street with no six-gun like that.”

  Markman found himself thoroughly enjoying the role Cassiopia had apparently handed him. He could not help humoring the fearful merchant. “So, what’d you do to this guy, anyway?”

  “Yer loosin’ yer mind, Sheriff. I sold ‘em the gun that misfired. Weren’t my fault. The fool lost his fordin’ the Yanks river, and he never dried out his powder so he loaded up some old, spent shells, and they weren’t werth a salt. But he blamed it on me. That gun Ah sold ‘em was grade-A. But Ah don’t expect ta get a chance ta tell ‘em thet.”

  “Guess we’d both better stay clear of the saloon, eh?”

  “Ain’t gonna matter none. He’ll find us fer sure.”

  “Well you just stay out of sight, and I’ll try to get done what I came to do and maybe we’ll both be just fine.”

  Markman started to leave but was cut short. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I got somethin’ fer ya. Been workin’ on it all night.” He reached under the counter and drew out a black Colt forty-five in a black leather holster attached to a wide bullet-vested belt. “This thing’s set up real fast. There ain’t no better.”

  Markman held back a laugh but took the beautiful piece of weaponry from the worried gun salesman. Once more he tried to leave and was stopped.

  “Well, put it on. Ah’m tellin’ ya don’t be goin’ outside without a gun on ya. He’ll kill ya on sight, garunteed.”

  Markman laughed at himself for wanting to try it on. With a sheepish grin, he strapped on the Colt and shifted it into place. It hung low and felt right.

  “Tie it off now, tie it off, go ahead. Lord, Ah’m havin’ to baby someone who’s gonna be facin’ off one of the fastest guns around and my hide depends on it. If Ah hadn’t seen ya use one them things Ah’d probably just shoot myself an get it over with.”

  This time Markman laughed out loud. He leaned over and tied the leather strap above his knee. The Colt drew fast and easy. It felt good in his hand. The belt was well oiled and out of the way of his concealed Berretta. Except for the modern day sneakers he wore, he now appeared quite appropriate for the times, in his worn jeans and leather jacket.

  “Can I go now?” he asked jokingly as he drew and spun the handgun.

  “Promise me ya’ll get ‘em ‘fore he finds me, Sheriff. The guns yers if’n ya do.”

  “Well, Ah’ll do my best, pilgrim,” Markman quipped. The gunsmith stared back worriedly.

  As he turned to leave, the sounds of arguing voices came from outside. With a childish smirk still on his face, he opened the shopkeeper’s door and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The fidgety gunsmith crept along behind him, staring over his shoulder while keeping the door ajar in case a fast exit became necessary.

  In the street, two dusty-looking men, wearing tattered overalls and knee-high brown leather boots were shoving a young man in blue jeans and a plaid shirt back and forth between them. The nervous gun maker explained in a hushed tone, “There ya’ go, Sheriff. Them two Slaton boys think they kin get away with anthin’ now that their damned brother’s back in town. That’s one a’ the new ranch hands from the Circle Y they’re workin’ over. They’re a mean-spirited bunch. What’a ya gonna do ‘bout it?”

  Markman stifled another laugh and stepped off the boardwalk onto the dirt street. Immediately the two badly groomed bullies stopped their abuse of the younger man and turned their attention to the Sheriff.

  Enjoying his Dreamland role to the fullest, Markman tucked his thumbs into the belt buckle of his newly acquired leather holster and casually strolled up to the waiting pair. The bruised ranch hand collected himself and without speaking made a dash for the nearest building.

  The Slaton brother on Markman’s left appeared to be the youngest. His unfriendly smiled lacked a number of front teeth and his sandy brown hair was long and uncombed. He spoke with insolence. “Hey, Sheriff. Guess you heard ole’ Amos is back in town. I ‘speck he’ll be payin’ you a visit here shortly.”

  The Slatons laughed together as though the mere mention of their older brother was enough to protect them from any sensible person. To their dismay, Markman ignored the threat.

  “You boys are disturbing the peace and harassing a local citizen. That’s a night in jail in my book. There is a jail around here somewhere, isn’t there?” In jest, Markman looked up and down the street for the Sheriff’s office.

  Both brothers spit up a laugh and slapped at their legs. Markman almost gagged on the smelled of cheap whiskey when they got too close.

  “That’s real funny, Sheriff. There’s just one thing. Who the hell’s gonna take us in—you? Hell, you’re already dead. You just ain’t figured it out yet!”

  With that they stumbled around the street laughing and pointing at each other. It was such a comical sight Markman had to struggle to keep from laughing himself. As the display continued however, the Slaton brother on the right became aware of Markman’s indifference. His expression became sober and he quickly lost his enjoyment of demonstrating contempt for the law. He straightened up and with an insolent stare on his face slowly began stepping backward in short, calculated steps.

  Both the Slatons were wearing guns
; beat-up calvary issue Colts. Markman quickly decided they were of no concern. This was Dreamland. Bullets could not harm him. A sword strike to the forehead had not produced the slightest scratch. A mere bullet was even less intimidating. Markman continued to smile at his ill-tempered opponent.

  The bold laughter from both men had stopped. The older Slaton continued backing away, flexing his gun hand as he went. An air of irritated determination had come over him. “Sheriff, this ain’t no joke. You ain’t quick enough to take me, never mind my brother.”

  Abruptly he stopped backing and tensed. His younger brother suddenly became fearful. “Now wait a minute, Zeke. Don’t go flyin’ off the handle. This here’s brother Amos’ hog-meat Sheriff. It ain’t fer you to be takin’ him on.”

  “You just shut up. You hear me, Jake. Ah’m settlin’ this here an’ now. Don’t need Amos none.”

  Markman continued to be spellbound by the completeness of the newest Dreamland scenario. He could smell manure in the dust of the street. Sweat had broken out on the forehead of the Slaton who was trying to get up the nerve to draw. A few people were now looking out doors and windows at what was happening. Farther down the street, others had not yet noticed. So taken in by the vision, he failed to notice the younger Slaton inching closer on his left.

  From out of the blur of peripheral vision, a clenched fist came rocketing toward Markman’s face as Jake Slaton lunged forward. Markman’s instincts kicked in. His left arm shot up and wiped away the well-aimed punch. With a quick sidestep, he hooked a foot behind the surprised man’s leg and swept him to the ground.

  Simultaneously a shot rang out. Molten lead tore through Markman’s jacket sleeve, just below the shoulder. Instinctively, his right hand went for the nearest weapon—the colt resting in its holster. In a quick jerk he drew, spun, and fired. With the second explosion of gunfire a sickening thump of lead struck Zeke Slaton in the left upper thigh. A spray of red spurted from behind his leg. He cried out in pain, dropped his revolver to the dirt, and clutched at his leg. Stunned, Markman stood with his smoking gun pointed at the dirt and watched the frightened man limp hurriedly away, moaning in pain. Still on the ground, Jake Slaton began to back-peddle away, as though he feared he too would be shot. He scrambled to his feet and ran between two buildings yelling, “Don’t shoot me, don’t shoot!”

  In shock, Markman holstered his Colt and stared at the narrow tear near the shoulder of his leather jacket. He pulled at it with his other hand and found the red streak of burned flesh underneath. It not only looked real, it burned like fire. His mind struggled to reject the idea that he had actually been wounded, something that should not have been possible. This place was supposed to be nothing more than fantasy. He rubbed at his graze wound and looked in disbelief at the mysterious town around him.

  The exchange of gunfire had started a mad exodus up and down Main Street. Horses had been untied and were being hustled away. The street was already nearly barren of people. Doors were being shut and locked, window curtains haphazardly drawn. In the distance, Markman heard a low voice calling out, “The Sheriff’s comin’, the Sheriff’s comin’!” Markman ignored them and again inspected the painful wound on his shoulder. With conviction he decided that it was time to leave.

  He turned and started back toward the dress shop display window. He wondered how Cassiopia would explain his torn jacket and injured arm. It was a minor injury. The bullet had barely touched him, but it hurt like hell. This place called Dreamland was something more than she had promised.

  He had barely taken two steps through the powdery dirt when a rude, dull voice called out to him.

  “That’s good, right about there, Sheriff, but I’m hopin’ you’ll fall to the left so as to keep the street open.”

  A man with an air of death about him stood outside the still-swinging doors of the barroom. He was removing a tight leather glove from his left hand and smiling a dirty smile. The string from his round-brimmed hat joined just under the chin. He was dressed completely in black and wore leather boots that ran almost up to the knee.

  Markman held his ground in the middle of the street and began to have more serious doubts. He could no longer be sure the bullets here wouldn’t kill him. And even if they did not, would he be thrust into a different environment and lost from the SCIP door again if he was mortally wounded? He debated making a run for the dress shop but decided it was too late for that. Suddenly the best fantasy imaginable had become slightly too real.

  “We didn’t have a chance to face off before, seein’ how you brought me in at gunpoint, Sheriff. So Ah’m enjoying these few moments we’re havin’ together now.”

  “I don’t supposed you’d give me just a minute to step through that dress shop window, would you, Slaton?”

  “Sheriff, you gotta be either one dumb son-of-a-bitch or the bravest man I ever met. You know’d I was comin’ fer you and still you gone and shot my brother right here in the street. I always said you was shy a full deck. You ain’t got a minute left to live, never mind buy a dress, Sheriff.”

  The pearl-handled gun on the man’s left hip glinted in the sunlight as he stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. He stopped and faced Markman from about fifty feet away. “And weren’t ya wantin’ to apologize for turning me into that Texas Ranger like ya did, Sheriff? I’ll give ya enough time to do that.”

  “You know I’ve met a lot of ‘em like you in my time, Slaton. It’s always the same,” said Markman as took a more solid stance facing his opponent.

  “Well then, ya won’t have to be meetin’ any more like me after today,” replied the killer. “’Cause you’ll be dead.”

  The left hand of the gunman tensed alongside his weapon. A moment of heavy silence passed. With lightning speed, the gunman twisted his six-gun back and out of the holster.

  To Markman, it seemed like a flash in time passing in slow motion. There was an explosion of shots from both ends of the street. As Markman’s drawn Colt finished kicking in his hand, dirt flew up in a dry spray at his feet from Slaton’s shallow shot. At the same instant, Slaton spun sideways, staggered, and fell hard to the ground, Dreamland dead.

  Chapter 20