Act Two, The Drifter
At first, the town seemed deserted; the doors were closed, the shutters tightly drawn. No people walked the dusty boardwalks. No voices rang out from the storefront shops. The wind drove tumbleweeds down the empty streets until they gathered in clumps along the fences or crowded to squeeze under the raised boardwalks. The only movement besides the weeds and the wind was the swinging doors of the town saloon, her rusted hinges groaning patiently for a drink of oil.
Ernest Pratt stared at the sight, wondering if it were all a mirage.
It had been a miserable walk from where he had been forced to land the Legend Wings. The ground had appeared perfectly flat from high above, but up close and personal, it was in fact rugged and broken, and had turned out to be an uninviting, pathless wilderness. Pratt had dismissed the idea of a quick landing, to wait for Bartok and Ramos to return. Who knew how long it would take to repair the balloon? Though he wasn't thrilled by the knowledge that with every mile he drifted he became more completely lost, Ernest was trusting to his gambler's luck to steer him toward some kind of civilization; a farm, a shack... even a hermit's cave would be fine!
Luck did not desert him; the plume of smoke he'd seen led him to a small town, where buildings had grown up like mould between a grudging trickle of water that a generous soul might name a river, and a greened-over road that ran straight as an arrow from east to west. Pratt had actually over-flown the place before he realized it was there. The dirty smoke he'd seen was rising from the ruins of what had possibly once been a homestead on the outer edges of the town. It was little more than a charred outline, but it had provided a guide for the footsore novelist after he managed to reach the earth without breaking his neck.
Having no other place to hold the bulky flare-gun that Bartok had given him, he gingerly tucked the thing into his belt, having first removed the cartridges to avoid an unfortunate accident. They clicked and jingled in his trouser-pockets whenever he moved.
After an uneventful trek through what appeared to be a ghost town, Pratt had arrived in this street, following the tumbleweeds. Just seeing a saloon was enough to make his already dry mouth drier; he began to walk slowly toward the swinging doors, drawn by the hope of shade and drink. He took only a few steps before he heard loud noises; the crashing of glass and an angry shout. It came from up the street and around a corner; he couldn't see what was happening.
Suddenly there came running down the street the largest cat that Ernest Pratt had ever seen in his life. Easily the size of a medium dog, it was black and white and as fluffy as a taffeta skirt, and in it's whiskered mouth was what looked like a hand-- a human hand!
Not far behind the giant feline came running a woman, wielding a broom and shouting curses. She was wearing a gingham dress and had an apron tied around her ample waist.
"Bunny! Come back here, you mangy, flea-infested rat-catcher! I'm gonna skin you and nail your hide to the outhouse door--!" She jerked to a stop when she saw Pratt standing in the middle of the street. Her plump face turned white, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise. She dropped the broom and grabbed her skirts, lifting the hem as she turned around and began running back the way she had come.
"Excuse me? Madam!" Pratt started after her, confused by the look of fear on her face. "Please... come back!" But when he came around the corner he saw that the woman had gone, having disappeared into the darkness of the narrow alley.
The shop window on the corner was broken and one of the manikins was lying across the sill, the featureless wooden face and one arm lying in pieces on the boardwalk. Pratt poked his head through the hole in the pane and called out, "Excuse me! Anyone home?"
There was no answer, only a tinkling as another shard of glass dislodged and fell to the ground, breaking into smaller fragments. Shrugging, he turned away and looked up and down the streets again. This time he saw faces here and there, peering around curtains, eyes pressed to cracks and knotholes. Everyone was hiding behind their bolted doors. The silence was oppressive, and the buildings and streets no longer felt deserted; there was an air of fear and anticipation all around. He walked swiftly toward the saloon, feeling the eyes upon him like needles along his neck.
Pratt looked over the top of the saloon doors before he entered. It was dark and cool within, a wonderful contrast to the bright, arid street. He pushed his way through, wincing as the doors screeched loudly.
A woman's head popped up from behind the bar. "Just a minute, girls... Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing him. She stood up quickly, wiping her hands on a towel. "You're a man!"
"Yes... thanks for noticing," Pratt said, a little nonplussed. "Is that somehow unusual?"
The woman laughed. "You're not from 'round these parts, are you, honey? No," she mumbled an answer to her own question before Pratt could say anything, "no, you couldn't be." She came closer and with a swift hand, she swept Pratt's hat from off of his head for a better look at his face. "You are! You're Nicodemus Legend! I can't believe it! Legend himself... right here in my own bar!" With hasty fingers, she smoothed at her hair and adjusted her clothes to better display her ample bosom. She ran then to the entrance and pushed the sturdy lockout door closed. After she barred the door with a thick plank, she turned and leaned against the solid barrier. "There! That won't keep 'em out for long, but it will give us a little time."
tbc
