The Dead Man: Kill Them All by William Lee; Rabkin Harry; Goldberg Shannon Page B

Mr. Dark is here?
    Before he could ask any questions, the two teens started screaming and waving. Someone was coming from the highway. Their father at long last, driving a battered white police cruiser.
    It said “Dry Wells Sheriff” on the side.

CHAPTER TWO

    Dry Wells, Nevada
Friday, 9:06 a.m.

    Matt Cahill walked down the sidewalk and through the ghost town with Sheriff Pickens by his side. Word of the rescue had spread quickly. Folks came out onto the old wooden sidewalks to stare, and a few older people even cheered him. It seemed there were very few residents left in this town. Most of the young citizens had moved away in search of better schools and jobs. Those who stayed behind had a deep love for local traditions and the state’s rich history. Clearly the teen he had saved was a precious commodity, and Dry Wells was understandably grateful for Matt’s good deed.
    Their sheriff was a big man, wide and tall, with white hair bound in a ponytail and a large, arrogant beard. He looked to be in his early sixties, and Matt had taken him for an ex-hippie who’d originally come out to a commune to smoke pot and get laid. Pickens was the kind of man who grew up and sobered up but had never returned home. His tan uniform was stretched tight across his ample belly and thick arms, and his chest hair was like a scrap of white shag carpet. His wife had died some time ago.
    “Thanks, mister!” a gray-haired woman called. She was dressed as a nineteenth-century prostitute, frilly dress and all. She probably ran the tourist shop beneath the old brothel. Feeling a bit silly, Matt waved hello. He felt like a politician on parade.
    “You’re welcome.”
    Matt Cahill had stuffed his battered hat in his pocket and slung the bedroll, long ax, and backpack over his right shoulder. Although he certainly looked the part of a cowboy, Matt came from timber country. The nearby Ruby Mountains looked a lot more like home than this ghost town did. Matt didn’t belong down with these flatlanders, on the edge of an eternal desert. He tried to smile and get past this experience, but he felt distracted.
    His mind was on what the miner Kearns had said—something that made it sound like his nemesis, the Dark Man, had been here recently. Matt figured he would put in just enough time with the sheriff to be polite, and then go back and check out that possibility. He felt better on his own and out in the open anyway. On top of that, he’d already attracted way too much attention. Sooner or later someone would recognize him.
    Knowing he was trapped for the time being, Matt tried to relax and let his momentary celebrity roll off him. He smiled and waved and let people shake his hand.
    “Buy you a beer?” Sheriff Pickens said. “Least I can do.”
    Matt said, “I’m sure you have more important things to do. I think I’ll just relax for a while and then be on my way, if that’s okay.”
    “It’s your town for as long as you want it,” Sheriff Pickens said. “We’re beyond grateful for what you’ve done.”
    Matt paused on the sidewalk and took in his surroundings. Though there were homes and small ranches surrounding it, historic Dry Wells itself looked like the abandoned set of a classic cowboy movie. The narrow wooden-plank sidewalks were bordered by split-rail horse hitches and fronted small buildings faded by weather and the relentless Nevada sun. The overall shape of the tourist town was loosely oval, with the main opening facing east. The sheriff’s office and small jail cells sat at the west end, with a small alley on either side. In the center of the street sat a small gazebo littered with beer bottles and trash.
    To the north and south there were empty storefronts, a grocery, Wally’s Saloon, a closed tourist shop, a two-story hotel with a handful of empty rooms, and an abandoned movie theater. On the other side of the street sat an office and stables. A hand-lettered sign read “Vet.” Next to that building squatted an old