Chris Scott Wilson Writer
Almeria, East of the Pecos 3
and the mood is there, nagging at your subconscious as you soak up the atmosphere of those adobe cantinas and saloons, peeling store signs, then the rough carpentry of the bank and the stage-line office and even the faded curtains of the haberdashers or hardware store. The sheriff’s office is empty, no papers on the desk and an abandoned coffee pot on the cold pot-bellied stove. The door is ajar in the floor to ceiling bars of the cell at the back, a threadbare grey blanket crumpled on the sleeping bench, but you can read the call sheet for the day’s shooting schedule tacked to the back of the sheriff’s door.
Outside on the boardwalk is a packing crate, the lid askew, the blued barrels of half a dozen Winchesters visible, wooden stocks rubbed dry but oil has brought out the grain in the wood. You walk past, heels rattling in the silence then step down into the dusty street. The sun is already hot enough to peel the skin off your back through your shirt. Not even a breath of a breeze, and
you’d welcome a low wide hat brim to shade your
eyes. The hitching rails are empty but you hear a
neigh in the distance. You turn to look over
your shoulder and you squint against the