Chronicles of Sean Ryan Finnegan

Sean stepped outside for the first time as long as he could remember. He took a deep breath, his first breath as a free man. He walked toward the town of Kingston not sure what he was looking for, but he knew it wasn’t in the walls that had served as his home for a lustrum. The cold bit through his ragged shirt, it had served its time and more. He heard the townspeople react as he approached, he wasn’t sure if it was his smell or the look of him. He wished he had just a bit or two so he could get a bath and a hot meal. Five years worth of cold stew had dulled his taste, and this cold weather had numbed him to the bone. He wished for the plains and hot summers of Texas, for his Ma’s biscuits and a good horse underneath him. He wondered what was left of the old ranch, if anything. His only desire was to get out of this northern country; he hated every bit of it since he first arrived. Too cold and he couldn’t understand the rabble these people said. As he walked to the Livery, he rattled ideas as how to get some money and a horse. Both had been “liberated” from him when he was thrown into that sorry excuse of a prison. He’d served worse time and he’d had meaner guards. Too bad these were smart enough to take his knife from him. Not like that those ones in Mexico, but they were too full of tequila to feel what he'd done to them. As he was thinking on this, a wagon stampeded by him. The driver shouted something at him, but he didn’t hear it. He slowly trudged to town, and he decided to visit the saloon first, it was his experience that barkeeps and whores had the best information in a town. He walked through the swinging doors, and all eyes looked to him. They were sizing him up, had any made a move they’d be in for a fight. Maybe it was his size, or the beard he had carried for five years, but most probably the look in his eyes. He moseyed to the barkeep and asked if knew English. From the look he got, he gathered that he didn’t. Amongst all the French non-sense he heard in the air, he heard some words he recognized. He approached them and discovered they came from a lady, straddling a rough looking fellow. Sean sat across from them, and the fellow fired off something, good thing it was in French. Sean spoke through a slight Irish accent,
“Excuse me ma’am?”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise, “You don’t speak French?”
“No ma’am, I sure don’t.”
She smiled, “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long while.”
The fellow shouted something and slammed his fist on the table, Sean looked at him puzzled. “You better take this fellow upstairs and give him his poke.”
“Okay, will you be here when I get back?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well take the rest of this bottle of whiskey then.”
“I’m much obilged.”
She smiled and said something to the fellow as they headed upstairs. That fellow was sure looking at him hard, Sean wondered if there would be trouble. He hoped not, he wanted to get out of this town without a fight. He poured himself a glass and shot it, it had been a long while since he felt that burn in his throat. He peered around the building, he spotted a good number of people, it was sure a big place. They’re must have been a dozen whores working that place. It sure beat all he’d seen. He finished off the last of that whiskey bottle as that fellow walked down the stairs. That fellow glared at him, Sean returned the favor. That girl came downstairs, and she sat across from him. Sean grinned at her and he asked her name.
“Marie Johansson and what is yours?”
“Sean Ryan Finnegan.”
“How did you wind up here, Mr. Finnegan?”
“Call me Sean, and I’d been visiting Kingston Penitentiary.”
She looked at him puzzled, “What for?”
“I’d rather not talk of it.”
“Well I came through here with my husband, he was shot and I needed money, so here I am.”
“So do you know if there’s anyone hiring?”
“Well, don’t you look no further, you can work here.”
“I’m not much on taking pokes.”
She laughed, “Me either, but you can with some heavy work.”
“Where do I stay?”
“Well, just throw your bedroll on the floor.”
“Ain’t got one, all I got is what I got on my back.”
“Them red coated Mounties sure got all your belongings.”
“Sure did.”
“Well I got one you can borrow.”
“Thank you kindly Ms. Johansson.”
“It’s Marie, and I expect you would like a bath.” She slid a coin across the table to him.
“I surely would.”
He rose and looked around, “Where would I go to?”
She smiled and pointed “See that sign, back there?”
Sean nodded in agreement and headed toward it.
Marie shouted “Supper is at eight sharp.”
The steam hit him as he walked into the bathhouse. He missed this feeling more than any other. He gave the coin to the attendant and she poured his tub full with hot water and shut the door. He peeled his shirt and pants off. He climbed into the bathtub and soaked away the years of hard labor and fights. He slowly drifted off as the steam drifted into his nostrils. He was numb to the outside, he was actually truly warm. He rose from the water and looked into the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself, he could feel the beard he had grown, but he had no idea it was this much. Without a razor he would have to make due until he got paid. He put his clothes back on and walked to the saloon. The cold nipped him harder than before, it must of known he was wet. As he approached the saloon he didn’t hear the noise from it he thought he should. He slowly walked to the door and he saw a man holding a rifle to the bartender’s head. The shot echoed through the building, a grim reminder of what was to come. Sean looked around to see if anyone else heard it. As the man holding the rifle went toward the other side of the building he ran and hid behind the bar. He stumbled over a dead mountie and saw two more lying dead on the stairs. He heard voices behind him, talking away in that nonsense. French sounded more like apache to him. As he leaned back against the bar he felt the barrel of an old friend. He turned to see a double barrel beauty. He hadn’t held one since he was jailed. He felt for a box of shells. Sean smiled and loaded it up. He slowly pulled back the two hammers and breathed deep. He stood up and fired at the two men. They were dead before they hit the ground. He reloaded and leapt over the bar. He took the two dead men’s pistols and stowed them in his belt. He heard footsteps coming his way hard. He ducked behind the roulette table the three men looked at their partners. Sean took aim and fired, sending all three men to the floor, only one landed on it with all the arms he started with. He walked toward the back room and reloaded. He could hear the screams of whores from upstairs. He knew what was going on, and he knew he had to stop it. Sean checked his wits and ran up the stairs. He only saw one man at the top of the stairs. He swung with that double barrel and heard his skull crack. He obliged himself to help the fellow down the stairs with a swift kick. He heard him thud the whole way down. As Sean stepped into the hallway he got five shots put in his direction. Sean brought them both down with a shot from that cannon. He reloaded, thankful they were to liquored up to hit him. He walked into the nearest room and saw what they had been doing why he was in the bath house. Shame, such a pretty whore looking like that when she died all wrenched up from her last moments of life. He saw the same thing in all six rooms he entered, pretty girls all cut to pieces. He walked into the last room too late to save Ms. Marie Johansson; she already had her throat cut. Sean saw that same fellow she was with when he met her. He fired both barrels into that lady killer. He took the money from his pocket as payment for what he was about to do. He slowly headed down stairs to swipe the money and guns from the killers and to get the honest folks things. He made two piles, one for him the other for the families, he wrote a note on the families pile, though he knew that no one could read English here. Sean dug graves deep into the night; it took a long while in that cold dirt. By the end of it he had dug near fifteen graves, he threw the killers into one and the good folks got their own. He thought they deserved that much. Dawn stared to peak out and Sean said a prayer his ma had taught him. He didn’t know if it was right, but he said it anyhow. He packed his new horses and put a coat he found in there on. He looked mournful at the graves he’d dug, wooden crosses should never be next to a saloon. He hoped that whoever would be understanding and could read that note he’d left. So Sean Ryan Finnegan rode south toward Texas, toward home.