“Colt Sinclair; heard the name?” said the detective. He wore a clean Black bowler hat that met a heavy brow. His mustache was unkempt along with the stubbled edges of his jaw. A twist of his neck upward ended with a crack as his silvery steel badge gleamed in the winter sun.
“I ain’t answerin’ no fuckin Pink. This a workin’ man’s town, we don’t give two shits ‘bout some oilman,” said the hulking man in question. He held a wide, worn basket on his shoulder as he towered over the detective. He started to stomp off, his feet pounding the snow on his way toward the mill.
“So, you know him?” said the detective. He trailed behind the large man, his duster flowing in the wind behind him. “Do you know anything about his whereabouts?”
“I said I AIN’T answering to no PINK.” He dropped his basket and turned around now, his bulk bursting from his raggedy overalls. Just then, a man rides up alongside the detective. His horse huffs.
“Go on now, Wesley. I’ll take it from here,” said the rider. He stepped off his horse and led her to a nearby hitch. “Mr. Boone, if I’m not mistaken?” said the rider as the gleaming badge on his chest, a gold star, was seen by the detective.
“Detective Wade Boone of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Pleasure to meet ya, Sheriff Palmer,” said Boone. He held out his hand. The sheriff disregards.
“Now detective, as the law in this town I won’t tolerate any harassment of my townsfolk. We workin’ real hard now on this missing persons, I understand you’ve been hired by the man’s company?”
“That’s right, Sinclair Oil. Not a lot of friendly responses to that name ‘round here, is there?” said the detective.
“We don’t act kindly to just anybody in this town, ‘specially those seeking to destroy our way of life.” Sheriff Palmer steps forward and rests a hand on Boone’s shoulder. He’s got a mustache that blends into his long sideburns like a civil war general. His eyes are shaded by the brim of his white hat. “I’ll let you run your little investigation here, detective. But stay out of my way, or else I won’t be here next time Wesley wants to beat that bowler-hat-wearin’ head of yours against the ground.” The sheriff places his hand on his hip, lifting his coat and shining his gunmetal in the daylight. He holds his gaze on Boone and gestures for him to walk. Boone shrugs his hand off and straightens his coat, shining his heavy revolver as well. The men meet eyes with squints as Boone turns and walks into the town of Angel Fire, his breath billows into the cold air behind him.
Glares and grunts are all that meet the detective as he makes his way down the small-town main street. Working men and women caked in dirt with icy sweat. Eyes peer out from windows and alleyways. Detective Boone wasn’t new to this sort of treatment, he knew what the Pinkertons represented these days. Law and order quickly became corporate interest as industries boomed and smokestacks were built. The Pinkerton Detective Agency went from defending Abraham Lincoln to defending the Carnegies and the Rockefellers. Now he was assigned to find Colt Sinclair, founder of the Sinclair Oil Corporation. Boone took the small town in, taking inventory of his surroundings when he stepped in front of an old woman. When they collided, she gasped with a clutch of her basket. Then she saw his badge.
“You’re here about the missing man, aren’t you?” Her eyes darted around. She was wearing a turquoise quilt as a cloak that was covered in distinct patterns. She smiles now. “You’re here for El Burro, the Mule,” she says. She grips her mouth holding back a sharp cackle. “La fuerza de fuego, the flaming beast of la últimos días has returned and found its new vessel.” Her laugh stopped abruptly; she gripped his shirt. “His bright flame, fueled by the power. Codicia. Greed. I heard the thumping of my missing husband, his feet turned hooves, every night. The light of his flame past my window. One night I went out, to hunt, I found him, it. The girl he used; it was too late. I shot-“ Her breath is silenced, still as her eyes peered over Boone’s shoulder. The sheriff rolled into town just behind him. “Protect the boy, the victim. I was too late,” she said. She ran off, sloshing through the alleyway’s buildup of snow. The sheriff noticed Boone, gave another stern look, then got off his horse toward the saloon.
“Ah, Detective Boone! Welcome to my little, quiet town of Angel Fire,” said the man that appeared before the detective. He was a round, jolly man with a curled mustache and a top hat a few sizes too small, he talked quickly with a bright smile. “We’re happy to accommodate any associates of Sinclair, especially those helpin’ in this tryin’ time. Have you stopped in at the Inn just yet? Maybe a drink at the saloon? How’s bout one of our famous snow cones, something sweet we started makin’-”
“Enough, Mr. Mayor.” Standing next to the mayor was a bald man with a beard and monocle, his clean grey suit seemed unafflicted by frigid mountain air. He held out blueprints breaking down in detail the scope of their project. Boone recognized this man; he was the one who hired him. It was somethin’ Westin, President of Sinclair Oil, Colt’s right-hand man. “Mr. Boone, any progress as of yet in the finding Sinclair?”
“Uh, no. Not quite. Was spending some time finding my bearings, getting acquainted with some townsfolk,” said Boone.
“Oh, don’t let them bother you none. Everybody’s been all bent outta shape cuz of the weird hooligans we done had roaming the streets past few nights, waking everybody up,” said the mayor.
“That right?” said Boone.
“That’s right, a lot of hoopla involvin’ horses and torches. Shining in people’s windows and clobbering real loud down the roads. Just some young bucks from a neighboring town making a ruckus I’m sure, but Sheriff Palmer ‘oughta straighten them out.” He smiled a toothy grin, but his teeth were false and worn.
“Torches n’ horses, huh,” said Boone. His mind thought back to the old woman. “Mr. Mayor, are you familiar with any local legends?
“Nooo… I don’t fancy those fairy tales too much. Anyways-”
“Well surely, as mayor you’d know a lil’ something about the history of this town,” said Boone. “Point of why I ask is, an old woman was telling me a story that sounded somethin’ like you just described.”
“Ugh, that’d be Irma. Old hag done lost her mind years ago. Her husband was the mayor before me, up until she killed him.”
“Killed him? How’s she out walkin’ around then?”
“Turns out he was molesting a young girl; told her father he’d help ’em out. All this came to light when we found the mayor and the girl dead out here on Main Street. Irma shot her husband after he’d killed the girl, she put two shotgun slugs in his chest and somehow burned the man’s head off. Despite the mess, nobody could blame her; not after what he’d done. Sheriff Palmer figured she did his job for ’em. But she ain’t never been the same. Hallucinating and scaring the children n’ such. But never mind that now, detective. We’ve got you a nice room to get settled in for tonight, seeing as that sun already coming down. Why don’t you head on off to your quarters, start fresh n’ early in the morning?” said the mayor. The sheriff trotted by once again, making his rounds as the sun began to creep down.
“He’ll take his time, thank you, Mr. Mayor,” said Westin. “He seems to be taking his time already, looking into myths. Time is of the essence, Mr. Boone. The sooner we find Colt the better, the last thing we need is for someone to swoop in to steal these oil deposits.” He glared down at the blueprints once again, his words lacking emotion. “He was last seen by a young man named Elliot, just a few miles up the road. Have a talk with him, get this settled, then you can be getting paid and getting the hell out of this shitshow. Get it done.” He gave Boone a smack between his shoulder blades, the mayor stood with a smile of earnest effort with a slight twitch in his eye. Mr. Westin turned around and went back to his papers, barking orders at the mayor without eye contact.
“Be in bed by sundown, detective. Town ordinance” said the mayor. His face was lined with grave seriousness, before resuming his cheery façade. The two men wandered off into the snowy hills, pointing and planning. Boone made his way down the barren road, with barely a trail visible underneath the blanket of snow. The shack looked like a jigsaw puzzle, different colored panels of not-so-fitting shapes made up the walls and windows of the building. The path leading up was riddled with holes and marks of heavy hooves. A young man sat lackadaisically; his eyes looked glazed over.
“You Elliot?”
“Eli.”
“Eli, you were the last person to see Colt Sinclair one week ago today. I’m gonna need some answers.” Boone eyed the shaky conditions of the home, a potential motive to rob or kill a rich man like Sinclair.
“You really want to know?” he squinted at the badge, “ah, now the Pink’s arrived to save the day. For the oilman that is.” He pulled a jug out from behind the steps and took a swig. He burped and chuckled. “Colt said he had big plans for this town, lots of changes and money he said. He told me I look like the type who could use some of that,” he said as he took another swig, this time throwing the jug down. The moonshine poured into hoof marks at the foot of the house, though there wasn’t a horse around. “Everybody in this town could use some of that.,” Eli said as he stood up and made his way into the house. Boone followed. Eli held his face in both hands as he collapsed onto a creaky bed, some snow blew in through the cracks between the boards. “How could I say no?”
Eli paused for a moment, gaining composure. He laid his head on a thin pillow, with his fists pressed against his temples. “Then Mr. Sinclair started coming over. Most nights he brought me some booze or some magazines from the city. This last time he was acting strange. Told me he wanted something else from me.” Eli choked up; his bright blue eyes looked black. “He said he- then he started grabbing. He- he wasn’t letting me go, mister. I couldn’t stop him. I blacked out.” Eli sat for a moment, a tear ran down his face, numb. “Then I had this horrible nightmare, there was fire everywhere, burned my daddy’s roof,” said Eli. “I scrambled out of bed and looked out the window. There was this, I don’t know, monster.” Eli reached under the bed and found another bottle to take a swig from. Boone stepped back out onto the porch, his hands on his hips. He stared out into the snow-covered trees and mountains that enveloped the sky. It was silent. He looked up, noticing the charred wood on the edge of the roof just above the hoof prints. He bent down to observe the prints untouched by the snow. That’s when he felt the heat.
#
That night, Detective Boone sat on the front porch of Eli’s home holding his double barrel. Protect the boy, he thought. But from what? He awaited the sounds of hoofs and the light of torches to fill the streets of Angel Fire, he needed to see those young bucks fooling around. The wind howled through the trees as an orange glow crawled over the horizon, just above Angel Fire. The bright aura radiated, growing brighter with each passing moment. Boone felt the heat.
What appeared before him, what stared down that hill, was a monster. La fuerza de fuego, the force of fire. A charcoal mule of great musculature, with a head of great, bright flames that melted the air around it. It stood still for a moment when it reached the top of the hill, its heat irradiated from his skull reaching the porch a quarter mile up the road. It waited. Boone leaped off the steps and readied his weapon. Just then, there was the click of another weapon, behind him.
“Put it down, Boone.” The voice was familiar, he turned with his hands up to see the sheriff standing before him with his own double barrel. “You were supposed to be at the Inn, detective. What a shame, you could have been snuggled up real comfortable right now.” La Burro remained, his heat causing Boone’s back to sweat.
“Irma and Eli confirmed it, this supernatural shit. It’s all true. This thing, that’s Colt Sinclair.” The Sheriff chuckled with delight.
“Looks like you aren’t as dumb as I thought, for a damn Pink.” Sheriff Palmer slammed the butt of his shotgun into Boone’s neck, knocking him down on his back. “The spirit of the mule has haunted Angel Fire for years, this time it finally got somebody we can use. All we had to do was give the sick fuck what he wanted,” He nodded up at Eli’s home as he positioned the barrel to Boone’s chest. “Thing is, if you shoot that thing, I’ll be shit out of luck of selling the oil myself. So, until then, this demon horse is my cash cow.” Palmer slides the barrel to Detective Boone’s head; his bowler hat falls to the ground. “I told you to stay out of my way, Pink. Now you’ll get what’s comin’ to ya-“ HUFF. Eli dives in from his porch and brings Sheriff Palmer to the ground. He gets his arm locked around his neck. La Burro bolts forward, a steam engine of flesh.
“YOU FUCKER YOU, YOU LET HIM DO THIS TO ME!” chanted Eli as he struggled to hang on to the wriggling Palmer.
“Get off me you stupid or it’ll kill us both!” says Palmer. Boone stood up and retrieved his weapon, he stood behind Palmer and Eli as he found his bearings. La Burro edged close; it hurdled toward Eli like a meteor with a mule’s body, only seconds left before impact. Detective Boone aimed dead on, tracking the mule, just as it reached Palmer and Eli’s entanglement.
“LET GO BOY, NOW!” says Boone. Eli uncovered Palmer’s face and shoved him forward. The Sheriff hollered out to the stars as La Burro burns directly through his body, slicing him in two. La Burro leaped through the cauterized blood of his slice, inches away from Eli when Detective Boone pulled the trigger. With two successive slugs penetrating the beast’s breast, its momentum flung its dead body down the road behind them. As it cascaded through the air, the animal morphed from its furry hide back to a slender, human frame. The body landed with a heavy thud, it smelled of burning flesh. All that remained of Colt Sinclair’s head was a charred stump of crusted blood.
