The Stranger in Redstone

A different take on the Bob Dylan song "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts", this time inspired by Louis L'Amour.

The festival dust had settled on Redstone's main street when the stranger rode in. He was a tall man in a black hat, the kind who carried himself like he'd been places and seen things most folks only heard about in stories. His horse was trail-worn but well-cared for, and he sat the saddle like a man born to it.

Town like Redstone didn't see many strangers, especially not the kind that made the air feel different just by being there. It was a mining town, carved out of hard rock and harder men, owned lock, stock, and barrel by Big Jim Carson. Carson had money, power, and enough hired guns to keep both.

The stranger tied his horse at the rail outside Murphy's Saloon and stepped through the batwing doors. The place went quiet the way it does when something's about to happen. Men who'd been talking stopped mid-sentence. The piano player's fingers found the wrong keys.

"Whiskey," the stranger said to Murphy, his voice carrying the dust of a thousand miles.

Murphy poured without asking questions. That was the first rule of bartending in a place like Redstone—pour the drinks, mind your own business, and try not to get shot.

At the corner table, Lily Garrett watched the stranger over her cards. She was a woman who'd learned to read men the way a tracker reads sign, and this one was different. Not like the drifters or the mine workers or even the gun-hands who drifted through. This man had purpose, and purpose in a town like Redstone usually meant trouble.

"You passing through, mister?" Big Jim Carson's voice carried across the room. He'd come in through the back door, flanked by two of his men. Carson was a big man who'd grown bigger on the money that came out of the ground, and he didn't like mysteries in his town.

The stranger turned, and Lily caught sight of his eyes. They were the color of winter sky, cold and clear and giving nothing away.

"Depends," the stranger said.

"On what?"

"On whether I find what I'm looking for."

Carson's hand rested on the butt of his gun. "And what might that be?"

The stranger smiled, but it wasn't the kind of smile that reached his eyes. "Justice."

The word hung in the air like smoke. Every man in the room knew what it meant, and every man in the room knew that justice and Big Jim Carson didn't often travel the same trail.