Dawn in Damnation. Clark Casey

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

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      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Clark Casey

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      First Electronic Edition:

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0496-3

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0496-X

      First Print Edition: October 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0498-7

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0498-6

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      Many thanks for the support and advice of Jennifer Brinsdon, Daniel DeCicco, and my mother, and also for the copyediting of Patricia Abramo, Susan Forste, and Debby Schwartz.

      Dedicated to my father.

      May he find a cozy saloon in the afterlife where he can play cards.

      Isaiah Berlin Quote

      “Total liberty for wolves is death to the lambs.”

      ―Isaiah Berlin

      Chapter 1

      Fre…

      “What happened?” asked the young man with a nickel-sized bullet hole in his temple.

      “Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” I asked him.

      “Was playin’ cards with some cowpuncher. Drew a flush, and he ’cused me a cheatin’. So I reached for my Colt. Reckon he did the same.”

      “My guess is he was faster.”

      The newbie had that stunned look they all got in their eyes when they first arrived. He was hardly old enough to grow a proper beard. Just another cowpoke born in a shitty little town who’d rustled some steer, made it with a few whores, then died over a two-dollar pot.

      “So’s this hell?” His voice quavered. Probably already browned his britches with fear shit.

      “Not quite,” I told him.

      “Purgatory then?” He tried to put on a brave face.

      “Kinda… the opposite, ’spose you could say.”

      “Huh?”

      “Well, imagine if you was like a stone in a creek bed. After you die, a panhandler scoops you up with a bunch of other muck and runs you through his sifter. All the stuff that falls through goes straight to hell. The rest gotta be cleaned off to see if it’s worth keeping. So you might say you’re just here till the panhandler finds out whether or not you got any shine to ya.”

      “Is this hell’s sifter?”

      “Folks call it Damnation.”

      “Who’s the panhandler?” he asked, “God?”

      “Dunno.” I shrugged.

      He gave the room a squinty eye, trying to reckon if it wasn’t all just a dream. The Foggy Dew had the same creaky chairs and sticky tables you’d find in any other saloon, though a little less flair perhaps. No trinkets on the mantel, just a simple dusty place to drink. Some cried when they found out where they were. Others were overjoyed they hadn’t ended up someplace worse. The kid didn’t look too impressed.

      “What’s there to do ’round here?” he asked.

      “Drink, play cards… wait.”

      “For what?”

      “Till СКАЧАТЬ