Damn Loot!
An Italian-style Western
On a day like any other in the morally depraved town of Little Pit, a dusty man on a horse rides up. The man is in a hurry and carrying with him a suspicious package. Hugg Badfinger cannot resist the temptation to discover what’s inside, so he takes the man down and sends his kid to claim the man’s effects. Not long after, father and son burst out of the town on horseback as though they have the devil at their heels. What did they find?
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DAMN LOOT!
A Western Novel
by Mario Micolucci
Translation
by Chelsi Craddock
Story and cover art by Mario Micolucci
Copyright © 2017 Mario Micolucci
All rights reserved.
To my father, with whom I have shared a life-long passion for the genre.
Although set in a real geo-historical context, it is a work of fantasy. Therefore, names, characters, places and events are the result of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to facts, places or people is completely random. The mention of famous people who really existed only serves to define the historical background of the events. In fact, they never take an active part in the development of the plot.
Any total or partial reproduction or any diffusion in digital format of the work, not expressly authorized, is to be considered a violation of copyright.
Index.
Little Pit.
Gratitude.
This side of the law.
Good manners.
Good business.
An honest man.
The manly maid.
The old-fashioned way.
Heaven and Hell.
A sacred right.
Nameless souls.
Silver fever.
An act of mercy.
Damn Billygoat!
A just reward.
A pre-drawn verdict.
Damn loot!
1 Little Pit.
Little Pit was a miserable little town. It always had been. Miserable, dusty and run down.
It was born as decaying as the souls of those who built it, and the persistent beating of the sun only made matters worse. The only thing that could explain its continued existence was a small watering hole from which to draw a few buckets of muddy water to sprinkle over the sparse vegetables. The watering hole was the only one for miles, but it wasn't worth much to anyone, save the occasional drifter who stumbled across it after surviving a journey across No Man's Land.
Anyone who came to the town certainly did not do so for enjoyment. Many of its inhabitants had less-than-respectable pasts that they were trying to escape. Sometimes they were even brought there against their will. Whether they were on the run or had been banished to that snake-pit hellhole to die of exposure, the occasional visitor would usually appear at the watering hole, weary and nearly dead, without a penny to their name. If they did happen to arrive there with any wherewithal, it was so rare that it would never have been enough to sustain any local business.
In Little Pit, no saloon was to be found. At least, not anymore. One day many suns ago, an enterprising Joe Otthims came back with a load of beer and whiskey, the source of which is better left a mystery. It was enough to put behind a countertop and call it a saloon, which is exactly what Joe did in his rickety old cowshed. As not entirely unpredictable, the years came and went, but the patrons were few. Old Joe, having nothing better to do with his time waiting for patrons, whittled away at his inventory until he had no more. He ended up a drunkard without a drop to drink.
Through the years, Joe’s saloon crumbled into kindling until all that remained was its welcome sign. Now illegible and softened by rot, it dangled on its last remaining rusty hook. It swung in distress with every gust of wind. The grim creaking sound it produced was typically the only noise that filled the unnerving silence of that place. It was a place made of crumbling buildings whose inhabitants were equally worn and weary souls. The town was a hodgepodge of transients, fugitives, and outcasts. The women were usually either discarded wives or whores so used up they weren’t employable even by the worst brothels. More often, both.
Truth be told, not all the wayfarers who sought relief from the well were completely destitute. In that lawless and godless place, however, the art of making a living through commerce was completely lost on the townspeople. To compensate, many took advantage of the persuasive power of firearms to earn their keep. The unlucky newcomer who brought anything of value became the unwilling prey of the crook who got to him first. The resulting spoils usually offered them at least a few dollars to get properly roostered at Joe’s saloon. In fact, the few patrons that Joe had in his best years were mostly his own fellow town folk who were the first to take advantage of the generous donations of passers by.
On a harshly dry and windy day like many others, a man arrived on horseback and approached the watering hole. Apart from his hat and boots, he wore only dusty, threadbare rags. However, strapped to the saddle was a curiously suspicious parcel. The inhabitants of Little Pit were very fond of curiously suspicious parcels. In fact, curiously suspicious parcels very often contained happy little surprises. The man was well armed and seemed to be in quite hurry – all excellent signs. His surly demeanor and body language suggested that he was not to be prodded. However, before that theory could be proven, Hugg Badfinger put a bullet in his head.
The watering hole was perfectly framed by the little window on the door of the outhouse; the ideal spot from which Hugg Badfinger could point his rifle without being seen. Hugg never relieved himself without Jagg, his tried and true Jacob Hawken rifle. It wasn’t that strange of a habit to keep. After all, there were plenty of dandies out there who never did their business without a book. Hugg couldn’t read, but his aim sure as heck made up for it.
