In the early 1850s, this town was finally put to use.
A man named CYRUS FLETCHER began putting out advertisements, calling for people to move into cities that had been built years before anyone had discovered them.
This town, in particular, didn't have prebuilt homes. It did have buildings, though—buildings Cyrus immediately put to work.
One became a courthouse. Another was a post office. One he converted into a law office and jail, importing iron for the work. He sold horses out of another. The last building became a sawmill, run by his brother Jeb.
Jeb wasn't the smartest man alive, but he could do what the mill needed him to do. That was enough.
This story is not about them, though they are in it. This story is about someone else. He does not begin this story, but he will finish it.
We find his jail empty, coffee made, and him sound asleep at his desk.
Feet up. Leaning back. Having a sense of perfect balance in his sleep as long as the quo keeps up its status.
SLAM!!
The front door to the sheriff's office slammed shut with enough force to wake the devil himself.
Sheriff RAFFAELLO CRAWFORD—Rex to everyone who knew him, which was everyone—went from serene to flat on the floor in an instant, feet still on the desk. He blinked, trying to sort dream from reality, the smell of coffee mixing with the faint dust floating in the sunlight.
"Dammit to hell, Rex. I just come from the TSAVORITE and you better do somethin about that son of a bitch!"
Rex looks at this woman as if she was going to let him in on what she was talking about.
ADELINE DONNELLY, storming in like a whirlwind, frustration in every step. She had just come from the Tsavorite, the first building in the town made out of lumber, built solid from the wood milled at Cyrus's sawmill.
"OK, Addy, you are going to have to give me a little more to go on than just Tsavorite and do somethin."
"What I been tellin' you! When I bring Jeb his drinks, he knocks the trey otta my hands and then says I owe him for getting his work shirt all messy! Then he says I gotta FUCK him. That shirt does not have the same value as what I do upstairs! I gave him a hand job to get 'em to fuck off, but you gotta do somethin sheriff."
"He left?" Rex asked, still a little out of it.
"He run home to that wife a'his I think."
"OK, when I come roun tonight when it gets busy I will have a word with him."
Addy shook her head and stormed out, long hair catching the sunlight. "Just because Ima whore don't mean I can't be raped ya know!"
Leaving in about the same state she had arrived in.
Rex shook his head. Awake now, he figured he might as well make a round around the town, Including the mill where Jeb works, see if anything was afoot.
A wagon rumbled by just as he stepped outside. Wells Fargo stage, coming to drop off and pick up.
All the brick buildings were on one side of the street. Commercial shops, built from Cyrus's mill lumber, lined the other. Cyrus practically owned them all, naturally.
Rex hit each shop in turn until he reached the end of the street. The new hotel was being built there. Straight at the street's end. A runaway wagon could plow through the fence and right into the lobby. Beautiful from the outside, dumb as a sack of rocks to put strangers there.
Heading back up his side of the street, he passed the only whorehouse and brothel, the Tsavorite. Only three girls worked there. Addy was the top girl—what they'd call the "bottom bitch" nowadays. All three lived and worked there along with the owner, a charismatic Irish con man named CONOR O'GREGOR.
Rex stepped inside, asking for a sarsaparilla. No alcohol while working. Conor was behind the bar; a night man usually ran it when Conor handled other ventures.
A booming, high-pitched voice came from upstairs. "Did you cane that son of a bitch yet, sheriff?" It was Addy, checking on the situation she'd yelled about not more than an hour ago.
"No dear, I hadn't gotten over to the mill yet. I swear that'll be my next stop."
"Tell him if he wants somethin from now on, he hassa pay for like all folks." Charlotte and Angie nodded in unison on either side of her.
Rex nodded back. Finished his drink, he walked out of the bar, heading for the mill.
The girls would normally work in the afternoon unless a big spender wandered in. That happened very infrequently. Today, however, Addy was up and fuming, which explained why Rex was already dealing with her so early.
Opposite the jail, a gap about the width of a street led to the mill—a long brick building with a wooden add-on for storing cut lumber. Jeb, Cyrus's brother, ran it. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but capable enough for the work at hand.
Rex stepped into the mill, weaving between piles of lumber and the rhythmic clatter of saws and hammers. The men were focused, oblivious to anything else. He made his way toward the office in the corner, the door tucked behind stacks of freshly cut boards.
He knocked, lightly at first.
"Keep worken… you kin run down after the shift is over!" a muffled voice replied from inside.
Rex knocked again, just to be sure. Suddenly, a loud clambering came from behind the door. The chair toppled, papers flew midair, and the door itself rattled open from the force—Jeb had fallen so hard that the door swung wide.
"Oh… it's you, sheriff," Jeb said, regaining his balance. "What you need from me taday?"
Rex stepped into the office, placing his hands firmly on the desk, weight leaning slightly forward, ready for any antics from Jeb. "It's Addy, Jeb. You've got to stop trying to get away with things over there."
Jeb's eyes darted to the floor for a moment before he straightened up, forcing a grin. "Ah… Addy's blowin' up again, huh? Don't worry, sheriff. I wasn't tryin' to… y'know…" His voice trailed off, fully aware he'd crossed the line but desperate to keep from looking weak.
"She sayen I rapped her?" Jeb asked.
"No, nothing like that. I know she's just a whore, but people like Addy. If she kicks up enough dust, I'll have to cite you, maybe jail you. Then your brother hears about it, and we both get a pile of grief. Do us both a favor—spill drinks or not, pay for anything you take."
"Yeah… ol' right, sheriff," Jeb muttered, tugging his hat down a little.
"That goes for all the girls now. Charlotte included," Rex added.
Jeb pulled his hat off, banged it lightly against his desk, muttering under his breath. "My brother's the one with all the money, sheriff… I ain't but—"
Rex's eyes narrowed. "If you ain't got the money for it, use your hand like every other man in the world, Jeb. Remember: Jail. Your brother."
With that, Rex straightened and left the mill.
As Rex left the mill, a dusty, ragged figure rode into town, a horse as worn as its rider. Long, wavy hair spilled from under a battered cowboy hat. His trench coat and shirt looked like they hadn't seen soap in weeks. The man slowed as he neared Rex, who eyed him carefully.
"Where can I water my horse, get a bath for me, and a drink?" the stranger asked, his deep blue eyes locking with Rex's.
Rex pointed toward the Tsavorite. "They'll have a bath for you and a beer. Put ya up for the night too, if ya don't mind sleepin' with the whores. Stables next door'll tend your horse, but you gotta come in from 'round back."
The stranger tipped his hat in thanks and rode toward the saloon, rounding the corner out of Rex's line of sight. Rex shook his head, deciding he better check in later. After all, he had nothing pressing besides sleep—but he liked to know who was walking into town.
The stranger sorts out his horse and enters the saloon from the back. He passes through a small room that connects the back door to the bar. At a table in that room sits an older man, missing his right arm and left leg. Salt-and-pepper hair hangs long and unwashed. His clothes are as worn as he is, yet somehow he doesn't smell. The stranger tips his hat politely as he walks past.
Before he can reach the bar, the older man speaks, his voice rough but clear: "Who might you be now? I know damn near everyone that rides through here, and I've never seen you before."
The stranger turns his head slightly, keeping his back to the man. "Point."
"Point?" the older man frowns. "I'm not makin any point—I'm reaching for yur name, friend."
"My name is Pontonomous Lowrey, but everyone calls me Point," the stranger replies evenly.
The older man blinks. "I beg yur pardon… that's a new'en for me. I'm Cletus."
Point lets the words hang for a moment, taking in the bar. The Tsavorite wasn't just any run-of-the-mill watering hole. Polished oak glowed under the lantern light, the bar itself carved with intricate flourishes that suggested a craftsman with both pride and patience. The brass fittings gleamed, reflecting flickers of flame from the wall sconces. Shelves behind the bar held rows of bottles neatly arranged, labels facing outward like soldiers on parade, catching the light in amber and green. Mirrors framed in dark mahogany gave the illusion the room stretched farther than it actually did, and the floorboards creaked with a warmth that made the whole place feel lived-in and alive. A small luxury that spoke volumes in a town where rough timber usually ruled. A faint scent of polish and good whiskey mingled in the air, promising comfort to anyone who stepped inside.
Point could tell instantly this was a place run by a man who cared not just for profit, but for style, reputation, and a certain old-world charm that set it far above any other establishment he had passed through that day. Point also wondered how a town this small could generate enough money to warrant a place this nice. It was a pink flamingo in the middle of Central Park pigeons.
Sliding onto the stool just to the left of the bartender, Point caught Conor's sharp gaze. "What can I get for you?" Conor asked.
"Whiskey and a beer," Point replied, counting coins in his pocket.
Conor leaned closer, studying him. "Where are you in from?"
"I'm just passin' through, on my way to New Orleans. Looking for a man I heard was headed that way," Point said evenly.
Conor raised an eyebrow. "Didn't ask where you're going. I asked where you're from."
Point finally says, with a low, uneasy tone in his speech, "Arkansas."
"I've been through dar," Conor replied. "Can I ask what part?"
Point appraised him briefly. "You may."
Conor shook his finger at Point and smiled. "About five miles southwest of the North tip."
Conor stuck out his hand. "Conor O'Gregor, owner of is'here place."
Point, unsure how to take this interaction, met Conor's hand. "Point."
"Come again?" Conor said.
Point dug in a little patience. "My name is Pontonomus Lowrey, but everyone calls me Point."
He has to explain that more than a little.
Conor responded, "Aahh, dat is a mouthful now, ain't it?"
Point nodded slowly as he revolved on his stool.
"I'm told ya got a bath I can git here?" Point asked.
"Yeah, we have'at. Bath, drink, a fuck, and a good game of poker here if the night is right. I try to make sure just 'bout every night IS RIGHT in here," Conor boasted, pride curling in his words.
Point met Conor's eyes again. "A room?"
Conor's grin widened. "We ARE getting along, friend. I'm not sure we are that close yet."
Point grinned back. "Ten cents a night, you can have the last room on da right, at the top of the stairs. Fifty cents gets you an entire week."
Point slapped down a U.S. dollar coin and a quarter. "I'll have a week, and a bath."
He crossed the bar toward a door marked "BATH," scratched into a piece of wood just above it. Upstairs, the girls looked down from the walkway, curious, their presence noted by everyone in the bar.
"You can have a fuck as well for two dollars after your bath," Conor called from the bar. For some reason when money was involved his grammar would improve.
Point fired back without missing a beat, "I will let you know, Conor."
So involved with Point and his conversation, he didn't even notice Sheriff Rex had returned, slipping quietly back into his old spot.
Conor yelled over, "Cletus, bath water!"
From the back room came the sound of a man cursing himself, the squeak of an old hinge door, and the rattle of a metal bucket.
Rex shook his head, muttering to himself, already thinking about the extra work the new guy might bring. "Great… new guy means I'm probably gonna have to run 'em off, lock 'em up… hell, maybe even shoot 'em. That's a lot of shit I'd rather avoid."
Conor, forcing the corners of his mouth down, said, "Naa, don't seem like that kinda trouble to me.
Rex picks his head up a bit. Conor continues, "More so than not, he seems like the kinda guy, you should have a militia on standby for."
Conor smiles big at Rex holding back his laugh.
Rex furrows his brow and slaps a nickel on the bar. Yanking his ass off the stool by his gun belt, he walks out of the bar and back to the Jail.