THE GLEAM OF RIGHTEOUS DUST
A Penny Dreadful Account of the Most Gallant Misdeeds of the Dust Dogs
It was upon a morning of such spotless virtue that even the sun seemed to polish its own halo, that the Dust Dogs rode out of the shale and salt of Coffin Canyon, banners of grit snapping like hymns in the wind. How nobly their boots struck the earth—how dutifully their spurs sang! One might have mistaken them for a procession of saints, were saints commonly armed with cutlasses, scatterguns, and a thirst so heroic it could empty a county.
At their head rode Captain Horace Glint, a man of such sterling brightness that the very tarnish fled his presence. His coat—once black—had been ennobled by the patina of honest labor: ash, blood, and silver dust, the three sacraments of the canyon. His smile, generous as a guillotine, promised improvement wherever it fell. For improvement was Glint’s creed. Where towns languished with coin, he redistributed it; where men clung to breath, he liberated them from the burden; where bottles slumbered unopened, he awakened their spirits with evangelical zeal.
Behind him came the Dogs themselves—Jasper Pike, whose knife kissed throats with the tenderness of a mother’s lullaby; Clem the Choirboy, so named for his habit of humming while the screaming complicated the melody; and Old Wren, who could smell silver through walls, lies, and prayer. They were, to a man, exemplars of civic engagement.
Their destination was the boomtown of Larkspur Bend, a place swollen with optimism and veins of the white metal. The Dogs approached not as thieves—perish the thought—but as auditors, prepared to correct imbalances. Captain Glint raised his hand, and the town obliged by holding its breath.
What followed has been unjustly described as a raid. In truth, it was a festival of order. Doors were opened—some with keys, others with kicks—and the Dogs conducted interviews of the most persuasive sort. Questions were asked in steel; answers were given in coin. The exchange rate was favorable to all parties who survived it.
When a certain shopkeeper expressed reluctance to part with his earnings, Captain Glint addressed him kindly. “Friend,” he said, leveling his revolver like a sermon, “silver grows lonely in drawers.” The subsequent lesson was brisk and educational. The shopkeeper learned much about gravity. The Dogs learned that his safe was heavier than it looked.
Elsewhere, Clem the Choirboy demonstrated the moral uplift of fire, illuminating the night so that no soul might stumble in ignorance. Children learned the alphabet of sparks. Women learned the speed of grief. Men learned that courage is loud until it isn’t. Such instruction cannot be bought, only bestowed.
By dusk, the town was improved. Its coffers lighter, its population more manageable, its future refreshingly brief. The Dogs gathered in the square to partake of moonshine—distilled, Captain Glint insisted, from the finest intentions. They drank to health. They drank to clarity. They drank until the stars wobbled in applause.
A preacher emerged, trembling with scripture and objection. Captain Glint listened with the patience of a benefactor. “We are the Shine Riders,” he replied, gesturing at the glow of flame and polished coin. “We bring light. We take weight. We leave stories.” The preacher received a story then, compact and terminal.
As the Dogs departed, the canyon took them back into its bosom, soothed by the rhythm of hooves and the jingle of justice redistributed. Captain Glint glanced once over his shoulder at Larkspur Bend, now quieter, simpler, improved. He tipped his hat to the smoke.
Thus do heroes pass, leaving the world better than they found it—emptier, certainly, but lighter for it. And if their virtue smells faintly of powder and rot, what is that but the perfume of progress?
So says this humble sheet, sold for a penny and worth every crime.