It was my first time at the dog park. The town had repurposed the old baseball fields after they had been moved closer to the school. Part of the new synthetically turfed sporting compound. This had once been six full fields: two for baseball, two for softball and two for little league. So it was a nice, park-like 18 acres.

Saplings now grew where the bases once were and most of the outfield fencing was gone. The rest, still tagged with scattered mini-billboards for local businesses and sponsors. The bulk of which bore the same surname: McKenzie. McKenzie & McKenzie Law, McKenzie Realtors, McKenzie Lenders. Town founders, patriarchs, matriarchs, occasional pariahs, and constant focal point.

This was the new McKenzie Park. The bustle and hustle of players and sounds of hit balls and shouting fans was now those of barking dogs and the cries of their owners. All riding that fine line between socializing their various breed and coming home with unexpected puppies.

My new, adopted Frenchie, Gizmo, needed to the leash for now. I had the little vest warning people he was still in training and to “Give Me Space.” We circled an area full of unleashed dogs, all of which were friendly and curious. One happy-go-lucky lab came over and exchanged tentative butt-sniffs with Giz.

So far so good.

From what I learned at the shelter, he wasn’t a rescue. The police surrendered him when his prior owner passed away and no other family could take him in. He seemed to have had no trauma beyond that loss. We walked more laps, each time, getting closer to the other dogs, each time more but sniffing. The song “Getting to Know You” was stuck in my head on a loop.

Giz noticed her first.

He stopped dead and I almost hadn’t noticed if not for the slack of the leash turning stiff. A lady wrestling with her dog out by the warning track of field number four. He fixated on her. A low growl became a yip which became a frantic tug on his leash. He wasn’t strong enough to drag me, but he was so anxious to get there that his feet were spinning. Tilling up grass and dirt all over my shins.

“Easy, buddy, that dog is too big for-“

She wasn’t laughing, she was screaming. I began to walk, then run her way. Even at that distance, it was blood curdling and blood gurgling as I closed in. When I was closing in on 30 yards, it turned to me. This was no dog.

It was on four legs, and had a long snout, but it was top heavy, barrel chested and leaning into me from the distance. Somewhere between a wolf and a bear. A carnivorous cryptid, a beastly brute in broad daylight.

He stood like a down lineman waiting for the snap. Not aggressive, not inviting, coiled and ready. Razor back arched, bristling, snarling. It pulled back his jowls in a gory sneer, letting loose the viscous, bloody slobber. The woman was no longer screaming or struggling or moving. Steam rose from her chest cavity. A leash that ended in tatters hung off her wrist, no dog.

My brave Frenchie was now tugging the leash the other way now as other dogs and owners began to close in on us. This… thing, turned and ran and bounded high over the fence, transforming mid air and landing on two legs. A bare-assed man running into the woods by the park. Following the path leading to the McKenzie McMansion.

The crow had been staring at him for an hour.  Head cocked.  An occasional hop toward him and back in his filthy cage.  He pretended not to notice, but eventually he locked onto the bird’s glossy, black eyes.  The old man had tricked him.  And now he was here, in this dust bowl of a stage stop.  Ready to explode from the cage of his own memory. 

Dan Blackmoor.  Gun for hire.

She rejected his ring.  His father’s store had gone under.  He passed away before the war ended, and Dan took over the store; betting it all on a new “modern appliance” called an ice box.  In a record heat wave, this should have been good for business.  But they lived a good two day’s ride from the ice house and a full week from any natural source to harvest.  It all went tits up before Fall.  No wife, no family, no business, no more war to fight.  He set out to make his own fortune.

With nothing left to lose, he answered an ad.  The old man dangled this carrot in front of him and he climbed aboard the first wagon west.  Collect this bounty and he’d make a name for himself, not to mention a tidy fortune.  The old man never told him the target was already dead.

He had shot “Tiger” Tom Taylor three times.  Three days in a row.  In a few minutes, Tom would walk back in and he would announce the warrant and there would be a fight.  If luck was still on his side, he’d get the drop and Tom would fall dead in the street, once more.

Each tick of the clock in the tower grew louder.  The minute hand groaned and landed with a thunk he felt in his chest.  There were hoof beats.  The bell chimed.  Dead noon.  Here we go again.