A/N: Just a little English assignment. Enjoy.

It was the hottest day of the year. The cowboy riding into town wiped at his brow with a sun-kissed hand that looked remarkably close to leather. The horse beneath him was walking at a pace that was painfully slow and the dehydration of both the cowboy and his trusty steed was apparent. The nameless stranger squinted hopefully at the old, warped wood of the saloon as he approached. The "usuals" made no sign of even glimpsing the approach of this new man in town. The bartender's eyes shot once to the window and then back to the glass he was polishing.

He scrambled down from his horse, eager to get a drink. He looked guiltily at the horse and whispered, "I'll be back out for you, Cajun." He patted his trusty steed's side affectionately. Sweat marked rivers down his face. He could only imagine how his old friend felt; Caj had faithfully carried not only his weight, but the weight of his compadre, Cliff. He hurried into the tavern with hopes of getting some water for himself and his horse. The clink of his spurs echoed in the dusty silence of the desert. The cruel wind kicked up clay colored sand that stung at Cliff's eyes.

He managed to glance at the overhead sign of the little saloon before he walked in. Styx, he said to himself thoughtfully, sounds familiar. He rubbed at his watering eyes, temporarily blinded. The only sound confirming that he had entered at all was the eerie creak of the door as it swung to a close behind him. He opened his eyes, apprehensively, feeling an odd chill raising the gooseflesh on his arms. He was greeted with the sight of several men on ripped bar stools, an aged bartender, and a barmaid. None acknowledged his arrival.

Slightly offended by their lack of response, Cliff addressed the assembly of weather worn westerners. "Well, good day to y'all too. I'd be mighty pleased if I could get some water for me and my horse. It's blazing outside, enough to set fire to the sand. We've been traveling all day and it would be fine of you to get some water for Cajun out there." No answer from any of them. He felt his annoyance begin to mount with the silent group.

"Did y'all hear me?" he demanded. He stomped his sharp spur into the ground in anger. No response. "Come on now, this ain't a joke! Cajun is probably cooked! I need to get water for my horse!" Finally, whether from baking in the sun all day or from being completely put off by the constant desert silence, Cliff seized one of the cowboys at the bar by the collar of his shirt and shook him roughly. "TALK!"

An eerie, slow smile crept onto the middle-aged cowboy's face. His eyes were strangely vacant. "Now, son, you have no reason to worry 'bout that horse out there. He's probably enjoying the freshest spring water from a golden trough by now." The voice was like listening to nails on a chalk board, but Cliff was relieved by the breaking of the maddening silence. The saloon's inhabitants had now chosen him as the center of their attention.

"What do you mean by that, sir?" he asked, perplexed; because of his outburst, he attempted to compensate by treating the man he had shaken with a bit of respect, however awkward it might sound to address a peer with 'sir.'

"What he's trying to say, Cliffie, is not to worry about that little old horse of yours," the woman in the bar said, with a seductive voice that made his blood run cold. His eyes swept over the bar once more. He had a gun, but he was no gun fighter. If these people wanted a fight, he would lose.

"Look, I don't want a figh-"

"Neither do we, Cliff. Not that it would hurt too bad," another man at the bar said with a sinister laugh. The others joined in. Cliff was starting to get angry again. He could feel his face reddening.

"Now, see here, I want to know what's goin' on here. I won't have you laugh at my expense. What have you done to my horse?" he demanded, rather feebly because his intuitive fear was getting the better of him.

"Nothing, partner," one answered.

"Nada, Cliffie," another quipped.

"Nothing at all," the bartender said absently.

Cliff was beginning to panic. He ran towards the door, feeling his heart fluttering like a caged canary in his ribs. His hand was on the swinging door when the steel claw of the woman's hand came down upon his shoulder.

"Now see here-"

Cliff had spun around to look at his assaulter to find the ghastly image of a decaying corpse. He let out a troubled yell and fell through the door despite himself. Water was rushing impatiently around him. He looked at the wooden boat that had caught him. His heart still hammering, he saw a young boy looking down at him with a fond smile. "Hi there," the little boy said.

"What's going on?" Cliff asked helplessly.

"Do you have the toll?" the boy asked pleasantly.

"What? Who are you?" he babbled.

"Who, me? I'm Charon. You need something to pay me, or I'll have to dump you off here. Sorry, bud." Cliff looked into the boy's pleasantly neutral, black eyes in horror. He reached into his pockets, searching for some sort of coin. He stopped as a sudden realization seized him.

"Wait. Am I...?" he began, unable to say the word.

"Dead?" Charon finished. He nodded sympathetically. "'Fraid so."

He began hunting anew for a gold coin. He had nothing on him. Charon looked regretful. "Listen, please, what's going on? I was fine; I wasn't dead. Can you give me some answers? Just a few," he begged.

"I really am sorry, Cliff," was the readied reply. And then, as if he had carried out the same act many times before, Charon lifted Cliff out of his little makeshift boat with strength far beyond that of a child and dumped him into the river. He finally had the water he had so desperately wanted.