The saloon flowed with drink and chatter. Wenches and booze, all that is good in the world, was sat next to all that was bad. About every other man here had a price on his head. Most were wanted dead or alive, but it was always a quieter trip back if I didnât give them the latter option.
âGimme ânother drink!â I heard a rambunctious older gentleman call out to the bartender. He sat alone at the bar, his hat tipped over his eyes with an empty shot glass in front of him. The man was armed, I could tell, whiskey dripping from his brown whiskers. Usually, that wasnât a good combination.
âI donât know if thatâd be wise, sir. Youâre getting to be a bit unbalanced as it were. I donât want to have to get the Sheriff in here to drag you out,â the bartender said. It was an empty threat. At 3 in the afternoon, the Sheriff was probably lost in a bottle of his own.
âListen barkeep, even when itâs full, the glass is half empty. And itâs only gonna keep gettinâ-hic- emptier. So serve up ânother shot, and least this oneâll run dry on my own terms,â the man slapped a hand down on the counter.
I smiled. This man had it right. I rolled open the wanted poster Iâd tucked away in my coat. A sketch of a rugged face with a twisted smile looked up at me from the paper. Bullet-face Benjy. I heard heâd got the name from taking a shot through his face from a prostitute he thought better of paying. The bullet went clean through his cheeks leaving a permanent hole you could stick a finger through. The reward on his head was $500 dead; heâd become known around these parts as a rapist and a looter. I always thought it funny in this business, how the value of a manâs life seemed to go up the worse his deeds were.
These thoughts took a backseat to the present though, as I heard yelling coming from outside. I knew heâd show himself in this town sooner rather than later. Men like him donât stay quiet long.
A body flew through the saloon doors and the lively chatter fell into a funerary hush. The doors creaked, as they swung in and out, and another man entered. I tickled the side of my holster, waiting to see what would happen. Waiting was a big part of the game.
âYouâre gonna be sorry, mister. Think you can just gawk at a feller like that? What you think, Iâm somâinâ at one of âem museums,â said the man who looked like the Bullet-face Benjy on my contract. It was him, unless a bullet hole in the sides of both cheeks was some new city fashion.
âYou… pig! You’ve ruined my only daughter,â cried the bespectacled man whoâd been thrown to the floor.
âOh, so youâre the bitchâs father. Ways I see it, I did her a favour. Showed her a good time. Let her lie front ways soâs she could look âpon my pretty face.â Benjyâs posse entered from behind and hooted at his statement. Benjy spat on the floor by his victimâs feet, âWhat say you boys, should I poke him full o’ holes too?â He drew his pistol out. I placed a hand on mine.
âYâshaddup! Yer ruininâ the liquor!â the old drunk, now drunker, yelled without turning away from the bar.
âWhat you say, old man? You ainât got long for a coffin. Why you eager to speed your way there?â Benjy turned his gun on the old manâs back. The gunâs hammer was peeled back and ready.
BANG! Benjy was blown away as a still-smoking fresh hole appeared in the old manâs coat. The saloon erupted in panic. All the women fled into the rooms, and the men drew their pistols. Half aimed at Benjy and half at the old man. I still sat there, waiting. A room full of drunks and drawn guns, it was the kind of scene you watch before you paint yourself into it.
âThe summabitch shot me! Why yâall standing âround? Gittem!â Benjy said from the ground, now with a bullet-hole in his chest to match the one in his face. Nobody quite knew how to react with so many barrels facing them; but the old man, I couldnât tell. Itâs hard to read a man from his back, though the irony is thatâs the most vulnerable part of him.
It mustâve been a good ten seconds. I was about to get up to kill the uneasy tension when I heard a shot ring out and hit the liquor case behind the bar, spraying shards of glass and alcohol onto the floor.
âYou -hic- wasteful…â the old man got up, unaffected by the shot that was an inch away from taking his life.
Everyone started firing and men started dropping. The old man kicked tables over as he let bullets fly from the barrel of his gun. Shots exploded in the air. Debris and smoke made it hard to see, but I could. I knew each of the old fellerâs shots found their way into someoneâs chest by the number of bodies that rolled onto the floor. He dove behind the fallen tables for cover, and I slid behind the side of the bar. I shot a man who had his gun pointed at me. I didn’t plan on getting involved. The logic of a firefight was the fewer guns were pointed anywhere, the better your chances of walking away alive.
The old man looked to me; we were the only ones holed up near the bar, and we exchanged a glance and a nod of truce. He took a swig before rolling me a bottle of absinthe. I had to say I admired his creativity; he was a gunslinger who knew more than how to pull a trigger. I tossed the bottle over the counter and fired a shot that sent a spray of fire at our enemies, who shut their eyes and flailed about to put out the flames. It was a good enough distraction. The two of us rolled out from cover, barrels loaded with lead, and sprayed bullets at anyone with a gun pointed our way.
Once the smoke settled, the old man and I were the only ones left standing. I looked around to survey the destruction, and had to pity the owner of the saloon. The once-decent establishment was painted a fresh new coat of red. The old man was something though, to be able to shoot like that as drunk as he was. There was no way. He mustâve put on a show to throw everyoneâs guard. Nobody ever took a drunk seriously in a gunfight. I turned around to ask him his name, and found him on the ground throwing up into his hat.
It was then I recognized him from wanted posters once plastered all over my hometown when I was a kid, though he was a little grayer around the ears. The man wiping throw-up off his chin before me was once called The Loaded Gunâ an outlaw that held a bounty of $5000, last I remember, infamous for drinking more shots than he firedâ the boozehound who never missed.
This short was awesome. It was witty, fun, captivating. I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your story with my Creative Writing class, giving you full credit and link to your blog, of course and they loved it. But yeah, I’m looking forward to reading and enjoying more of your work. Take care.
Thanks for the kind words and for sharing. This piece was actually an exercise for my own creative writing class. I’m glad you enjoyed it.