Doug Donnan
Doug
Donnan/Executive Editor OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!
donnan.doug@yahoo.com
*This ("The
Silver Bullets") is the third story/panel in my
western triptych series titled: "The
Silver Linings" which includes:
"The Silver
Boots" /// "The Silver Saddle" /// "The Silver
Bullets"
or
('Dead or Alive')
by
Doug Donnan
[ Ojo
Prieto New Mexico / El Buenos Tiempo Cantina / circa 1885 ]
"Close
that damn door up amigo," the burly bartender yelped out with a gold and
silver toothed smile to the
tall drink of water stranger there just at the cantina entrance. "Yer
lettin' all the smoke out!" This
decidedly curt pronouncement from the jack-o-lantern grinning barman brought
about a rather raucous display
of guffaws and catcalls from a tawdry and tipsy quintet of locals and drifters
who were seated all around and about
a stained, but sturdy, oval green felt poker table off in a
wooden-whisky-barreled back corner. The black felt Stetson topped
newcomer seemed remarkably unaffected by this rather crude call for cantina
compliance. He stood there tall and
erect, almost looming, with a cool confidence surrounded by the miasma of
swirling smoke for but a second or two then, with all
the chilling force and fortitude of a Broadway stage performer, he deftly
rotated about and stepped up to the tarnished and slightly bowing
brass bar boot rail. He executed this maneuver with a truly palpable measure of
western bravado.
"What's
yer pleasure mister?" the barman asked with a grinning,
rolled-up-sleeve-still-toothy-degree of friendliness.
"Well
sir, I can't rightly say after 'that' rather left handed gun
greeting," the stranger half again smiled back. "I recon' that a
couple fingers of yer bar's most called for whisky'll do the trick... for
starters."
"Muy
bien amigo," was the bartender's jocular reply as he slapped down a large
crystal-cut-butt shot glass as if it were the keys to the
tiny twisting tumbleweed town itself. "I'll pour... you just say 'when' comprende?"
"Muy
bien," from the stranger as he elbowed up against the time worn wooden
bar.
They
chatted for a considerable amount of time about this and that. The slowly
sipping stranger eventually set his glass down and rather
discreetly, perhaps 'furtively' would be a better description, looked up
and down at the scant few leaning patrons propped up at
the bar. He flashed from just atop his open leather vest pocket the pointed top
of a tainted silver badge for the handle-bar mustachioed bartender
to just barely have time to glimpse. The wiping barman's attitude and alacrity
had now noticeably changed.
"You
some kinda sheriff or U.S. marshall then mister?" he asked with a slightly
furrowed brow.
"Sssh
amigo," the stranger issued lightly as he held up a slender solitary index
finger just afront his pressed lips. His lantern jaw was
set and sturdy as he prepared to unfold his perspicacious purpose there in the
little one-horse-trough town of Ojo Prieto.
* * *
"So
let me just see if I got all this straight in my head marshall... "
"Hunter,"
the stranger filled in the blank for the barman's semi-polite hesitation.
"Just call me... Hunter."
"Hunter...
sure... Marsh-- 'Hunter'," the camarero repeated evenly. "You
want me to go all around and about my own saloon here and ask
each and every one of my loyal regulars and assorted drifting 'guests' if they
have in fact ever seen or, better yet, might just happen
to
'know' the whereabouts of this here hombre, this terribly wanted cold-blooded
killer... Esau Pennyworth." He tapped down on the yellowing,
dog-eared wanted poster that the 'marshall' had layed out on the bar just
between them.
"Yep,
that's pretty much it so far," was the steely blue-eyed response.
"You need me to go over the rest of it... otra vez por ustedes?"
"No,
No... I think I have it all up her en mi cabeza," he proclaimed proudly as
he now tapped away along the side of his jet black pomade plastered
head as if certifying that he possessed some God-given gift of total recall or
picture perfect photographic memory. "You're
gonna
leave yer very hat here, turned upside down at the end of the bar by the front
door. Then yer gonna go across the street to Rosa's
little cocina fer a grub steak or some such meal."
At
this point the brawny barkeep unfurled his massive fist full of fingers to
reveal a half dozen or so solid silver navy Colt repeater cartridges,
then continued with his rendition of the lawman's rather involved
instructions. "Then I'm to drop 'these' here in an empty
beer
mug and leave the whole shootin' match, so to speak, just along side yer hat
down at the end of the bar," he paused to light up a
fat stub of cigar he he had pushed into his mouth for some type of dramatic
affect or whatever. "The whole secret idea being
that if anybody knows or has seen this sidewinder suspect Esau Pennyworth
around town to drop one of these silver slug into
yer hat. Is that about the size of it?"
"That's
it," Hunter nodded in perfectly satisfied agreement.
"Okay
then, I'll do it for you as you layed
out, but if you'll forgive my box turtle bluntness, this whole thing yer askin'
me to do
here just to 'try' and catch this one damn hombre seems a bit... 'involved',
don't ya think? I mean with all due respect... it just seems to me
that 'you' goin around and askin all these dudes and drifters I got in here
face to face would be a far sight easier not to say a damn sight
more effective. I mean, I'm askin you to try and see it from my angle Hunter. I
simply can't afford to lose any of these--"
Hunter
interupted with the spilling out of a heap of ringing and rolling freshly
minted silver dollars there on the bartop just in front of the perplexed
camarero. "Por favor amigo, I have my rhymes and reasons as to why I
conduct this grizzly business the way that I do. Aqui 'this'
is for
all your trouble amigo," said he confidently, "for all your saloon
sacrifices in helping me to ki-- to 'catch' this bastard... comprende-vu?"
"Muy
bien," from the now moon-eyed barman. "Si jefe I comprende.
Gracias... 'muchas gracias!' " he smiled as he scooped up all the shimmering
silver coins and pushed them somewhere just inside his rotund, sail-like white
waist apron.
The
stranger, Hunter, soon turned about calmly to initiate his convoluted plan by
making his roiling gray-smoke-cloud-breaking exit.
Then...
"Say
marsha-- Senor 'Hunter'," the bartender tried with an afterthought.
"There ain't no picture of this bird on this here wanted poster, just a
little piss-ant description of him being short and surly n' walkin' with a
slight limp. How's anybody supposed to--
"You
just carry out your part of our 'bargain' amigo," the slightly turning,
but not breaking stride Hunter rather rudely broke in.
"I
got a hunch that I'm gettin 'real' close now. He's around here somewheres
alright... I can feel it."
* * *
The
shoeless young towheaded boy had planted himself on the sprawling plank and
board sitting bench just in front of the massive glass
window of the Buenos Tiempo Cantina. He had his legs spread out lengthwise atop
the bench seat to make certain that he had a perfect
cat's eye view of the black hat and glass mug of silver shells on the bar top
just inside. If there were to be any 'contributors' he was
going to be the very first 'outsider' to k ow. From time to time, as he waited
there beneath the shade and coolness of the rooftop's clapboard
overhang with all the patience of Job himself, he'd pull out the glistening
silver dollar from his baggy shirt pocket and study it, carefully,
with an ear-to-ear grin.
* * *
[
approximately one half hour later ]
* * *
"Mas
coffee por ustedes senor?" the raven haired woman asked as she head-tossed
her long, twisted rope-splicing of a ponytail just
behind the flowered open neck of her multi-colored dress. She smiled down at
the man who was now pushed back from the little taco
table she had prepared especially for
him. He was smoking a pouch and paper rolled cigarette, seemingly lost in some
sort of troubling
ponderance. He snapped out of it and looked up at her with what could either
have been a frown or a wry smile, it was rather
hard to tell.
"Que?"
he asked a bit brusquely as he blew out a long thin streamer of tobacco smoke.
"I
want to say that would you like 'anything' else?" she tried again in
somewhat broken English, but with a universal wink of an almond
shaped dark and daring eye.
"Well...
uh, let me just," he stammered for a second or two. "I didn't know
exactly 'what' was on the menu here for dessert senorita. But,
now that you've done brought it up, I recon' I could sure go for a little of
your-- "
Suddenly
the cocina front door blew open and in scurried the little blonde sentry from
the Buenos Tiempo. He was up by the side of the
table in a shot, panting like a prairie puma. "SENOR! SENOR!" he
finally exclaimed as he stood there wide eyed. "I think it is he...
the
man that we... that 'you' are looking for. He stared into your hat there
on the cantina bar... then he made for the door... in a hurry!"
Hunter
popped out of his seat like a man possessed. He whipped out the notched handled
Colt from the holster at his hip so fast that the
boy and Rosa drew in a startled harmonious gasp.
"Was
he a scrubby lookin' little guy draggin' his right foot along behind him as he
made off?"
"Si!
Yes, Yes," the boy replied with owl-like eyes. "He ran off like he
had just seen a graveyard ghost, for the livery down the street.
You
can still catch him if you hurry senor."
Hunter
holstered the long, blue-black metal snout of his pistol and then fished around
in the pocket of his chocolate, suede leather vest. He
pulled out a few silver dollars and slapped them down on the table just in
front of the mesmerized Rosa. He saved one for the boy and
handed it to him with his own blue-eyed wink.
"You've
got yourself a keen eye son. You'll make your way through life just fine. Hell,
if you got any kinda' damn fool luck, you just could
end up like yours truly... Adios!" and out the door he went.
* * *
"What's
yer all fired hurry Esau?' inquired the tall, hatless silhouette there at the
gaping opening of the big swinging stable doors.
"Whaazat?"
from the little man as he let loo his
right hand with a reaction that Hunter had both witnessed and waited for many
times in the past. "How do you know my name?
You
some kinda' lawman? Just who in the hell do you think you are mister?" he
tried.
"I
'think' I'm the guy who's gonna' bring you back to Abilene amigo... dead or
alive. How I 'get' you there, be it upright or layed out flat
as a flapjack, is all up to you... comprende?"
An
eternity went by in one singular second right there between them. Suddenly,
Pennyworth plunged his hand down atop the hooking handle
of his holstered six-shooter. "You had better be 'very' fast my friend,"
he snarled, "cuz if you ain't... yer gonna be 'very' dea--"
KERPOW!
"Dead,"
Hunter finished for him with a lightning pull, followed by an instantaneous
resonating shot right between his shrewish eyes. Hunter
holstered his smoking Colt and stepped ahead cavalierly through the
less-than-fragrant carpet of dampt hay and horse manure. He
looked down stoically at the still life that was once the wanted for murder all
throughout the great state of Kansas, Esau Pennyworth.
"You'll
be comin' along quietly then I take it," the bounty hunter proclaimed with
a solemn sarcasm. He bent over to adjust the body of the
Kansas killer and prepare him for departure. He eventually hoisted him
high and shouldered him over and out to his waiting fugitive
buckboard
just there across the dried mud and worn wagon wheel ruts of Mainstreet.
___ The End ___
*For
any who might be curious or concerned: The bounty hunter (a.k.a. 'Hunter') did
retrieve his Stetson hat and silver shells from the bartop
of the 'El Buenos Tiempo Cantina' before headin' up north to claim his reward
money in Kansas.
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