The Stranger and the Saloon Door.(Kevin Hughes) The doors burst open, flung aside by the power and fury of a human body being propelled thru the air by a far stronger, more powerful, and much more angry human body.

It was a common occurrence in many of the Old Saloons of the Old West- to have a body flung like something insignificant thru the doors, probably over something insignificant. Most saloon doors of the Old West were hinged to swing freely in any direction. Just because a human body left the saloon broken, bloody, damaged, sometimes beyond repair- is no reason to make the doors suffer too. If Saloon Doors could only talk…or can they?


It was dark, as it often was at night out West. After all, there was no electricity in the Old West, nor streetlights, nor gas lamps, well maybe in Kansas City, or out in California, say in High Fallutin San Francisco... maybe. But out here, in towns like : Dry Gulch, Sweetwater, Tombstone, Durango, Siler Station, Laramie, Casper, and a thousand other towns across the Nations, or the Territories…well, the only light at night was in a saloon- outside the shadow ruled, running along side the night like cousins with a wheel and a stick. When the doors of that saloon opened, and closed quickly, no head would turn, there wasn’t any trouble in a quick swinging door.

No, sirree. It was when just one door opened, and stayed open, that the folks in the Saloon would stop, turn and look. For when a door froze like that, often a stranger stood silhouetted by the lamps in the door way. One hand holding the door wide, the other, free to reach for his gun. When a door did not swing, but only opened, it was a sure sign that a stranger had stopped to survey the room. Just like the room stopped to survey the man in the doorway. For any time a door was held open, it was likely held open by a Stranger.
Strangers, in the Old West, were always suspect even if they weren’t one. Strangers often meant trouble, even if they were not looking for it. Like this Stranger. He wasn’t looking for trouble, just a drink, a bite to eat and a bunk for the night. But…if trouble wanted to come hunting, he would be easy to find.

The men of the Old West were hard weathered men. Men who’s hands were toughened by hard work done on long days. They were men who carried guns knowing how to use them, and when. They were tough, rangy, mean, a creature just at home on the range as: a wolf, or a mountain lion, or a bear, or a rattlesnake. And…just as deadly. These are men who had looked death in the eye with a steady stare, and a calm heart. “What will be, will be, but I ain’t going down without a fight.” They never actually said that out loud, but they may as well have. Even the Devil might think twice before taking on some of the hombres that called both the Old West and the Saloons- Home.

That is why, when that door squeaked open, then stopped, as if trying desperately not to come to the attention of the huge calloused hand, holding it lightly open it was surprising to see so many men of the Old West…wither. Their brave independence, and willingness to fight... withering like a dried tumbleweed in the desert under the steady gaze of eyes that only shone with the stark coldness of a desert night.

Those eyes were deserted to, orbs emptied of any fear, of any consequence, of any outcome. It made men at the bar open a slot…a wide slot. It made the men with families decide to call it an early evening. It made tough guys tighten their gun belts, and hope that they wouldn’t have to prove tonight that the fast die young. Trouble might run ahead of the Stranger, but never at him. Not directly. Not if trouble wanted to live.

He was a big man. Shoulders cut from canyons, and honed by hard times, his face all edges and planes, like the mountains he felt home in. His muscles didn’t run in slabs, but in iron ripped cords of wire. Arms and shoulders that could, without much effort, tear the door off its hinges, fling it a good twenty feet out into the street, fists like baked hams, but harder than cement, hands that could tear down the meatlocker of any man brave, or more likely…foolhardy enough to challenge them.

Bareknuckled he had crushed the bones of many skulls, jaws, sending teeth out the door moments before the bloody battered face of their former owner followed. No, this was not a man you wanted to face, with a gun, or with your fists. The door, even though it was inanimate…quivered.

When the big man. The silent man. The deadly man. The Stranger, glided to the bar with the ease and balance of an athlete, and the poise of a killing machine with the safety off- no one said a word. Except the door. The door breathed quietly, knowing it was safe. For that Stranger would walk out calmly, even if a body or two came out in a hurry, with a broken jaw, or riddled with bullets , before him. The door, at least, would live another day.

It was an innocent remark. Or could have been. Or might have been. We will never know. We do know it was said. Once it was out, it lost all innocence. Like the wife of a farmer, when her husband was asleep, and strong young hands brought pleasure while he slept on through the night. What happens in the night, stays in the night. And so, it started:

“ I will have clear water, if you have any.”

“Water? “ Snorted one of the men who had checked his gun belt: “ Real men don’t drink much water around here.”

Everyone laughed. Even the Stranger.

“Well, I can’t rightly say I am a real man. I can say I am a thirsty man. I rode for three days across that desert, without any water. “

Had it stopped there, well, it would have been a quiet night of drinking, card playing, and people minding their own business. It did not stop there. For some men are afraid to show they are afraid. The man who had made the water remark, was one of those men.

“Well, if you are stupid enough to try that desert without water, you sure enough will want water. There ain’t no way, in that desert heat, that you rode three days without water. Not and walk in here under your own power. “

There are a lot of things you can call a man out in the Old West. Liar…is…not…one … of …them. The room grew deadly quiet, and that, my friends, is the correct adverb- deadly. Everyone knew it. The bartender placed water in front of the Stranger.

“It’s clean water. Sweet water. I have a well out back that is fed from a mountain spring. Since you been in the desert for three days, best you sip it slow. No charge if you tell us all the story about how you came to be without water. I don’t mark you as a tenderfoot. Only a tenderfoot would get caught out there without water. So, I imagine there is a story there, one worth the telling.”

The Stranger smiled. He knew the old bartender was smart and had been ridden hard and put away wet a few times. He tipped his hat to the old man in respect. It would have been enough of a distraction to let the young tough go on living. Men of the Old West love a story, and would have listened to the Stranger with delight. The Stranger was even willing to tell the story, because the three men beat him and took his water, well, they weren’t able to tell the story. After all, it is hard for dead men to talk.

“Much obliged. “ He sipped the water slowly. “ Let me wet my throat a bit…and I will tell you how I came to be without a canteen, no horse, and sore. When I finally got my horse back, there weren’t no water in the canteen. “

The young tough, made another remark, his last, as it turned out.

“Oh, this ought to be good. Let me guess, somebody got the drop on you, beat you, stole your horse, and left you to die. But you being tough and all, followed them on foot, tracked them, and took back your horse. I suppose they just let you mosey on up to their campfire, take your horse and gun, but wouldn’t give you a canteen, and told you if you could hold out, there is a town three days away -if’n you can make it there. “ He leaned back his head and howled. A few other joined in.

The Stranger’s voice changed. It became metal on an anvil. His eyes went as dead black as the night, his body just as quiet. Danger quiet, like when wildlife stops drawing attention to itself in the wild. Birds stop chirping. Squirrels freeze, and bugs hide. That kind of quiet. To still to be natural.

“ That’s about right. Except they forgot to take my gun. A stray bullet from one of them, mine all hit what I was aiming for, went through all four canteens they had set aside by the coffee. That coffee was the last drink I had. (There was a pause, as the Stranger took a long, slow, soft swallow of the sweet water.) Come to think of it, it was the last drink those three fellas had too. “ The smile that came on the Stranger’s Face would have made the Devil cringe. It was empty of remorse, bereft of passion, not an ounce of forgiveness in it.

The men who could see the Stranger’s face, never forgot that smile. It followed them into their dreams almost every night.

The tough knew he had gone to far, but he wasn’t stopping now. He had no backdown in his backbone- just like he had no sense in his head. It is a bad combination if you want to live to see another day. He made his third, and final remark of the evening:

“So you braced there men with your guns there (pointing to the twin holsters slung low on the narrow waist of the big man) and shot them before they got their guns out?”

The Stranger sill wearing that same smile, except now, there was no one at the bar, but the stranger and the young tough.

“No. I kept my guns in my holster, just like I am doing now. I let them take their guns out. Just like I am going to let you. Only then, will I pull out my guns. “

The young tough couldn’t believe it. He knew that he was fast, at least three of the “fastest guns in the West” found out they weren’t when they challenged him. And this Stranger was going to let him draw first? The smile on his face was one of a man counting his chickens before they hatched. He laughed. And pulled his gun out. He saw it come out, saw it become level, and still the Stranger had not moved. He thought for a moment, that was very strange. Did the Strange want to die? Then he tightened his finger on the trigger. He never saw the Strangers guns come out. He did feel the bullets hitting him one, after another, after another. Backing him up to the Saloon doors.

He tried to reach up, guns forgotten, to hold onto the doors, for a brief moment he did hold himself erect using the saloon doors, much like Christ must have used the Cross, for support as the life drained out of him. “Sweet Jesus….” were his last words. Then another volley of bullets drove him out in to the darkness of a Western Town at night. It was still again, both inside the saloon, and outside. The night shadows made the body in the street into the nothingness that it now was.

Inside, the big stranger had both his guns out, still smoking. Nobody but him, and the dead tough... knew that ten bullets had been fired. In the morning, men who could face a bear with nothing but a knife and a frying pan, would turn green and vomit. Ten bullets. Ten. Six in the heart, not the chest, the heart. Four…four, in what used to be the space between the dead man’s eyes. No one had ever seen shooting like that. Nobody ever wanted to.

The big man let his guns cool, as he looked around the room. The bartender put another glass of sweet water up on the bar.

“I suppose we won’t be needing that story after all. You can bunk out back, there is a bunk room in the barn. You can bar the door from the inside.”

“Much obliged old man. I thank you for that. I don’t think I need to bar the door"…and he looked around the room.

The old man bartender laughed out loud:

‘No, no. I suppose not. “

The saloon door stayed quiet.

By Kevin Hughes

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