The Magnificent Seventh(Lisa McDonald) The Magnificent Seventh
SHORT STORY
By Lisa McDonald



A Tequila sunrise cast an orange aura around the huge sillouette that stood resting both arms on either side of the saloon's duel swinging-doors. The hefty figure swaggered over to the bar and sat on the stool next to the vaquero that had just finished downing the last drop of Tequila in the glass.

"Gimmie a bottle of bourbon" escaped from the back of a dry throat as the big guy turned to look at the mexican who's coal black eyes locked with his. "Gimmie a bottle of tequila" the Vaquero snarled without breaking the stare.

You could almost hear the bartender's heart speed up as both men stared the other down in a heated battle of wills. They sat that way for quite a spell, tension filling the room as the bartender stood nervously drying and polishing the same shot glass over and over from the beads of sweat falling off his forehead...Admiring the vaqueros courage, "Names Jim" the big guy finally said lifting a dry, cracked hand from the Smith and Wesson that hung off his hip, and extended it in the usual formality..."Jose" came the reply as he too removed his hand from a holstered pistol and tightly gripped the hand of his rival, with a firm shake . They both sized one another up, each one secretly acknowledging the others brawn but remaining proud and self-assured, thoroughly convinced of their own brute skill.

Just as the bartenders heart began to slow itself down to a steady trot, The saloon doors swung open once again, as four of the roughest and toughest looking characters this side of Hell walked up and took their places at the bar, one at a time.

"Gimmie a bottle of bourbon" The first one scowled. "Gimmie a bottle of Tennessee" barked the second. "I'll have a bottle of scotch" Grunted the third. "A bottle of Tequila Gold right here" The fourth one glared, slamming a fist on the bar.

The big guy, sat up straight, flared his nostrils, flexing every bit of the brawn that covered his huge frame. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and without wincing, downed the last half of the bottle. It flowed down easy as lemonade. Still holding-his-own, he placed the empty bottle back on the bar. The vaquero likewise lifted the bottle of tequila, snorted hard and without wincing, guzzled down the last half of the bottle and was currently savoring the worm. "Mmm, Sabe igual que el caramelo, like candy" He boasted.

But The Four ruffians sat in cold silence, staring straight ahead completely aloof.

"Uuuh...Don't believe I've seen you fellas around these parts b'fore...Da you gentlemen got a name?" The bartender asked The four, nervously patting and wiping the sweat from his dripping brow with the dish-towel.

But remaining obtuse, not a word or a breath escaped their lips.

"I don't know how it's done where you fellas come from, but round here, it's rude not to speak when spoken to!" The big guy said malignantly.

The first of The Four, rolled a look that could kill in the big guy's direction..."We got ONE name!" He said presumptuously "They call us.-"

"Eez that pose to mean somethin'?" The vaquero interrupted. "Huh? You think you somethin' cuz people call you only by one name?" He said, flicking and spitting out a piece of the hard shell lodged between his teeth that the worm left behind.

Before the vaquero finished speaking, the Roughneck had already returned to staring straight ahead, ignoring and refusing to acknowledge the mexican. Still, the muscles in his jaw bulged and flinched as he clinched down hard, grinding his teeth in a brief moment of restraint in his growing dis-like for the two men.

His three companions, eager to live up to their reputation, swallowed one last swig before slamming the bottles down and turning towards the big guy and the vaquero, hands at the draw and ready.

Jim stood up from the bar tall, proud and determined and faced The three.

Jose too, positioned his right hand at the draw above the Colt 45 hangin' off his waist, and his left behind him, gripping the Bowie knife hidden under his jacket.

The bartender grabbed a swig or two of his own when the first of the four decided that he had had about enough R&R and took his last shot of bourbon, lifted himself off the stool and joined his three companions. Jim steadily raised his arm to the draw behind Jose as the bartender squeezed into the crawl space under the counter, mumbling and babbling incoherently a rusty prayer that he once learned as a small boy and remembered only at that moment when his whole life began flashing before his eyes.

This was it. The moment of truth. There was no turning back now even if they wanted to. It was time to lay the cards on the table, see who were of mice, and who were of men.

...Suddenly the room grew dark. Something was blocking the light. Each one slowly took their eyes off of each other and turned towards the door.

In the doorway was a giant of a man, stood 6' 5" if he was a foot, weighed about 300 lbs. of sheer muscle. He dusted and shook himself off the remains of a days long spicy sandstorm before taking the last stool at the bar.

The first six did likewise, returning to their places at the bar, never once taking their eyes off the giant.

After a thick moment, the giant spoke...,"Is there a bartender around here?"

"Hhhere I am." He whimpered, raising himself up out from under the counter. "Wha-what can I get for you?"

"A muga beer with a shota whisky in it." The Giant answered.

The bartender hurried to fill his request, placing it carefully in front of the heaving mass of muscle.

The giant lifted the hefty mug to his chapped lips and drank it down in one gulp, slammed the mug down for a refill. "Another one" He motioned to the bartender. He did the same with the 2nd and 3rd and so on. All the while, 12 eyes at the bar remained firmly locked on his every move. He had had just about enough of the staring when he finally turned and said, "You got somethin' needs sayin'...say it!"

Not one of them bothered to speak their mind, or maybe they just didn't have the courage, so he turned back around, swallowed another beer and whisky, then quickly downed another six, one for each fella sitten at the bar. The giant was a bottomless pit, with no end to his thirst. They all watched intently as he drank'em all down, one after another just like it was fresh spring water on a hot day. It was around this time that the six began to realize exactly what they were up against. There was a fire in this giant, that neither hell nor high water could compete with. Still, everyone of'em but the giant felt they had somethin to prove.

The more belligerent of the "four", lazily cocked his head back and swallowed a shot of courage, slammed the bottle back down, lifted himself up off the stool and walked the long way around to the other side of the man, arrogantly leaned against the counter and tapped him on the shoulder. "You gotta name giant?"

He ignored the pesky fly leaning on the bar.

"HEY! I'm talkin' to you giant. Round here it's rude ta not speak when spoken to, so I'm goin to ask you one more time...You-got-a-name, giant?" He repeated a little slower as if the big man couldn't understand a full sentence.

The other five sensed an urge in their drawing arm to get ready, and figured it best to be prepared just in case. But the bartender now smiled and leaned confidently against the wall behind the bar, certain of the final outcome. There was not a question in his mind, which one of the seven was a "real man."

"Everybody's got a name" came the calm, cool reply.

"Yeah...and everybody's got a reputation too...You're a big fella" He said flicking the brim of the giant mans hat. "I'll bet you gotta big name and a big reputation to go with it too, don't ya?"

The giant went about his business, never saying a word in reply.

Not taking kindly to being ignored and wanting to flash his tail feathers, "Don't you wanna know who we are giant? You see my friends over here? He said, nodding his head in the direction of the other three, "We four gotta reputation too? " He said, firmly nudging the big mans shoulder with his index finger, to no avail.

But the giant sat cool as a cucumber and waited for a refill.

"Ya know giant...? Outta the kindness of my heart, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna do you a favor, and tell you just who me and my three companions are. They call us The.-"

"I know who you are" came the gritty reply. "I know who all of you are." He said, pouring down another beer and whisky before lifting his heavy frame from the bar stool, towering over the "pesky fly" as he flipped a gold coin to the bartender.

The bartender's smile grew wider.

No one said a word as the giant adjusted his hat atop his head then turned around to speak.

"The fella sittin' at the end of the bar over there's Jim Beam. The vaquero goes by the name Jose Cuervo, and you four gentlemen, they call-The Four Horsemen." He said, matter of factly in utter disinterest then headed for the door.

Each one now gorged with pride that the giant knew who they all were and was cognizant of their infamous reputations, now had their eyes glued to the giants back as never before, arrogantly watching as he left, when he suddenly stopped short and looked back over his shoulder one last time before exiting the saloon.

"But me" He said, pausing briefly, taking a final look at the six inflated egos..."Folks that KNOW me, call me The Boilermaker."

Then like the real man that he was, He tipped his hat and said, "Now you gentleman have yourselves a wonderful day." Then exited the saloon, leaving each and every last one of them thunderstruck, greatly relieved..., and still intact.

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