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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Western / Wild West
- Published: 03/10/2018
One shot.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United States“Get out of the bar.”
“Make me.”
“I don’t have to. I told you to leave.”
The young tough looked over at the tired old man telling him to leave. Sure the leather on the old mans's gun belt was worn smooth, the gun was polished and oiled. But the testosterone and pride surging through his young body ignored the faint signals that maybe the old man’s unconcern wasn’t faked.
Nor did the young man notice that everyone in the bar had moved to the walls, at least not at first. But when he saw the Bar tender raise his hands in the air, step back, and then say to the tired old man:
“One shot let him go. He’s not a bad kid. He’s just full of himself and he had to much liquor.”
The tired old man looked up at the bar tender. His eyes were dark opals- no life in them at all. No second chances lurked in there either.
“A man who takes his chances drinking liquor has already made a choice. “
The young guy was now aware that the tired old man was not even looking at him, but at the bartender. As if the young guy was some cockroach or chunk of horse manure, to be noticed for a moment, then flicked without concern from the bottom of a boot. Even through the liquor, the name: “One Shot”- registered.
“Jesus,” the young guy’s voice trembled with excitement: “You’re one shot? I thought you would be younger.”
One shot didn’t look up, but down at his drink. His voice was soft, but still a command.
“If you say another word you won’t get any older. I told you to leave.”
A part of the young guy wanted to leave. Really it did. But a bigger part - the fool part- thought he could bluff, and then leave. So he started to say: “I’m going…”
BAM!
One Shot.
Nobody saw the tired old man draw. The gun was already put away before the first drop of blood, the look of surprise on the young guys face, and the button on the young guys shirt that came out his back, pushed there by the bullet from the tired old guy’s gun.
He was a young tough guy. And like the man said, he wasn’t going to get even a minute older- ever. The last thing the young guy heard was the tired old man saying:
“I told you twice to leave. I told you not to say another word. You said two. Liquor always talks, but rarely talks sense.”
The Bar tender put another glass of sassafras tea in front of the old tired man. It was the tea that set the young tough off on his terminal tirade.
“Tea? Out here old man, real men drink liquor.”
Liquor, youth, time, and laughter; piled up over the next half hour- until the warnings, the command, and one shot rang out.
The Sheriff came by in a bit. Asked a few of the customers what happened, then paid the bartender a two bit piece to take the body over to the undertakers. He went and stood next to the tired old man at the bar.
“Hey one shot.”
“Hey.”
“So, another young one wouldn’t listen.”
“Yep.”
“What’s that make? Forty two?”
“Nope. Forty seven.”
The Sheriff pushed his hat back on his head, wiped his brow, turned and gave a stern “be quiet” look to the man by the piano. The one who whistled when the tired old man said: “Forty seven.”
It was all the warning the piano man needed. Silence fell like night in the desert with no twilight at all.
Turning back the bar, the Sheriff (while not a brave man - but a man who did his job) said to the tired old man:
“Well, One Shot, you know I have to ask you to leave town. His kin will come looking for you. It’s raining out, so I suppose nobody will come after you tonight. I would take it kindly as a favor if you would be gone after breakfast tomorrow.”
The old tired man heard the fear, barely under control, in the Sheriff’s voice. He knew that tremble well. But this Sheriff was a good man. He was just doing his job as best he could. The tired old man knew the Sheriff would gather a posse together in the morning to try and get the tired old man to mosey along.
The tired old man knew where that would lead, like it did at Leadville, or Dry Gulch, or Sweetwater; to a pile of dead bodies sprawled in shocked death. One shot through each of them. The Sheriff knew it too. But he held his ground.
“I’ll be gone by then.”
“Much obliged. I’ll have my wife pack up some bacon, beans, hardtack, and some coffee for you. Come by on your way out of town and pick it up.”
“What’ll that cost me?”
“Nothing. You are letting me live. Consider it a kindness for a debt I can’t repay.”
The tired old man smiled. There weren’t many good men in the West yet. The Sheriff was one of them. The tired old man was glad he wasn’t going to have to kill him, or his posse.
With one shot.
One shot.(Kevin Hughes)
“Get out of the bar.”
“Make me.”
“I don’t have to. I told you to leave.”
The young tough looked over at the tired old man telling him to leave. Sure the leather on the old mans's gun belt was worn smooth, the gun was polished and oiled. But the testosterone and pride surging through his young body ignored the faint signals that maybe the old man’s unconcern wasn’t faked.
Nor did the young man notice that everyone in the bar had moved to the walls, at least not at first. But when he saw the Bar tender raise his hands in the air, step back, and then say to the tired old man:
“One shot let him go. He’s not a bad kid. He’s just full of himself and he had to much liquor.”
The tired old man looked up at the bar tender. His eyes were dark opals- no life in them at all. No second chances lurked in there either.
“A man who takes his chances drinking liquor has already made a choice. “
The young guy was now aware that the tired old man was not even looking at him, but at the bartender. As if the young guy was some cockroach or chunk of horse manure, to be noticed for a moment, then flicked without concern from the bottom of a boot. Even through the liquor, the name: “One Shot”- registered.
“Jesus,” the young guy’s voice trembled with excitement: “You’re one shot? I thought you would be younger.”
One shot didn’t look up, but down at his drink. His voice was soft, but still a command.
“If you say another word you won’t get any older. I told you to leave.”
A part of the young guy wanted to leave. Really it did. But a bigger part - the fool part- thought he could bluff, and then leave. So he started to say: “I’m going…”
BAM!
One Shot.
Nobody saw the tired old man draw. The gun was already put away before the first drop of blood, the look of surprise on the young guys face, and the button on the young guys shirt that came out his back, pushed there by the bullet from the tired old guy’s gun.
He was a young tough guy. And like the man said, he wasn’t going to get even a minute older- ever. The last thing the young guy heard was the tired old man saying:
“I told you twice to leave. I told you not to say another word. You said two. Liquor always talks, but rarely talks sense.”
The Bar tender put another glass of sassafras tea in front of the old tired man. It was the tea that set the young tough off on his terminal tirade.
“Tea? Out here old man, real men drink liquor.”
Liquor, youth, time, and laughter; piled up over the next half hour- until the warnings, the command, and one shot rang out.
The Sheriff came by in a bit. Asked a few of the customers what happened, then paid the bartender a two bit piece to take the body over to the undertakers. He went and stood next to the tired old man at the bar.
“Hey one shot.”
“Hey.”
“So, another young one wouldn’t listen.”
“Yep.”
“What’s that make? Forty two?”
“Nope. Forty seven.”
The Sheriff pushed his hat back on his head, wiped his brow, turned and gave a stern “be quiet” look to the man by the piano. The one who whistled when the tired old man said: “Forty seven.”
It was all the warning the piano man needed. Silence fell like night in the desert with no twilight at all.
Turning back the bar, the Sheriff (while not a brave man - but a man who did his job) said to the tired old man:
“Well, One Shot, you know I have to ask you to leave town. His kin will come looking for you. It’s raining out, so I suppose nobody will come after you tonight. I would take it kindly as a favor if you would be gone after breakfast tomorrow.”
The old tired man heard the fear, barely under control, in the Sheriff’s voice. He knew that tremble well. But this Sheriff was a good man. He was just doing his job as best he could. The tired old man knew the Sheriff would gather a posse together in the morning to try and get the tired old man to mosey along.
The tired old man knew where that would lead, like it did at Leadville, or Dry Gulch, or Sweetwater; to a pile of dead bodies sprawled in shocked death. One shot through each of them. The Sheriff knew it too. But he held his ground.
“I’ll be gone by then.”
“Much obliged. I’ll have my wife pack up some bacon, beans, hardtack, and some coffee for you. Come by on your way out of town and pick it up.”
“What’ll that cost me?”
“Nothing. You are letting me live. Consider it a kindness for a debt I can’t repay.”
The tired old man smiled. There weren’t many good men in the West yet. The Sheriff was one of them. The tired old man was glad he wasn’t going to have to kill him, or his posse.
With one shot.
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