Hell Chased Bart Masters

“You look thirsty, my good friend,” Bart said to the bleached skull of a buffalo. Not caring about Indian holy-ground, he had removed the broken lance from the center of the skull. 

He stared at the token of danger, then waved his hand. “I see you no longer require libations.” Drunken laughter echoed across the sands, as Bart drained the bottle. His final supersized pull ran down his chin and forearm. He held the lance in his left hand. He used it to remain in an upright position. The empty decanter balanced in his open right hand. The bottle containing nothing but shame coated in a light layer of sand made a faint whistling sound as the wind filtered in and over it. 

The effects of alcohol dulled any of his concerns, and a heat-induced sleep carried him to a game of five-card stud. The memory of his old man teaching him and his brother to play poker. Ben and Bart were eleven, and this memory was Bart’s only good memory of the drunken slob that had been their father.

“Boy don’t touch your face! Do you want everyone in the room to know you have a bad hand?”

Ben tugged at his shirt. He sat up tall and straight, thinned his lips and tossed in a chickpea to up the ante. The generous stack of peas said each player wanted the pot. The pot mother would cook once they were done playing. 

In the smallest motion, possible, Bart shook his head ‘no,’ at his squirming brother, but it was too late. 

“Are ya thick in the head, boy? If you can’t touch your face, don’t ya think it follows not to touch your shirt as well?” 

“Sorry dad,” Ben whined, “but I’m hungry.” 

Their old man only smiled, he added to the pot of chickpeas then, called. A drunken grin fanned his face as he laid down a full house 4’s and 9’s. Ben fanned his own boat of 5’s and 10’s. Now for Bart’s hand. He laid down each card one at a time. With the final card down, they all looked to see who would claim the win. Bart’s face fell to find he held A’s and 8’s (the dead man’s hand). 

His dream/ memory became blurred. As the backdrop faded, everything was stripped away except for his twin. Ben looked up at him. He leaned across the table frowning, both palms rested on the table as he halfway stood, then he screamed, “run!”

Bart, jerked awake the bottle shattered as it hit the rock. Bart stumbled to his feet to see an Indian rush upon him. Bart hurled the broken lance hard and fast. The brave fell where he stood. Blindsided by a second man, a fight ensued. Knuckles of iron rattled the skilled fighters teeth, the old Indian spit out a tooth. Gouging at Bart’s eyes.

The pounding of hoofs rang out once again. The sky filled with a rhythmic hum, and flames danced in the air. The fighters grew still, realizing the unnatural state of the approaching mob the two stood shoulder to shoulder to fight as one. 

Bart seized his 6 shooter fanning the trigger like lightning. Six shots thundered, leaving him spinning the chamber shooting empty rounds. The Indian cried out in battle, rushing upon Death, who only drank in the pair in a cloud of dust, adding to his assemblage. Without satisfaction, Death charged on.

Author's Note

Rough draft

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A action filled chapter. I did like the beginning. Talking to dead men. The story is very entertaining. You left us with a open ending. Thank you dear Cherrie for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote

[Dave Brown]

I like the cowboy stuff and try the occasional western theme, without much success
your account includes nice details that decorate effectively
I am a bit surprised that you (Oh,m'god, a woman!!) are so involved in the western theme and
wonder if this will eventually come out in the form of a published book

[Cherrie Palmer]

Thank you Dave
I guess time will only tell on this story depending on what i add and how well I can polish/edit.
I am a fan of the old westerns I grew up reading Zane Grey books, and I love trying to capture that essence.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Brings to mind a dumber, more brutal version of the Maverick bothers. That, however, is where any similarity ends.
Your flashbacks and action scenes are simply outstanding. Indeed, masterful.
All in all, Cherrie, an exceptional Western account!

[Cherrie Palmer]

That crossed my mind as I named them that but decided to name them that anyway.