The Sheriff With the Bend Spurs

A Story by _Amari_

A short story about a saloon in the old west and a mystery.

The little desert dragonfly was back again. It landed on the glass Elie was going to dry off next. An endless stream of gunslingers, headhunters mostly, filtered in and out of the saloon that afternoon and every dry glass would go to quick use. Any time there’s a battle far in the west the headhunters come. It was dirty work but it paid well and little mattered more to these men. Each of them had a gun strapped to his hips, a few even had two. Not the most pleasant bunch, but a saloon this far out in the desert needed to take all the business it could get.

Elie set down the glass in his hand, barely able to hear its sound against the counter of the noisy patrons. He slowly reached over the dragonfly for the next glass to try not to disturb the little critter. The piano player switched from a slow and dark song to Little Old Log Cabin in The Lane.

The young traveling musician began to sing. “Oh I’m gettin’ old and feeble and I cannot work no more. The children no more gather ’round my door.”

It was at door that a thud was heard. Sudden silence fell across the room. The sheriff had collapsed to the floor along with the small swinging doors he’d learned to hard against on his way in.

“You’ve broken my batwings!” Elie cried, hurrying to help him up.

“Get me a whisky,” said Sheriff Macalin.

Elie pulled him to his feet and helped him to a table. The noise grew back and the piano player restarted his song.

“You need a doctor not a drink,” said Elie, holding out his arm that was bloody from carrying the sheriff.

“Not my blood,” said Macalin.

“Well you still collapsed on your way in.”

“I fell off a train. The thieves broke in before I could get there. Shot my horse too. They had plants.”

“Plants?”

“They had armed men planted on the train. The Burning Stallion gang paid workers off. This is their third robbery this year. I’m getting too slow. Now I don’t even have a damn horse. Get me some whiskey for the pain and I’ll be out of here before they show up.”

“I’d be more worried for them if they’re going to try and take you out. You’ve shot a dozen men dead in my saloon already.”

“That was years ago. I’m gettin’ old.”

“You’ve got no successor pal. You can’t be gettin’ old yet.”

He hunched over and grabbed his side, his face holding back a pained grimace. “Get me the damn whiskey.”

Elie got up, found a glass and poured the whiskey. The 1861 whiskey was the best one he had. He got it a couple months back to shut the sheriff up when he’d complain after every glass of the cheaper stuff. The only drink he’d had of it was after his shootout. The sheriff had a broken wrist, arm, leg, and three ribs. When a man demanded a draw, the responsibility fell to Elie as he was the only one the sheriff said he could count on. He trained for a month with his uncle the hunter and learned the rules of the draw from the bedridden sheriff. After that he understood why the sheriff wouldn’t take anything cheap. Your point of view changes when a single bang and flash of smoke could end it all in an instant.

The sheriff washed it down in a second. “You’re going to run back to my station and get my other bullet belt. I’ve got two here.”

“You fired a lot of shots.”

“I fell off a train. They’re spilled somewhere out in the sand.”

“Well I’m sure you could ask around. Plenty of bullets here.”

Macalin chuckled and handed back his glass. Elie glanced around the room. “I’ve got other customers I should deal with before I get you another.”

Elie stood and scanned the saloon again. There were a number of tables with empty glasses and a group of people gathered at the bar waiting for drinks. He walked over and began serving them. The crowd seemed to enjoy the pianists song so much they shouted for him to play it again and began to sing along. Almost everyone seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it. Elie noticed a man who didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. He was sitting with another man and running his finger across the holster. The other man was turned towards the music, singing along.

“Hey sir,” said Elie. “You. With the partner in the back. If you’re going to do anything, take it outside pal.”

He did respond, he just scowled and took his hand from his holster to his drink. Elie walked back to the sheriff.

“Keep an eye on him will you?”

“He’s been keeping an eye on me since I got here.” The sheriff pushed his hat back showing a stern face. “He’s not the only one too.” He pointed with his eyes to another patron at the bar.

“What do you think they want?”

“I don’t know what they want but they’re asking for trouble looking over at me with hands on their guns.”

“Well if they got you, you’d better have a successor.”

“I’m not half dead already. You’re talkin’ like I am.”

“You’re right. That was a hellstorm of uncalled for. I’m sorry I’m just lookin’ to be the fellow who follows you up.”

“You’re not good with the subtle are ya?”

“I’m afraid not. But I’m good with a gun and my mind’s got an intuition sharper than a blade.”

“Ok then. I’ll let ya be considered, if you can tell what those men are up to. Intuition shaper than a blade, right pal?”

“Let me talk to ‘em then?”

“Shoot.”

Elie stood and walked to the one by the counter, the one he hadn’t shouted across the saloon at. Nothing stood out to Elie at first. As he got closer he looked at his six shooter, his sturdy leather belt, his hat felted from buffalo leather, his soft face with sharp features and a heavy dusting of the desert. There was something familiar about his face though he’s never been in the saloon before. Just the look. A mix of disgust and young vigor. He was a headhunter. A profession for the poor looking to get rich by dirty means. But it wasn’t his first time hunting heads. His boots were dirt cheap but his hat cost as much as half the bottles in the saloon combined. After his first round he used his money fast so he’s back for more.

“Howdy partner,” said Elie. “Lovely hat you’ve got there. I know somewhere you can get a pair of boots that nice.”

“What did you say, partner?”

“Nothin’ sorry. I just can’t help but notice how nice your hat is.”

“Hm.”

“So what brings you here.”

“Same as everyone else. I’m here for a drink. If you’re going to stand here and talk maybe I’ll have to find one somewhere else.” His hand drifted off the table, but Elie could only assume it landed on his holster on the other side of his hips.

The music faded. The room suddenly felt dangerous . He could sense every gun in the room. There was the clicking of the spurs of a man walking in, a snap as the sheriff finished reloading his gun, and the clink of the glass the man with the nice hat slammed to the table, pulling him back into the moment like a splash of cold water.

“I must not have been clear. I’d like a drink buddy.”

“Another John Barleycorn then? Your type seems to like those.” He was trying to hide his panic. He gave a little smile but the worry it would look inauthentic and raise more tension filled his head.

“What?”

“Beer. Sorry I’m used to... the westerners.”

“Beer? Sure.”

“Ya know son, for a headhunter who hasn’t started hunting heads, you’ve got a lot of cash to throw around.”

“How do you know that? You’ve been watchin’ me?”

“No no just… anyone who’s been in this town calls it a John Barleycorn.”

“I got a job.”

“Ah.” Elie wanted to press him more but knew enough. No headhunting job was paid in advance. “Here’s your drink, partner.”

Elie could hear his heart pounding in his head. He wished he had a six shooter at his hip. The walk back to the sheriff's table felt like eternity even if his legs were a beat away from a run.

“What is it?” said the sheriff.

“You said the men on the train were bought out?” said Elie with a taste of panic.

“Yeah.”

“I think the two of them…” he leaned in and whispered. “They’re bought too.”

“What for?”

“To… make you a dead mouse.”

“You look panicked. You sure you want to be sheriff?”

“How are you not?”

“Course I am, it just gets dull. We’ve got time. They’re waiting for the rest of their paid- off pals to get here or they would’ve shot me already.” The sheriff said this right at the end of the song. Even in a whisper it carried. Elie’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of spinning cylinders from six shooters drawn in half a second. Three men, one far in the back, the sheriff and Elie missed, leaped to their feet, guns in hand.

All the other patrons jumped away too. Elie, out of pure instinct leaped from the table, running across the saloon, and diving behind the bar. Looking over the counter he watched the chaos, like a bird in a shaken cage the room erupted. Some ran for the door, some leaped behind the table, the brave ones stood with their hands about to draw their revolvers.

The sheriff's gun was still at his side. His hat was pointed down and his stance was firm and decisive. His crooked spurs still spun from the jolt of standing. The sound of the spurs clicking and slowing felt like a countdown. Every click got a little longer than the last. The sheriff had just two bullets. Click click click. The spurs slowed filling Elie with a painful foreboding.

“Would you like to know how many men I’ve made into mice right here?” The sheriff’s voice was deep and gravely. “Enough to know when I’m surrounded by fear. Fear and blood.”

Click. Click. Click. The only sound in the silence.

Elie turned around and slouched on the counter, moving down quietly against the rack of bottles and glasses. He shut his eyes and tried to think. What would a sheriff do? He had no gun, not even a knife. Then a buzzing sound came over the clicks. The dragonfly flew towards him and landed on his nose. With that reminder he braced himself.

Click… Click… Click…

He took a glass and waited. Click… Click… He chucked the glass at the other side of the room, leaping to his feet. The other men’s attention turned, but not before the man seated at the bar was tackled out of his hat and onto the ground. Elie heard the sound of a shot and another and a man falling to the ground. He held the man to the ground and pinned his arms under his knee. Looking up he saw the patrons were all hidden now and the last surviving gunman was behind a table too. Another shot filled the room like the snap of a smoking whip. The sheriff’s last bullet was spent. Elie took the gun out of the man’s hand and pulled back the hammer. The man behind the table was hidden but slowly he moved around, crouching out of sight. He moved around until he could see the man’s feet, then his legs, then he leaped out and tried to fire another shot at the sheriff, but Elie was quicker and with a bang and a flash it was over.

“Will you consider me now?” he shouted to the sheriff.

“I’ll put you on my list.”

“Your list is just me, right now right? I’m afearin’ I’m the best pick you got right now.”

“Damn you’re a persistent fella.” The sheriff looked into his eyes, and for the first time Elie had ever seen, he looked proud. “And you’ve got the right stuff. But you’ll be my partner before I let you succeed me, pal.”