When I come to the end of writing
a story and I look back on it, realizing that a few hours ago this story did
not exist, to go from a blank screen on my computer monitor to word-sketched scenes
and characters—I am astonished. This feeling of gratefulness to be allowed that
adventure is almost overwhelming. Top that off with the opportunity to have the
story published, entertaining my readers and perhaps revealing an underlying
truth, brings me to doing the happy dance.
I don’t have the date when the
book will be published, but I have signed a release for Breath of Fresh Air
Press to include the following fictional story in their Mixed Blessings Books
series, coming out in the near future. Originally written in November, 2010,
for faithwriters.com’s weekly writing challenge, this story received an
Editor’s Choice award. Later weekly challenges prompted two more stories set in
this fictional town of Dry Gulp .
I’ll be featuring those stories here in my little corner soon. Now for your
reading pleasure and to whet your appetite for the entire Mixed Blessings series,
I give you:
Rumors don’t come howlin’ through the window like a Santa Ana wind at four
o’clock in the mornin’. Nope, more ‘n’ likely they come tantalizin’ like a
breeze, lickin’ at yer ears, temptin’ ya to position yerself for a mite more o’
folks’ palavarin’.
I wish to high heaven I’d fastened the shutters snug agin’
my own meddlesomeness. If I’d’a done that, I mightn’t be in this here pickle,
havin’ to make a life alterin’ decision.
I been owner o’ The Dry Gulp Saloon here nigh onto twenty
years, offerin’ the best whiskey in town. And sasspariller fer the ladies. I
ain’t opposed to females frequentin’ my establishment a’tall. But if it weren’t
fer womenfolk I might’a never heard what I’m about to tell ya. So I’m a tad
conflicted about allowin’ ‘em in.
Boy howdy, there’s this big outfit outside o’ town, The
Cornerstone Ranch. It’s been there since before I come out west. Owner lives
back east. I been out there, providin’ liquid sustenance at a barn dance, so I
know the foreman. Clay seems like a good ol’ cowpoke, never done me no harm anywise.
He’s shore made somethin’ out’a that spread. Ever’ fall his cowhands drive
hundreds o’ head o’ cattle to the railroad, herds so big there don’t seem to be
no end to ‘em.
I asked Clay once about his boss. He said he ain’t heard
from the feller in years, figgers he done lost interest in the place. That
don’t bother Clay none. Clay says, “Me and the boys’re doin’ mighty fine. Don’t
need him messin’ things up. We been doin’ all the work all these years—I figger
it’s MY place now. He ever shows up? Might jest be a show down in the streets,
that’s all!”
I must’a looked a tetch pale faced ‘cause Clay grinned and
clapped me on the back. “Don’tcha worry none, ol’ feller,” he said. “Mr. High
Falutin’ Eastern Fancy Pants ain’t a’comin’! I’m shore he got better things to
do than ride all this way on dusty trains and stagecoaches an’ all. You jest
tend yer bar and no trouble’ll come to ya.”
Well, I wadded my botherment like a hankeychief in my back
pocket and got on with my saloon keepin’, like the man said.
I got me a little gal, Daisy Rose, borned to me and my wife
seven years ago. My wife’s one o’ those ladies who come in fer my sasspariller.
She ended up stayin’. I ain’t sorry Daisy Rose come along but like I said, I’m
a mite conflicted.
I let Daisy Rose have the run o’ the place. She keeps me up
on the doin’s ‘round here. They say womenfolk love bearin’ tales but I gotta
‘fess up, to my shame, my ears’re always flappin’ fer the tale to be told. So I
ain’t never told Daisy not to eavesdrop.
One day Daisy tells me what she heard while she was doin’
her little chores, sweepin’ the storage room. She don’t know what it’s all
about but it durn near made my blood freeze.
Seems a coupla Cornerstone cowboys was enjoyin’ a smoke out
back. They’s laughin’ an’ talkin’ about how messengers from Mr. Fancy Pants
been comin’ regular-like to the ranch. How the cowhands got orders from Clay to
give ‘em a message to take back to him. As Daisy Rose prattled, a remembrance
come to my mind of a coupla well-dressed strangers that’d partook of a glass of
my finest. Later I seen ‘em boardin’ the stage, a little worse fer wear. Now’s
I think on it, ‘twas evidence of a cowpuncher’s blows.
Daisy’s a’pullin’ on my vest, “Papa, does Mr. Fancy Pants
have a son? Willy and Little George said when Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy gets here,
they’re gonna throw him a party in the gully where that ol’ weepin’ willow
grows. What kinda party is a lynchin’ party, Papa? Maybe Willy and Little
George’ll invite me.”
Now I gotta decide if’n I oughta bear this tale to the
sheriff an’ run the risk o’ Clay’s six-shooter finding a place to put a plug in
me. Or am I gonna let Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy get hung so’s I can go on benefitin’
from the Cornerstone’s silver?
I wish to heaven I’d’a made Daisy Rose stay home with her
mama.
(Photographs taken at The Rusty Wagon, a local eatery)
