One Whiskey, Please

By J. Lender

Zeke squinted hard into the midday sun as his forehead soaked the brim of his hat with gritty sweat. His knees ached as they gripped the ribs of his white and brown horse.

Zeke should have been concerned with remaining incognito and surviving. But just one thing filled the entire landscape of his thoughts on this particular afternoon — the working girls at the saloon up ahead. Or as Vincent Van Gogh called them — the women who love so much.

He sure was fond of blondes, but brunettes had something special to offer too. Blonde or brunette? He would be forced to decide soon, as his horse was pacing with just a small bit of remaining dignity up to the Treasure Saloon.

*

After spending countless hours inching across the mercilessly bright desert, the interior of the Treasure Saloon looked about as dark as an ancient Egyptian sky at midnight. Zeke paced toward the bar with a wooden box tucked securely under his right arm — the contents knocking around clumsily inside.

“One whiskey please,” said Zeke to the bar keeper, placing the box on the bar.

“Whiskey’s 20 cents, friend. It’s a bit early, but some of the ladies upstairs might be ready for a go around. Most of ’em might still be sleeping off the laudanum. Cost you a dollar a hump,” said the bar keeper, eyeing the rooms on the second floor.

“I’ll just enjoy my whiskey for now, if you don’t mind,” responded Zeke.

Zeke didn’t care for being rushed to the ladies. He would go upstairs and “hump” when he was good and ready.

The whiskey went down fast and smooth and tasted like liquid gold from the gods. Zeke belched under his breath and motioned with his hand to the bar keeper for another.

Zeke stared across the bar and saw a tall, fat man drinking alone. The Big Man had his hat politely placed on top of the bar, exposing his white bald head. He looked like a giant circus baby with no hair, a dark mustache, and a confused, leathery face.

The Big Man was gazing the other direction but Zeke had a strange and definite feeling that the Big Man had been looking straight at him just a moment before.

Zeke reached for the box slowly and placed one hand on top. Exactly 13 gold nuggets rested inside. Zeke had been assigned to deliver this and a few other packages to El Paso. The packages never made it to their intended destinations, and Zeke had become squarely focused on reaching his brother’s ranch in Arizona Territory.

Zeke had not made the clean getaway he had hoped for. He should have known that such a large hunk of stolen gold would attract the worst type of bounty hunter. The kind who would demolish anything standing between him and his payday, without regard for women, children, or the infirm.

“I’ll head upstairs now for some company,” Zeke said to the bar keeper. He tucked the box under his arm and made his way toward the staircase, moving in an awkward and unconvincingly calm manner.

“Ladies, freshen up and make yourselves look pretty. A fella’s making his way upstairs now and expects a good time,” hollered the bar keeper. “Remember, a dollar a hump. Pay the lady in advance,” the bar keeper added.

Zeke was forced to turn his back to the Big Man as he took his first steps up the staircase. He grazed the palm of his left hand gently over the butt of his holstered Colt Peacemaker to assure himself it was still there to protect him. It was there.

A portly blonde gal peaked her head out of the first room at the top of the stairs and greeted Zeke with a forced, nauseous smile. Zeke quickly stepped inside, paid the blonde gal a dollar, and said shhhhh!

The Big Man sauntered from the bar and slowly ascended the staircase. His meaty hand caressed the revolver dangling from his hip.

Zeke’s eye peaked through a narrowly cracked door and watched the Big Man rise up the stairs. His heart thumped erratically and his armpits soaked his torso down to his ribs.

The Big Man reached the top step, stopped, and spied Zeke’s gazing eye. Zeke’s breathing stopped. He thrust the Peacemaker’s long barrel through the door’s narrow opening.

CRACK!!

Zeke’s Peacemaker fired straight and true. At first, the Big Man winced as if he had just stubbed his toe on a nightstand in the middle of the night. He then howled and clawed at his left thigh. The bullet had severed the femoral artery and the Big Man looked like he was pissing blood, leaving a red puddle on the wooden floor.

Zeke zipped past the Big Man like a dragonfly and flew down the stairs — the box of stolen gold affectionately tucked under his arm.

Zeke busted through the saloon doors as if running from a nightmare. He clumsily hopped on his horse. “Let’s go boy,” said Zeke, as he dug a spur into the horse’s ribs. The horse shot through town and into the horizon like an apparition.

Arizona Territory was two days away. Zeke might make it if his horse held up, and if no one else was trailing him. A good meal, a hot bath, and family would be there to greet him. The working girls would have to wait.

J. Lender is an emerging fiction writer, and a lifelong musician and surfer. He lives in Southern California with his wife, their three children, and “Mr. Stripes” the hamster.