In
a saloon one hot August night, about the time the conflict between the states
had been raging for more than three years, or so, Adrian sipped warm beer from
a dirty glass as he leaned the back of a rickety chair against the wall and
watched a five-handed poker game. Such easy entertainment passed the time;
anyway, the two saloon girls were ugly, smelled bad with even worse manners,
save for customers with jingle in their pockets and pointedly avoided the likes
of the plow-boy too poor to pay attention. Sulking in his depression and
nursing his flat beverage, the boy hardly noticed when the game broke up and
three of the gamblers retreated to the bar seeking the attentions of the “ugly”
painted-ladies who, somehow, looked better as the night wore on causing the
warm beer washing down amber whiskey-swill to “pretty” them up, some!?
The
remaining two men, rough cut and dressed in non-descript attire, sat close
together whispering back and forth, ignoring the youth half-asleep in his chair
leaning against the wall.
Adrian’s
vacant daydreaming about nothing in particular was jolted to attention when he
overheard one of the cowboys say, “Coon Dog believes we can tree that there
town,” he boasted, getting a little too loud, causing his mate to elbow him
hard in the side to shush him.
“Damn!
Roscoe!” Sore ribs complained. “That hurt!” He rubbed the tender side injury.
“Quiet!
You Idiot!” Rebuffed Roscoe, calling his friend by his acquired nickname. “You
want to tell the whole damned world about it?” He shook his head, eyeing the
boy in the chair who was now watching them, intently.
“Oh!”
Idiot whined. “Hell! He ain’t nothing but a damn boy.” Then, checking himself,
he said to Adrian, “Hey, kid. You didn’t hear nothing we was talking about now,
did ya?”
Roscoe
rolled his eyes as the boy remained, wisely, silent.
Roscoe
rose, grabbing his hat from the table top and said, gruffly, “Let’s go, Idiot.”
Idiot
took the command and got to his feet, following his leader out the batwing
doors to the board walk out front of the saloon but taking full advantage to
get one final eyeful of the fine looks of the bar maids, suddenly wishing
Roscoe had more patience; that Lucy Ellen sure was pretty, and, smelled “not
too bad”, too.
“Well!
Hell! Maybe next time?” Came Idiot’s final hopeful lament.
As
soon as the pair reached the walkway, Adrian quietly slid along the wall and
exited the barroom through an open window into an alley which led to the street
out front. At the corner of the building, he chanced a peek around the edge of
the building; Roscoe and Idiot were headed his way. The boy secreted himself in
a handy wooden open-ended crate, biding his time.
The
boots of the pair approached his position as he mentally mapped their progress
by the hollow thudding of hob-nail boot heels scraping across the rough-sawn
boards of the wooden walkway. When the men reached the alley and stepped off
into the dirt of the alley, Adrian heard the altercation of a scuffle and,
among several mean grunts and thumping punches, some of the vilest curse words
the boy had yet witnessed.
Suddenly,
one of the men slammed against the wall directly in front of Adrian’s hurriedly-decided,
and, poorly-chosen, hiding place.
Blood
trickled from Idiot’s mouth and his nose was smashed; his dark eyes fell on the
frightened face of the boy from the saloon who had overheard his comments. His
own eyes widened and he held his hand forward to forestall Roscoe’s threatened
continuing rage.
“Hold
it! Roscoe!” Idiot nearly yelled. “Just look-y what I found me.” He pointed.
Roscoe
peered in, then roughly grabbed Adrian by the shirtfront with a ham-sized fist
and literally plucked the boy bodily from his faux security, such as it was;
evil death threatened in the bully’s dark, pernicious stare.
“Boy!”
Roscoe began, “I’m only asking you once; you lie? You die! Right here! Right
now!”
Adrian
felt a pointed-pain in his neck; his darting eyes caught the glint of an
Arkansas “toothpick”. He felt warm blood trickle down his skin; if Roscoe
pushed just a tiny bit harder---Adios! Adrian swallowed, hard! Hoping it would
not be his last time to be able to do so.
“You
spying on us in there, boy?” Roscoe spat the words, warning, “Don’t lie to me!”
Adrian
tried to swallow, again, this time his mouth so dry from fear that he had no saliva
left; Roscoe pressed the honed blade a bit harder with the dagger tip now
severely paining the youth.
“N-No!
Sir!” Adrian finally managed. He swallowed, a little, quickly adding, “I just
wondered if I might join up with you men. I’m on my own; ain’t had a decent
meal in two days.”
“Aw!
Roscoe!” Butted-in Idiot, “Let the kid go; he don’t know nothing.”
Roscoe
glared at his partner. “Maybe?” He said, unconvinced, and---worse…undecided.
Some
men came out of the saloon, talking, then, heading their way; Roscoe pulled
Adrian deeper into the darker shadows of the vacant alley, keeping the knife to
his throat; Idiot dutifully, followed being careful to avoid making noise at
all costs. Damn! That Roscoe was mean!
When
the trio passed, Adrian, in indirect light from a side window of the saloon
could see that Roscoe was considering the situation. At least, he had some
hope; the dagger point relented.
“Boy,”
the thug began, “I might take a chance on you; of course, the boss has to okay
it. If he says ‘No!’ well, then…” He made a cutting motion in the air with the
knife and smiled, mirthlessly. Then, “You got any experience with horses and
cattle, boy?”
That
query brought a smile to Adrian’s face. “Yes! Sir! I sure do!”
No comments:
Post a Comment