10 Gallon Hats O’ Blood

A Novel by Tom Miller

CHAPTER 5

      The saloon doors uh-swang open, and in walked a man in a 10 gallon hat. His face was worn with the lay of the land. He had working man's hands. He was covered with dust. A big gun was holstered at his side. He had a wide pronounced chin and eyebrows of burbling gray and brown hair. Looked like two roaches had died on his forehead. His spurs were on the back of his leather boots. He didn't wear a tie. He stood in the doorway shadowed in the blinding light from the sun behind him. And he stood there for what seemed like days. He was regarded as all strangers were. Everybody turned toward him and gawked in silence. He gawked right back at 'em. Then, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a fat brown cigar. With his right hand, he reached into his satchel and removed a single match which he struck on his tooth. He brought the match flame to the cigar end and sucked. His cheeks hollowed inward and he sucked some more. Then he opened his mouth and a billowing cloud of smoke emerged, some of it in rings. The smell was reminiscent of cattle ass. He turned, quite deliberately, and walked over to the bar; his silver spurs ringing with each step. He took a seat and put a dollar coin on the table.

      "Whiskey," he said, "and serve it in a dusty glass. Everything I do has dust." As the bartender obliged him, Snidely the piano man began to play a tune, and the crowd returned to their card games and their drinking and their whore fuckin'.

      "So, where you from, stranger?"

      "Who wants to know?" said the man.

      "They call me Grizzard the Rip," the bartender replied.

      "What kind of name is that?" asked the fellow.

      "It's what you call a nickname."

      "Nickname, huh." said the gentleman.

      "Yup. Got that name 'cause of the way I fart."

      "That so?" asked the cowboy-lookin' thing.

      "Yeas sir. I can sure cook up a jam when I need one."

      "Jam, eh?" said the gorilla.

      "I can lay one out that'll bring down the ladies."

      "Gorilla, huh."

      "That's right. I can really force out some air if I need to."

      "That so?" said the guy.

      "Would you like to see one go?" asked Grizzard.

      "No thanks," said the stranger. "Maybe later." Grizzard the Rip poured a whiskey and left the bottle by the glass. The stranger lifted the glass to his lips and downed the whiskey shot in one gulp. And he didn't blink, neither.

      Biggs came walking over and took a seat by the newcomer. "Whiskey!" he growled. A few minutes later, a shot glass came sliding down the bar and stopped right in front of him. Biggs picked up the glass, looked at the stranger who was looking at him, and swallowed his fill just the same. No blinkin', no flinchin', just good old fashioned drinkin'.

      "You. You're like me," Biggs said. "I seen you come in here and I asked myself a question. Now I'm gonna' ask you the same thing I asked myself. What are you doin' sittin' in my seat?" The piano player stopped playing, closed the piano, and ducked down behind it. Grizzard the Rip dropped behind the bar and his asshole emitted a tiny sound. The whores ran up the stairs, and everyone else found cover underneath the wooden tables. A hush filled the room with it's vast and uncompromising silence.

      "Well," said the stranger as he turned to face the big man, "I don't see no sign on it."

      "Oh, now you done it." Drunk Barney Gritchen was cowering by the hat rack. "Now you done made Biggs mad," he murmured.

      "Yore funny." said Biggs as he moved in closer, "You sound like a dead man talking." He put his hand on the handle of his gun but suddenly, there was a shout from the top of the stairs.

     "Don't you touch that feller', you ignorant sack o' pus!" It was Whore Luella and she had her Remington shotgun aimed square at Biggs' head. "This killin's gonna' stop right now. You hear me, you shit-coated horselick!" She made her way down the stairs. She was eighty years old and known as the Grand Dame of the tavern whores. She ran the girls and counted the money, and she was the toughest meanest old bitch any man ever laid eyes on. Her missing teeth and thin lips and pug nose and sagging wrinkled face didn't make her look particularly attractive. And her tits that looked as though they grew from her stomach didn't much help. But in her day, she was a ravishing beauty. This wasn't her day any more. This wasn't even her century, but, by God, she was all woman and then some. Biggs knew it, too. Some women you can fuck, but other women are not to be fucked with. Just the same, he was not going to be one-upped by this old cunt.      

      "This ain't your affair, you snaky dog. This here's a man thing." She came down, over, and into his face.

      "You ain't no man. You got a little tiny dick. I seen it, and I heard tell about it. You got a little tiny dick and two little berries down there."

      "Woman," said Biggs, his face reddening with anger tempered mildly with embarrassment, "You and your two hangin' flapjacks there are headed for trouble."

      "If'n it's trouble you want, It's trouble you got," she barked.

      "I ain't never hit no woman. But you ain't no woman neither, so don't think I won't hit you and your ugly face until it gets a might uglier."

      "You raise one finger to me, and I'll reach down your neck and pull out your balls and you'll find 'em later in my shit."

      Sheriff Useless P. Clodstopper got up from Biggs' chair and moved out of the way. There was gonna' be a fight.