The Deadwood Saloon

Silence filled the air. It was as thick as the dust floating through the beams of light coming from the saloon window. A pile of old and weathered playing cards sat neatly in the center of the table, yellowed by years of cigarette smoke and grime. The rest of the saloon was empty, aside from an old man passed out over the bar and a bartender quietly scrubbing a glass. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, taken there by years of travelers coming and going as they pleased. Three distinct piles of poker chips lay haphazardly on one of the tables, one noticeably larger than the others. Behind the different piles were three distinct men. 

Hiding behind the smallest pile timidly sat a small man with sizable spectacles, trying to stay small and unnoticed. Mouse-like in appearance, he wore tattered and dirty clothes, sporting a bald spot on the back of his head reddened by the western sun.

Behind the second-largest pile sat a disgruntled-looking man, his mean eyes visible beneath a dark cowboy hat. A cigarette stuck out from under his brown mustache. He swayed it side to side as he tried to figure out what his best option was, his scarred hands angrily gripping the cards.

Behind the largest pile lay the boots of the obvious victor, his feet lying comfortably up on the tabletop.  The winner’s chips took up most of his side of the table. He leaned farther back into his chair and let out an exaggerated yawn, bringing his other hand out from the large red and white poncho draped over him to cover his mouth.

He smugly looked over his cards, then glanced up to meet the man in the dark hat’s gaze, raising his eyebrows with a stupid smirk. The man in the hat glared harder, almost looking as though he would burst a blood vessel in his forehead.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere friend?” said the man in the hat.

“It’s possible,” said the man in the poncho, “I'm somewhat famous ‘round these parts.”

“That so…” said the big man before laying down his cards on the table. “I fold.”

The man in the poncho suddenly switched his gaze to the small man in the glasses, staring him down. The shy man's eyes fluttered back and forth between his cards and the poncho'd cowboy's fiery scowl. He slowly dropped his cards to the table and squeaked out a faint, “I fold,” before dropping his head to stare at his worn boots.

The man in the poncho couldn't help but bare his teeth in an evil grin as he threw his hand down on the heavily marked table, revealing an assortment of random suites and numbers. Taking his boots off the tabletop he greedily raked in the pile of poker chips that had accumulated in the center of the table during their round. The mousey man covered his face in shame, knocking his glasses up his large forehead and letting out a faint groan. 

“Looks like you boys are plum outta luck and guts,” the poncho'd cowboy sneered. 

A loud thud rang out from the front of the saloon, a large figure standing in the now-open doorway, casting an outstretched shadow covering the poncho'd man; his arms still wrapped around the chips he had won. Everyone in the bar saloon paused 

The drunk old man lying on the bar slowly raised his head from the small puddle of drool he had created, looked the man in the doorway up and down, and dropped his head back down to the counter. 

Sniffling, the stranger took his first step inside; the spurs on his boot rattling loudly as his foot hit the old wooden floors. The man slowly made his way to the bar, grabbing hold of the chair sitting next to the old man and turning towards the poker table. As slowly as he had walked in he made his way over to the three men dragging the chair behind him, the chair jumping around due to the uneven flooring. With every step echoed out his loud footsteps and jingling spurs. The three men stared at the man as he finally made it to his destination, swinging the chair and letting his large body fall to the chair unfortunate enough to bear his weight letting out a desperate creak. 

All three men stared at him blankly.

He wore an old leather coat and chaps, the coat hanging halfway down his quads. His long hair and beard sat messily on his face and head. His eyes puffy and cheeks rosy gave the impression he had been crying. If not for his size and glum disposition, he would come off as a pushover.

“Dutch Carson?” The words barely left his lips, his voice sounding weak and shaky.

None of the men said anything in response.

The large man let out a deep sigh and reached under the table, pulling out a well-maintained Colt revolver, his eyes dancing around the table as he gently set the cold metal down on the tabletop, his fingernails gnarled and dirty. Sleeves covered in dust and grime.   

The spectacled man went white as the man in the dark cowboy hat quickly sat upright. The bartender watching from the back of the saloon let out a deep sigh and began to hide his most expensive liquor behind the bar’s counter.

“Listen, friend,” the poncho’d man said calmly, “I’m afraid that you might be mistaken. I don’t know anyone by that name ‘round these parts.”

The Stranger’s bloodshot eyes locked onto his face.

“You boys listen and you boys listen well,” he said, continuing to stare the poncho’s man down,  the man's voice cracking every other syllable. “I have been wronged by a man named Dutch Carson. Now I don’t know what he looks like but I know for a fact that he is sitting at this table.”  The man paused as tightened his grip on the revolver. “I’m not the type of man to hurt anybody I don’t have to and would be appreciative if the yellow-bellied coward would fess up now.” 

The three men continued to sit awkwardly, eyes fixated on the gun, all waiting for someone else to say something.

The Stranger's lips began to quiver as he took in the men’s silence. He quickly brought his fist up before slamming it down into the tabletop, causing the mousy man to let out a loud squeal. 

“One of you killed my wife last night.” His voice cracked and faded back into the awkward silence at the end of the statement.

“Like I said, I am not trying to take the life of an innocent man, but I don’t know what I’m capable of.”

The Mousy man began to hyperventilate, sweat dripping down his forehead, eyes still fixated on the cold piece of steel held tightly by the infuriated man. 

The man in the poncho spoke up first, slowly and calmly. “I swear to you I don’t have an inkling of an idea  to what you're talkin’ bout.” As he tried to de-escalate the situation, his left hand slowly inched its way from his hoard of poker chips and towards the edge of the table, pacing it every few seconds, millimeters at a time.

“I didn’t do anything either,” the man in the dark hat butted, hands raised and shaking, the cigarette in his mouth down to its butt and his mustache twitching. 

The stranger brought his sleeve up to his forehead, wiping the moisture accumulating on his brow. “I don’t know… I want to… I-I…” His puffy eyes shot to the mousy man who sat frozen in fear.

“Why haven’t you said anything,” the stranger said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

The mousy man's mouth opened but no words came out. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His eyes flickered around in desperation, begging the other men to say or do anything but they didn’t.

The stranger's grip tightened more on the handle of the gun, his knuckles and fingertips whitening under the strain.

“Say something!” The man yelled, tears streaming down his face in a river of hopelessness, slamming the butt of the gun on the table.

Suddenly the stranger's eyes widened; the pace of his breaths increased, “I know you, I saw you yesterday at the cabin.” 

The mousy man began to cry too, “What-”

“Why were you there, what were you saying to her,” the stranger said, face contorted in rage.

“I’m a postman,” the mousy man managed to squeal out, his voice high and frightened like a snared rodent.

“Shut up!” the stranger screamed, raising the gun directly between the mousy man's eyebrows, “We didn’t get anything yesterday!”

The poncho’d man’s hand lunged underneath the table underneath the table and kicked his chair backward, scattering chips all over the floor. Catching the sharp movement out of the corner of his eye, the stranger swiveled his body along with the gun to face the poncho’d cowboy. At the same time the man in the dark cowboy hat dove to his right seeking cover behind a table and reaching for his own gun. 

The Saloon stood nestled in between the drugstore and a small hotel, only having six rooms. Made out of timber from the north. It was a single story in height and had a small wooden porch in the front added years after its original construction. A candle fire years earlier had nearly burned the building down, one of the few interesting things that happened in the dying town.

Loud Cracks rang out from the interior of the saloon, first a quick burst of three or four shots, then a pause, and then another burst, too close together to be able to count an exact number. One of the panes in the back window shattered and fell to the dust of the barren desert.

Silence once again broke out over the sleepy town.