incident at backhandle completion

Gus turned and started to clean glasses again. Hap figured as much. When you see a guy every day for five years, you sort of run out of things to say. Especially in a town of a hundred and twenty permanent residents. If it wasn’t for the traders and cowpokes coming through every now and then, the bar would probably have gone under years ago. Things would probably pick up later in the evening, but he had to play for half an hour, on and off, starting at three pm. That was the job. Hap eyed his dusty old upright against the wall under a fading gilded picture of Lily Langtree. It wasn’t a particularly good picture of Miss Lily since Big Bill Watson had stuck his knife into the middle of her forehead from across the room when he found out she’d married some banker from New York. But the piano, that was another story. It was a real beauty. A Bluthner done in the same mahogany as the bar.

When old man Clarkson had hired him, Hap had taken one look at the heap of junk that was passing for a piano at the time and knew it was trouble. After one night of trying to coax something akin to music out of its warped soundboard and missing keys he had flat out refused to ever play it again. But to his credit Clarkson had come through and in a fit of civic pride and with a bit of stern encouragement from the locals, had done the entire place up including a new bar, a sign out front and, to Hap’s relief, a new piano. Clarkson had no choice but to pony up for the piano as Hap was the only player around for five hundred miles. So, Hap had his job and a room down the street and four dollars a month. Pretty good for these parts.

“Well, I guess I’d better start a’playin’ this here pianee,” Hap said to Gus. “As it’s my job and all.”

“It sure is that, Hap,” Gus replied. “Hardly anyone coming through here these days, though. You notice that, Hap?

“Can’t say as I blame them,” said Hap. “T’ain’t nothing here hardly ’cepting this bar.” Hap started warming up to his playing with a short passage from Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. His spry, bony fingers flashed back and forth over the keyboard. Gus stared at him from the bar.

“Hey, Hap!” he shouted, the notes fluttering in the air before him like butterflies in a pasture. Hap stopped playing.

“Yeah, barkeep?” he asked.

“Why don’t you play something more in keeping with the situation that is where we are?” Gus asked.

Hap pondered this, not sure what Gus was talking about. “Huh?” he said.

“Something western like.”

Hap returned his concentration to the ivories. He chose a piece by Sibelius. He started on the upbeat, this not being the custom of the time but more in keeping with his temperament. He hadn’t played more than a few bars before Gus once more interrupted.

“I said something Western!” Gus lamented.

“It’s Western Europe,” Hap retorted back over his shoulder, “Well, Sweden actually.” Hap caught the glare in Gus’ eye and mumbling something about lack of appreciation, pulled some sheet music from under his bench and commenced to play out a simple rag-time piece by the late George Evans. It rankled Hap but Gus returned to his duties with an air of satisfaction.

There was a moan from the wind sloughing round the wooden supports outside and a cloud of dust blew in over the swinging doors as a stranger entered the bar. He came in a few steps and stood, looking around the bar with an intense gaze. The saloon doors continued to creak on their rusty hinges until the stranger reached back and stopped their motion with his black-gloved hand. Hap kept playing but watched him closely in the mirror beside Lily.

The stranger was tall and lean. He was dressed entirely in black except for the silver of his spurs and the twin colt pistols strapped to his waist which shone and sparkled in their holsters, their white, ivory handle-butts clean but worn with use. His black Stetson was pulled well down over his brow, but an ugly white scar extended from his forehead to far below his chiseled jaw. He was dirty and needed shaving and he stood there like someone had planted a weathered oak in the middle of the room.

Gus dropped his towel on to the bar and Hap stopped playing. There was something bad about this man. The stranger strode to the bar, the clinking of his silver spurs the only sound other than the wind that continued to complain outside. Hap watched him move and the clink, clink of his spurs seemed to stop only when he had reached the bar, except for one last ca-chink that seemed to sound out even after he had stopped walking.

“What can I do for you, mister?” Gus said, his voice dry and papery.

“Bourbon,” the stranger said. His was a voice that was born from pain and heat and long lonely rides through the desert scrub.

“Sure thing, mister,” Gus said. He turned and reached for the bourbon. The good bourbon, too, because he didn’t want anything amiss to trouble this dangerous looking man. He poured a shot and pushed the glass slowly across the top of the bar. “There ya go.”

The stranger looked down at it and then back up to Gus. “Pour the whole bottle in,” the stranger said.

“What?” Gus asked.

“Pour the whole bottle in,” the stranger repeated.

“Can’t pour the whole bottle in, mister, it’s just a tiny glass.”

The stranger pushed the brim of his hat back revealing even more of the painful scar. His black eyes shone, and he stared straight through Gus. “I said ‘pour it all in’,” the stranger repeated a third time, slowly, his voice now just a threatening growl.

“Okay,” said Gus, frantically, and he tipped the bottle up. The whiskey came pouring out, quickly filled the glass and started to cover the top of the bar. Hap thought Gus might start to cry.

“You’re spillin’!” the stranger shouted, his voice now strong and sure and angry.

“I told you! The glass won’t take it all! I told you!” Gus cried, completely unnerved.

The stranger just took a step back and continued to stare straight into the quivering bartender’s eyes. The stranger threw back the corner of the black poncho that he was wearing, and his hands hovered over the hilts of his guns, fingers twitching. Gus seemed to melt into the floor. The stranger’s gaze was like that of a rattlesnake.

“Stop it! Stop staring at me like that!” Gus screamed. “With your twinkly eyes and your twitching fingers!”

The stranger didn’t move.

“Stop it!” Gus shouted again. “Help! Help! Sheriff! I can’t stand it! Run! Run everybody! Run for your lives! Oh, my god! He’s a merciless killer! A psychotic merciless killer!” Gus threw off his apron and sprung over the bar like a man of twenty. Still screaming for help he ran out of the bar. The saloon doors swung back and forth, and the creaking seemed to follow the strides of the panic-stricken bartender down the street, diminishing slightly as he ran out of sight.

The stranger slowly holstered his guns and turning, set his attention on Hap. He sipped at the whiskey, golden drips splashing down into the puddle on the bar. Hap was at a loss. He got up and went over to the swinging doors and put his hands on them, stopping the dreadful squeaking.

He stared out after the fleeing bartender. “Never seen Gus act like that before,” Hap said, helplessly and then, after a pause, “Bad acting, really.”

The stranger didn’t say anything but sipped occasionally at his drink. Hap returned to the piano, not knowing what else to do. He continued playing the rag-time, but lightly and without much enthusiasm. While he played, he started to get angry. Why should he be sitting here, frightened, playing, while the stranger just stood, relaxing with a drink? What gave him the right to bring this fear and dread into the little world of Backhandle, where nobody had ever done any harm at all? It wasn’t fair.

“You know, stranger,” Hap began. “I don’t see why you have to come into town and cause such a ruckus like that.”

The stranger didn’t reply at once. He took the shot glass with the bourbon and slid it down the bar. It fell to the floor and smashed to bits.

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “You’re wondering what I’m doing?”

Hap got the feeling he was in over his head now. “Well, I don’t see as you’re doing a very good thing, coming into town and treating people like that.”

The stranger was getting agitated. He turned towards Hap. Hap didn’t hear him start to move towards him. Didn’t realize what was going to happen as the stranger drew his gun.

“Well, what d’ya think about this?” the stranger shouted and rapidly fired three bullets into the wooden shell of the piano. The blasts, so close to his head, sent Hap flying backwards off his bench with a short scream. The acrid smoke from the blasts blew a thin, grey veil throughout the room. Hap’s ears rang. The whole room seemed to be moving. The stranger moved closer and the gun barked again, and the wooden lid of the upright exploded in a shower of splinters.

“You can’t shoot a man’s pianee!” Hap cried in horror.

“Well… I just did, didn’t I?” The stranger said, laughing and holstering the still smoking gun. “You just watched me do it.” The stranger turned and walked back to the bar with the same slow gait as earlier, his spurs chinkling as he moved. Hap followed him, in a fog.

“You know what you are?” Hap spat after him. “You’re mean. Bad mean! And you’re going to get yer comeuppance! You know why?”

“Why?” asked the stranger with contempt.

“Cause we got a sheriff in this town!” Hap shouted.

“Oh yeah? So what? Lots of towns got sheriffs in them,” said the stranger, returning his attention to the bourbon.

“Yeah? Well, you ain’t seen a sheriff like this one. He’s got to be over ten feet tall and he’s built like a tree and he’s a wonderful shot and he don’t like people like you upsetting the barkeep!”

“Well, I don’t think you got a sheriff. I think you’re lying,” the stranger said, calmly.

“I ain’t lying and soon you’re gonna find that out,” Hap retorted.

“So what? What are you gonna do? Run and get your sheriff? Is that what you’re going to do?”

“Yeah! Maybe I just will,” Hap said, moving closer to the stranger.

“Is that right? I don’t think so.” The stranger reached out and touched Hap’s shoulder with his finger. Hap recoiled, his face a mask of pain.

“Ow! What are you doing! You broke my arm!” he screamed.

“What?”

“You broke my arm with your big galoot fist!” Hap groaned and dashed to the saloon doors. “Sheriff! Sheriff!”

“What are you doing? I didn’t break your arm. I barely touched you!” the stranger shouted. For the first time his voice was unsteady.

“I’m calling the sheriff! And here he comes, you’re in trouble now!” Hap said with satisfaction.

Footsteps outside on the boardwalk came to a halt at the saloon door. Sheriff Jim Barron pushed through the swinging door and moved in out of the hot sun. The doors squeaked behind him endlessly until Hap came over and stopped the movement with his hand.

The sheriff didn’t take his eyes off the stranger as he asked, “What’s seems to be the problem here, Hap?”

A stream of accusations exploded from Hap. “This here stranger came into town, scared the bartender, shot my pianee, broke my arm, killed a dog outside and hit my mother with a pick-ax!”

The stranger started to panic. “I never even met his mother!” he protested. The two men started yelling at each other, Hap continuing his accusations and the stranger protesting and calling him a liar. Finally, the sheriff had had enough.

“Quiet!” he shouted. The other two fell silent and looked down sheepishly. “It seems like you two boys can’t get your stories straight,” he said, quietly.

“I got my story straight!” Hap protested.

“That’s enough out of the both of ya,” he said, cutting Hap off.

“You didn’t even listen to my story,” the stranger complained.

“Shut up!” the sheriff commanded. He thought for a second. “Seems to me, both of you are guilty of these crimes and the both of you should be punished,” he pronounced.

“That ain’t fair!” cried Hap, “I didn’t even do nothing!”

The stranger was silent now.

“Looks like I’m going to have to punish the both of you, all right. Now… who wants to go first?” the sheriff asked as he walked to one of the poker tables and dragged a chair into the middle of the room. Hap responded quickly.

“He does! The stranger said, ‘no matter what happens let me go first under all circumstances!’”, Hap blurted out.

“What are you talking about? I never said that!” said the outraged stranger.

“Sure you did, just before he came in.”

“I did not! And I never saw no dog outside neither!”

“Quiet!” the sheriff commanded, sitting down on the chair and removing his hat. “Hap, get over here.”

“It just ain’t fair,” Hap said miserably, moving over to the sheriff. “It just ain’t fair.”

“Bend over,” the sheriff ordered.

Hap started to lay himself across the Sheriff’s lap. The stranger stood behind watching the procedure.

Hap glanced over his shoulder. “How long you been on the trail, stranger?” he asked, suspiciously.

“About four months,” the stranger replied.

Hap got up and reversed his position, so he was facing the stranger. The sheriff raised his huge, heavy hand and brought it down twice across the seat of Hap's pants. Hap howled. The sheriff waited for a second and then the big hand came down with another smack. Hap jumped up, whimpering.

“It just ain’t fair,” he repeated as he limped to the bar.

“Your turn, stranger,” the sheriff said, sternly.

“Yeah, get him sheriff,” Hap shouted.

“I don’t have to do this!” the stranger shouted.

“Yes, you do,” answered the sheriff, “now get over here or you’re really gonna get it!”

The stranger moved reluctantly across to the sheriff and cautiously laid down forward over his lap.

“Now this is gonna hurt you a whole lot more than me,” the sheriff warned.

“Then don’t do it!” the stranger implored.

Again, the big hand raised aloft and again, three times, smacked down across the strangers behind. “Take that and that and that,” shouted the sheriff. The stranger yowled and jumped up.

“Ya dirty rotten bastard!” Hap shouted behind his hand. The sheriff looked up at the stranger.

“What did you just say?” he asked

“He called you a bastard, sheriff,” Hap cried.

“Well, you can just get over here again, stranger!” the sheriff thundered.

“I didn’t say nothing, it was him!” the stranger protested.

“You heard him, stranger,” Hap said with a smile.

“Damn you!” the stranger said.

“Get over here!” the sheriff shouted. The stranger swore to himself and did as he was asked. Again, the big hand delivered its punishment. When the smacks came to an end, the stranger leapt up again.

“Dirty rotten bastard!” Hap repeated.

“Oh, so you want some more do you,” the sheriff asked. “Get back here!”

The stranger bent over, this time a little quicker than before. Again, the hand did its job and the stranger stood up.

“Dirty bastard!” the stranger shouted himself and went back for more. Hap saw what was transpiring.

“Hey, hey, he likes it! He likes it. That ain’t fair!”

“Well, I didn’t like it at first but then I started to,” said the stranger.

The sheriff jumped up. “That’s enough! I want you boys to understand something here,” he said. “As sheriff of this town I run a tough town, a mean town… a… tight town and I don’t want any more trouble from either of you, got it?”

“I guess so,” said Hap. The stranger was silent.

“Now I want you to shake hands and say you’re sorry.”

“Not a chance,” said the stranger.

“Do you want another helpin’?”” the sheriff asked, menacingly.

“No!” said Hap.

“Maybe,” said the stranger.

“No, we don’t!” Hap shouted.

“Then do it!”

Hap and the stranger looked at each other and then extended their hands gingerly, shrinking back when contact was made. They both muttered ‘sorry’ in a low monotone.

“Now say it like ya mean it,” the sheriff said.

They clasped hands and in overly dramatic unison sang out, “Sorry!”

“All right,” said the sheriff, satisfied. “I’ll be seeing you boys later.” With that the sheriff strode out of the bar leaving the ever-squeaking doors swinging in his wake. Hap walked over and stopped the doors with his hand.

Hap turned back to face the stranger who was standing at the bar once more. The stranger spoke first, without looking at Hap, “Sorry about the piano.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I guess. The boss’ll buy another,” said Hap as he went back to inspect the damage.

“Maybe you could get a new one at that piano store down the street,” the stranger suggested.

“There’s a piano store down the street?” Hap asked.

“Yup,” said the stranger.

“You’d think I would have noticed that,” Hap said. “Me living over top of the last building on the street and walking down here to the saloon every day and all. Not to mention me being the only piano player for five hundred miles.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” said the stranger. “It was the same with me and horses.”

“How do you mean?” Hap said.

“Well, for the longest time, I just thought you pulled them along with the rope. It wasn’t until I actually saw somebody on one that I got the idea.”

The stranger poured them both a drink.