BANG! BANG! BANG!
The unmistakable report of three pistol shots outside of the Stardust.
Silence, and then the swing doors banged open.
The customers of Kalispell's one and only saloon looked toward the portal through which so many tough hombres had barged. Then they looked downward slightly and a voice at the back of the room groaned "Oh, it's just Craddock".
The diminutive cowpoke moseyed over to the bar with his distinctive bowlegged cowboy's rolling gait, and placed his still smoking revolver onto the counter and ordered the inevitable. "Two fingers of red-eye Mr Flannery, if you please!" he said in his Texan tones, tossing down the requisite coinage, which clattered and span before settling down to be scooped up by the redoubtable barman who took care of the business end of the establishment. Scrappy turned and leaned his back nonchalantly against the bar, addressed himself to the assembled company, whether they wanted to listen to him or not.
"Well Boys, that feller won't be back in a hurry! Teach him to make fun of a feller's gun!" he declaimed, turning, picking up the piece and making a great show of examining it with a look of feigned awe on his face.
"Yes Sir-ee. Came right up to me he did. 'Hey Titch', he said, well that got me riled fer starters, 'Hey Titch' he says, 'that's a pretty ridiculous old five-shot Beaumont-Adams double-action percussion yuh got there!' he says. 'Huh' says I 'Well fer your information, it so happens that this piece has been personally converted to .44 Rimfire by Mister Roland Smith before he left old London Town to open his brand new Gunsmithery and associated supply store in Kalispell, Montana territory, just across the street there. 50 cents off of the first dollar yuh spend with a receipt from Matthews' Barbershop."
His audience was amazed at this tale for a number of different reasons. Scrappy holstered the pistol and pointed to an old and somewhat crude painting of a mermaid up on the wall, who had forgotten to put on her chemise that morning when she had woken up at the bottom of the sea.
"This feller was about as far from me as that fair fishy maiden up there, boys!" (it seemed an unlikely distance over which to have such a conversation, but Scrappy needed an object for the next part of his advertisement, and pointing guns at an audience was an unhealthy pastime in these parts).
He continued his horrendous harangue: "'Ha!' he says 'That old shootin' iron couldn't hit me at this distance'. Laughed right in my face, boys. I drew quick and shot his hat off!" Scrappy pulled out his gun with the speed of a three legged hare and aimed it at the Mermaid to illustrate the scene a la tableaux vivant, the gun went off accidentally and when the smoke cleared, the poor mermaid was bereft of one of her major charms.
"Oh shit!" groaned the quickdraw.
Preston Wayfarer plus anybody else who wants to be in the bar
Franklin Fortner was a businessman, albeit his methods were none too savory and some were downright illegal. Methods, however, were the last thing on his mind that afternoon as he sat in his second floor office, pouring over the receipts of the Stardust saloon. Things were moving right along: revenues were up, patronage was strong, and things had simmered down after his acquisition of Horace Potee's homestead and the likelihood that a gold strike was in the offing. That very day there were mining engineers at the property. They would give him a report in a couple of weeks. Even Horace Potee, who'd been a pain in the ass ever since his wife hanged herself in their cabin, was gone off somewhere. He hadn't been seen since some of the boys, on Franklin's orders, knocked his teeth out.
His relationship with his star employees, Caroline and Ralph, had settled into a polite, if not friendly, arrangement.
Sitting on the settee across the room from his desk was Hiram Priest, his partner. The gaunt figure leafed through the pages of a Bozeman newspaper.
"The Northern Pacific Railway will be in Bozeman in a couple of years," he drawled. "If there's wind of a gold strike here, I opine they'll do an allemande-left and head this way instead."
"Could be," Fortner agreed. We'll really put Kalispell on the map, my friend."
GUNSHOTS! To Fortner, they sounded outside.
"Problem is, Frank," added Hiram, pointing outside the walls of the office "... as long as there's promiscuous shootin' in the streets of Kalispell, the railroad's going to think that this is just another wide-open town."
"You have a point," Franklin said, and rose from the desk and headed out the office door.
After Fortner made it to the railing of the parapet, giving him a view the saloon floor, he saw and heard the loud-mouthed cowpoke known as Scrappy. What a little shit, the Stardust's proprietor thought.
"This feller was about as far from me as that fair fishy maiden up there, boys!"
Fortner sensed trouble and began motioning to Ralph, waving his arm around, but it was too late.
"'Ha!' he says 'That old shootin' iron couldn't hit me at this distance'. Laughed right in my face, boys. I drew quick and shot his hat off!" Scrappy pulled out his gun with the speed of a three legged hare and aimed it at the Mermaid to illustrate the scene a la tableaux vivant, the gun went off accidentally and when the smoke cleared, the poor mermaid was bereft of one of her major charms.
Scrappy put his head in his hands and moaned.
"Get that shit!" Franklin shouted at Ralph.
Scrappy was a fairly regular customer at the saloon, didn't make him any less annoying. But people often were such when they had had too much to drink. But this time, that couldn't even be the excuse. A drunk couldn't have gotten thru that long advertising speech - for that was what it plainly had been. An ad for the gunshop. But not a poster or a newspaper clipping. Nope a performance by the cowpoke.
Well speeches were one thing but then he went and fired a shot. Luckily all that he hit was a painting of a mermaid - right in the tit too - and not some customer or employee. Ralph was reaching under the bar for his chair leg when up above Mr. Fortner called out angrily.
"Get that shit!"
Ralph didn't need any further encouragement, he'd been unleashed one might say. With a surprising scramble showing dexterity most folks would have never guessed he was capable of, he was up and over the bar and the cowboy never knew what hit him. Ralph's first swing smacked the young man's gun hand HARD, the revolver he was so proud of clattering onto the floor. His second swing whacked Scrappy's upper arm. The bartender could have continued and beat the fellow to death. But Ralph stopped.
"Get the hell outta here or you'll have to be carried on out," growled Ralph, still with chair leg brandished and ready.
Caroline raced up and then bent down to seize the revolver, "I got it, boss."
"Don't think we're gonna be stupid enough to give this back to ya, Scrappy. You heard the man, get out!" she did not point the weapon but she held it behind her back, no way was she going to let this idiot make a grab for it.
Ralph didn't need any further encouragement, he'd been unleashed one might say. With a surprising scramble showing dexterity most folks would have never guessed he was capable of, he was up and over the bar and the cowboy never knew what hit him. Ralph's first swing smacked the young man's gun hand HARD, the revolver he was so proud of clattering onto the floor. His second swing whacked Scrappy's upper arm.
"OW!" Scrappy shouted as the club hit his hand and then "OW!" again as it hit his arm... he backed away from the assaulting barman, holding up his crippled hand and rubbing his upper arm with his good hand. "Jesus Christ, it was just an accident! You lost your marbles?!"
The bartender could have continued and beat the fellow to death. But Ralph stopped.
"Get the hell outta here or you'll have to be carried on out," growled Ralph, still with chair leg brandished and ready.
"Well, there's nice customer service for yuh!" Scrappy frowned, rubbing his dead arm, looking hurt.
"Well, if you're goin' to be right unneighbourly about it, I'll go, Mr Flandry, no need to be a lowdown, no good, god-moddin', son-of-a... gun about it. Just get ma..." he went to pick up his fallen shooting iron, which had skidded across the floor
Caroline raced up and then bent down to seize the revolver, "I got it, boss."
"Oh, thanks Cara'" smiled Scrappy, holding out his good hand.
"Don't think we're gonna be stupid enough to give this back to ya, Scrappy. You heard the man, get out!" she did not point the weapon but she held it behind her back, no way was she going to let this idiot make a grab for it.
Scrappy looked at his expectantly open hand and closed it sadly, moving it down he used it to bush off his pants. He was still shaking the pain out of the other one. He looked at the beautiful bar singer and just shook his head sadly. Then, with a more thoughtful look in his eyes he nodded his head thoughtfully "Women, huh fellers? Just when you think you can trust one, they kick a man just where it hurts. Ever was it thus."
If there was one thing Scrappy had learned though-out his time on Earth, it was that when life handed you lemons, tell folks there was a lemon shortage and sell 'em. He turned to the rest of the customers "Well, boys, not to worry: Mister Smith's prices are so low, I'll just mosey on over there and buy myself another shooter. Straight after I've been for a shave, o' course, wouldn't want to miss out on that discount, 50 red cents off of... whoah!!" he felt himself being bodily lifted off his feet (he was so short that Caroline could have done it, but it was probably Flandry) and thrown out the swing doors and into the street.
"... the first dollar you spend!" his voice sounded from outside.
A minute or two later, Frances Grimes walked in, looking a little dustier and mussed up than usual.
"Sorry I'm late" she beamed to anybody who happened to be there "I just fell over a man outside. He told me there's a sale on at Mr Smith's gun-store and that there are special offers for blind people."
Guns for the Blind
From his perch well above the saloon floor, Franklin saw the spectacle. He played a wild west version of toga-wearing Roman Emperor, viewing the action on the floor of the Coliseum.
And he was impressed.
His bartender did an admirable job of hustling the loudmouthed cowboy off the premises. It reminded him of the day he walked into the Stardust and ran into another loudmouthed cowpoke. He ended up killing him with the help of Hiram Priest, and by the end of the day, bought the saloon. It was a lucky day for him, though he was not fool enough to believe that everyday with gun play ended up so fortuitously.
Fortner caught Ralph's eye and gave him an "OK" sign with his right hand. It was now time him descend from Olympus and mix with the patronage. And so he did.
"Great work," he congratulated Ralph after he reached the bar. On his way he'd passed the "Howdy Franks!" a "What's a guy got to do to get a whisky in this place?" and "How's the mining business, Fortner?"
"Whisky," he ordered, and set a half-dollar on the counter.
Caroline composed herself after nabbing the cowboy's six shooter, when Frank offered his praise. "Quick thinking", he said with a smile. "You've got talent and then some. Want a drink?"
A minute or two later, Frances Grimes walked in, looking a little dustier and mussed up than usual.
"Sorry I'm late" she beamed to anybody who happened to be there "I just fell over a man outside. He told me there's a sale on at Mr Smith's gun-store and that there are special offers for blind people."