Mean Business at Dancers Rock

A Western Short

1.

It was high noon in the town of Dancers Rock and the animals were out in force to play. Not the four legged kind, but the two legged kind that lived on the fringes of the frontier. The kind that would do the most vile for a dirty dollar. No one of a sound conscience of mind would venture into Dancers Rock, unless they were stupid. And the stupid never lasted long. Only the animal seeking prey would play and thrive in this part of the territory.

A lone rider in black rode from the Dos Cabezas mountains into Dancers Rock. One who went across the trail alone took one’s life into the hands of chance with the wild savages and looking for prey. When most saw the hard look in his eyes was a man who had lived through the hardest of the hard. One false look at him and one would find oneself buried among the dead at Boot Hill on the other side of town.

There were those Neanderthal types who saw dollar signs with his raven black hair. Throughout the west itself, the custom of scalping was a common practice. It is debatable who and where the custom had originated. Still, they assumed only the western Indian populations carried out the practice. Various accounts reveal white settlers also practiced it.

In bounty killing, bounties were often paid through scalps. Or Apache scalps. The Grant County Commission, located in Silver City, New Mexico, paid as much as $250 per Apache scalp. Other places were double that per scalp. The American Indian lived cheap and faced cruel conditions.

The day the lone rider rode in, he caught the attention of bad man Cole Sticky Stickle. They called him Sticky for his persistence in acquiring money, lawful or not. As a miner, he was more of a claim jumper. As a bounty killer or, more often, scalp hunter, he found more success when killing to him was as easy as breathing.

He was lingering at the front of the general store with Buzz Grimley, the town drunk. The two bearded older men were sharing a bottle of shine when the lone rider rode in on a pale horse.

“Seen ‘em before?” asked Buzz, already half drunk.

“Nope,” said Sticky. “If I had, I woulda remember ‘em with that fine looking head of hair of his.”

“Is he a redskin?”

“He ain’t white,” said Sticky, observing him as he passed by on his horse. “A half-breed, most likely.”

“He sure looks mean.”

“That I’m sure,” chuckled Sticky, “but he looks easy enough for me to take.”

“Ya sure ya wanna try and take ‘em?”

“I’d make $150 for that hair in Wilcox alone.”

“What if he’s white?”

“He ain’t.”

“Ya gotta be sure,” said Buzz. “If he’s white, the Marshall won’t take too kindly to ya or any man killing any fellow that comes along with a good set of hair.”

“A guy that mean-lookin’ got himself a bounty on ‘em somewhere in the territory that I can squeeze a few extra bucks outta. Besides, mean ones always got something they wanna hide. It usually is their face on a wanted ad for a few hundred bucks that’s nice and easy to pick up. Besides, Marshall Huggins always looks the other way if he can get a good twenty bucks outta it. I could live with separating from twenty bucks outta a hundred and fifty.”

“I dunno about this one, Sticky,” shook Buzz with a bad feeling. “I got a bad feeling about this one.”

“That’s why ya never have more than a buck in your pocket, Buzz,” said Sticky. “Ya never take a chance. In this rough and tumbling world ya have to take your chances. That’s the only way ya go places in this life.”

They watched the rider stop at the saloon four buildings down to the right. When he got off his horse, they saw that he was a short fellow for an Indian half-breed. Sticky was a good two feet taller than the Indian half-breed. He smiled like a kid about to steal candy from a baby.

“I can lick ‘em,” smiled Sticky. “Ya watch me. Besides, he ain’t packing a gun on ‘em.”

“But he got himself a big knife and what looks like a bullwhip on the other s attached to the other side of his belt.”

Sticky noticed well, but he fancied himself fast with a gun. He figured that he’d have his gun drawn on him dead to rights before the half-breed could either pull the knife or the whip. Besides, what damn fool wouldn’t pack a gun in these parts, he figured. No, to him, this was going to be easy peasy.

Buzz wasn’t so sure, but then again, he had neither the grit nor the gumption that Sticky had. Who knows, it might be a good show.

Why not?

2.

His name was Goshe, which was an Apache word for dog. He was a mixed blood between Mescalero Apache and white. To Cole Sticky Stickle, he considered him another savage needing death. After all, the only good savage was a dead savage, right?

It was dog-eat-dog in the west. One had to be as wild as a coyote to prevail against Sticky, but it also required a degree of intelligence. A degree that he lacked to an extent, sometimes, you can’t stop the likes of Sticky from playing with fire. Sometimes, you have to let them get burnt pretty and hope they’ll learn. Some people though are dumb enough to repeat their mistakes.

Life in the west was challenging.

But it was more challenging if you were stupid.

It was the Greek House Saloon he entered, passing the batwing doors up front. It wasn’t a big saloon as far as saloons go or anything special. Three miners were sitting at a table in the middle playing cards. A piano man played away on his piano in the far back corner. The bar counter with six Douglas chairs was pretty empty. Only the bartender who stood behind the counter as operator. He was a short and older man in a nice set of duds that was pretty fancy.

Goshe stepped up to the bar counter to sit in the middle chair. The bartender approached him and smiled to show his rotted teeth.

“What’ll it be, Mister?” asked the bartender.

“Ya got anything to eat?”

“The lady out in the back of the kitchen can whip up a steak for ya if ya like,” he said. “That’ll be two bucks if ya count the booze that it usually comes with.”

Goshe slapped two silver dollars on the counter. The bartender took them without saying anything to him. The bartender then looked behind him to where the kitchen was.

“Martha,” he called. “One steak.”

“All right,” came a woman’s voice in the back. “Coming up.”

The bartender took out a label-less bottle of booze and placed it before him.

“The bottle’s yours,” he said. “Do ya wanna glass with it?”

“The bottle’s fine,” said Goshe reaching for it. “When does the next stage pass through here?”

“Oh, I’d say by tomorrow or the next. Do ya plan on being on it?”

“I do.”

“The station house is two buildings down across the street. Ya can buy a ticket there,”

“Much obliged.”

“Ya got a horse ya wanna sell?”

“I do have a horse. She’s on the old side, though. I won’t be able to bring her where I’m going without killing her. She won’t survive the trip.”

“I’ll take her off your hands if you’re interested.”

“How much are ya offering for her?”

“Oh, I can offer ya, oh, ten bucks sight unseen. Ya see, I’m running low on meat, and it’ll be at least two weeks before more beef comes through these parts. Your horse alone will keep me well stocked until then.”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Fifteen, and I’ll cover whatever food and booze ya have until ya leave on the stage.”

“All right,” said Goshe. “I’ll accept that.”

“I’ll give ya your money.”

The bartender took out a bag of coins and paid him in silver dollars.

“Much obliged to ya, mister. By the way, I’m Gil Greek, the owner. I operate the front end while my wife Martha operates the kitchen out back.”

Gil laughed.

“My mare’s hitched outside. She’s all yours.”

“Much obliged, mister.”

3.

Sticky and Buzz entered the saloon but remained close to the front with their backs to the batwing doors. Buzz looked at Sticky, wondering what he was waiting for.

“Well, are ya gonna lick ‘em?”

“Yep.”

“What are ya waiting for?”

“Patience, Buzz,” said Sticky, smiling like a kid. “Patience.”

Buzz looked over at Goshe’s horse outside and was quick to notice the Henry rifle holstered next to the saddle.

“He’s got himself a Henry rifle in his saddle,” said Buzz.

“So?”

“He’s Army,” said Buzz. “Or at least was until recently.”

“He likely stole that rifle,” said Sticky without thinking. “He coulda taken it right off the cold, dead hands of the soldier boy that he sent to Jesus for it.”

“Ya don’t know that.”

“He looks mighty damn familiar.”

Buzz turned to look at Goshe with Sticky.

“Who is he?”

“Beats me,” bit Sticky.

“But ya had said that he looked familiar.”

“Six guys I know, wanted and matching his build, could fill my pocket. All I have to do is pick a name and give Marshall Huggins twenty bucks, and I’ll have some money in my pocket. It doesn’t matter who he is. Indians are all the same. That’s how God made them. Ya know what the beautiful thing about it is, Buzz?”

“What?”

“God gave the white man permission to kill them,” he laughed. “Call it tit for tat for ‘em resisting good old manifest destiny.”

Both men laughed in unison.

“Yep, the Lord sure provides the white man with the means to amuse himself,” chuckled Buzz.

Sticky didn’t think the Lord made men like Buzz the smartest polecat on God’s green Earth. He was great for getting drunk with.

“Are you seeking amusement? asked Sticky.

“To be honest with ya, Sticky, I could use something other to drink than shine.”

“Then follow me and stay close,” he said. “Ya might get yourself a helluva show to enjoy it with.”

“When?”

“How about the next ten minutes starting now.”

“Hot damn!”

“Stick close to me and keep your damn mouth shut.”

The two men stepped into the saloon and walked up to the bar. They walk up to the other end of the bar opposite Goshe. Gil wasted no time getting their drink orders.

“What’ll it be, Sticky?”

“Whiskey.”

“Buzz?”

“Anything but shine.”

“Whiskey it is, then,” said Gil.

Gil poured each of them a glass with a half-full bottle.

“Leave the bottle,” said Sticky.

“You’re the boss,” said Gil.

“Bet ya I am,” agreed Sticky.

Gil left them the bottle.

Sticky and Buzz wolfed their glasses down in one gulp, enjoying every ounce of the hard stuff. Upon completion, they both filled their glasses again for a second round. They waited a moment for the first one to settle. Sticky glanced over at Goshe. He who was nursing his bottle of whiskey while waiting for his steak to arrive.

“Do ya fellows want some steaks?” asked Gil. “Martha’s in the kitchen cooking one for the feller here.”

“Ya know ‘em by chance?” Sticky asked Gil.

“Nope,” said Gil, “and if I were ya, I’d leave well enough alone if ya get my drift.”

From that point, Sticky and Buzz speak loud, but Goshe ignores them.

“He’s mighty mean-lookin’,” said Buzz at a glance, “for a half-breed.”

“I’ve seen meaner,” said Sticky looking at Goshe.

Goshe meanwhile continued to ignore them and continued to nurse his whiskey.

“As a matter of fact,” said Sticky raising his tone, “he looks mighty damn familiar.”

Sticky leaned over an inch towards Goshe like he was getting a better look.

“Hey, mister,” he addressed Goshe.

Goshe looked over at him with a silent but deadly look that didn’t warn off Sticky one bit when it should have.

“Where have I seen ya before?” said Sticky. “Come on. Help me out.”

“Maybe you’ve seen me,” said Goshe. “Maybe ya haven’t.”

“Do ya recognize me?”

“Been out by Fort Bowie?”

“Nope.”

“Fort Griffith?”

“Nope.”

“Tumbleweed station?”

“Nope.”

“Border Town?”

“Nope.”

“Then ya have your answer.”

Goshe goes back to his bottle of whiskey, paying no mind to Sticky. A half-breed brushing him off doesn’t please him.

The way Sticky saw it then was that he has some mean business with an ignorant half-breed. A gun’s point solved the business. And he had the idea. He stood up tall from the bar and looked down at him.

“Naw, naw. I remember now. I’ve seen your face on ‘em wanted ads. You’re Apache Jack, the Killer of Whites. Ya got yourself a bounty of what was it… ugh, oh yeah, two thousand dead or alive. On top of that, ya have a nice set of hair that’ll bring me $150 in Wilcox. So if it’s all the same to ya, I’ll take ya in dead. A savage of your caliber doesn’t deserve any death by hanging, no sir. That’d be cheating frontier justice.”

The music from the piano man went dead, and the whole joint went silent. The three miners froze midway through their game to look at the scene. They were around long enough to know that a fight was coming. That meant the likelihood of a shooting taking place. After all, bullets didn’t discriminate. Gil stood back a foot, almost ready to take cover at the next wrong move from either one of the two men. Buzz stood behind Sticky, smiling with delight at the scene playing out before him.

Gil was around long enough to know Sticky’s game. Not for a second did he believe him. Besides, he had never heard of him even carrying a bullwhip. At least not that he could remember, so he took a chance and stood up for the man.

“Sticky, I can tell ya right now that he ain’t Apache Jack,” said Gil.

“Shut up, Gil,” spat Sticky.

“For one thing, he ain’t packing any firepower,” said Gil.

“Gil…,” bit Sticky.

“For another I never heard of ‘em carrying a bullwhip…”

“Gil, if ya know what’s good for ya, shut up,” bit Sticky.

“And for another he looks nothing like the picture of Apache Jack on ‘em wanted ads all over the territory. So, if ya kill ‘em, that’s murder, and there are six witnesses in this room that would attest to that.”

“No, there ain’t,” said Sticky with confidence. “I don’t see any witnesses present.”

Sticky turned to the miners at the table.

“You three there at the card table,” said Sticky. “Are y’all witnesses?”

The three miners shake in their boots and don’t say a word.

“I don’t think so,” smiled Sticky.

He then looked over at the piano man.

“You there at the piano,” called Sticky. “How about you?”

The piano man couldn’t even look Sticky in the eye.

“I didn’t think so either,” said Sticky. “How about you, Buzz?”

“He is Apache Jack, Killer of Whites, facing God’s White throne of judgment,” he affirmed. “That’s what.”

Sticky laughed.

“Good,” said Sticky. “You’re the smart one. How about now, Gil? Ya still a witness?”

Gil looked over at the piano man and the miners. He knew right away that he would get no help out of them. That was when his courage began to fade, and he backed down with shame.

“I thought so,” laughed Sticky. “Some hombre, ya are.”

Sticky turned his attention to the stranger, sitting at his Douglas chair. Both of his hands were on the bar counter before him. He was looking at the mirror up behind the bar counter before him. It gave him a comprehensive view of everyone except for the piano. His eyes though were on the fool standing at the other end of the bar.

“Get up and face me, ya red devil,” sneered Sticky.

While looking at the mirror and remaining calm and steady, he spoke.

“Ya aren’t the first man to challenge me,” he said.

He then turned in his chair to face Sticky. His piercing dark eyes that belonged to a predator looking upon prey.

“And ya won’t be the last.”

At that last bit, Sticky went for his gun, but what followed no one would forget. By the time Sticky had his gun out, the whip lashed the gun out of his hand. His hand bled. He grabbed his bleeding hand and looked at Goshe in total disbelief.

“Any more?” said Goshe with venom.

Sticky stood there shaking in his boots. Buzz was five feet behind his friend and backing off in complete shock.

“Christ on a horse,” stammered Buzz.

“Well?” said Goshe.

Sticky, being so shaken up, could do nothing but wet himself.

It was a pathetic sight.

“Ya know when ya start something, ya should finish it. The question of the moment is, are ya gonna finish it?”

“Please…,” begged Sticky. “Please…”

“Wrong answer,” said Goshe.

“Please… I’m sorry…”

He shook his head as he looked upon the petrified white man with disgust.

“If you’re not gonna finish it then I will.”

He then proceeded to whip Sticky again and again until he was on the floor. He bled and wept like a little girl. Once on the floor he took out a sharp Bowie knife that had Sticky screaming for his pathetic life. Sticky screamed as he got scalped. Upon scalping him, he took the fresh scalp and placed it in Sticky’s bloodied hand. He held it tight.

“Ya can trade it in Wilcox for $150. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

He then wiped the blood off his knife on Sticky’s clothes. He then stood up to look over the bloody mess he had created. He looked over at Gil, who stood behind the bar, petrified. He took out two silver dollars and placed them on the counter, putting Gil at ease.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said.

He then sat back on his Douglas chair to continue nursing his drink. Not a moment later Gil’s wife came out from the back with the steak on a plate in her hands. Halfway out, she stopped to look at the scene in shock.

“What the hell…?” she said.

Gil rushed up to grab the steak from her before she could drop it.

“Go back into the kitchen,” he ordered her.

She handed off the plate to her husband and disappeared back into the kitchen without saying a word. Gil then placed the steak right before Goshe, which included a steak knife and fork. Goshe then proceeded to eat his steak without a care in the world, as if nothing happened.

Buzz fled the building.

4.

Marshall Elmer Huggins preferred to use his tongue to talk a man down rather than gunning a man down. He was of that class of competent lawmen who were good at reading a situation to determine his course of action. But if he ever had to use his gun, which he had, he wouldn’t hesitate to put a man down. Like most law enforcement officers in the territory, he was prone to graft to keep his pockets full. Such was the arrangement he had with Sticky and the likes of him.

He was sitting outside the front of the jail. He smoked a rolled-up cigarette joint and played checkers with his mute deputy, Samson. He was a middle-aged, former slave who was handy to have around to back you up in a fight. Huggins smiled with glee in his white beard and aged eyes at his latest move in the game that he thinks he’ll win.

“I got ya now,” smiled Huggins.

Samson studied the board, shaking his head, knowing he wasn’t in a good position on the game.

“Try to beat me now, ya black bastard,” said Huggins beside himself.

Samson looked at Huggins, giving him the silent treatment.

“What’s the matter?” teased Huggins. “Cat got your tongue? If ya wasn’t mute, I’d almost pay to hear the words outta ya mouth at this moment.”

Samson shook his head and smiled.

It was a smile that didn’t have all its teeth.

“Now that’s what I call a shit-eating grin,” laughed Huggins. “Damn, that never gets old.”

That was when Buzz came running out of the Greek House and came running towards Huggins and his mute deputy. Huggins was quick to spot him and turned his chair towards his direction.

“Here we go,” Huggins said to Samson. “Looks like another twenty bucks is heading my way.”

Huggins got serious before Buzz reached them.

“He scalped ‘em,” raved Buzz. “He scalped ‘em!”

“Who got scalped, Buzz?”

“The half-breed scalped Sticky, Marshall!”

“Wait, what?” said Huggins. “Ya saying that Sticky scalped the stranger that had rolled into town?”

“No, I’m saying the half-breed scalped Sticky.”

That got Huggins’ attention. He looked at Samson. He looked back at him with a dumbfounded look before he composed himself to give his full attention to Buzz.

“Ok, Buzz,” said Huggins, “slow it down. Who is he?”

“The half-breed?”

“No, President Grant,” bit Huggins. “Of course the half-breed. Who else am I talking about?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, who did Sticky say he was to give ‘em the excuse to make a move on ‘em?” said Huggins. “Did he go with Jack Crow?”

“Naw, Marshall,” said Buzz. “He went with Apache Jack.”

“The Killer of Whites?”

“Yeah.”

“If he had any lick of sense in ‘em he would’ve gone with Jack Crow.”

“I told ‘em that he didn’t fit the build of Apache Jack,” said Buzz. “Even Gil said so himself when Sticky made the move on ‘em.”

“Who else besides Gil?” asked Huggins. “How many witnesses?”

“Lemme think for a second on that one, Marshall,” said Buzz. “There was Bill the piano man, and three or four miners at a card table?”

“What about Martha?”

“Who’s Martha?”

“Gil’s wife, Buzz.”

“Ya mean that tasty-looking thing that used to work at the cat house?”

“Yes, Buzz.”

“She walked into the scene after the fact.”

“After he killed ‘em, ya mean?”

“He ain’t dead.”

“What do ya mean, he ain’t dead?”

“He whipped ‘em awful bad with this bullwhip he was carrying.”

“Why didn’t the half-breed shoot ‘em like a normal fella?”

“Cause he ain’t packing heat on ‘em.”

“What?” said Huggins. “Are ya trying to tell me that this bastard managed to overcome an armed Sticky with a bullwhip?”

“Yes, sir,” swore Buzz. “Then he scalped ‘em and gave Sticky his scalp for ‘em to cash in on himself and told ‘em not to spend it all in one place.”

This threw Huggins and his mute deputy in a loop. Neither man couldn’t believe it.

“You’re on the level, Buzz?” said Huggins. “You’re not making shit up one me now are ya?”

“Now, how could I make something like that up?” swore Buzz.

Huggins knew he had a point there. Buzz wasn’t one to spin yards out of nothing. Even so, Huggins didn’t like the sound of it.

“Where’s the half-breed now, Buzz?”

“He’s sitting at the bar in the Greek House eating a steak and drinking a bottle of booze while Sticky bleeds on the floor.”

“Ya better take us to ‘em, Buzz.”

“Yes, sir, but good luck,” warned Buzz, “cause he’s one bad hombre.”

Huggins looked over at Samson.

Neither of them liked it.

“Let’s look for ourselves and see what’s what,” Huggins said to Samson, “nice and easy like.”

Huggins looked over at Buzz.

“Take us there, Buzz.”

“Ok.”

The Marshall and his deputy got up and took out their pistols before following Buzz to the Greek House.

5.

Back in the saloon, the miners at the card table were by Sticky’s side, checking him out as he groaned in agony. The piano man sat at his piano, watching the scene from where he sat. Gil, in particular, was curious, who stood behind the bar counter looking at Goshe.

“Ya know, he picked a fight with every man that came through here. It never turned out too well for any of ‘em until now, that is.”

One of the miners looked up at Gil.

“Hell, he’ll live,” said the miner.

“Ya don’t say,” said Gil.

“He’ll have one helluva scar that’ll stick out like a sore thumb, though,” said another miner.

“Golly,” said Gil. “I ain’t ever heard of a man surviving a scalping before.”

“A man can survive about anything if done right,” said Goshe between mouthfuls. “Besides, why kill a man for being stupid? Life’s tough all over, but it’s tougher when you’re stupid.”

“He tried to kill ya, man,” said Gil. “That’s grounds to kill a man in my book.”

“He was a bully trying to make a quick buck. I’d say his mean days are behind ‘em from here on out.”

“What makes ya say that?” asked one of the miners.

“No one will be quiet about what happened here. Especially you fellas. Whatever reputation he had amongst y’all is now gone. No one fears ‘em anymore. No man would ever think about backing down from a man that got himself scalped and lived to tell about it. Nope, his scalp will be the last easy money he’ll ever make for the rest of his life. If he’s smart, he won’t spend it all in one place, but he won’t since he ain’t smart. No, I figure he’ll blow it all on one night of booze and a cheap saloon girl who’s handy with a few tricks. After that, he’ll be no different than his friend with ‘em a few minutes ago. I’d even say he’ll be worse off. Way off.”

The miners look at him. They took his words in like kids in a schoolhouse, as he eats his very rare steak.

“Damn,” said one miner.

“He’s right, too,” said another.

“Shit,” said the third. “I’ll never back off from Sticky again. Not after what happened to ‘em.”

“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer fella,” added the first miner.

All three of the miners laugh in unison at that last bit. A moment later, Marshall Huggins and his mute deputy entered the saloon. Buzz followed behind them in the rear. Huggins and Samson take a moment to let the scene sink in.

“Damn,” said Huggins. “Ya weren’t lying. Buzz.”

“I told ya,” said Buzz.

Huggins and Samson look over at the bar at Goshe, who pays them no mind as he eats his steak with his back facing them. They take a moment to size him up. Huggins saw that he had better not start a fight with him, knowing how well it fared for Sticky.

“Gil,” said Huggins.

“Yes, Marshall?”

“I take it it was Sticky who started this whole tussle.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Gil. “I’m here, and I saw the whole damn thing. Every damn man ya see in this establishment saw the whole thing and none of us won’t ever forget.”

“Spell it out for me, Gil,” said Huggins.

“It’s simple enough,” said Gil. “This fellow comes in. He sits down and orders a steak and booze. He pays for it. He asks about the stage coming through here next and plans to be on it when it comes here. He sells me his old horse hitched outside. I pay ‘em for it. Sticky and Buzz come in for drinks. That was when Sticky tried to make a move on ‘em, thinking he was Apache Jack, but I flat out told ‘em that he couldn’t be. He doesn’t fit the description of ‘em on ‘em wanted ads…”

“That he does not,” nodded Huggins in agreement. “And then it went south for Sticky from there?”

“Yeah,” nodded Gil. “Pretty much.”

“All right,” said Huggins.

“He’ll even live too, Marshall,” said one of the miners.

That was when Huggins and Samson turned their attention to Sticky on the floor nearby.

“He won’t live if ya fools leave ‘em there to bleed like a hog,” snapped Huggins. “Well, what the hell are ya damn fools waiting for? Get his ass down to the Doc’s place. Don’t let ‘em bleed on the damn floor.”

Without saying a word, the miners picked up Sticky and carried him out of the saloon. He held onto his scalp in his warm, bloody hand.

“If Doc is all liquored up, see that he puts some coffee in his belly to sober ‘em up,”added Huggins as they carried Sticky out.

Huggins turned to Buzz.

“Buzz.”

“Yeah?”

“Get outta here.”

“Ya gonna arrest ‘em?”

“And exactly what would I arrest ‘em for, Buzz?” said Huggins. “Sticky ain’t dead. Even if he does die, it’ll be a clear case of self-defense the way I see it. Besides, some witnesses can prove it.”

Huggins looked over at Gil.

“Am I right on that assumption?”

“Yeah,” said Gil.

“And if ya were to appear before a court of law, would ya testify to that?”

“I would, yeah,” said Gil. “And I can also testify that he ain’t Apache Jack.”

“That I can see,” said Huggins.

Huggins looked over at Buzz with disgust.

“You’re still here, Buzz,” bit Huggins. “Get outta here, and I ain’t gonna tell ya a third time.”

Buzz took off out of the saloon with his tail between his legs. Once he was gone, Huggins turned his full attention to Goshe. Both he and Samson keep their distance.

“I’m Marshall Elmer Huggins and my mute deputy to my left is Samson. I’m sorry to bother ya, but we gotta talk.”

Goshe doesn’t slow down on his eating and drinking.

“Speak your piece, Marshall,” said Goshe between mouthfuls. “I’m listening.”

“I’ll do that. That was pretty impressive what ya did to Sticky. He had it coming to ‘em, and had ya killed ‘em, no one in town would have lost any sleep over it, especially me. You’re not in trouble, Mister, but I’m gonna have to warn ya, Sticky, until now, was a pretty big fellow around here. He pulled a lot of pull, but not anymore, no thanks to you. I’m not even gonna ask ya for your name, cause, I’d rather not know. One look at ya, I can tell you’re not one to tangle with in a fight, so I’ll come on out and say it. I don’t want ya here in my town. To be fair, ya can stay the night to catch the stage when it comes through here tomorrow at the earliest. If ya ain’t outta here on a horse before then, ya damn well better be on that stage outta here and don’t ever come back.”

“You’ll have no problem with me. I was passing through. I’ll be on the stage tomorrow outta here, and I can guarantee that you’ll never see me again.”

“That’s fine,” smiled a satisfied Huggins. “Until then, make yourself comfortable, Mister.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good day then,” said Huggins.

“Good day to you as well.”

Huggins and Samson departed. They never saw Goshe again after the following day. He boarded the pre-noon stagecoach, leaving an unforgettable mark on the town folk.

Sticky would live, but as Goshe said, his mean days were behind him. No one was afraid of him anymore. Instead of trading his scalp in for a quick $150, he kept it. Whenever he told the story of what happened to him that fateful day, he’d show them his scalp. Always someone would buy him a drink or a meal.

He spent the rest of his years begging for scraps along with Buzz. Ten years later, while crossing the street, he would drop dead when his heart gave out on him. They would bury him on Boot Hill, forgetting him and the Dancers Rock business.