The tall man sat comfortably astride the big bay stallion as
they picked their way through the desert sagebrush. They had been this way before and both were
getting thirsty. In the distance, a wisp
of smoke gave evidence of some activity so, responding to a bit of urging, the
horse broke into a gallop as they traveled west.
Silver
Springs was certainly nothing like its name. The gray dilapidated buildings along the main
street flanked square adobe houses or shops.
Dust was everywhere and there wasn’t a sign of a rippling brook or a
sparkling spring to be seen. Slim saw a
sign for a livery barn. “Let’s get you
some water and a little feed, Archie,” he said to his horse. “Maybe we can find a little shade for you.”
As he
drew closer to the barn, a slight young man came rushing out. “Hey there!
Nice horse! Can we help you?”
Slim looked at him closely; the young man seemed pretty young.
“Do you
think you can handle Archie here? He’s
in need of a drink and a cooling off place.”
“Sure
thing!” He murmured something to the
horse as Slim dismounted. “We’ll be ok.
There’s Margie’s place across the street if you want to get something to drink
yourself!”
“Just
what I wanted,” Slim replied. “I’ll be
back shortly.” He ambled across the
hard packed dirt with a rolling cowboy gait and headed into the building where
there seemed to be the most action. An
old, skinny man was pounding away on an even older, battered piano; he was chomping
on a cigar in time to the music he was playing.
Some tired looking men sat hunched around a scarred wooden table, moving
around some cards and poker chips as they began another game. Another group of dusty cowboys were sitting by
a table, enjoying their mugs of beer, vying for the company of a striking
redhead who seemed to be grinning at each one.
“What’ll
it be, mister?” the bartender hollered above the noise.
“Something
cold and wet! I’ll have a beer, I guess.”
Slim could almost taste that brew as he reached into his jeans pocket for a
silver dollar. Placing it on the
counter, he reached for the glass as he heard shouting and the scraping of
chairs being moved. He turned around and
saw two of the poker players advancing on one another, ready for a fight. “You cheated!” one of them said.
Slim
knew nothing good was coming out of this.
Turning swiftly, he grabbed one of the noisemakers around the neck with
this left arm. The guy struggled feebly,
but knew his assailant was at least a foot taller and much heavier than he
was. Slim took a long step toward the
other loudmouth and grabbed his bandana that had been hanging loosely around
the neck; he gave it a jerk and the guy got quiet. “Sit down and let a fellow have a drink in
peace! If you don’t like the cards, try
this deck and start over!” Slim let go of the men, pulled out a deck of cards
from his back pocket and tossed them on the table.
He
turned back to his drink and a tall man, dressed in black walked toward
him. “Thanks, Mister. That was mighty good of you to stop that
ruckus before it went farther.” Slim saw
the man’s large star glinting in the light.
“How would you like a job? The
name’s Dillon. Marshal Matt Dillon.”
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