Welcome To The Bullpen
Along Came Smith
R. Michael Brown
Lariat Smith and Ike Moon were cowhands who had ridden down from Kansas to see if the grass was greener in Texas. Smith was twenty-five, yet in Moon’s mind he was still a pupwet behind the ears. Lariat was six foot and large framed. He was clean-shaven, square-jawed, with blue eyes and black hair under a narrow-brimmed hat. Moon was fifty, yet in Smith’s eyes he was an old cootset in his ways. Ike was five foot ten inches, and a medium build. His round face sported a white beard, and his eyes were brown. Under his old, sweat-stained hat that he just could not let go of lay thinning white hair.
Paradise was smack dab in the center of the Panhandle. It was a small town, but thriving. It had one street, and it was wide. The gray, weathered buildings were long and narrow with alleyways. Boardwalks lined the building fronts. Lariat Smith and Ike Moon noticed all this as they rode in. The size of the town was not important to them. Their sights were set on the saloon, and beer to wash down the trail dust.
As Smith passed each building he noticed an ample amount of stares coming their way. At the Red Garter Saloon, they reined in. There Lariat mulled over the attention given their way. He sniffed three times. Moon eyed him curiously.
“You feelin’ poorly?” he inquired.
“Nope, seein’ if we smelled from the trail ride,” Smith answered. Moon frowned.
“Now…what gave you that notion?” he asked. Smith was baffled by Moon’s question. He fired back.
“You didn’t see them peculiar looks gave us?” Moon swung down and peered over the saddle at him.
“You know,” said he, scratching his chin, “can’t say as I did.” He tied the reins to a hitch rail and stepped up on the boardwalk.
Smith stepped down, tied the reins to the hitch rail, and under it. He paused on the boardwalk and scanned both sides of the street. No one was staring now. Could he have imagined it all? he thought. He turned and ambled toward the bat-wing doors and pushed them apart. Smith and Moon sauntered to the bar, their spurs jingling.
There were four tables in the saloon. One table had poker games at it, and it caught Moon’s eye. The bar was well-fashioned with a mirror behind it, and well stocked with a variety of liquor. Over in the corner a tall, bald-headed man played a lively tune on an upright piano.
When Smith reached the bar he bumped into a lean-faced gun-toter, causing him to spill his beer.
“Friend… pardon me,” said he calmly. The lean-faced man barked angrily.
“Are you blind?” He wheeled around to confront Smith, but when he faced him, his mouth dropped and his eyes widened.
“Friend…said pardon me,” he smiled.
The gun-toter slowly backed up four steps, spun on his heels, and skedaddled from the saloon. Once outside, he was in the saddle pronto and galloped out of town.
Smith stood in bewilderment as to why the man had stormed out. Little did he know that all eyes were on him, and most had been since he ambled in.
A short, chubby barkeep asked, “Langley…you just ride in?”
Smith was still focused on the man’s sudden departure when Moon tapped him on the shoulder. “He’s jawin’ to you,” he informed.
“What’d you say?” he asked without looking around.
“You just ride in?” the chubby man asked.
“Yep,” Smith said, turning to the barkeep.
“Beers?” he asked while wiping up a wet spot.
“Yeah… two beers,” he said, wondering how he knew.
The chubby man turned to get the beers, then returned and set them down. Two coins hit the bar with a clang. The barkeep placed them in a box on a shelf behind him. He mosied to the office, knocked on the door, and opened it. After saying a few words, he closed the door and walked to the tables to see if any customers needed drinks.
“He thinks you’re an owlhoot named Langley,” Moon announced discreetly.
“He does…but…but why?” Smith asked, stumbling over his words, surprised and confused. The barkeep set two beers on the bar.
“You must look like him,” Moon disclosed.
“Who is he?”
“An owlhoot who’s gun-wise,” Moon surmised.
“Bein’ gun-wise,” he fancied.
“Well, you ain’t,” Moon reminded simply.
“Better than you,” Smith defended.
“That ain’t sayin’ much, “he rebutted.
“Shot that rattler,” Smith boasted.
“Yeah…but it took you four shots,” Moon teasingly jabbed.
“You was countin’,” he chuckled. Lariat Smith and Ike Moon drank half their beers, and set them on the bar. An attractive, auburn-haired woman exited the office, and walked toward Smith. She was smiling.
“Ranger Langley, you’re a welcomed sight,” she said smiling.
“He ain’t“ Moon began.
Smith responded quickly, “Good to see you again.” His broad smile revealed his dimples. He shot a quick look at Moon to remain silent.
“We best be movin’ on,” Moon advised.
“There’s no hurry,” he assured.
“Met most of the rangers…but you…I can’t recall,” said she, studying Moon carefully.
“Ma’am…ain’t been rangerin’ long,” said he. “Ike Moon’s the name…but you can call me… Moon.” He tipped his hat and smiled, showing his pearly whites.
“Kate Arten’s the name,” said she, “owner of this establishment.”
A tall, clean-shaven, sandy-haired man in a black duster pushed apart the bat-wing doors and stepped inside. He bellowed, “Langleyyou ain’t escapin’ this time!”
Lariat Smith stood momentarily dumbfounded in the midst of saloon chatter and music that faded into silence.
Kate grabbed Moon’s arm. “Come here!” she exclaimed, pulling him toward her.
“I…I ain’t“ Smith began.
“You ain’t got a choice!” the tall man barked. Nine steps he took toward Smith. He stopped and pulled back the duster revealing a pearl-handled forty-four in a tied-down holster. Eight feet separated the two men. Suddenly he palmed the six-shooter.
Smith instinctively grabbed a half-filled beer mug and threw it at the man’s gun-hand. The six-shooter hit the floor with a dull thud.
The man was visibly startled and confused by Smith’s sudden action. He shook his hand and rubbed it. He groaned, “Langley…why’d you do that?” He reached down to retrieve the six-shooter.
Smith raced toward him. As he raised up, Lariat’s right cross to the jaw buckled his knees and a left uppercut to the chinthe haymaker finished him off. Down he wentflat on his back. The saloon erupted in a boisterous roar. It was so loud that Kate had to shout her words to Smith.
“Sheriff Cartwright wasn’t expectin’ that!” Kate loudly exclaimed.
Smith was stunned by the news. “He’s the sheriff!”
Kate slapped him on the back. “You sure showed Cartwright who’s better at this game!” she confided happily.
“Weren’t intended,” he mused, half-aloud.
Kate bent down to check on the sheriff and said, “He’ll be fine,” she said, then stood and added, “but you bruised his standin’.”
“Time to ride!” Moon alerted.
“What’s your hurry?” she questioned the rush.
“Got to see a rancher about some steers,” Smith responded.
“Rustlers!?” said she, questioning it.
“Yeah…you could say that,” Smith reasoned.
“Ain’t heard of any,” she told him.
“Rustlers ain’t even got wind of it,” Moon mumbled.
Kate gave Smith a stern look. “The sheriff won’t like you up and ridin’ off,” she warned. Sheriff Cartwright moaned, and Lariat Smith and Ike Moon eyed him, then one another. They quickly stepped over himand scampered for daylight.
Kate cried, “What’ll I tell the sheriff?” Her question went unanswered.
Smith and Moon untied their horses and mounted them Pony Express style as they galloped out of townheaded south. After a hard ride they slowed their horses’ gait to a canter, and then to a walk.
“Why’d you throw that mug?” Moon asked curiously.
“Well…it…it was what first came to mind,” Smith admitted slowly.
“Sure was some mighty fast thinkin’,” he expressed, “and you walloped him goodwhoo-ee…he’ll…he’ll be feelin’ it for days!” He slapped the side of his leg.
“Learned a lesson back there,” Smith humbly acknowledged.
“Yeah…what’s that?” Moon asked, eyeing him.
“Not to want to be some owlhoot,” he divulged.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong in bein’ a trail-hand,” he reasoned.
“Ain’t hankerin’ to be no one but me,” Smith resolved,
“Ain’t nothin’ better than a trail-hand’s life,” said he pridefully.
“All I want to face is cantankerous steers,” said Smith, drawing the line.
“Wouldn’t want to be Langley when that sheriff gets a bead on him.” Moon chuckled.
“Yep…that sheriff will have somethin’ planned special for him,” he laughed in agreement.
“Ever tell you about the time I was at the Waterin’ Hole Saloon in Dodge City?”
Lariat Smith knew he had heard that old yarn before. “Can’t say as you have,” said he.
“Well…we’d finished a long, rough trail-drive and after we’d got paid we headed to town and whooped and hollered till there weren’t nothin’ left but tuckered out trail-hands.” He was telling that old yarn like it was for the first time. “Well…later that night there was a poker game. It weren’t no high stake game mind you, but for a bunch of trail-hands it still had a right nice amount on the table. Them boys were fit to be hog-tied when I laid down a full house on the last handaces over tens!”
It was like that along the trail. Lariat Smith listened to Ike Moon tell one old yarn after another.
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