The Saloon

I had heard many things about George McDonough from the cowboys that wandered into the bar. Their late night purchases loosened their lips, spilling story after story about the rugged, ruthless killer with the yellow-grip pistol. Bill was one of my regulars who had actually seen George, and despite his knack for embellishment he never ceased to hold my attention during his narration.

               “Oh yeah, I saw ol’ George ‘bout two hundred miles back. Scared me half to death when I saw him riding into that town. O’ course I couldn’t be certain it was him at that distance, but I saw his black hat, brown jacket and paint horse so I wasn’t going to take no chances. When he got closer I could just barely see the yellow grip on his revolver pokin’ out, so that confirmed it.” Bill leaned forward and grabbed his beer as his onlookers hurled questions at him.

               “Did he see you?”

               “What was he like?”

               “Was he coming this way?”

               He held up a finger while he finished the last of his pint. Sometimes Bill would pretend to be irritated by the questions, furrowing his unruly brows and shaking his head, but everyone knew he loved the attention. Well, the attention and the occasional free beer.

               “Hell no he didn’t see me, I’m here aren’t I?” Bill laughed. “He wasn’t as scraggly lookin’ as in the pictures, but his beard is pretty long and he’s got a tight-lipped frown right behind it. He looks meaner than the devil himself, that’s for sure. I didn’t see where he ended up goin’ cause after he hopped off his mare I hopped on mine and high-tailed it out of there.”

               Any time Bill passed through I always stayed open a bit late. The money was best on story night, and if I’m being honest I enjoyed the tales myself. I’d usually clean glasses or empty tables around him so I could hear the whole retelling while keeping busy, which saved me time the following day during set up. After he’d finished and they’d all gone home or to the hotel opposite my saloon, I’d retreat to my living quarters upstairs with a glass of whiskey and read for a bit before sleeping. George was always floating around in my head though, even had a dream about him and his paint horse once. Bill said that horse was about 18 hands tall which I know was just his imagination but it still got me to thinking. Little did I know at that time that I’d get a chance to find out for myself.

               Few weeks after Bill’s visit, the town was silent. Scarcely anyone was coming through, and the only people in my joint lived here too. Frank Milligan owned the convenient store on the other side of town, and he would run up such a tab we came to an agreement that he wouldn’t pay, and I’d get my groceries free. It saved us the useless transfer of money, and we were always fair. But on this particular day it was about noon, and Frank was likely still sleeping off his spirits from the night before. The sun was sitting high in the sky and a gentle breeze played the chimes in one of the shop fronts. I was sitting on my counter top reading my book and waiting for someone to wander in when I heard him.

               “Pardon, ma’am.” His gravelly voice caught me off guard and I nearly dropped my book as I leapt off the counter to face him. I glanced above him first at my doorbell, only to find a bandana tightly wrapped around the clapper. I remember thinking that was a clever trick. The man stood tall, around six-foot-four, which explained the ease he likely had reaching over the saloon doors to disable my bell.

               “How can I help you?” I replied coolly, feeling anything but calm. I could clearly see the yellow grip on the piece holstered at his side, his hand rested on his belt just above it as a silent warning. The black hat in his other hand, brown jacket, and thick dark beard sent a chill down my spine, and tethered outside I could see a large paint horse.

               “I’m lookin’ for something.” Says he.

               “Go on then.” Says I.

               “I’m not in a rush.” He put his hat on one of the tables and motioned for me to go behind the bar. I complied, never turning my back to the fellow for fear he’d turn on me. “Whiskey, neat.”

               “I got two on the shelf.”

               “Do I look picky?”

               I don’t know how my hands weren’t shaking as I poured this man his glass, but I’ve always been proud of that. He seated himself at the counter and I took that opportunity to get a good look at him. He’d always been described as older and I had pictured a man in his fifties, but this man appeared closer to thirty-five. He had a few scars visible, tired grey eyes, and dark brown shaggy hair that appeared almost black. His hands were calloused and dirty, but I didn’t dare suggest he wash up first.

               “You know who I am?” George asked, though it didn’t sound like a question. I looked at his eyes and saw that he’s staring directly at me. Surprisingly, his gaze didn’t feel cold like Bill had said it did. It felt somber and lonely, but also soft.

               “Most everyone does.” I replied, sliding his drink to him. A few moments of silence followed as he took a couple swigs. I normally wouldn’t have minded the silence, but with him sitting a few feet away from me I could hardly function. “So, what can I help you with?”

               “You’re a barkeep ain’t ya? You just keep getting’ me drinks.”

               “You going to kill me?” I all but whispered. I couldn’t believe myself for asking such a bold question, but then again I never had much of a filter when speaking. He paused with the glass up to his lips, just staring at me. I could swear I saw a flicker of amusement flash across his eyes before he took another drink.

               “You know who I am.” He repeated, glancing away. This answer only lead me to more questions. I wanted to ask about him, about his history, about why he does this, but the fear of death left me speechless. He let out a deep, gritty chuckle as he read my mind. “You can ask, I don’t bite.”

               “Not sure which statement I believe. They’re conflicting.” I maintained eye contact with him as I said this, once again throwing caution to the wind.

               “Are they?” George slid his now empty glass back across the counter and tapped the rim with his fingertips. “I reckon you’ve got a lot of questions, but frankly I’m tired and could use a nap before I let you interrogate me. Where’s your room?”

               George walked behind me up the stairs, newly filled glass of whiskey in hand. I held out hope that someone might stop in and see my predicament, but I had no such luck. I showed him the room and offered to lay out fresh bedding for him but he was lying down before I could finish offering it. I attempted to leave, but he just chuckled and said something about me turning him in for the money. He must’ve seen my face go white.

               “Don’t go gettin’ the wrong ideas, now. You can sit in that there chair in the corner while I rest.” He grunted, shifting his weight around to get comfortable. “I might’ve ended a few lives, but I still have some human decency.”

               He proceeded to shoot his whiskey, put his hat over his face, and fell asleep. He didn’t even bother taking his boots off, much less his holstered weapon. I wondered if I could slip out the door unnoticed, but ultimately decided against it. Instead I opted to re-read one of the books on the shelf beside me, David Copperfield. I reached out and grabbed it slowly, not wanting to startle George, and brought it to my lap. The only moving I did for the next few hours was gently turning pages as the shadows danced from one side of the room to the other.

               I love stories. I got lost in books frequently, the words sweeping off the pages and entrancing me in their world. Obviously Bill’s storytelling struck a chord with me too, as I’d often “forget” to close until nearly dawn. I’d been told as a child I had an imagination that was far too active for my own good, so as I grew I tried to keep my imaginings tethered to reading. The outside world grew quiet as I walked alongside the words that guided my adventure, only to be interrupted by the occasional trespassers on my time.

               “David Copperfield, huh?” The trespasser noted, tearing me back to reality.

               “You make it a habit to startle everyone you come across, or do I alone have that pleasure?” This earned another chuckle.

               “What’s your name?” George asked as he stood up and stretched.

               “Mollie.”

               “Well howdy, Mollie. I’m George.” Had the circumstances been better, I would’ve said that was a kind introduction, but the fact that we were engaged in a wordless understanding about my cooperation put a bit of a damper on things. “Join me for a drink?”

               The casual flow of conversation from this killer’s lips baffled me. He was speaking as though I was an old flame or friend of his. He turned and walked out the door and down the stairs without waiting for my reply, and I followed cautiously behind. He placed himself behind my counter and made himself at home with my liquors. He poured two glasses of rum to the halfway mark and handed me one of them, clinking our glasses together. We both drank, then sat in silence for a moment.

               “Alright Mollie, ask your questions and then I’ll ask mine. I’ll be straight with you if you’ll be straight with me.” I raised my glass to take a second dose of courage.

               “Why is your grip yellow?”

               “It was my daughter’s favorite color.” I knew he just agreed to be honest, but I didn’t expect it so completely upfront like that.

               “How many people have you killed?”

               “Stopped counting. I can see their faces though, men and women. Never children.” His face changed to stone as he said this. I remember thinking, at least he doesn’t kill children.

               “Why are you doing this?”

               “The world is full of corrupt people making corrupt decisions. I’ll find out about those people and towns and I’ll dispose of ‘em. Simple as that.” George takes another drink.

               “Sounds like a noble endeavor, but that’s not how people talk about you. They say you kill anyone who crosses your path in cold blood.”

               “Considering I aim my path towards the scum that sounds about right.”

               “Then why are you here, talking to me?”

               “Can’t a man want a drink?” His eyes twinkled mischievously. Our conversation continued for a few more minutes, and had put me at ease. The spirits helped, I’m sure, so I poured myself another glass. Surprisingly, no one had been to the bar yet but I didn’t really mind. I was living in my own story for once, one that starred both myself and George McDonough.

               “Well I figure I’m about done here, so I’ll be heading on my way.” He declared, clearing his throat and placing his hat on his head.

               “You didn’t ask me any questions.”

               “No, I don’t suppose I did.”

“Where will you go?” I inquired, taking his glass. He shrugged.

               “West I think. Maybe North.”

               “What was it you were looking for?”

               “Inspiration. I find it sometimes in unexpected places.” He had almost reached the door and I discovered that the thought of him leaving town left me feeling down.

               “Did you find it here?” I asked in an attempt to prolong our conversation however I could.

               “I think I just might’ve.” He smiled back at me as he took his bandana off my doorbell and tipped it with his fingers so it chimed. “You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am. But I’m still searchin’ for it.”

He wrapped his bandana neatly and tucked it into his pocket. I followed him outside to where his horse stood no larger than 16 hands tall. I’ll have to tell Bill about the horse when he comes through next. George McDonough got on his horse, Jurada he called her, and turned back to face me.

               “Goodbye, Mollie. Maybe I’ll see you again.” He remarked, tipping his hat towards me.

               “Goodbye, George. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I returned. The streets were barren as he left headed West. The sun dipped low in the sky making his silhouette elongated against the dirt road behind him. That was the last time I saw him. Every now and then I think I see Jurada in the distance carrying George back to visit. His wanted poster is still plastered on the board asking “Have you seen this man?” Yes, I have. Just the once.

But I know who he is.