A Bad Place To Be

by John Hansen

  The bartender—a big no-nonsense-looking guy with dark mutton-chop sideburns and a thick moustache that covered his top lip—had seen Josh enter the saloon. He could see that Josh was making his way to an open spot at the other end of the bar and started in that direction. The bartender arrived first. “What’ll it be?” he asked as Josh stepped up to the bar.

  “Whiskey,” replied Josh.

  The bartender took a small glass from the shelf behind the bar and poured a generous amount of whiskey into it and then set it in front of Josh. “That’ll be two bits,” he said as he sized Josh up.

  Josh shoved a quarter across the bar towards the bartender without speaking. He felt that since entering the saloon there were several people, including the bartender, that had taken more than a casual interest in his being there. This was only his second night in Bear Creek, so other than the sheriff and the undertaker there really wasn’t anyone else who had any “long-term” knowledge of who he was or why he was there. Josh took a sip of his whiskey. It almost made him grimace. It was rotgut, not smooth tasting at all, but he reckoned he was in the wrong place if he wanted some quality whiskey. It’ll do for a nightcap, he thought, so long as I only have one. Josh smiled to himself as he recalled some of the cheap whiskey hangovers that he and Seth had experienced at different army posts. He could smile about those times now. They were fun in the making, but the morning after was usually totally lacking in humor.

  The men to either side of Josh were sitting on high stools, as were most of the other bar patrons. Providing a stool so the customer was comfortable encouraged more drinking. The man to Josh’s right had obviously taken advantage of this. Both of his forearms rested heavily on the bar, and his head was either hanging down or from time to time it would jerk upright in synchrony with one or the other of his arms and point with curled fingers towards the mirror behind the bar and mumble: “Those sons a bitches’ll get theirs. Jus’ you wait.” He appeared to be a working miner; his pant legs were muddy below the knees and torn in places. His cotton shirt was sweat-stained under the arms and down the center of his back, and there was dried, white, salty-looking sweat around the base of his hat. He had bags under his brown eyes and his face was thin and drawn—the latter condition possibly due to the man having lost a number of his front teeth, while those that remained were heavily stained by chewing tobacco. His beard was extremely sparse, confined mostly to some sporadic chin whiskers. The man looked like he could be part Indian. “Hollis, he’s a worthless bastard,” announced the drunken miner in a voice clear enough and loud enough for the bartender to hear.

  The bartender stepped closer to the bar and leaned over to where he was face-to-face with the drunk. “Henry, you keep on talkin’ that kinda shit and you’re gonna wind up dead or in jail. What’s done is done so let it go.”

  “You ain’t the one that got robbed,” replied the drunk defiantly. “I busted my ass for that gold dust and then some lazy no-account crook sticks a gun in my face and takes it. And then Hollis tells me, let the law handle it. They can’t handle shit. Been a month and nothin’. I tell you what, though,” said the miner, patting the .36-caliber Navy Colt that was tucked under his belt. “If I find the worthless bastard that got my gold he’s gonna be a sorry sonvabitch.”

  The bartender looked at the drunk with disgust. “You’re drunk, Henry. Take my advice: shut your mouth and get outa here.” And with that he turned and walked to the other end of the bar.

  In the mirror behind the bar, Josh could see that a stool several places to his left had become vacant. Figuring that even being in close proximity to Henry might not win him any points with Hollis or his deputies, he picked up his drink and moved to the unoccupied space. Josh began to reflect on his experiences of the past couple of days. It seemed to be a common consensus among decent-working folks that the law in Bear Creek was worthless, if not corrupt. However, actually proving that might not be an easy task and it might be downright unhealthy.

  Josh noted the time. A clock situated on the back bar above a painting of a nude woman lying on her side indicated that it was 10:15. A pendulum encased in glass that swung back and forth beneath the clock face metered the time. It made a fairly loud ticking sound, and when the bar was quiet it served as a reminder that time was wasting, like there should be more useful, productive things that a person could be doing than just sitting there drinking and telling lies or daydreaming about getting rich. But it wasn’t a quiet time. There was a steady din of noise such that the ticking couldn’t be heard above it, and so that mournful guilt trip wasn’t played upon anybody’s conscience save for the bartender occasionally when there might be a momentary lapse in the noise.

  It had been a long day and Josh decided that it was time to turn in. As he brought his glass up to finish his drink, his eyes made contact with the younger saloon girl in the mirror behind the bar. She was walking towards him. Josh swallowed the remains of his drink and turned to leave. The saloon girl was squarely in his path. “Hi mister, buy a girl a drink?”

  At slightly over six feet, Josh towered over the girl. “Ah, no thanks,” said Josh. “Got a lot to do tomorrow.” And with that Josh started to step around the girl, but she grabbed his left arm lightly, causing him to pause. The girl looked up at him and said: “Please, just one.” There was desperation in her voice and in her eyes. Earlier, from across the room she didn’t appear to fit the image of a saloon girl but now, up close, Josh was even more convinced of that. He was torn. He had no desire other than to go back to his room at the hotel and get some rest, but now he was suddenly feeling some strange moral obligation to buy this girl a drink. He had a sense that to leave would be akin to turning his back on a person in need. And then it was as if the moment had become so pregnant with awkwardness, Josh couldn’t help himself when he said: “Alright, just one.” There was an immediate look of relief in the girl’s face. Conversely, Josh inwardly berated himself for having committed to the drink. The two of them stepped back to the bar. Josh summoned the bartender with an upward nod of his head. “Whiskey for the lady and me,” he said. The bartender turned to the back bar and poured the drinks from separate bottles. Josh smiled derisively. It was a common scam: he would be drinking whiskey (getting hopefully more drunk and looser with his money) while the lady drank tea; the price, however, was the same.

  Noting that the bartender seemed to be lingering in front of them, Josh asked the saloon girl: “Ya’ll want to sit at that table by the door?”

  “Sure, lead the way,” she replied.

  Josh’s upbringing dictated that he pull the lady’s chair out for her. Clearly this surprised her, but she was appreciative. “Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t worked here long but you’re the first gentleman that I’ve encountered.”

  Josh laughed. “Does that surprise you?” Instantly, he regretted the tone of his words. He sounded judgmental but he didn’t apologize. The girl seemed to take it in stride.

  “The only thing that surprises me,” said the girl, “is that I’m working in a place like this. My circumstances left me with no other choice.”

  “I suspected as much,” replied Josh. “Ya’ll have a look of innocence about you that your coworkers don’t.”

  The girl took a sip of her tea, obviously nursing it so it would last, which was contrary to what she had been instructed to do. “They don’t like being here either but they got no choice. In this part of the world unless a woman has a man to look out for her she doesn’t have many options,” she said defiantly.

  Josh had not ever given this much thought before now, but he could see that from a single woman’s perspective, making a living, especially in a rough place like Bear Creek, would be difficult. But on the other hand, for a man to make a living was no cakewalk either. This fact might account for why there was so much thievery and murder. It took grit, determination, and hard work along with a little good luck for a man to make a living. A man lacking in any of those areas could succumb to the temptation of taking from
someone else that had been more fortunate. Undoubtedly, there were instances of desperation that might seem to justify breaking the law, but generally society saw this as a fine line that shouldn’t be crossed. Desperate actions such as stealing and killing would not be tolerated. On the other hand, folks seemed to be more tolerant, almost indifferent, to desperate measures causing a person, such as a saloon girl, to destroy their reputation and health.

  “So how long have you been workin’ here?” asked Josh.

  “Four days,” replied the girl, “but it seems like eternity. I don’t know that I’ll be able to take it much longer, men pawing at you every night.”

  “You mind me askin’, but what caused you to take up this line of work?”

  The girl’s eyes began to tear up. “I came here from San Francisco with my husband a couple of months ago. He was intent on searching for gold and he finally found a fairly promising claim west of here in the mountains, but before he could file on it, he was murdered. Then some other people filed on it and I ended up with nothing. We were penniless at the time and I lived off of handouts—pity mostly—for a time, but then people’s generosity dried up. I had no place to turn to.”

  “You don’t have any family that could help you?” suggested Josh.

  The girl shook her head. “None with any means. Besides they’re back east, in Boston mostly. It’d take considerable money to travel that far and they don’t have it and neither do I, obviously.”

  Josh took a sip of the whiskey which he hadn’t wanted and pondered the girl’s situation. She could be playing him for a handout. He’d known guys in the army that had fallen for a saloon girl’s sob story and it had cost them a lot. But there was something about this girl that told him she was on the up-and-up. But even if she was it wasn’t his problem. He had his own problems. He’d quit his ranch job to come here to work Seth’s claim, but now that wasn’t going to happen. He was living off of his savings, money that he’d set aside to buy a ranch; that couldn’t continue. At some point, he was going to have to find a job, preferably not in the goldfield. Josh was aggravated and frustrated. Why didn’t I just go to bed after supper? he said to himself. Little did he know, but his aggravation was about to get ratcheted up a notch.

  “Oh no,” said the girl in a low tone to Josh. “This guy’s trouble.”

  Josh looked to his left. A big guy—bigger than Josh, who was about six foot one and 210 pounds—was headed towards his table. He had long stringy hair and a dark, full beard. He had a gun belt with a .44-caliber Colt on his right side and a Bowie knife on his left side. There was a menacing look in his eyes, as if he knew he was about to cause trouble but didn’t care. The big stranger stopped close to Josh’s table such that he towered over both Josh and the saloon girl. “Evenin’,” he said in a coy tone. “Mind if I dance with the lady here?”

  Josh could see the fear in the girl’s eyes. There was something different about this guy that seemed to terrify her. “Sorry, pardner, the lady’s having a drink with me,” said Josh in a deliberately cordial voice.

  The big man instinctively wiped some tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth. His eyes glared at Josh in a threatening manner. “Don’t mean she’s your property, mister. Hell, she ain’t nothin’ but a whore and whores git passed around.”

  Given the circumstances, Josh felt awkward in arguing the saloon girl’s virtue. “Maybe so,” replied Josh. “But right now she’s drinkin’ on my dollar.” From the corner of his eye Josh could see the girl was slightly insulted.

  The big guy scoffed. “I don’t rightly give a shit ‘bout your dollar,” he said in a mocking tone. “This little hussy has been ah-dodgin’ me ever since she started here but not tonight.” And with that he grabbed the girl’s arm and started to pull her from her chair.

  Josh jumped to his feet. “Let her go,” he commanded.

  And with that the big guy, who had grabbed the girl with his left hand, suddenly released her and then swung across his body with a big left hook intended for Josh’s chin. Unfortunately for the big guy he’d telegraphed his intentions and Josh stepped back slightly, allowing the punch to miss. At the same time Josh snapped a left jab out that caused the big man’s nose to explode. Blood immediately began to stream down over the big man’s lips. The taste of his own blood seemed to enrage him even more. “You sonovabitch, I’m gonna kill you,” he seethed. And with that he lunged at Josh, only to be met by a left-right combination that dropped him to the floor. The big man lay prostrate, face down. Blood began to pool around his face. The room had become quiet save for the ticking clock on the wall and the gurgling breathing of the unconscious big man. But the quietness was only temporary; it was broken by the bartender: “Mister, you best git the hell outa here. ‘Cause when the Swede there wakes up he’s really gonna want to kill you and I don’t need any gunplay in here.”

  Josh looked up from the Swede to the saloon girl, who was now crying quietly. Tears had begun to cascade from her eyes. Those from her right eye had made it all the way to her jawbone. Her heavy makeup was streaking. Her face had a forlorn look about it that seemed to belie the realization that her escape from this insanity was about to walk out of her life and that tomorrow night the big Swede would probably be back.

  To his left, Josh heard the sound of steel on wood. It was the bartender laying a sawed-off, double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun on the bar. “Mister, I meant what I said. The Swede’s gonna be comin’ around any second now so take the gunplay outside.”

  Josh looked the bartender in the eye. “I’m not lookin’ for any gunfight.”

  “Good,” replied the bartender. “Now get the hell out and take the sniveling bitch with you. She ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

  For a brief second the irony flashed through Josh’s mind of how wanting a nightcap to relax before bed had become anything but. There would be time to sort things out later but for now, the bartender with the sawed-off shotgun was calling the shots. Josh looked over at the girl. “Let’s go.”

  The girl’s demeanor brightened slightly. She nodded her head and turned toward the door, as did Josh. But time had run out. “Look out!” yelled someone in the crowd. Instinctively, Josh’s right hand went for his pistol as he turned towards where the Swede was lying. His gun had barely cleared his holster when he heard the roar of the Swede’s pistol and instantly felt the burning in his left side. But it did not stop Josh from turning completely around to face the Swede, nor did it rattle him as he quickly aimed and fired a well-placed shot into the Swede’s forehead. Once again the room was enveloped by a temporary silence save for the ticking clock above the back bar and Josh’s pounding heart. Josh stared at the Swede through the gun smoke that hung in the air, making sure he was done.

  “Someone go fetch the sheriff,” said the bartender in an irritated voice.

  The saloon girl’s focus was on Josh’s left side. “Oh my God, you’ve been shot.”

  The adrenaline still raged within Josh, and his breathing was somewhat rapid and heavy. He’d killed men before and it had never been a good feeling; this time was no different. It was like a mild form of shock. Looking at the saloon girl he said matter-of-factly: “Yes ma’am, it appears that way.” Josh was not trying to be smug or cavalier about the situation, but his experiences in the army had taught him to control his emotions at critical moments.

  “We need to get you to a doctor,” said the girl.

  “Not before the sheriff sorts this mess out,” said the bartender, who had come out from behind the bar and was standing near the dead Swede.

  Josh eyed the bartender for a moment. His demeanor and the tone of his words caused Josh to wonder if the bartender was looking at the shooting as something other than self-defense. “The guy tried to back-shoot me,” said Josh sternly to the bartender. “Not much to sort out.”

  The bartender was indifferent. “We’ll let the sheriff decide that.”

  At this point one of the other saloon girls stepped around the bartender and han
ded a bar rag to the girl. “Maybe this’ll help stop the bleedin’.” The bartender scowled at her but she ignored him. Normally, she wouldn’t do anything to antagonize the bartender, as he could play heavily in her future well-being, but it seemed the court of public opinion in the room at that time was on her side. Besides, she hated the Swede. He was a mean drunk. He’d taken her upstairs one night for a poke and had gotten rough, slapping her around and blackening her eyes. She had no recourse; she was a whore. The bartender had warned the Swede that he’d be cut off if he continued to abuse the girls, but there was no punishment, just the threat of the loss of pleasure. For the girls, it was adding insult to injury.

  “Thanks,” said Josh as he took the rag from the girl. With his left hand he lifted his shirt to reveal a deep furrow across his side. There was considerable blood, which made the wound look worse than it actually was. Josh folded the rag and pressed it to the wound.

  “Does it hurt much?” asked the girl.

  “I’ve had worse,” said Josh stoically. He was apprehensive about the sheriff’s take on the shooting. He’d killed people before, but only in an army uniform on the field of battle; there he had been ordered to kill.

  A voice could be heard behind the people who had gathered in the doorway to stare at the dead Swede. “Make way here,” said the sheriff, who was being followed by his two deputies.

  The crowd parted to reveal the Swede and Josh with the girl at his side. “Well, Mr. Morrow, we meet again,” said the sheriff somewhat sarcastically. “And just to be straight up with you, it don’t surprise me none that we’re meetin’ over a dead body. So, since he can’t,” nodding towards the Swede, “why don’t you tell me what went on here.”