Free The Old Man's Back in Town by Ann Charles

 
    Goldwash, Nevada
    December 24th
    Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh.

    “Would you turn off that Christmas crap and help me clean up all this blood?” I said, throwing a wet rag at my cousin Buffalo as he nursed a mug of beer at the end of the bar.
    Buffalo dodged the rag. “Jeez, Montana, can’t you let a man enjoy a nostalgic moment? Where’s your holiday spirit?”
    “I think I flushed it the other night after you came by bearing green and red M&Ms and spiked eggnog.” I dragged the bucket of sudsy water over to the pool of blood, pulling the stools out on each side of Buffalo.
    Damn, there was a lot of blood.
    The ammonia in my mop water smelled almost clinical, reminding me of a hospital room, blocking out the coppery tang as the red mop-head creaked and swooshed.
    He chuckled. “Girl, you really need to find some new friends.”
    “And family.” I poked him in the ribs, making him grunt mid-drink. “I’m closing the bar early tonight. You can either help me with this mess or drag your sorry ass home to that pitifully fat bulldog of yours.”
    “Leave Brunhilda out of this.” Buffalo wiped the beer foam moustache from his upper lip with the sleeve of his brown thermal shirt. “So, how did all of this blood get here, anyway?”
    I paused, replaying the night’s events. Things had been a little hectic with the drunken caroling and smooching under the mistletoe, making everything jumble together in my memory. Since The Ugly Rooster was the only watering hole in over a fifty-mile radius, the annual holiday party lured in the wild life from the nearby ranges and basins in droves.
    “I can’t remember. It just kind of appeared.” Yet cleaning it up felt like momentary déjà vu.
    “How can you not remember this much blood? You must be getting daft from old age.”
    Sure, all of my thirty-six old years. “You have two years on me, remember?”
    “Yeah, but unlike you, I’m getting wiser.”
    “Wiser? Weren’t you the one who broke your arm earlier this year wrestling with your neighbor’s pig?”
    “There’s a rational explanation for that.”
    I grinned, “Yeah, but you lost the bet, and then your girlfriend left you for the winner.”
    “That woman was nuttier than a squirrel turd. Her leaving was my good fortune.”
    I couldn’t have agreed more, especially after hearing she’d knocked Buffalo out cold with a cast iron skillet during one of her drunken fits.
    “It just confirmed what I’d told you all along,” he continued. “She wasn’t the ‘one’ for me.”
    “Right. I suppose you’re sticking with Brunhilda being your one-and-only still?”
    “Well, she is the prettiest girl in this dusty pit stop. Except for you, of course, but kissin’ my cousin doesn’t pop my pup-tent.”
    “Thank the Maker for that. Now help me clean up this blood or get the hell out of my bar.”
    Buffalo hopped off his seat and started wiping down the legs of the stools. “What has you so ornery lately, Monty?” he asked. “You used to dig the holidays, putting up little trees all over in here, decorating the old joint with colored lights. Ever since Joel left for Vegas, you—”
    I stopped mopping mid-swish. “This has nothing to do with that son of a bitch.”
    “Right. I see you’re still ‘over him’ almost four months later.”
    “If only I had the power to turn men into dung beetles.”
    “Joel always could charm the skin off a snake.”
    With just a wink and a grin that bastard certainly had made me rise up and dance a good too many times to count.
    Leaning on the mop, I frowned down at the wet, scarred up wooden floor. “Honestly, it’s not Joel that has me feeling pissy. I have a gut feeling that something isn’t quite right out there tonight.”
    “It’s just the wind. You never did like it when it howled. Remember when you were a little pissant and you’d hide under the bed during sand storms? Your mom would