Free A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West by Kevin G. Bufton (Editor) Page B

the mugs he kept an old club he’d carved out of a hickory branch when he first settled in the Dakota Territory. To the locals, it was known as Earle’s peacemaker. The handle was worn smooth by years of use and the end was impregnated with the rust colour of dried blood. There were a few passers through milling about, sipping on whiskey and talking about their westward bound adventures, or speaking in fevered whispers about gold veins and mining techniques. And then there was Clarence, the town drunk, sitting at the end of the bar next to the vacant piano. He didn’t have the shakes yet, but Earl knew they would come soon if he didn’t intervene.
    “Hey Clarence,” he said, “come on over, sit a spell, and have one on the house.”
    Clarence hopped off the stool, brushed his long, greasy bangs back with his fingers and gave Earl a yellow toothed grin. “That’s mighty generous of you. It has been a dry one…sure has.” He slid up to the bar and greedily watched earl pour him a glass of bottom shelf rotgut from the swill barrel. “Generous indeed…” he said, licking his lips and thinking about the warm swill and hoping that Earl had to empty more whiskey glasses than beer from the night before. The idea of choking down that foul concoction made his stomach lurch. Little beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. They accumulated at his temples and ran down his neck. He’s pouring it slow just to torture me, he thought. Hurry up you sonofabitchinfuckinbastard! By the time Earl sat the mug on the counter, his hands were shaking and his palms were sweaty. He lifted the mug with both hands to keep from spilling it and downed it without taking a breath. “Thank you,” he said, in between breaths.
    “Want another?” Earl said, grabbing the mug before he had a chance to answer. He drew from the swill barrel again and filled the mug with what was left. “That’s the last of it. You’ll have to rely on your wits for a refill.”
    “Don’t worry,” he said. He took a sip from the mug, wanting to make it last at least until he found someone in a generous mood to buy him another. “I’ll manage. Always do.”
    “That you do.” Earl stole a look at his pocket watch. It was twenty till midnight. Too quiet for a Saturday, he thought. He rubbed his temples. The headaches were getting stronger. He could feel the urgency, the pressure building up right behind his eyes. How long has it been? Two weeks, or more?
    “When you getting a piano player, Earl?” Clarence said.
    “Huh?”
    “A p-i-a-n-o player,” he said, miming with his fingers.
    “I’ll get a piano player just as soon as you become a paying customer,” he shot back.
    “Oh, Earl, you’re hurting my feelings.” He lifted the mug as if to toast the bartender and drained what was left. “You know I pay…indirectly, of course. But I still pay.”
    “I suppose you do, Clarence,” he said, dunking Clarence’s empty mug into the dirty water. “But you do it at the expense of annoying the hell out of the other customers.”
    “Shit, I bet you’d find something to complain about, even if I was a paying customer.” He slipped off the barstool and began making his way toward the men at the card table. “I think I’ll go try my luck at another refill.”
    “You do that, Clarence,” he said, huffing on the mug and rubbing out a spot with the dirty rag. “You do that.”
    As Clarence made his way to the table, the last of the passers through walked out the batwing doors and took Earle’s hopes with them. I’m gonna have to explain, he thought. I’m gonna have to try and make it understand that it’s not always safe and that we could lose everything we’ve worked so hard for. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. He could feel the pressure in his head intensify, as if it was eavesdropping on his thoughts. The pressure felt like pure anger, like some sort of acidic passion that was eating him from the inside out. He turned away from the