Just Us Saloon by Bruce Harris

FORMER ARMY MEDICAL CORPS Officer Joe Hurd stood strategically behind the bar facing Siler City Sheriff Chuck Hutchison. The saloon was less than an hour away from opening under its new name.

“I don’t like it,” Hutchison began. “It’s a bad idea. Why change things now? Besides, I like the name Yellow Rose.” He looked down. “It was my wife’s favorite flower.”

“I know that. But I want to do something that’ll stand out, a place people notice and travel to from all parts just to have a drink—not to mention spend some time and money in Siler City. You can’t be opposed to that.”

Hutchison waved a slim hand. “Ha! I think it will have the opposite effect. People will stay away. No one will want to come here… they’ll… they’ll be afraid to come to Siler City for God’s sake, and I wouldn’t blame ’em for a minute. I can’t imagine anyone being in favor of this fool idea.” He paused. Then. “The Just Us Saloon! What kinda name is that? And, bringing in old lawmen and old outlaws to run the place? We’ll be crawling with thieves, murderers, bandits… and God knows what else. Good, law-abiding folk will be afraid to step into our town,” Hutchison decried. “Of all the—”

“You forgot to mention the lawmen.”

“Whatever.” The jagged scar across his forehead reddened.

Hurd hadn’t moved. “Look, the only outlaws I invited finished their time and paid their debts. Why shouldn’t I give them a chance? Heck, we might even wind up with a few lawmen who were responsible for arresting some of their coworkers!” Hurd laughed, long and loud.

“We’ll be the laughingstock of the whole darn state.”

“Relax, Chuck. It’ll be the safest place west of the Mississippi.”

“How do you figure?”

“Remember, I’m hiring a former lawman for every ex-outlaw. And the so-called bad guys are, by the way, not bad any longer.” Hurd paused. “Then again, I know lawmen who are a lot worse than some outlaws.”

“Huh? Well, it’s still a bad idea.”

Moments from opening time, a gentleman entered the saloon. Only his eyes were exposed. His face was covered with a bandana. He stared at Sheriff Hutchison.

“Welcome!” Hurd said. He finally moved a step away from his spot behind the bar to acknowledge the newcomer.

“Looks like your first outlaw’s arrived, Hurd.”

The man’s gaze shifted to the spot Hurd vacated. “That’s one good looking knife. I’m sure there’s a story behind it,” the man said.

The knife to which the stranger referred was fastened to the wall. It hung horizontally on two nails. It was nothing more than a crude, handmade blade. A woolen cloth wrapped around one end formed a handle. During his conversation with Hutchison, Hurd had stood in front of the knife, blocking its view.

“There’s a story… quite a story—”

Hurd was cut short by Hutchison. The sheriff’s face turned paler than a Texas Olive Blossom.

“What in hell goes on here? That looks like the knife that cut up my face.” His hand touched his forehead. “Where’d you get that?” Without waiting for an answer, Hutchison said, “If I didn’t know he was already dead, I’d say this man is—”

“Art Copeland,” the stranger said, removing the bandana. “Art Copeland. Alive and well. The man you falsely accused of—”

Hutchison drew his gun. “Shut up!” He shifted the gun between Copeland and Hurd. “Both of you, drop your weapons.”

Hurd grinned. “Neither one of us is armed, Chuck. I forgot to tell you, no guns allowed in the Just Us Saloon.”

“What’s the meaning of all this? This man,”—he pointed the gun toward Copeland—“murdered my Stella and then tried to escape from jail!”

Copeland stood motionless. Hurd spoke. “That isn’t true, Chuck, is it? Your wife was ill. She had fainting spells. The doc confirmed that. Art here happened to find her that night passed out. He was bringing her to the doc’s office when you saw the two of them. You made some horrible accusations against Copeland, but more important, against your own wife.”

“You’re crazy. He killed her. And I killed him when he tried to escape punishment.”

“You killed her in a jealous rage, Chuck. Copeland saw you do it. And, as for you killing Copeland, well, I guess you just mistakenly left him for dead. Same as you mistakenly said my first outlaw invite had arrived. He’s no outlaw. Never was.”

Hutchison reacted as if he didn’t hear the saloon owner. “You’re gonna take his word for it, Hurd? Against mine? He broke out of jail. I tried to stop him and got this for my trouble.” Again, he touched the scar.

“You didn’t expect me to sit in jail and be convicted on your lies, did you? I carry my own scars, on my back, where you shot me.”

“I found him still breathing. Patched him up myself. But, not before Copeland here asked to see Father Tracy. I figured it was for his last rites. As soon as Tracy heard the name Stella, I knew something was wrong. Father Tracy asked for forgiveness for himself and then violated an oath he took. He told me about the unspeakable things you had done to Stella. She had confessed it all to him.”

“I heard enough!” Hutchison aimed the gun at Copeland’s chest.

“At least it won’t be my back this time.”

Hurd grabbed the knife off the wall and in one motion, hurled it at Hutchison. The Siler City Sheriff’s gun blast went astray as he dropped to the floor.

“Welcome to the Just Us Saloon, Chuck.” Hurd stood over the injured man. “Just Us… Justice.”

—BRUCE HARRIS writes mystery, crime, and western stories. His western short stories have appeared online at Frontier Tales, and anthologized in Grizzly Creek Runs Red, The Last Comanche, Bourbon & a Good Cigar, Time to Myself, Coyote Junction, Hangmen & Bullets, and The Shot Rang Out, among others. He lives in New Jersey, but that is only a temporary situation.