Bookshelf Battle

Dawn came and Slade sat on the steps of the church’s front porch, staring at his mother’s ring and torturing himself with that age old question everyone in love faces whenever romance doesn’t go their way.

“What could I have done differently?”

Gunther interrupted the pontification session by loudly chomping on an apple and dropping a telegram on the Marshal’s lap.

“Straight off the telegraph,” the Deputy said. “What do you make of it?”

Slade took a look:

United Exchange Telegraph Service

FROM: Josiah Uxley, U.S. Marshall

Denver, Colorado

TO: All U.S. Marshals in Good Standing
Warning <STOP> Infestation of monsters in Colorado <STOP> All is lost <STOP> Monsters are being hauled East <STOP> Abandon posts and save yourselves <STOP>

Slade crumpled up the telegram and made a pantomime gesture as if he were taking a big drink.

“Them Colorado boys dipped into the moonshine and had themselves a good time?” Gunther asked.

The boss nodded.

Gunther winced under the rising sun. “That’s what I thought too. Then again, I wonder if it’s some kind of test. Trick us into leaving and then we get the axe. Either way, I sent a message back asking what the hell this is all about.”

Slade grunted his assent.

The old timer parked himself next to Slade and produced from a sheath he wore on his belt a foot long knife. Crossbar handle. Curved end. Anyone introduced to it would not have walked away.

Gunther went to work, whittling a block of wood.

“Is it me or is your face longer than usual?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

Slade realized he was still holding the ring. It was too late to avoid detection by putting  it away.

“What’s that?” Gunther asked.

Grunt.

“Oh slap me in the ass and call me Sally!” Gunther said. “You proposed to that redheaded spitfire!”

Cigar chomp.

Gunther nudged Slade with his elbow. “Didn’t you? Come on now…”

Silence.

“Huh,” Gunther said as his wood shavings hit the ground. “And since you’re here with a puss on your face and the ring’s in your hand instead of on Miss Bonnie’s finger…”

“Yup,” Slade said.

“Oh boy.”

A minute or two passed. Gunther kept whittling. Slade kept sulking.

“You want to tell me the details?” the old man asked.

Exasperated, Slade tucked the ring into his pocket.

“Well how am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what happened?” Gunther asked.

Slade just stared blankly at his boots.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Gunther asked.

Slade didn’t respond to that inquiry, nor did he respond to:

Did you get down on one knee?

Were you all fancy about it or did you just throw the ring at her?

Did she look happy?

Did she laugh at you?

Was she at least nice about it?

Did she let you down easy?

The Marshal held up under interrogation for a half-hour until finally his Deputy cracked the case.

“You didn’t really ask her did you?”

Slade shifted and looked the other way.

“Ah,” Gunther said. “That’s it. You were chicken.”

Few things got the Marshal talking like an accusation of cowardice, but even then, the response was sparse.

“Was not.”

“So,” Gunther said, “Since you’re being stubborn I’ll have to deduce that you didn’t ask her outright but some state of affairs transpired that led you to believe that Miss Bonnie wouldn’t be interested in being locked in the bonds of holy matrimony with you forever and ever.”

The two just sat there.

“Why I don’t know because you’re such a gifted conversationalist,” Gunther said. “It’s Miss Bonnie’s loss for sure.”

Slade shook his head. Gunther rolled his eyes.

“Goddamnit, son. Out with it! Did you ask her or not?”

Through gritted teeth, the Marshal’s reply was as raspy as ever. “I asked enough…and she answered enough.”

“Oh,” Gunther said as he turned back to his whittling. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Slade felt relief, believing the interrogation was over until the old man started up again.

“You know, Rain,” Gunther said. “Women say a lot of things. They hem and they haw and they say they’ll never do this or they’ll never do that but give ‘em an actual honest to God decision to make and they might just surprise you.”

A confused look took over Slade’s face.

“Get your ass back there, get down on one knee and ask her proper,” Gunther said. “She says yes, good. She says no, well, at least you know.”

Slade struck a match, held it to his cigar until it was lit, then puffed.

“No.”

Gunther nodded. “Well, you were there. I wasn’t. If you think she’s a lost cause then so be it. No use grousing over it though. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

A stage coach rolled up the road and came to a stop at Anderson’s General Store. The coach man got down, opened the door and a delicate hand took his. Out stepped a raven haired beauty, dressed all in black.

Dumbstruck, Slade’s mouth gaped open just wide enough for his cigar to fall out.

Gunther sheathed his blade.

“Speaking of…”