Tag Archives: wild west

Feb 02 2016
7 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 15

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And so it went the next few days. The Marshal would arrive bright and early, put in a long day’s work on the formerly Olmsted now Farquhar property, and listen as Sarah talked away about her life, her hopes and dreams, with the occasional bible verse thrown in. Sarah was no slouch herself, working as hard as her delicate constitution allowed.

Together, they cleared and seeded the land, got Olmsted’s old water pump working, and shined the cabin up prettier than a new penny. Sarah dipped into her inheritance to purchase supplies and provisions, which Slade hauled back from Anderson’s General Store.

A lesser deputy might have questioned his boss’ loyalty to his job, but Gunther was proud of his match making skills and demanded full reports whenever Slade checked in on the Buchanan Boys.

Slade always felt bad for leaving Sarah all alone so far from civilization, but Sarah insisted, quoting biblical verses off the top of her head as evidence that a man in the home of a woman he isn’t married to was enough to make the man upstairs blow a gasket and then some.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, Slade was on his way back to town when a peculiar sight off in the distance caught his attention. Two cavalry men in blue uniforms stood next to a buckboard wagon. A third man lying in the back cried out in pain.

Slade rode on over as any good Marshal would, only to catch a loud argument.

“AM I THE LIEUTENANT OR AM I NOT?”

“DOES THAT MATTER ANYMORE?!”

“HE’S DONE FOR! YOU KNOW WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE!”

“HE COULD PULL THROUGH!”

“Afternoon,” Slade said.

The Lieutenant was a big burly man with red hair and a full beard. The Private was a young man with blonde hair.

Slade went up to the wagon for a closer look. The third man clutched his neck, trying in vain to close up a hole and keep the blood from trickling out. He gasped and gurgled for breath.

The Private put his hand on the victim’s. “Hold on, Carl! Hold on!”

Carl was not holding on. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. One last, loud gasp and his head fell back. His life was over.

The Lieutenant withdrew his pistol and pumped three rounds into Carl’s forehead. On pure instinct, Slade drew his Colt. He and the Lieutenant traded glances until Slade holstered his weapon. The Lieutenant did the same.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the Private said.

“You know I did,” the Lieutenant replied.

Slade didn’t care for the sight he’d just seen. He figured it wasn’t a crime to shoot a dead man, but the act still puzzled him.

“What happened?” Slade asked.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” the Lieutenant said. “Or if you’d believe me.”

The Lieutenant sipped from a metal flask. He offered some to Slade, who declined.

“Injuns?” Slade asked.

“If only,” the Private said.

“Men,” the Lieutenant said. “And women. Overcome by some…I don’t even know how to put it. A delirium I suppose. Like rabid dogs with immense strength.”

“The more you shoot at them the faster they come,” the Private added.

“What?” Slade asked.

“My thought exactly,” the Lieutenant said as he hopped in the driver’s seat. The Private took his place next to him.

“Are you lost from your regiment?” Slade asked.

“We are the regiment,” the Lieutenant said. “What’s left of it.”

Slade could only repeat, “What?”

The Lieutenant yanked the reigns, telling his horses it was time to walk away.

“You’d have to see it to believe it,” the Lieutenant said. “I pray you never do.”

Dumbfounded, Slade stood there, alone on the open prairie, doing his best to make sense of what just happened. Unable to do so, he hopped onto Chance and headed back for Highwater.

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Feb 01 2016
10 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 13

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Gunther was about to head inside when two more new arrivals paid him a visit. Joe and Miles Freeman, fully clothed and well rested. They’d slept outdoors plenty of times before, and in worse places than underneath a water tower.

“Hello sir,” Joe said.

“Howdy,” Gunther said. “What can I do you for?”

The old man knew he phrased that question wrong, but he thought it was funny.

“I heard talk about town that you caught some criminals,” Joe said.

“You heard right,” Gunther replied. “The Buchanan Boys. Worst piles of pig shit the devil ever created. They make them James-Younger peckerwoods look like a bunch of pissants.”

Joe was not scared off by that statement. “And I heard you were looking for help watching them.”

Gunther studied the father and son. They seemed respectable enough but an idea popped into the old man’s mind.

“Actually,” Gunther said. “What if I were to tell you that can wait and I need a man to help me stand up to another gang of miscreants headed this way?”

No hesitation from Joe. “Just point me in the right direction.”

“Just a test,” Gunther said.

“Huh?” Joe asked.

“Nevermind,” Gunther said as shook Joe’s hand. “You’re hired.”

The Knoxes were more than enough to keep the Buchanan Boys in line, but Gunther had a hunch his new acquaintances were in need of a good deed and if he could charge it off to the Marshal’s Service, all the better.

“Joe Freeman,” Joe said.

“Gunther Beauregard,” the Deputy replied. “This your son?”

“Miles,” Joe said. “Yes. Oh, but don’t worry. He won’t cause any trouble.”

Gunther squinted at the youngster.

“You ever kill a man?” Gunther asked.

“No,” Miles answered.

“Been in a fistfight?”

“No.”

“Been shot?”

“No.”

“Fought in a duel?”

“No.”

Joe laughed as he realized what Gunther was up to.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Christ, son,” Gunther said. “You ‘aint lived much of a life, have you?”

“I’m only fifteen.”

“Well, that’s no excuse.”

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Jan 30 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 10

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High atop the town’s rickety old water tower, a massive, hairy, hulking beast observed Slade as he dozed. Black fur, dagger-like claws, a snout full of razor sharp teeth. Even at rest, the eight-foot tall creature’s breath was hot, even steamy.

The legends are true. Werewolves have lived amongst humanity for ages, blending in as humans when they can, hiding in the shadows in their alternative form when they’re unable to keep their inner beast at bay.

This one seemed rather interested in the church, having surveyed the property for several minutes. A half mile away in the distance, he saw a pair of red eyes similar to his own emerge above the courthouse. The being they were attached to drew closer, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until it too found a spot on the water tower to lay low.

What is the deadliest power a werewolf has in its personal arsenal? Its unmatched strength? Explosive temper? Incomprehensible speed?

All of these factors are palpable but many would argue that telepathic communication is what makes werewolves truly terrifying. Known to hunt in packs, they can sneak up right behind their prey and openly discuss their plans of attack inside their minds without making a sound.

“Is this the place, Pa?” the newly arrived werewolf asked.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t look like much.”

“A job’s a job, Miles.”

Miles wasn’t quite as large as his father, but he was still menacing and formidable. Gracefully, he and his father leaped from the tower and landed on their feet on the ground below. Almost in defiance of basic laws of physics, they barely made a sound.

“They’ll never accept us here,” Miles said.

“That’s up to you, son,” Pa replied. “Control the beast and maybe we can stop moving and settle down for a change.”

Pa carried a small pack on his back. He bit the shoulder strap with his teeth, werewolf hands being much too large to manipulate human objects. Opening his mouth allowed the pack to fall to the ground.

“That’s not what I meant,” Miles said.

Father and son morphed into human form. Pa was in his forties, strong and tall with a little bit of salt mixed into his peppery hair. Miles was fifteen. About six inches shy of six feet, he looked like he would have to get soaking wet to weight a hundred pounds. His ribs could have been played like a xylophone.

Underneath the water tower, the two very naked black men carried on their conversation. In human form, they weren’t able to communicate telepathically, so they used their mouths, as people have been known to do from time to time.

“I meant they’ll never be able to accept, ‘us.’”

To Miles, the older man was Pa. To the rest of the world, he was Joe. Joe Freeman. Joe rummaged through the pack, handed his son a pair of pants, then found his own and pulled them on.

“Well, that’s a bird of a very different feather, I reckon,” Joe said.

“Can’t we just live in the wild?” Miles asked.

“You can when you’re older if you want,” Joe replied. “Me, I’d rather have a bed to sleep on and a hot meal once in awhile.”

Miles buttoned up his shirt. “No one treats you like shit in the wild.”

Joe put his hat on. “I suppose not. But you know as bad as it is for black folk now, it’s a tiny bit better today than it was when I was your age.”

“So?” Miles asked.

Joe pulled on his boots. “So Lincoln made a law to set us free but there’s no law that can make people not treat us like shit,” Joe explained. “I was born a slave. You were born free. I doubt you or I will see it in our lifetimes but I like to think that one day someone in our line will become a successful, well-to-do man about town.”

“Yeah,” Miles said. “Keep dreaming.”

“Dreaming keeps me going,” Joe said. “It’ll take a long time. Maybe forever. But I hope if we keep going about our business and standing up for ourselves, one day folks won’t even care what skin color people are.”

Miles took a seat on the ground. He grabbed a stick and doodled pictures in the dirt.

“And fairies will sing, and unicorns will dance, and leprechauns will give us all pots of gold…”

“Oh Miles,” Joe said as he laid down on the ground. “You’re way too young to be this cynical. If you want to live on the range and chase rabbits like an animal when you’re grown I won’t stop you, but if you ask me, us removing ourselves from all the opportunities of the world is what the bad men of the world want us to do.”

Miles paused to admire a rudimentary castle he drew. “So what? We take the shit…”

With his eyes shut, Joe kept walking. “And your kid will take shit…and his kid will take shit…and all the kids going on down the line will take a lot of shit but…”

“What?” Miles asked.

“Someday a Freeman will do something big that will make all the shit worthwhile,” Joe said.

Miles traced the outline of a little knight just outside the castle wall. “And if that never happens?”

Joe became annoyed that his sleep was being disturbed. “I don’t know. Then we’re all shit out of luck. Go to sleep, will you?”

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Jan 29 2016
5 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 9

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Highwater didn’t have much in the way of large public buildings, but the Reverend Cavanagh allowed his church to serve as a makeshift jailhouse whenever Slade and Gunther had too many yahoos in custody for the cage in the Marshal’s office to hold.

The Buchanan Boys were arranged six per pew, their legs clapped in irons, each man chained to the one next to him. It wasn’t exactly conducive to good shuteye.

“Now boys,” Gunther said. “Let’s go over the rules.”

Jefferson Knox was a good old boy Gunther knew from way back. A fellow veteran. He had a scar across his right cheek courtesy of a Confederate bayonet. Those were dark times indeed. The American Civil War led to an internal neighbor against neighbor struggle in Missouri. Some, like Gunther and Knox, chose the North. Others chose the South. Fifteen years had gone a long way to heal the statewide wounds, but they weren’t fully closed. Bad blood remained.  Hard feelings festered.  Animosity on a scale that grand  doesn’t go away overnight, let alone a decade or two.

Knox held a double barreled shotgun. He and his mop topped sons, a duo in their early twenties who thankfully got their looks from their mother, had been sworn in as special deputies. Cole was a bit taller and muscular. George was lanky, but it was nothing that a few push-ups couldn’t have fixed. They were each packing pistols, though they’d never used them on anything other than forest animals before.

Like everyone else in town, these three didn’t lift a finger to help Slade in his time of need, but Gunther figured it was better to hire them than Waldo, Townsend, and Blake. At least the Knox family was kind enough to keep their dissent to themselves.

“The first rule is we’re in charge and if you do somethin’ we don’t like, you’ll get shot,” Gunther said as he walked down the aisle, Winchester in hand. “Attemptin’ an escape? That’ll get you shot. Smugglin’ in contraband? That’ll get you shot.”

Gunther paused next to Smelly Jack, who felt a compelling need to ask, “What if I f$%k your mother?”

The deputy walked on, but not before introducing the butt of his rifle up against the side of Jack’s head. “Talkin’ out of turn? That’ll get you shot.”

The old timer joined the Knoxes at the front of the church, right next to the preacher’s pulpit.

“Boys,” Gunther said. “Really, when it comes right down to it, y’all should just assume that anything you might do or even think about doin’ will mostly likely get you shot. Any questions?”

Jeb Buchanan, Jack’s brother-cousin on his father’s side, raised his hand. “What if I…”

“It’ll get you shot,” Gunther said. No need to hear the question.

Unbeknownst to his underlings, Slade had returned from his appointment with Miss Bonnie and was watching through the front door. Convinced his men had the hoodlums under control, the Marshal took a seat in a rocking chair on the front porch. He shifted his hat over his eyes and settled down for the night.

A triumph over the Buchanan Boys. A rejection from Miss Bonnie. Though it’d been a long day, the rest he needed eluded him.

Something was off. He don’t know exactly what it was, but he just had a hunch. A fit of intuition. A feeling…like he was being watched.

“ARRR….ARRR….ARRRRRWHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

Slade jumped up and drew his weapon. He looked around. Nothing. He holstered his Colt and returned to his attempt at slumber.

“Damn coyotes,” he mumbled.

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Jan 28 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 8

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“EVERYBODY HATES ME!!!”

The rasp in his voice disappeared, the scowl lifted, his tongue was no longer tied and the words flowed out of Slade’s mouth like the choppy waters of a roaring river. As if that weren’t bad enough, the lawman’s face was covered with snot and tears.

“Shhh baby,” Miss Bonnie said softly as she stroked her fingers through Slade’s luscious brown hair. “I got you. Hush that fool talk now, no one hates you.”

Yup. Men have needs and sometimes one of them is the shoulder of a good woman to cry on, or in this case, an ample bosom to cry into. Why? What did you readers think Slade needed?

Perverts.

“YEPH DEY DOOTH!” Slade’s voice was muffled by Miss Bonnie’s copious assets. He turned his head to the side for purposes of pronunciation and better air inhalation.

“Who?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Who hates you?”

Somehow in a town filled with nosey gossips, Slade and Miss Bonnie had managed to keep their arrangement secret for six whole months. Once a week, Slade would head up to Miss Bonnie’s room, plunk down her full fee, and then unload all of his burdens.

They never did anything beyond that. Miss Bonnie wasn’t against the idea but Slade didn’t think it proper. So the pair would just lie in bed, Slade taking a break from his tough guy persona while Miss Bonnie played the role of a discount head shrinker.

“Gunther.”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked. “He does not hate you!”

“He doesn’t believe in me I know that much.”

“And what makes you think that?” Miss Bonnie asked as she took Slade’s hand and interlocked her fingers between his.

Slade sniffed and blew his nose into a hanky. “He wanted to run. He didn’t think I could handle the Buchanan Boys on my own.”

“Well shit, Rain, there was thirty of them and only one of you!” Miss Bonnie said. “Maybe if you’d of told him your plan. Don’t you think you should share these kinds of things with your deputy?”

“He second guesses me on everything,” Slade said. “He always tries to talk me out of whatever I want to do. I’m the boss! He should just do what I say and like it!”

Miss Bonnie rested her cheek on top of Slade’s head. “Oh honey. Bosses and employees bicker all the time. That’s natural.”

Another sniff. “It is?”

“Sure. Whenever I tell Waldo to water down the drinks he always gets all high and mighty with his, ‘I can’t lower my integrity just so you can save a buck’ routine but I always ask him ‘Are you going to pay for the extra liquor then?’ and sure enough, he shuts his trap and waters the hooch down.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” Slade asked.

“It means that the boss/employee relationship is give and take. You want your employees to feel like they’re free to tell you when they think you’re wrong because sometimes you might be wrong. Like that time Eleanor told me the girls didn’t want to entertain the circus folk. She was right. All those freaks had gangrenous peckers and the little money I would have made off them would have paled in comparison to the money I’d of lost if all the girls got sick for weeks after.”

“This…this is getting off topic.”

Slade rolled over on his stomach and Miss Bonnie knew that was her cue to hop up on the Marshal’s back and give him a shoulder massage.

“Honey, if you think you’re right and you put your foot down, then a good employee will still back you up out of loyalty,” Miss Bonnie said. “Gunther stood up for you, didn’t he? You should have heard the way he was talking about you in here, like rainbows were popping out of your backside and all.”

“Really?” Slade asked.

“Really,” Miss Bonnie answered. “Holy…you’ve got a big knot here.”

The Marshall let out a sigh of relief as Miss Bonnie worked her magic.

“Standing Eagle definitely hates me,” Slade said. “No way around that.”

“That is a sad situation,” Miss Bonnie said. “But stop beating yourself up about it. Sure, maybe you could have explained yourself better but everyone makes mistakes.”

Miss Bonnie moved her hands lower and started working on the kinks in Slade’s back.

“Ohhh…yea,” Slade said. “Right there.”

“Here?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Yessum.”

As far as Slade was concerned, kinky sex was all well and good when it came to relieving a man’s carnal desires, but when it came to his wounded soul, there was no better balm than a woman willing to rub a man’s back and listen to his litany of complaints without thinking less of him afterwards.

“I’ll tell you what,” Miss Bonnie said. “You give the Injuns a few days to cool off then after the judge gives his verdict, I’m going to make the biggest, yummiest cake ever and you’re going to ride on out to the Injun lands, give the cake to the Chief and invite the whole tribe to come watch those Buchanan Boys twist in the wind.”

Miss Bonnie stopped the rubdown when she heard a snicker.

“What?”

“You?” Slade asked. “Bake a cake?”

The madame slapped a light one upside the back of Slade’s head. “Shut your mouth! I can so bake!”

The massage ended and the unlikely couple spooned. Miss Bonnie was the little spoon, though on occasion Slade had been known to take that position. He would have surely committed hare kare had any of his numerous enemies ever found out.

“I can see it now,” Slade said. “The Chief takes one bite then pulls out his tomahawk and scalps me.”

“Rainer Slade! You take that back! I’ll have you know I’m very handy in the kitchen.”

“Uh huh,” Slade said.

“Fine,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’ll get one of the girls to make it. The point is just because people argue doesn’t mean they can’t make up. As soon as Smelly Jack’s six feet under Standing Eagle will talk to you again. You’ll see.”

“You know he said that if Jack doesn’t die I’ll wish I had died?”

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Miss Bonnie said.

“And that the land will be useless for farming and everyones’ lives will be filled with torment and…oh! Get this…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“He said that if Jack doesn’t die, then whenever anyone else dies they’ll…I forget how he put it…they’ll come back to life and start eating everyone for dinner or something.”

Miss Bonnie snuggled herself closer to Slade. “Injuns say the darnedest things.”

Briefly, as Slade nuzzled up to the all the red hair in front of his face, he allowed himself to be happy. But like most of the good times in his life, it was abruptly over.

WAM! A fist pounded on the door.

“Shit,” Miss Bonnie said. “Has it been an hour already?”

“Damn it,” Slade said.

More knocks, followed by the unceremonious voice of Roscoe Crandall, who returned for a second go-around.

“SLADE, YOU GONNA BE ALL NIGHT OR WHAT?!”

“Can we just tell him to get lost?” Slade asked. “I’ll pay for another hour.”

Miss Bonnie sat up. “No baby, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“COME ON, SLADE! OTHER PEOPLE ARE WAITIN’ FOR THE WHORE!”

Those words burned like acid in Slade’s ears. He put on his Stetson, then took his gun belt off the night stand, strapped it on, and pulled out his Colt.

“Stop it,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I ought to shoot him where he stands for calling you that,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie took a seat at her vanity and primped herself in front of her mirror.

“It’s what I am,” she said. “People call you a Marshall because you get paid to catch crooks. People call me a whore because I let men have their way with me for money. There’s no shame in it except for what people attach to it. We all have to make a living somehow.”

Slade holstered his steel. Then, with his back to Miss Bonnie, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old ring. It was a scratched and scuffed heirloom. Not much to look at. But it once belonged to his mother and he hoped it would do. He gulped, choking back the anxiety that rolled up his throat.

“Bonnie…”

Miss Bonnie was busy inserting a hair pin into her elaborate do when she stopped. The distinct lack of the word “Miss” stood out to her. She knew something was up.

“Yes?”

In his travels throughout the West, Slade had stared down the barrel of many a gun pointed his way and lived to tell the tale but somehow this endeavor proved more difficult than anything he’d ever done before.  For weeks, he practiced what was going to say but now that the moment arrived, it wasn’t any easier.

“What would you say if someone offered to take you away from all this?”

Miss Bonnie turned to her makeup, adding just a touch of rouge to her cheeks. She didn’t need much. They were naturally rosy.

“Away from what?” she asked.

“This place,” Slade said. “What you do. Who you do it with. All of it.”

Still facing the closed door, Slade heard Miss Bonnie scooch out of her chair, then felt her arm on his shoulder. Slade palmed the ring as his paid companion turned him around. She put one hand on each side of Slade’s face, pulled his head down, then kissed him on the lips.

Oh how Slade dreamed of that. He wanted it for so long but never tried for it on his own. Paying for company was ok in his book but paying for anything more intimate was out of the question for him.

“You are adorable,” Miss Bonnie said as she brushed her hand alongside Slade’s cheek. “But you ought to know better than to fall for a…”

“What?” Slade asked.

“WHORE???” Crandall shouted from outside. “WHAT KINDA PLACE YOU RUNNIN’ HERE MAKIN’ A MAN WAIT LIKE THIS?!”

Slade tightened his fist around the ring. The scowl returned. The vein in his forehead popped out again. He turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door to find Roscoe Crandall with his dopey toothless face and stringy hair.

“Finally!” Crandall said.

POW!

Like a cannon at the Battle of Gettysburg, Slade launched a clothesline punch that connected with Crandall’s jaw with a bone shattering crunch, knocking his lights out instantly and sending him down for the count.

The Marshall fished his cigar out of his pocket and returned it to its usual resting place in the right corner of his mouth. The rasp in his voice was back and he was Mr. Tough Guy once more.

He look over his shoulder to Miss Bonnie. “Do I owe you for his hour too?”

Inside Miss Bonnie’s heart brewed a perfect storm of emotion. A little bit of fear, mixed in with some joy, pride and…she thought maybe love? No, it was more than love.

It was butterflies.

Miss Bonnie’s face scrunched up. “No…I’ll just take it out of his pants later.”

Slade grunted his ascent, then tipped the brim of his hat at the lovely lady.

“Miss Bonnie.”

“Marshal.”

Miss Bonnie watched as Slade stepped over Crandall’s oily hide then made his way downstairs. She shut the door, locked it, then returned to her vanity. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her face unscrunched and a few tears started to roll.

Why would a madame, the owner of a brothel, sell her own body? That was a question that loomed large on the lips of Highwater’s gossipy gadflies. The general consensus was that Miss Bonnie did it because she was appallingly promiscuous, but then again, no one ever bothered to ask her why.

Had they done so, they would have learned that she was married once, to a man who presented himself as loving and kind only to eventually turn loathsome and cruel. One black eye too many convinced her to grab her husband’s revolver and respond to his challenge of, “You don’t got the guts” to empty every last round in his chest.

Seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment but when her good sense returned, she snatched what little money her husband had stuffed under the mattress, fled Illinois for good, and earned her keep as a working girl until she managed to save enough to buy a place of her own.

As anyone who’s ever been down on their luck will attest, when good fortune returns, the mind doesn’t set itself at ease. Thoughts are never happy but rather, they become focused on how to never go back to the dark, dirt poor times of the past. She’d given up on men, forgotten all about love, and money was her only friend.

Money meant power. Money meant respect. Money meant never having to cow tow to another man ever again. As far as she was concerned, she was never able to get enough of it and while she was happy to take her cut from her girls’ earnings, she was even happier to take a full fee on her own.

Rainer Slade. No man had ever defended Miss Bonnie’s honor like that before. And while she was’t exactly a damsel in distress in search of a man’s protection, she did appreciate that someone cared enough to rearrange a scumbag’s face in her honor.

Poor Miss Bonnie. She sure had a lot to think about.

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Jan 28 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED -Chapter 7

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Sundown was the busiest time to visit the Bonnie Lass. Men had needs and Miss Bonnie’s gals aimed to please. Like prize peacocks, they strutted their stuff around the saloon floor, adept in the art of separating lonely men from their money.

Most of those men were lonely for a reason. Ugly, mean, miserable, alcoholic slimeballs without a dime to their name and no accomplishments to speak of.

Of course, in any brothel, there’s the occasional man who isn’t so bad but just can’t get out of his own way when it comes to chatting up a member of the fairer sex.

Once in awhile, there’s even a man who, despite all the odds against him, charms the ladies into having a good time.

Doc was one of those men. A scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he sat in a comfy chair in a back corner. Martha and Annabelle sat in front of him, listening intently to every word Doc had to say. Jeanette, an import all the way from Paris, claimed Doc’s lap for herself.

“And so I said to the Queen, either you’re terribly ill, or you need to return these mangoes to your grocer immediately!!!”

The ladies lapped it up. “Oh Doctor,” Annabelle said. “You are too much!”

“What a life you’ve lived!” Martha added. “You really met Queen Victoria?”

“But of course, my dear, but of course!” Doc said, swirling his glass around. “A delightful woman I must say. She suffered from ghastly stomach cramps and not a single physician in London was able to properly diagnose her. Naturally, she sent for me, having heard of the yeoman’s work I did as personal physician to the Raj of India.”

Martha’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been to India? Get out!”

“I shall get it, madam!” Doc said. “The Raj.  What a fine fellow.  Oh, how I miss Calcutta.  The cuisine, the people, the festivities…oh! But I’ll tell you as wonderful as my time there was it pales in comparison to the wonders of the world I saw while I traveled throughout Africa with the Bushmen of the Kalahari.”

“My stars,” Annabelle said, clutching her hand over her heart. “What were they like?”

Doc puffed on his cigar. “Splendid gentlemen the lot of them. They had an aversion to trousers but in that heat, who can blame them really? Do you know that one day I spotted a hungry lion who was gazing upon one of the children as if he were a particularly tasty snack?”

“No!” Martha and Annabelle said together. Jeanette wasn’t much of a talker. She preferred to wiggle her hand between two open buttons in Doc’s shirt and play with the fast talker’s chest hair.

Doc closed his eyes. “Oh ladies, please, I’d rather not discuss it…”

“Please!” Martha begged.

“No, no, you’ll think me a blowhard when all I did was what any man in my position would have done.”

“Land sakes alive, Doc!” Annabelle said. “Now we gotta know!”

“Oh, if you insist!” Doc said. “I socked the unruly beast in the nose, strangled it to death with my bare hands and now its gruesome head adorns the wall of my family’s summer cottage in Nantucket. The tribe was so pleased that they made me an honorary Bushman of the Kalahari!”

“They did?” Annabelle asked.

“Indeed, and between you and I, my dear…”

Doc paused for a moment then leaned in to revel in the transfixed look on Annabelle’s eyes. “…I’m well versed in the ways of the bush.”

Annabelle pondered that statement for a second, then covered her mouth and playfully slapped Doc’s arm. “You’re terrible!”

“I know my dear!” Doc said as he took a sip of scotch. “I’m so very, very wicked!!!”

More laughter. Meanwhile, the spirits of the three sad sacks at the bar weren’t as high as the good doctor’s.

“I will never trust a man that breaks bread with Injuns, no way, no how!” Blake said, nursing his beer.

“I don’t like it,” Burt said. “Something’s fishy about the whole thing.’

“Aww hell, we all look like cowards now,” Waldo said. “You know, I bet that’s why Slade recruited them Injuns to help him in the first place! Just to make us look bad.”

Miss Bonnie, all dolled up in red can can dress, bellied up to the bar.

“Jesus H. Christ, the three of you put together don’t have enough brain power to warm up a biscuit. The only reason why the Marshall reached out to those Injuns was because none of you would lift a finger to help him and don’t you forget it.”

Bottle crack. Chair smash. The first rigged card game related fight of the evening.

Ernie Gunderson swore he saw a spare King of Hearts drop out of Mitch O’Connell’s sleeve, but Mitch steadfastly maintained his innocence with an uppercut to Mitch’s jaw. Tim Shea, never one to miss out on a good fight, lifted his bottle high in the air and was about to bring it down on the first head he could find when a perfectly placed shot shattered it into pieces.

The chaos stopped and all eyes were on Miss Bonnie, who was now holding a smoking derringer. In her rebuke to the crowd, she started out slowly, then built her way up to an ear splitting crescendo.

“Do you think…that it would be too much to ask…that you…ASSHOLES…LEARN HOW TO PLAY WITH YOURSELVES…WITHOUT TEARING THE PLACE APART FOR ONE GODDAMN NIGHT?!”

Hats were off and heads hung low. The collective response? “Sorry Miss Bonnie.”

The proprietor tucked her piece back into her garter belt. The degenerates returned to normal, or, as normal as they got.

Doc, upon hearing the shot, had ducked for cover and sent Jeanette crashing to the floor in the process.  He stood up and dusted himself off.

“Pardon me, ladies,” he said. “Reflex action, you see from…from…”

The ladies waited for an answer.

“From my days in the service of President Lincoln! Yes, that was it exactly!”

“You?!” Martha asked. “Worked for Lincoln?”

Doc grabbed his forehead as if he was suffering from an traumatic mental burden.

“Oh, yes…yes, my dear I was the President’s Chief Medical Advisor but please don’t ask me to relive that tragic day. I swear I pummeled John Wilkes Booth within an inch of his life but his six henchmen overpowered me.  Oh, how I pray that one day I shall be able to forgive myself.”

“Booth had henchmen with him?” Annabelle asked. “I never knew that!”

“Oh my dear,” Doc said as he wrapped an arm around Annabelle. “There are so many things about this world that the powers that be keep from you that if I were to tell you half of them your faith in humanity would be shaken to its very core.”

“Gosh,” Annabelle said. Martha, not to be outdone, took Doc’s other arm.

Jeanette finally woke up. “Sacre bleu!”

“Ladies,” Doc said.  “I don’t mean to intrude, but have you ever been properly examined by a Harvard trained professional?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Martha said.

“Me neither,” Annabelle added.

“Come then,” Doc said as he led the trio upstairs. “Let us retire to more comfortable quarters for I’ll have you know I am a master of the gynecological arts and when it comes to your health and well being I will leave nothing to chance!”

“Oh my,” Martha said. “This sounds serious.”

“Medical matters are always serious,” Doc said. “But don’t worry, my dear, I’ll give the three of you a discount rate for my services.”

“That’s mighty generous of you doctor,” Annabelle said.

“I know,” Doc replied. “I truly am devoted to my patients.”

Martha pulled a roll of bills out of her brasserie and handed it over to the physician.

“Will this be enough?”

“Hmm,” Doc said. “It’s a good start and you have an honest face. I’ll just bill you for the rest my dear.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Martha said.

“Trou du cul,” Jeanette said, rubbing the sore spot on the back of her head from when Doc dropped her on the floor.

Back at the bar, Miss Bonnie was pouring over a wad of cash, counting up the evening’s haul. It was a good one, as per usual.

The double doors parted ways and in walked Slade.

Yup. The joint was filled with men with needs and even the fine, upstanding Marshall wasn’t any different. As our hero and Miss Bonnie traded glances, it became clear that one thing and one thing only was on the Marshall’s mind.

Miss Bonnie had something that Slade desperately needed and he wasn’t going to leave without it.

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Jan 23 2016
10 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Part 1 – The Stand

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U.S. Marshall Rainier Slade and his trusty deputy Gunther Beauregard are joined by traveling snake oil salesman Doctor Elias T. “Doc” Faraday in a stand against the nefarious Buchanan Boys.

Strap on your chaps and get ready to ride back to the Old West, 3.5 pardnahs.  This here’s the first part in an ongoing novel sure to appease the Mighty Potentate.

Chapter 1             Chapter 2         Chapter 3

Chapter 4            Chapter 5          Chapter 6

TRIVIA: By now, Old West movie buffs may have figured out which actor Slade is a parody of.  Feel free to share if you caught it.

Any idea who BQB had in mind when he created Gunther?  HINT: think TV instead of movies.

Oh, and if you’re one of them cowpokes who prefers a mobile friendly format, mosey on over to Wattpad.  Hell, BQB only started posting this story up there on Wednesday and its already ranked #932 in Wattpad horror.

Let’s keep it going, shall we?

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Jan 23 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 6

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There Smelly Jack laid, face down in the dirt, defeated and humiliated, his hands and feet hogtied behind his back. His brothers, cousins, and brother-cousins were all arranged similarly in a line that stretched the entire length of the the road.

Slade and Gunther stood watch over the wanton criminal, ignoring his demands for clemency.

“Dammit Slade, ‘aint you an officer of the law?!” Jack asked. “You’re just going to let them damn dirty Injuns take me away?!”

He didn’t show it, but the Marshall enjoyed letting Smelly Jack sweat.

Standing Eagle approached.

“Let me do the talking,” Slade said to Gunther.

“Since when do you do any talking?” Gunther asked.

“Don’t do the fake Injun talk shit,” Slade said. “He hates that.”

The Chief embraced Slade, who in turn, just let his arms hang down at his sides. Slade’s machismo would not allow him to hug another man.

“I am glad I was able to save your skin, Slade,” Standing Eagle said.

“So am I,” the Marshall replied.

Gunther raised a flat palm in the air. “HOW!”

The Chief rolled his eyes and glared at Slade as if to ask, “Really?”

In turn, Slade shrugged his shoulders as if to reply, “Afraid so.”

“How what?” Standing Eagle asked Gunther.

Gunther doubled down on his ignorance and repeated “HOW!”

“How what?” Standing Eagle asked. “How do you chop wood? How do you skin a deer? What do you want to know how to do?”

Gunther was overcome by bewilderment.

“ME GUNTHER,” the old man shouted. “ME…WHITE…LAW…MAN. YOU…BIG WARRIOR BRAVE! ME GIVE YOU…MANY THANKS…FOR CAPTURING BAD MEN!!!”

Standing Eagle asked Slade, “Why is he doing the fake Indian talk shit? I hate it when white men do the fake Indian talk shit.”

“Tried to tell him,” Slade said.

“I can speak English, white man!” Standing Eagle said to Gunther. “I always study the ways of those who intend to do me harm.”

“Oh,” Gunther said. “Well, thanks just the same. I reckon we were up shit creek without a paddle until your canoe came along.”

“Don’t mention it,” Standing Eagle said. The Chief grabbed Jack’s carcass, hoisted it up into the air, and put it over his shoulder. “Time for this monster to get what’s coming to him.”

Jack wrenched his bound up body to and fro but it was no use. “SLADE!!!! YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHIN’!”

“Whoa,” Slade said.

“Whoa?” the Chief asked.

“He’s got to stay,” Slade replied.

Standing Eagle allowed Jack’s body to drop to the ground. The outlaw screamed like a little girl the entire way down until he landed with a magnificent thud.

Slade was a tall man in his own right, but most men looked like dwarves when compared to the mighty Standing Eagle. He looked down at the Marshall with great disdain.

“We had a deal, Slade,” Standing Eagle said. “This fiend and his family have burned our homes, murdered our people, kidnapped and raped our women. You promised me justice will be done!”

Slade nodded. “He’ll swing. I guarantee.”

“You guarantee?” Standing Eagle asked. “How many guarantees have my people received from YOUR people that we will not be harmed, that we will not be forced from our lands? Your guarantees mean nothing to me!”

“Chief,” Gunther said. “What I think the Marshall’s tryin’ to say is that we got our own rules and we got our own big chiefs back in Washington that want to see Smelly Jack and his boys dead for all the havoc they’ve caused all these years. We’ll be in big trouble if we let him go.”

“HANDSOME JACK!” Jack shouted. “I TOLD THAT NEWSMAN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO CALL ME HANDSOME JACK IN THE PAPER! I OUGHTA TRACK THAT SHIT HEAD DOWN AND…”

Slade pressed his boot down on the back of Jack’s head, not so hard as to pop his skull open, but just firmly enough to keep the prisoner quiet. After a second or two of compliance through silence, Slade returned his foot to the ground.

“I already wired Judge Sampson,” Slade said.

“Shit, there you go, Chief,” Gunther said. “Judge Sampsons’ a real stickler, let me tell you. That old cuss would hang his own mother for stealin’ a piece of candy. You got nothin’ to worry about. Smelly Jack’ll be twitchin’ at the end of a rope in a week, just as soon as the Judge gets to town and makes it all formal like.”

“HANDSOME JACK!!!” Jack yelled.

“SHUT UP!” Gunther and Standing Eagle yelled at the prisoner in unison.

Doc stuck a bottle in Standing Eagle’s face. “Chief, would it be possible for us to set aside our cultural differences over a drink of my Miracle Cure-All? Not that you need it, as you appear to be a specimen of perfect health and virility but one can never be too careful when it comes to preventative medicine.”

The bottle was instantly slapped out of Doc’s hand. It went sailing through the air then shattered on the ground, spraying its contents everywhere.

“I know your tricks,” Standing Eagle said. “You offer a gift as a gesture of friendship but then it ends up being laced with diseases from across the great ocean.”

“Not as such, no,” Doc said. “Its mostly just cocaine and spider eggs for texture.”

“Slade,” Standing Eagle said. “Out of all the white men I have ever met, I always believed you were the one without a forked tongue…”

The Chief grimaced. “…but now I am beginning to see the prongs…”

“I’m…” The man of few words struggled to speak but all he could come up with was, “I’m sorry.”

Standing Eagle turned his back on the lawmen and walked toward a group of warriors. Slade and Gunther followed behind.

“Chief, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” Gunther said. “The Marshall, he ‘aint much of a talker so I don’t know what happened, maybe something somehow got mixed up in whatever chat you two had before all this happened but I swear Ole Smelly Jack will get what’s comin’ to him.”

Jack rolled over on his side, only to yell out in pain as he shifted his body’s weight onto his elbow. “HANDSOME JACK!”

Slade drew his Colt and fired a round that landed in the ground just an inch away from Jack’s head, setting off a small explosion of dirt.

“Say it again,” Slade said.

“I’ll be good,” Jack replied.

Standing Eagle folded his arms and stared at Slade and Gunther with disgust, as if they were just a couple of lowly rats in the great warrior’s eyes.

“My name is Standing Eagle,” the Chief said.

“We know,” Gunther replied.

“No,” the Chief said. “You do not know. The mighty eagle has the power of flight. With his majestic wings, he can soar high above the clouds, look down upon the world in awe, and travel anywhere at any time.”

Doc missed out on this conversation. He chatted up a pair of ladies, attempting to impress them with his massive vocabulary.

“But I am not Soaring Eagle, nor am I Flying Eagle. I am Standing Eagle, for an eagle is at its strongest when it knows exactly where it wishes to be and refuses to use its wings to leave. This land is my home. It is where I was born and where I will die, of old age I hope but in battle if I must. I do not need to leave for the earth provides us with all that we need to survive. There is plenty for my people and there would be plenty for yours if you would live the way you were intended to. Instead, you take, and take and take to fill the bottomless pits of your empty souls. I fear one day the white man will take until the world becomes a rotten, spent husk. I do not envy anyone living when that day comes. But until it does, I will stand with brothers and my sisters, my elders and my children, in the place where the spirits decided I should be long ago. I will fly away for no man.”

“Chief…” Slade said.

“Slade,” Standing Eagle said, “We had a relationship of trust. You were a man of your word, more so than any other man who held your position in the past. Together, we’ve kept the peace between our people for a year, but now that you’ve destroyed our trust, I fear our peace will soon follow.”

Standing Eagle pointed to one of his men.  He was shorter and skinnier.  His face was covered with war paint.  He and his leader exchanged words in their native tongue.

“This is Wandering Snake,” the Chief explained. “He is our most powerful shaman.”

“A what-man?” Gunther whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Some kind of holy magic man,” Slade answered.

“Silence, imbeciles!”  Standing Eagle said.  “He is the vessel through which the spirits make their will known and…HE WILL NOW SEAL YOUR DOOM!”

Gunther looked a little nervous.  Slade was as nonchalant as ever.

Wandering Snake proceeded with an elaborate dance, during which he chanted in a steady rhythm.

Standing Eagle translated.

“Filthy, incompetent white men!  You have angered the spirits.  You have disrupted the slumber of our ancestors.  Once again, you prove that your treachery and lies know no boundaries…”

“Chief,”  Gunther interrupted.  “Is this going to take long?”

“The man you call Jack Buchanan…and his kin…their vile misdeeds have caused much misery and suffering…”

“It’s just that I’m hungry as hell and need to get a steak in me,” Gunther complained.

“SHUT UP, DUMBASS!” Standing Eagle shouted.  “I’M TRYING TO CURSE YOU, HERE!”

Slade nodded at Gunther, a sign that he wanted the old man to pipe down.  As a good deputy, he did as instructed.

Wandering Snake pulled off a visually stunning twirl.  He was very limber and spry.

“The spirits have decreed…that if the Buchanans do not pay for the lives they have taken with their own…then your farm lands will grow useless…your…yes, your lives will be filled with torment….”

Wandering Snake kept up with his performance, dancing and chanting away.  However, Standing Eagle stopped translating and appeared to be deep in thought.  He stroked his chin, looked up to the sky, then after a minute, looked at the two lawmen and declared…

“…and when your people die…they will not completely die.  Their souls will move on but their bodies will remain in motion, shells of their former selves, wandering about aimlessly as they search for the flesh of the living to devour…your punishment will be to fend off their attacks until the end of time.”

Silence.  Wandering Snake took a breather.

“Is that it?”  Gunther asked.

“That’s it,” Standing Eagle said.  “Why, do you want more?”

“Not especially,” Gunther said.

A warrior walked up leading the Chief’s horse, a white paint with brown spots.  Standing Eagle mounted his noble steed.  He didn’t bother with a saddle.

“Mark my words, Slade,” Standing Eagle said, pointing a finger toward Smelly Jack. “If he doesn’t die, you’ll wish you had.”

The warriors packed up and together they rode out of town, their noble chief leading the way.

“Damn,” Gunther said. “There goes some pissed off Injuns.”

“Yup,” Slade replied.

The law men looked at each other.  Gunther budged first.

“You don’t think…”

Slade chomped on his cigar. “Nah.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Leaving Slade on watch, Gunther returned to the Bonnie Lass, where the patrons were hiding behind the bar, under tables, and so on.

“You can come out now, chicken shits,”  Gunther said. “The desperadoes have been apprehended, relieved of their shootin’ irons, and there’s no more danger at all.  Now we just need some folks to help us stand guard over ’em until the Judge arrives.  Pays fifty cents a day and all you gotta do is point a gun at a bunch of tied up reprobates.”

Literally every hand in the bar shot up into the air.

“Yup,” Gunther said. “I figured as much.”

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Jan 23 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 4

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Slade was right where Gunther had left him, still in the street, concentrating on his duty. The Marshall finished his chaw and traded up to a cigar, chewing on it as he squinted through his half-closed eyelids under the blinding high noon sunlight.

“I’ve recruited a special deputy,” Gunther said.

Doc put his hand out. Slade shook it. “Obliged,” was the most gratitude the stoic was able to muster.

“A distinct honor to meet you, Marshall,” Doc said. “Doctor Elias T. Faraday, M.D. by way of Boston, Massachusetts though I assure you I’m no relation to the Chestnut Hill Faradays, lousy beggars…”

“He’ll chew your ear off and spit it out if you let him,” Gunther warned.

The three men stood in a row, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Had you, the noble reader, been facing them, you’d of seen Slade in the middle, Gunther on the left, and Doc on the right.

“‘Fraid there weren’t any other volunteers,” Gunther said. “Bunch of pansies.”

Slade chewed on his cigar. A few moments passed.

“Miss Bonnie sends her regards,” Gunther said.

“Oh?” was Slade’s response.

“Oh that perked you up, huh?” Gunther asked.

More cigar chewing.

“My mistake,” Gunther said. “Since you don’t care I’ll spare you the details.”

“What?” Slade asked.

“Well,” Gunther said. “I don’t recall her exact words but she left me with a general impression that if you buy the farm today she’ll be broken up about it.”

The end of Slade’s cigar glowed red with an inhale. Smoke billowed out of his mouth in an exhale.

“Yeah?” Slade asked.

“Yup,” Gunther said. “Gal even offered to come back you up. I turned her down, of course, a gun fight being no place for a lady and all.”

“Right,” Slade said.

The side of Slade’s mouth not chomping on the cigar curled up in a virtually unheard of smile, then quickly disappeared.

“I saw that,” Gunther said.

Doc pulled out the bottle of snake oil he was carrying in his suit coat pocket and waved it in front of Slade’s face.

“Marshall,” Doc said. “I couldn’t help but notice you speak in the manner of a man with a sore throat. One sip of my Miracle Cure-All will…”

Gunther pushed Doc’s hand away. “Trust me,” the old man said to Slade. “There’s still a taste in my mouth like I licked a gopher’s rear end.”

Slade paid no attention to any of it. Nothing was going to distract him from the impending showdown.

“Suit yourselves, gentlemen,” Doc said as he took a gulp. “More for me.”

BONG….BONG…BONG….

The church bell rang twelve times. Noon.

“You two should walk away,” Slade said through gritted teeth. He said most of his words through gritted teeth. That’s just what tough guys do.

Gunther put his hand on his boss’ shoulder. “Son,” he said. “I’ve lived my life. Had my Mavis. Had my younguns. Explored all over this country. Anything else I do is just extra cream in the butter churn if you ask me. Don’t worry about me none, I’m with you till the end.”

Slade grunted. Gunther knew that meant, “Thank you.”

Doc ruined the moment by clapping loudly. “Bravo, sir, bravo! Finer words were never spoken. To that sentiment, allow me to add that I too have traveled through many a town in this new world. I’ve seen many a hamlet torn asunder by fiendish bullies and you, Marshall Slade, are the first man I’ve seen brave enough to fight for all that is good and just in the world. You move me so that I simply must be a part of your stand.”

Another grunt from Slade. Even Gunther was impressed.

“Maybe there’s more to you than I thought, Doc.”

“Plus, I’ll be able to sell even more bottles of my Miracle Cure-All once the distinguished members of the press spread tales of our glorious victory across the continent,” Doc said.

“And you ruined it,” Gunther replied.

Clip clops. Loud yelling. Hoots and hollers. Guns being fired in the air. Thirty some odd Buchanan Boys rode their horses through town. Leading up the pack?

None other than the notorious Smelly Jack Buchanan himself.

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Jan 23 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 3

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“Step right up! Step right up!”

While Gunther was pleading Slade’s case to deaf ears, a flashy salesman set up a cart just outside the Bonnie Lass’ double doors.

The only thing slimier than this lowlife’s pitch was his appearance. He had a devilish black beard, the kind that came down his face to a point just like the letter, “V.” His mustache curled upwards at each end. He wore a red velvet suit, wrapped his neck up with an ascot, and carried a cane topped with a golden ball. Sitting on his head was a top hat that extended an extra two feet above his cranium.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, step right up for a taste of Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All!”

A large group gathered to listen to the huckster’s silver tongue wag away as it made all manner of suspicious promises.

“Step right up and purchase a bottle of the last medicine you will ever need!” the man said. “Lead an insurrection against indigestion, a revolution against devolution and decertify your decrepitude!”

Men. Women. Young and old. Several suckers were already holding the bottles they bought.

“Heart palpitations will listen to your stipulations, constipation will no longer be a source of consternation and you’ll never fight another bout with the gout!”

The show drew Gunther’s interest. He immediately sized up the charlatan for the fraud that he was, but he wanted to see where the doc was going with his routine.

“Ulcers will be ousted, your pain will be drained and tumors will become mere rumors!”

“Doctor,” an old woman said.

“Yes, my dear!” the salesman said.

“I got the worst pain in my bones. Will this help?”

The salesman didn’t flinch an inch.

“But of course, madam, but of course!” he said. “Bid me a moment as I tell you a tale of an elderly gentleman I met not more than fifty miles away who suffered from the most abominable, most abysmal case of rheumatism I’ve ever seen in my entire medical career. Let me tell you this man could barely move without crying out in debilitating pain. One sip of my Miracle Cure-All and…do you know what he did?”

The crowd waited for an answer with baited breath.

The so-called doctor was quite a showman. He jumped up and clicked his heels in the air. “Why, that gent started dancing about like a wild man, thanking me, thanking Jesus, thanking Mary, thanking Joseph, thanking God Almighty himself for bringing me to him so that I was able to introduce him to Doc Farraday’s Miracle Cure-All!”

Doc raised a bottle in the air. “Now remember, dear, dear patients, one spoonful will bring a fever down, two spoonfuls will cure a seizure of the heart and return it to its regular beating rhythm and as a trained physician, I can recommend half a spoonful a day every morning as an excellent regimen to ward off diseases, disorders, and other various and sundry maladies of the body, mind and spirit.”

“Does it cure flatulence?” a cowboy asked. That question drew dirty looks from the crowd. “I’m asking for a friend. He uh…he farts a lot.”

“Indubitably, sir, indubitably,” Doc replied. “Patients have reported to me that one swig of Doc Farraday’s Miracle Cure-All has given their bodily odors a robust, flowery scent with just a hint of lavender.”

Everyone reached into their pockets and pulled out their money. Gunther had enough and walked on.

“Excuse me, sir!”

Not realizing that he was the sir in question, Gunther kept walking.

“You there! Constable!”

Gunther stopped in his tracks and turned around. The good doctor abandoned the crowd, clutching a roll of dollars in his fist.

“Good day, sir!” the doctor said with an extended hand. Gunther hesitated. The doc was dirty for sure and the old timer didn’t want any of that existential muck to rub off on him. But, not wanting to be impolite, Gunther took it and shook it anyway.

“Faraday’s the name,” the salesman said. “Doctor Elias T. Faraday by way of Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Uh huh,” Gunther said, doing his best impression of an interested person.

“Oh,” Doc said. “But I’m no relation to the Chestnut Hill Faradays, I assure you. A band of beggars I’ll have you know. I wouldn’t trust my billfold around any of them if I were you.”

“I’ll remember that,” Gunther said.

“And you are?” Doc asked.

“Gunther,” the old man said. “Beauregard of the Kansas Beauregards. They’re all assholes but I love ’em just the same.”

“Yes, yes,” Doc said. “A man of good humor. I like it!”

The doctor handed Gunther a black bottle. Printed in cursive lettering on the bottle’s label were the words, “Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All.”

“A gift for you, sir,” Doc said. “The very last medicine you’ll ever need. My way of thanking you for your efforts to protect this burgeoning metropolis.”

Gunther looked the bottle over. “What’s in it?”

Doc stroked his beard. “Ah, an astute question, my good man! Let me see. It’s a vast array of only the finest narcotics I assure you. Laudunum. Opium. Baking soda. Tree bark shavings. Dogwood tree leaves. Beaver mucous. Spider eggs, but only for texture. I’ll tell you as to date the scientific community is in a state of flux as to the alleged curative properties of spider eggs…tonic water, raspberry juice, cocaine…”

Gunther’s one eye lit up. “Did you say, ‘cocaine?'”

“Indeed, sir, indeed, plucked from the leaves of the finest coca plants I’ll have you know.”

Gunther pulled the cork out of the bottle and smelled it. “Ugh! That’s worse than an outhouse after a backyard barbecue.”

“No one ever said that the path toward vim and vigor was an easy one, sir. Tell me, do you suffer from any infirmities?”

“Infirma-what-ities?” Gunther asked.

“Infirmities,” Doc said. “Aches. Pains and the like.”

“Now that you mention it, my back always feels like a bull ran over it.”

“Then please,” Doc said. “Take a sip and feel like a young man again.”

Gunther looked at Doc. “Horse shit,” Gunther said. “What kind of flim flam scam are you runnin’?”

“This is all on the level, good sir, I assure you,” Doc said. “My reputation as a Harvard trained doctor of medicine is on the line with every bottle I purvey to the public and I tell you I would never commit an act of indiscretion that would put my good name into disrepute, sir.”

“Here goes nothin,'” Gunther pressed the bottle to his lips, took a pull, instantly sprayed it out of his mouth in a fine mist, then offered a trail of obscenities not repeatable in mixed company.

“Son of a bitch, Doc! Did you stick a horse’s pecker in a bottle and collect the piss?!”

Doc slapped his knee. “That’s a good one, sir but no, no my good man, Doc Faraday’s Miracle Cure-All may be an acquired taste, but it is one you shall have to acquire just the same in order to extend your life many, many years past your natural expiration date!”

“Shit,” Gunther said. He handed the bottle back. Doc took it and tucked it into his coat pocket.

“I’ll just keep my date with the grave if its all the same,” the old man said.

Gunther walked off again.

“Good sir!”

“What now?”

“I could not help but catch some of your impassioned plea as I peddled my wares outside the local house of ill repute…”

“Do you just love listening to yourself talk all day?” Gunther asked.

“Indeed I do for oration is one of the many gifts our beloved creator has bestowed upon me but to get to the point at hand, am I to understand our Marshall intends to stave off a band of miscreants on his own?”

“That’s the long and short of it,” Gunther replied.

Doc grabbed his lapels and puffed out his chest. “Then sir, I should very much like to lend a hand in this, Highwater’s darkest hour.”

“You?” Gunther laughed at the thought.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Are you handy with the steel?”

The good doctor let his cane drop to the ground. He shot his arms straight out to the left and right. Out from under his cuffs popped two sterling silver revolvers. Gunther was impressed.

“That’ll do.”

“An invention of my own design,” Doc said. “Spring loaded contraptions that respond with the mere flick of a wrist.”

“I really don’t give a musty ox shit, Doc,” Gunther said. “Are you comin’ or not?”

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