It was Wyoming Territory in the mid 1800’s in the town of the Bar S Ranch, when a stranger came walking into the Hen House Saloon. Everyone stopped what they were doing and sized up this new comer in town. Wondering who he was and what he was here for.
He sidled up to the plank bar and put his one foot on a foot railing, telling the old barkeep named Leghorn, “Give me a shot of corn water.” Others couldn’t help but notice the long silver spurs he wore. There was something about him the spelt trouble. He was a tall one, red headed and bearded, neatly dressed in simple everyday attire. It was his eyes that told of danger. They were sad, but at the same time there was deep darkness in them. Not a good combination, one to be left alone! He looked the whole crowd over, downed his drink, and ordered another shot.
An overly plump, seen better days, female dressed all in white came up to him saying, “I’m Old Bitty. Care to buy me a drink? What’s your name stranger?” He told her, “I’ll buy you a drink, but I’m not here to socialize. Set one up for her Leghorn.” She got her drink and moved off while he stood studying everyone behind him in a big mirror nailed to the wall behind the bar. A couple of soiled hens moved among the crowd as an old, gray geezer called Gander Joe plucked away on yellowed keys on an old beat up, upright piano standing by the opposite wall. Gamblers sat around a round card table made by the Chicken Feed Company in Denver. There were corn kernels for chips.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed as they rested on one particular gambler. He was a fancy dressed dude all in black. A cock-of-the-walk air about him. He too was redheaded and sported a goatee. You couldn’t see his spurs though. The stranger turned from the bar and called out, “Road Island Red, remember me? You stoled my wife, Bertha Hen, and shamed her and left her in Coupville, Texas, in the Here Chick Chick Saloon where she died. They buried her up in Farm Yard Cemetery. I’m here, so stand up, I’m taking you back. Either that or show your spurs! Ya’h low-life, manure pooping chicken heart!” Everyone headed for cover as someone was going to die. Some even flew out the door!
The two circled each other waiting for an opening. Each tried to lash out with those long spurs, slashing in the dim light of the saloon. The duel went on for several minutes with only slight wounds, feathers flying, and dust twirling around. Then, Road Island Red made a fatal mistake. Zigging when he should have zagged and the stranger’s spurs caught him deep in the chest and he fell to the floor. As he laid there dying, he said, “Didn’t think you’d ever find me this far. What’s your name again?” The stranger looked down at him saying, “The name’s Sharp Spurs Rooster!”
As he turned to go, someone in the crowd yelled, “I’ve er, er, er’d of him. The fastest spurs there is in the West. He’s with the Texas Fowl Rangers!”
Lakewood, Washington 10/4/2018
