drink reach her ears.
They clearly knew she wasn’t a prostitute, and no one was about to ask.
Bird
went to the end of the bar, where the bartender was polishing glasses. He was a
stout man with a neatly pressed shirt and a huge handlebar mustache.
He
glanced up at her.
“Beer
and a whiskey,” she said. “Leave the bottle.”
She
watched him pour the whiskey into a shot glass and set the bottle on the bar. Then
he pulled a mug out from beneath the beer tap, filled it, and placed it in
front of her. Bird plunked down a few coins.
“To
your health,” she said to no one in particular, then raised the whiskey and
downed it.
Drinking
in town was so much better than on the open trail. Mainly because the fear of
running out of whiskey was gone. She’d had to carefully ration her liquor,
riding with Mike Tower, but now, judging by the rows of whiskey bottles and the
big mug of beer in front of her, it appeared there was enough in stock to
satisfy her thirst. For today.
She
poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle and glanced around the room.
It
was a long, narrow space, with the bar on one side and a row of tables and
chairs on the other. The walls were empty, save for one advertising poster
purporting the benefits of Dr. William Foggerty’s World-Famous Stomach Bitters.
Half
of the tables were occupied with small groups of men, and the last table was
directly to Bird’s right. There was no one behind her, which was the way she
liked it.
Two
men stood, glanced back at her, and left the bar.
It
was a reaction she was used to. Some ignorant individuals refused to drink in a
saloon with a woman if the woman in question wasn’t there to sell her sexual
services.
Bird
drank half of her beer, and the cold liquid tasted wonderful. She was hungry,
but the beer would fill her up until she was ready to eat. Or perhaps her
entire dinner would be in liquid form.
She
was in the process of filling her third shot when three men walked into the bar
and headed directly for her. Bird shifted slightly to her right so, if she had
to draw her gun, the bar wouldn’t be in the way. The shot of whiskey was in her
left hand; her right hung casually by her side.
“You
the woman who rode in with the preacher?” the first man said.
The
muted conversations taking place at the various tables now stopped as nearly
all heads turned toward the end of the bar.
Bird
held his gaze and downed her shot of whiskey without taking her eyes from him. He
was tall with a thin, cruel mouth. He had a pistol stuck in his waistband and a
double-barrel shotgun in his left hand.
“Never
interrupt a lady when she’s drinking,” Bird said. She refilled her shot glass
with whiskey. “Any sonofabitch knows that.”
“I’ll
keep that in mind,” the man said. “But right now I don’t see a lady, just a
drunken saddle tramp who rides with an outlaw disguised as a preacher.”
The
bartender glided to the end of the bar.
“Matthew,
I don’t want any trouble here,” he said to the man.
“About
time you paid attention to one of your customers getting harassed,” Bird said
to the bartender. “I believe you should pour me another beer on the house.” She
nudged the empty beer mug toward him.
“Don’t
ignore me,” the man who the bartender had referred to as Matthew said. “I got a
message for your scum of a partner.”
The
bartender set a fresh beer in front of Bird.
“He’s
going to hang for what he did,” the man said. “The men of Prosperity won’t
stand for some stranger molesting their women. And if you’re not careful,
you’ll be hanging right next to him.”
Bird
smiled at him. “I suggest you let me enjoy my complimentary beverage here,” she
said, raising the mug in a mock toast with her left hand. “Or I’ll shove that shotgun
so far up your ass your balls will get caught in the trigger guard.”
She
drank from her beer and let her right hand rest on the butt of her pistol.
“Matthew,”
the bartender said.
They clearly knew she wasn’t a prostitute, and no one was about to ask.
Bird
went to the end of the bar, where the bartender was polishing glasses. He was a
stout man with a neatly pressed shirt and a huge handlebar mustache.
He
glanced up at her.
“Beer
and a whiskey,” she said. “Leave the bottle.”
She
watched him pour the whiskey into a shot glass and set the bottle on the bar. Then
he pulled a mug out from beneath the beer tap, filled it, and placed it in
front of her. Bird plunked down a few coins.
“To
your health,” she said to no one in particular, then raised the whiskey and
downed it.
Drinking
in town was so much better than on the open trail. Mainly because the fear of
running out of whiskey was gone. She’d had to carefully ration her liquor,
riding with Mike Tower, but now, judging by the rows of whiskey bottles and the
big mug of beer in front of her, it appeared there was enough in stock to
satisfy her thirst. For today.
She
poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle and glanced around the room.
It
was a long, narrow space, with the bar on one side and a row of tables and
chairs on the other. The walls were empty, save for one advertising poster
purporting the benefits of Dr. William Foggerty’s World-Famous Stomach Bitters.
Half
of the tables were occupied with small groups of men, and the last table was
directly to Bird’s right. There was no one behind her, which was the way she
liked it.
Two
men stood, glanced back at her, and left the bar.
It
was a reaction she was used to. Some ignorant individuals refused to drink in a
saloon with a woman if the woman in question wasn’t there to sell her sexual
services.
Bird
drank half of her beer, and the cold liquid tasted wonderful. She was hungry,
but the beer would fill her up until she was ready to eat. Or perhaps her
entire dinner would be in liquid form.
She
was in the process of filling her third shot when three men walked into the bar
and headed directly for her. Bird shifted slightly to her right so, if she had
to draw her gun, the bar wouldn’t be in the way. The shot of whiskey was in her
left hand; her right hung casually by her side.
“You
the woman who rode in with the preacher?” the first man said.
The
muted conversations taking place at the various tables now stopped as nearly
all heads turned toward the end of the bar.
Bird
held his gaze and downed her shot of whiskey without taking her eyes from him. He
was tall with a thin, cruel mouth. He had a pistol stuck in his waistband and a
double-barrel shotgun in his left hand.
“Never
interrupt a lady when she’s drinking,” Bird said. She refilled her shot glass
with whiskey. “Any sonofabitch knows that.”
“I’ll
keep that in mind,” the man said. “But right now I don’t see a lady, just a
drunken saddle tramp who rides with an outlaw disguised as a preacher.”
The
bartender glided to the end of the bar.
“Matthew,
I don’t want any trouble here,” he said to the man.
“About
time you paid attention to one of your customers getting harassed,” Bird said
to the bartender. “I believe you should pour me another beer on the house.” She
nudged the empty beer mug toward him.
“Don’t
ignore me,” the man who the bartender had referred to as Matthew said. “I got a
message for your scum of a partner.”
The
bartender set a fresh beer in front of Bird.
“He’s
going to hang for what he did,” the man said. “The men of Prosperity won’t
stand for some stranger molesting their women. And if you’re not careful,
you’ll be hanging right next to him.”
Bird
smiled at him. “I suggest you let me enjoy my complimentary beverage here,” she
said, raising the mug in a mock toast with her left hand. “Or I’ll shove that shotgun
so far up your ass your balls will get caught in the trigger guard.”
She
drank from her beer and let her right hand rest on the butt of her pistol.
“Matthew,”
the bartender said.
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