October, 2013

Issue #49

Ephraim's Birthday
by Nancy Hartney

Cowboys jerked horses hard onto their haunches before the hitching rail. Grainy dust billowed over porch chairs as they dismounted and stomped from harsh afternoon sunlight toward the smoke-dingy interior of the Black Dog Saloon.

Curly and Slim grabbed Ephraim around his skinny neck and playfully pulled and pushed him through the swinging doors, raucous noise spilling ahead of them.

"Ease up boys," croaked Ephraim, his peach-fuzz face glowing. "I'm a-coming." Although embarrassed by the fuss, he felt happy. Cold beer and dancing with a gal. What more could a feller want?

"Darn tooting you coming. Birthday man got to buy first round," teased Curley.

They knocked dust from their boots, laughed, and shoved against each other, young colts running free.

"Good Lord almighty, it's the Crooked Creek riders," hollered Thelma pushing herself up from the table as the men streamed into the saloon.

"You boys come on in. I'll get my girls down here before you get to your second beer. Let's get them wages spent." She flashed a toothy smile and slapped her thigh.

"Leave them spitters and that broom work go for now," she called to the swamper. "Git on upstairs and tell Scarlet and Dumpling to hurry down here. We got customers." Wrinkled beyond her years, Thelma had a bass-drum voice and matching size.

Grabbing a stained towel, the rat-faced bartender wiped stray spills and readied mugs. Customers at scattered tables drained their beers, raised glasses, and nodded for refills.

A barrel chested buffalo hunter heaved his bulk down the bar and scowled at the rambunctious jumble. He reeked of unwashed flesh. Hoisting his carbine, he stepped into their boisterous path, shouldering Ephraim against a wooden table. The table wobbled wildly. A chair thudded over, stiff legs pointed out.

"Lordy, mister, you ought to watch were you a-going." Ephraim steadied the table and balanced himself.

"You done been out with them shaggies too long. What's the matter with you anyhow?" He felt irritated with the man's deliberate rudeness.

"You coyote whelp. Watch where yer going. Keep that opinion of yer'n tucked up." The hunter stood wide-legged, his right hand curled around a deer horn knife handle.

"I'd as soon gut you as spit," he continued. "Likes of your kind ruining the plains, dragging them cows 'ever place. Towns popping up worser than prairie dogs."

Ephraim's eyes trailed down to the knife and callused hand, the man's threat vibrating between them.

"Sorry, mister, I don't mean nuthin. Place is big enough for all of us." His face reddened, a sour knot of fear twisted his gut as he shrugged and shuffled around the hunter's savage stink.

Thelma waddled toward the two men and placed her bulk next to Ephraim.

"You men in a respectable saloon. Drop that kinda talk." She turned her back on the hunter and shoved Ephraim toward the bar.

Scarlett and Dumpling minced down the stairs and coyly rubbed among the hooting cowboys.

"Let's liven up this old Saturday," said Thelma. "My girls here now and ready to tear a hole in the night. Git your pocket jingle out." She waved a puffy hand toward the Negro piano player. "Seth, get over yonder and play us a tune."

Laughing, the cowboys pushed on toward the bar, digging in their pockets for beer money.

"Move over fellers," hollered Slim. "Make room for Ephraim. That is, if he finds time to stop jawing with that flea-covered buffalo shooter." He pulled Ephraim away from Thelma and toward the bar.

"Yeah, come on. Leave 'ol Buffer alone. We gotta drink to your birthday. Set 'em up for everyone." Slim, a reed-thin, crossed-eyed cowboy leaned forward and slapped the bar. "We been eating steer dust and howling at the moon nigh on two months," he said, helping slide foam-draped mugs among his fellows.

"You heard the man. No need to call me twice. I ain't shy." Baldy grabbed a brew, drank half, and wiped his mouth on a shirt sleeve. "Boss says we fixing to trail towards Dodge City end of this here month. We gonna need this here beer. Drink up boys."

"Gall-darn worthless cow chasers," growled the buffalo shooter to no one in particular. "Run in here raising up enough dust to choke a grizzly." His slurred words spilled through rotted teeth. A puckered scar speared down his leathery cheek and ended in a filthy beard-nest.

Friends thumped Ephraim on the back, raised glasses, and gulped amber liquid. He blushed as he flipped his grey Stetson back to dangle by a braided stampede string. Despite the altercation, he felt randy.

"Get that piano cranked up and lets us do some dancing," chimed in Baldy as he grabbed a second foam-dripping mug and pranced to the piano.

"I play long as you buy my beer," Seth said, banging enthusiastically on the keys.

The hunter glowered at their gaiety, staggered to the end of the bar, propped his Sharps in a corner, and slapped a rough, grime-ringed hand on the counter.

"Beer. Now."

"Don't you reckon you done had plenty? Maybe you oughtn't to quit?" The bartender glanced at the grizzled old man while he drew a refill for a traveling salesman. He placed a brew before the tenderfoot and turned back to the hunter.

"Why don't you let my Chinaman draw you a bath and give you a shave? You come back clean and I give first whiskey on the house." He spread liver-spotted hands on the wood surface and stared into the hunter's muddy eyes.

"You saying I ain't good enough fer this here slop wallow? Seen you fill up that sissified drummer down at the end quick enough. Noticed you ready to serve them cow nursemaids." He leaned back and pounded a fist on the bar.

"Likes of me that got these here plains open for you tit-suckers, fancy pants, and heel squatters." He hawked, leaned over, and spat on the floor. "Squaws good enough for most men till them sporting women come crowding in."

Bartender shrugged, drew a beer, shoved it toward the man, and turned to other customers.

In the distance, heat lightning lit the late-day sky and fell away into pink and steel-colored clouds. Horses with burr-matted tails stood hip-cocked at the rail and swished flies.

Inside, Thelma laughed and clapped time to the tune. Two sodbusters, in town buying supplies, drifted across the room, and joined the raucous singing. Townsmen, drawn by the rowdy noise, pushed in to watch and drink.

Buffer downed his beer, stepped back from the bar, and slumped into a corner chair. He dozed, his mouth open, head drooped against his chest. Drool, stringing down, wet his shirt front.

Joints knotted from years in a bronc saddle, Baldy lifted his mug and toasted the saloon doves.

"Gals, you gonna dance with us or drink?"

"You boys keep us in beer and we'll dance your hind legs off," challenged Scarlett, flipping her red hair. She swished forward, green taffeta dress rustling, and set her half-filled glass on the piano.

"You not a-waiting on me," Baldy replied as he grabbed her freckled hand, stomped his heel on the floor, and plowed into a lively two-step around the sawdust dance floor.

Curly elbowed Ephraim. "Don't let that old bald coot dance them gals down. Grab a handful for yourself while they fresh."

"Damn right. You take this one." Thelma pushed Dumpling forward. "She's soft and round. She'll cushion them skinny bones of yours." The madam waddled to the piano.

Dumpling twisted a coffee-colored curl around a pudgy finger, raised an eyebrow, and rubbed her ample bosom against Ephraim.

His eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath, exhaled slowly and shifted from foot-to-foot.

"Why, you such a sweet boy and good looking besides," she cooed, rubbed his face with her hand, and smiled. "A birthday feller too."

"Why thank you ma'am. I ain't never had no pretty lady say stuff like that to me." He felt flustered and shy.

"Well, let's us have ourselves a birthday dance, big boy." She threw her head back, brayed out a laugh, grabbed his hand, and twirled across the floor.

A store clerk and two freight drivers drifted in, swelling the noisy party, as they clapped and waited on a turn with the gals.

Night swallowed light as an afternoon sun retreated. Salt-soaked, faded shirts grew damp as men clomped among tables, danced with each other, whirled the two gals, and even swung the draft-horse-hipped madam.

By night, sodbusters, still singing and reeking of brew, stumbled out to patiently-waiting mule teams and started home at a trot toward disapproving wives.

Ephraim, feeling bold with his fourth beer, groped Dumpling's ample curves and shuffled around the dance floor. Lordy but she had huge tits. He swung her wide and grabbed her on the back-swing. She cozied against him then twirled out, dropped his hand, and grabbed her skirt lifting it in a saucy to-and-fro high-step.

I could live all winter in that line cabin if'n I had her there, he thought. He threw his head back, howled, and swung her around again.

Surprised by the raw howling passion and whirled wide, Dumpling lost her balance and stumped her foot against the sleeping hunter's chair. Startled awake, he flung his legs wide and roared to standing. The chair clattered over backwards.

She reeled a few steps, bumped against his hip, and grabbed at his shirt front.

"Oops. I done woke you up. Sorry." She giggled and swayed in front of him. "I was trying to keep from a-falling."

His scarred hand shot out, slammed across her face, and knocked her spinning onto her hands and knees.

She screamed and crawled away, ripping the dress bodice away from her skirt. She pulled herself upright on a table, hollered again, and ran for the second floor steps.

The piano fell silent, the player's hands poised over the keys, his eyes wide, rolling white.

Scarlett let loose with an ear piercing screech.

Others froze, mouths agape.

Ephraim wobbled backwards.

"Hell Mister. You didn't have no call to bust her like that." He blinked hard and tried to swallow the bile rising in his mouth. "We was dancing. Having fun. That's all. "

Killing knife held waist level, the filth-encrusted hunter stepped forward. Unsteady and groggy from beer and sleep, he stumped his toe on a spittoon, upending it. Foul slime spilled across the pine floor boards.

"Gawd-damn it hell." He stared down at the puddle, reared back, and kicked the brass spitter across the room.

"Ah, shit," said the swamper. "Look what you done. You ought to have to clean that up."

Buffer glared at the man, spat in the brown mess, shifted his knife, and stalked forward.

"I'll gut you from stem to stern." Rage flashed across his face as he threw a table aside. His focus shifted to Ephraim.

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Don't be killing me. You got no call to pull a knife." Ephraim shook his head and backed-up, his face drained of color.

Unfazed, the savage sliced at the boy's chest, cutting through skin and muscle. A dark, wet streak spread across the shirt.

Ephraim felt a spasm of pain. His scalp prickled.

"You got no call." Unnerved and panicked, he fumbled with his pistol, yanked it free, and fired twice. Ceiling plaster crumbled down in chunks. Smoke coiled out of the muzzle, blending into the darkness of the room. Still holding the gun high, he twisted and stumbled after Dumpling up the stairs.

In three quick strides, the hunter grabbed Ephraim by the collar and jerked him flat. He gut-kicked the boy, lifted him bow-shaped, and glared as the kid splattered belly-down, nose crushed into rough planks.

Ephraim dropped his pistol. It slid across the floor, careened off an upturned chair, and spun under the bottom step. He scrambled to his knees, spat a white tooth into his hand, and foolishly stared at it, wondering where it came from.

Buffer bent, wound a hand in straw-blond hair, pulled the gasping figure upright, and kneed him against a pole. The boy collapsed forward, arms flung out, legs jerked spastically, the tooth lost in sawdust.

The hunter slung a chair aside, picked up a second one, and savagely slammed it across the boy's back.

Twisting his head sideways, Ephraim stared at his pistol and lizard-crawled toward it.

The hunter snatched up a whiskey bottle and hurled it at the piano. Glass fragments arced down. The pianist abandoned his stool and scuttled away.

Freighters, flattened against the wall, held drinks high and edged toward the swinging doors.

Curly, sweating, ducked behind an upturned table, eyes locked on his friend's bloody face.

Ephraim clawed along the rough boards, his hand groping for the cool curve of his pistol. He coughed, spit blood, and rolled to sitting. Cocking the hammer back, he steadied the Colt with both hands, and fired.

A guttural howl filled the smoky room.

"You dumb sumbitch. You shot my gawd-damn ear off. I'll kill you for sure. I'll pull your backbone out through your belly. I'll peel ever' piece of skin off your worthless butt. I'm gonna rip yer tongue out."

Blood ran down the hunter's weather-wrinkled neck and dripped onto his grease-splotched shirt. For a moment, he cupped his hand around the shredded ear before staring down into his wet palm. Grimacing, he slung red threads across the boy's face.

Ephraim hollered and clambered up the first three steps.

"I ain't meant nothing mister. We was dancing. Oh, gawd, don't kill me. It's my birthday. Didn't mean nuthin." He slobbered and dropped the gun.

The massive man pounced, grabbed one leg, and dragged the kid thumping down the steps.

"Didn't mean nuthin." Ephraim kicked the air with his free foot. Arms and hands helplessly thrashed against the railings.

Holding one booted-foot, the grease-and-dirt man bared his teeth and yanked hard. The boot slipped free. Startled, the two fell apart.

For a moment, they stared at Ephraim's big toe poking through his grimy wool sock.

"Look at that." Scarlett giggled and pointed at the protruding toe.

The hunter stood and flung the empty boot across the room, hitting the barroom mirror. Glass splinters cobwebbed out and reflected the drama in miniature slivers.

"Hold on there," said the barkeeper.

He hauled out a shotgun, held it high, and fired one barrel. Splinters and wood chunks spewed down from the explosion.

"You stinking sonsobitches get the hell out of here. Both of you take your damn fighting outside. You ain't a-gonna tear up my place."

Buffer spun toward the barkeep, threw his body part-way across the bar, and snatched at the double-barreled weapon. Hand wet with blood, he lost his grip and stepped into the slick, viscous brown puddle on the floor. His foot shot straight out.

Heavy and off-balance, he crashed down, hitting his head on the brass foot rail. The sound reverberated, a single dull thud that hung visible in the air, dust shimmering.

A hush settled, broken only by the measured cadence of the ticking clock.

"How come he don't move?" stammered the ashen-face drummer. "You reckon something's wrong?"

"You cowboys brought this on," said a freighter. "Y'all go look."

Floor boards groaned as the cowboys edged closer to the once-raging life.

"Not me. I'm leaving." The dry goods clerk hurried out through the back door.

"He shore is still," said Thelma, craning her head forward. "Bring that wall lantern over here. See what the trouble is."

Curly lifted a kerosene wall sconce. Holding the weak yellow light low, he stepped closer.

"My gawd, he done kilt himself, falling like that there."

"He broke his neck. Lookie there." Baldy pointed to the head, too sharply bent against the shoulder.

Drinkers stared at the huge form and moved careful toward the lump sprawled in spilled beer and spit. A freighter prodded the leather-covered thigh with a mud-caked boot.

Baldy leaned down and tapped the still chest. Sightless, the hunter stared back.

"Why, he sure enough dead."

"Reckon why he was so mad?" Curly shook his head and eyeballed the hulk.

"Said earlier the buffalo all gone. Said nothing left to hunt, what with cows and towns every place. Even the skinners disappeared." Bartender shook his head.

"He can't blame us," said Baldy. "He the one that shot them shaggies and killed off them herds."

"That's the truth," added Curley. "Buffalo gone, Indians gone, plains not what they was."

"Still, he had no call to hit my Dumpling like he done," said Thelma. "She'll have a black eye for sure and maybe even a broke jaw."

"I didn't go to have this happen," said Ephraim shaking his head. "He done busted my nose and cut me. I didn't go to have this happen on my birthday." He felt light-headed and faint.

"Can't be undone, that's for sure. Ain't no place left for his kind anyhow," Curley said.

"Somebody better send for Sheriff." Bartender picked up a rag, started wiping blood off the shotgun.

"Hell, he can't help now." Curley shook his head.

"Fetch him anyway. We got to let the law handle this."

"Here's your tooth. You look a mess." Scarlett stroked Ephraim's hair.

"I didn't go to have this happen."

"I know, honey. None of us did."

Ephraim coughed. He sat on the bottom step and thumped his bootless foot against the banister post. His toe poked farther through his dirty sock. He stared at the tooth a moment, then tossed it away.

Snot, blood, and tears puddled on the floor.