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One Horse Is as Good as Another

Justin Creed

    Bill threw his leg over the side of the stallion he rode, and slid off into a slow, steady crouch. His legs were literally killing him. They always did on rides like this. His legs would lock up and his sides went numb. Maybe it was all the gunfights. Seven hours in the saddle will do that to a man. He spent a couple more minutes crouched down in the dusty street of the rundown border town, and finally stood. He looked around from under the wide brim of his beige cowboy hat and shuffled his feet as he started to move toward the saloon. After he ascended to the wooden porch of the saloon, his star-shaped spurs started to clink.
    The metallic ring echoed throughout the saloon as he pushed the swinging doors open. He moved a few more paces inside the saloon as the doors closed behind him, continuing to swing on their hinges. He placed his hand on the knot that secured his handkerchief around his neck and jerked the piece of red cloth off his body. He wiped the sweat from his brow, moving his hand slowly across his face. When he felt refreshed, he looked at the bartender and said from the corner of his mouth, “Can I get a shot of whiskey?”
    “Sure thing,” the bartender replied.
    The cowboy made his way to the poker table, looking at the action that was taking place between the betting and dealing. The men tried to stare each other down while they placed money in the pot. Right now, there was more than seventy-five dollars in on the table. Finally, a man with a cigar hanging from his mouth said gently, “I call.”
    The cigar-smoking man showed his hand after coyly switching a card from his shirt sleeve and took the money from the table, holding it in his hands as he sorted through the cash. No one but Bill had seen what had happened. One of his competitors stood and placed his hat upon his head.
    “It looks like you got me again, Red,” the man said.
    “You think you’d learn after a while,” Red replied.
    Bill couldn’t let a man walk out after being cheated, so he walked to the table and stood directly beside Red. Bill stared at him with sharp eyes, waiting to see if the cheater would flinch. Red stared back, and couldn’t tell why this stranger had a problem with him.
    “Can I do anything for you?” Red asked, trying to be polite.
    “Sure is, you can give this man the money you just stole back to him,” Bill replied coldly. He knew this was going to cause trouble, and he slid his hand down his side, placing it on the wooden handle of his Colt revolver. He patiently waited to see what the man was going to do, not trying to force Red into any sort of corner that would make him fight.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or where you’re from, but in this town, we don’t accuse people of cheating unless we are absolutely sure.”
    Bill snatched Red’s arm by the wrist and elbowed him in the face with his other arm. He reached down into the card sharp’s shirt sleeve, and pulled out two Aces from the man’s garment. “I know what the hell I’m talking about, you worthless piece of junk. Now I don’t know where you’re from, but in MY town, we just don’t cheat. What else did you get from this man?”
    “Here, here!” Red screamed, throwing paper at the table. He could barely take the pain and his cigar had fallen out of his mouth when he screamed.
    “Good man,” Bill snarled. “Now we’re gonna play a hand or two of poker with these cards,” he said, holding up a deck that had blue backs. The cards still on the table were covered in red.
    “Okay, okay, we’ll play. Just let my arm go,” Red cried. He took his seat and placed his hand under the table. The shotgun was still there. He swiveled the gun toward the seat which Bill was occupying, and checked to see if the hammer was still cocked.
    “They must call you Red because that’s the color of cards you use to cheat people.”
    “Nah, they call me Red because I always get caught red-handed, just like you caught me.”
    “Yet you still keep on doing the same dumb things, huh? I’m going to count these cards out and make sure there’s 52 of them here. And while I’m doing that, you’re gonna keep your hands away from these cards, you understand? Don’t get uppity or anything, because I’ll blow a hole out your ass so fast you won’t know what hit you,” Bill snapped at Red.
    Bill kept shuffling through the cards, and when he neared the end of the deck, he heard the snap when the hammer of the shotgun under the table cocked into firing position. Bill’s eyes got wide, and he took a shot of whiskey as he murmured, “You yellow-bellied son-of-a-bitch.”
    The shot hit Bill right in the stomach. He had been gut-shot, and there was no cure for that. He had been taught that from the time he was a little kid by his scarcely seen father. He looked as Red grabbed every bit of money from the table and headed out the saloon doors, shuffling backward to keep everyone in the bar in his field of vision. Once he heard his boots knocking on the wooden porch, he ran to the hitching post, catching a glimpse of a lone stallion that was held by its reins.
    Red shouted back so that the dying man in the saloon could hear him. “That’s why they call me Red. I leave you covered in blood!” He had a smile that was as big as the Texas prairies, and he rode off on the back of the tamed beast, urging more speed from the equine as he neared the edge of town.
    Back in the saloon, a grim voice called from the floor near the poker tables. “Barkeep, give me a shot of whiskey.” The man’s teeth were grinding in pain as he tried to enjoy the last few moments of his barren life. The bartender brought a shot glass filled with brown elixir to the man as he struggled to sit up against a chair. As the glass reached his lips, Bill’s hand fell, spilling the liquor.



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