Don't You Just Hate it When

Don't normally like posting twice in the same day on the same blog, but I'm finding all kinds of things in the Archive box. Another yellow legal pad with a variety of things inscribed. More for The Freelancer, my would be magazine for short stories. Some loose sheets for Swords of Fire and a colorful world map of some place without a story.

And there were the three loose sheets of legal paper with the following story. (Please excuse the VERY bad writing. This dates back to the 1980s.)

He entered the saloon slowly, pausing at the swinging doors to let his eyes find all the hidden corners of the room before pushing forward. Yet his manner was quiet and easy, despite his caution. His stride brought him up to the bard where he turned and leaned, eyes on the room. A few who were at the bar decided to find a table, despite the fact they were not that close to him. He seemed to be the kind of man one made room for.

Jodel, old Harry's daughter, happened to be behind the bar. She walked up to the stranger adn paused, not sure how to deal with a customer who seemed to pay her no mind.

"What will you have, mister?"

Her voice was direct, but he made no response.

"Mister, what do you want?"

Still he made no sound or move. At that time Harry came in from the back. He started fora table with several regulars but caught their look and turned to see Jodel struggling to get a request from the newcomer. Rushing behind the bar he reached down and pulled up a bottle of his finest and hurried over to the man.

"How 'bout some fine Texas Jack?" he asked, thrusting forward the bottle and a shot glass.

He nodded his head ver so slightly. So much so I doubt many saw it. But Harry knew what he was about and set both the bottle and glass at his elbow. The newcomer slowly reached into a vest pockete and withdrew a couple of coins. He felt them between his thumb and forfinger before placing them quietly onto the bar. Jodel reached for them but Old Harry grabbed her and held her back.

The hand withdrew reluctantly from the coins and moved to the bottle and glass. Both were retrieved without a look and brought about. It was then Harry reached out and took his payment. Even from across the room I could tell he had been grossly overpaid. Yet there was no offer or request for change.

His eyes moved right to a dark corner and the poker game wqas quickly moved across the room. And with deliberate strides he took up residence at the vacated table.

"Father, what..."

But Old Harry cut Jodel off quick. "Darlin', say no word adn ask no questions."

"But, father..."

"Jodel! For once in your life please listen. Please! Be quiet."

Jodel subsided, but kept on eye on the newcomer. As did we all. The newcomer owned the room. He owned us all.

He took hte glass i nhis right hand and the bottle in his left. And using his thumb, he popped the cork without a sound and pushed it into his palm. He set it on the table and proceded to pour himself a drink. But he did not drink. He just spun the glass slowly with his right hand as he held it before his eyes. Though he paid us no mind, we were transfixed. Until Bill Baker and Rudlin James stormed in.

Laughing and jostling, they cme in with a roar. Horrified, all eyes turned to them. Except the newcomer's. His remained on his twirling glass.

Bill and Rudllin worked their way to thebar, heedless of the looks of concern on the faces of all.

"Say, Jodel, what about a bottle of whisky?"

Rudlin's tone was more a demand than a request. Jodel brought one from the back shelf and Rudlin elbowed Billy, who promptly dropped a noisy coin on the bar. Rudlin grabbed the bottle and bit off th ecork and spat it onto the floor. Then he took a long guzzle and handed the bottle to Billy. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Rudlin looked about.

"What's going on here? You all look like you're in church."

"Or at a funeral," added Billy, and the two set off to laughing.

Leroy Marks indicated the newcomer across the room. Even when they looked they didn't see him right off. But upon seeing him, their curiosity was piqued and they ambled over to his table.

And that's it.

Don't you just hate it when you find something you've written and it's unfinished? I have no idea what I was planning to write. There's no title. Again, no date, although I'm guessing 1980s. I don't recall ever writing this, but the handwriting is definitely mine.

But it's a western. No wonder I didn't finish it.