Rosewood Saloon

Alistair Crowe visits the Rosewood Saloon.

The weight of a gun can vary from man to man.

For some men, it is the heaviest piece of metal and wood they will ever carry.  It means the difference between life and death. If they are too fast, they kill a man. If they are too slow, they get killed.

For other men, their gun is as light as a feather. Easy to unholster and swing toward his enemy. Killing is a way of life. He gives no second thought to whether or not his draw is first or last. The only thing that matters to this type of man is that his bullet strikes the last blow.

---

The sun had just set as the stagecoach pulled into the small desert town of Los Prados, Nevada. Its only occupant looked out the window surveying the land. Disgust settled on Alistair Crowe’s tired face.  His trip from London had finally come to an end and not a moment too soon. One more mile in that coach and Alistair may have lost his mind from the lack of scenery. He swung the saloon doors open the best he could with his two large suitcases. His father was supposed to have sent a man to help him at the coach station, but there was no one around when he arrived. He had waited, giving the man time to show up in case he got a late start leaving from the ranch.

After an hour, when no one showed up, Alistair headed to the Rosewood Saloon in hopes of some dinner and water to settle his dry throat. Shuffling through the crowded saloon he surveyed the men in it, looking square into the eyes of the rowdiest, slack jawed buffoons he had ever laid his eyes on. To his left was a long bar, with a few men enthralled in deep conversation. Directly in front of him was an empty stage, to the right set of stairs leading to an exposed landing. The rest of the saloon was filled with grizzly men playing at poker tables.

Around the landing walls were various doors leading to unknown rooms. Leaning against the banisters in front of those doors were barely dressed women, their gazes fixed on the men playing poker. Stumbling out of one of the doors tucking his shirttail back into his pants, a man pinched the a*s of a young woman as he passed by. She let out a playful yelp. He realized that the girls he was looking at were the famed saloon girls his father had written him about. The girls his father had been spending time with. He shuddered at the thought. He watched the man as he walked towards the stairs. He paused briefly in front of a woman classier than the other girls. He placed a wad of cash in her out stretched hand. He took a step to pass her, she stopped him thrusting out her other had. He slapped more money into that hand.

When the man was permitted to continue down into the main hall of the saloon the madam’s eyes met his. He turned his attention back to the motley crew of dirty men sitting at the bar. He would much rather take his chances there.  Wading his way through the rowdy crowd of drunkards and poker players he found a seat by itself at the bar. He shoved his two cases against the bar as far as they would go, more as an act of protection than staying out of the way.  A short, round bartender busied himself wiping down one spot on the bar over and over. The balding man seemed to be avoiding Alistair.

“Water, please,” Alistair said over the crowd.

“We don’t want whatever it is you’re selling, pal,” the little man said without turning his head.

“I’m not selling anything. I’ve just made a long trip, and I’d like some water and food if you have any.”

“Sorry pal, we don’t got any.”

“Water or food?”

The bartender stopped what he was doing just long enough to Alistair a dirty look. “Look here, I don’t like your looks, and I’m starting to not like your attitude.”

A few of the men in the bar turned Alistair, ready to come to the aid of their bartender.

“Oscar,” a booming voice broke out from behind Alistair as a hand clapped his back. The bartender jumped. “I heard this man ask for some water. Get it for him.”

“Yes, sir.” Oscar jumped to into motion retrieving some water from a pale. He placed a glass of water down in front of Alistair. “Here you are. The charge.”

Alistair wasted no time drinking the first and second glasses of water Oscar gave him. The stranger with the booming voice down next to him. He was a lean fellow with about two inches on Alistair six-foot tall frame. He was well tanned and rugged like the Penny Dreadful he read on the boat over said they should be.

“Sheriff James Kelly. Glad to meet you,” the man said reaching out to shake Alistair’s hand.

The sheriff had a rough hand, he was no stranger to heavy lifting and years of hard labor. Alistair noticed the sheriff sizing him up while they shook hands.

“Thank you.” Alistair released his grip..

“You're Isaac Crowe's kin.”

Alistair knew that was more of a statement that a question. “His son.”

“You can tell a lot about a man by his handshake. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.” There was something in the way James spoke to Alistair uneasy. More than he had already been with Oscar and the other roughnecks around the bar. Uneasy was a feeling he figured he would have to get used to.

“Alistair.”

“As I was saying, Alistair, you can tell a lot by a man from a handshake. Take your dad, for example,” James stopped speaking long enough to light a cigarette and take a shot of whiskey that Oscar placed in front of him during their conversation. “Your father squeezes too hard. Well, tries to squeeze too hard. You know what that tells me about him?”

James blew out a ring of smoke.  “It tells me he’s trying too hard. Out here that could ruin a man.”

“You don’t say,” Alistair said nervously sipping his third glass of water.

“You, on the other hand, Alistair, you have a good strong handshake. You know what you want. You’re not trying to intimidate anyone.”

The way James kept saying his name has a long drawn out way he spoke didn’t sit well with Alistair. The smoke rings floating around his face didn’t help matters much.

“Don’t listen to him,” the woman from the stairs said from behind both of them. “James uses playing with you.”

She smacked James in the back before moving behind the bar. “I’m Lillie. I own this dump.”

“A female owner?”

“Yes. I got the place when my father died. His greatest legacy,” She said opening her arms wide gesturing all around her. “So, I couldn’t help but overhear that your Isaac’s son.”

“Yes, ma’am. Just got into town a couple hours ago. I supposed to meet someone from the ranch of the stagecoach, but no one showed up.”

“S**t. That was probably Rocky. He tends to lose focus pretty easily,” James said throwing back another shot. “I’ll go find him. I imagine he’s around here playing cards somewhere.”

James left the bar leaving Lillie and Alistair alone. He nervously played with his empty glass while she looked him over.

“Can I get you something stronger than water, Mr. Crowe?” She said reaching out for the empty glass.

“No, thank you. Water is fine.”

Alistair pushed the glass towards her. Her hand grazed his in a not so subtle way. It was just enough that when James returned to his seat, with Rocky in tow, he gave Alistair look. The kind of look that Alistair knew meant trouble for any man trying to gain Lillie’s affection.

James, with a tightening grip on Rocky’s arm, pushed the old man forward. “Look who I found playing cards.”

Rocky was quivering. Alistair wasn’t sure if it was the way James was handling him or if it was because he missed meeting him at the stagecoach.

“Mr. Alistair, I’m sorry I didn’t pick you up at the stagecoach. I got here early with your pop and, well, I sort of lost track of time.”

Rocky looked to be in his late sixties. His wrinkled skin, brown and leathery from too much time in the sun, highlighted his pale blue eyes. White hair stuck out from underneath his well-worn bowler hat while gray stubble dotted his chin. His clothes, patched from years of abuse, hung off his small frame. His boots scraped the floor as he shuffled around apologizing profusely for missing the coach.

Alistair craned his neck to get a good look at the crowd of men playing poker. “My father’s here?”

“Well, you see Mr. Alistair, he--”

“He got a little rowdy and is taking a nap,” Lillie said placing more whiskey in front of James and another glass of water in front of Alistair. She ignored Rocky who was trying to get her attention for a drink of his own.

Alistair got up from his seat. “A nap? Where, upstairs?”

“Not exactly,” James said lighting another cigarette. “I have him in a cell in the jailhouse across the street.”

“He’s in jail?” Alistair said sitting back down.

“He’s just sleeping off the whiskey somewhere he can’t hurt anyone. You’re free to go and take him home.”

Alistair thought for a moment. His father never drank while they were in London. In fact, he is one of the most peaceful and subdued men Alistair knew. Something didn’t sound right. First, his father writes of seeing loose women, and now he is sleeping off what they call too much whiskey over in the jailhouse. He and Rocky would go retrieve his father and head to the ranch before there was more trouble from the saloon owner and the sheriff.

Reviews

[Leon C]

Brilliant opening. I loved it. It had a melancholic tone that wasn't followed up; whicj is a shame

[Kuandio]

Good opening with the talk about guns and life and death, although it isn't followed up at any point with anything quite as severe. It might be a good idea to at least hint at the possibility that there will be gun-play at some point.
I really do like your style, honest. It is straight forward, not too embellished. It is the kind of style I am more or less trying to achieve with the western genre story I've been working on
Don't know about, "only thing that matters to this type of man is that his bullet strikes the last blow” - I’d say it’d be the first blow that matters in a gunfight usually?
The name Alistair Crow makes me think of Alistair Crowley, which is a famous occult weird spiritual writer
I liked the line "grizzly men" and slapping some more cash into her hand
A little error, “There was something in the way James spoke to Alistair uneasy” - this too -> “James uses playing with you”
So Rocky is his and his father’s servant?
The plot is good, but not amazing. He’s just come to see his father? The pacing is very good, things move along swiftly. The ending isn't bad either. One wants to know what happened to his father, how come the west has changed him so much, and what stories he has to tell. Also, it seems that there might be trouble in this town, but I get more of a feeling that they all might become friends in the future, so, you might want to add an element that insinuates a greater danger or conflict down the road, but it’s not necessary, just a suggestion

[wordman]

I really enjoyed reading this waiting for the next chapter