Water Over Whiskey
A Guided Hand
Written for Flash Fiction February hosted by Bradley Ramsey.
I had been walking for three days with only a vague notion of the distance to the next town. When I set up camp, I ended up cutting my hand multiple times. I was usually better with a knife. Only small nicks that gave me something to look at when the stars came out. The sight of my bleeding hand prepared me. My family’s death couldn’t end with them.
Using a small pot, I warmed up beans. Hardtack would be fine in it as well. I spilled a spoonful on the gun that was in my lap. I tasted the metal when I licked it clean.
Even my tongue felt dirty. Nothing could be truly clean when dust was everywhere. I settled in for the night. Taking rest if sleep couldn’t be had. I wanted to practice using my piece, but I didn’t have enough bullets. Finding the energy to do things well was escaping me. Going the way of my family might be for the best.
When I woke up, I sat and felt my feelings. I was a bit clumsy with them. One thing I knew, walking was no worse than lying on the floor of the desert. Might as well be moving.
I stopped to listen to a Rattlesnake. Too many conversations had happened when I had given our baby a rattle. Good conversations about dangers we probably would never find.
When I made it to town, those beans from the night before were just holding me. I entered the tavern knowing there was no reason to keep the money in my pocket.
“What’ll you be having?”
“Sourdough pancakes. No surprises, please.”
“No surprises here.”
It looked like a husband and wife had the run of the place. That covenant that couldn’t be protected by mortal measures.
“These pancakes are very good. Mind if I get a glass of whiskey as well?”
“Of course. You will find the whiskey is good quality, like the pancakes. None of that rotgut that needs burnt sugar to make it palatable.”
I responded with gruff agreement after a mouthful.
“I don’t recognize you. What business are you pursuing? I can assume you don’t know about the game of Brag we are about to start pretty soon here. You are welcome to join.”
Both husband and wife were speaking to me. Doing their relative parts to live together as a family. I couldn’t tell you why I placed my gun in front of me. I suppose the fear in their faces was something I needed to see. To bring me back to sense. Only a family could make me listen. Horror was something I felt too. They had just reminded me of it.
“I need to talk to someone.”
I could see the kindness in their faces. But the gun had no business being in between us.
“I am sorry, but you need to leave. Every person has the right to defend themselves, but we can’t have any trouble. We don’t know what reasons you have that firearm, but those reasons have no purchase here.”
I took out my money, the only part of me that was welcome. For good reason. They didn’t want my revenge. The ugly face of it was nothing I wanted either. “Here, take all of it. I worry I will buy comfort with it so soon after the passing of my wife.”
They shared a glance. The man pushed the coins off the side into his wife’s hand. “We will keep this money for you. Return when you are in a right mind. We will keep it safe. Don’t worry.”
The woman reached out and touched my gun. I tightened my grip as we both held it between us.
“We can take that as well. Just for a little while.”
They recognized me as a dead man. I couldn’t blame them. Only a dead man would allow his family to die.
I let her take it from me. “Let me at least have another glass of whiskey before I go.”
She reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder. “You can have some water.”
Her hand was firm. Stronger than any drink.
"When I woke up, I sat and felt my feelings. I was a bit clumsy with them." made me laugh out loud. This fellow has some true, plainspoken grit. And folksy airs, to boot.
This piece was sad, and reading it made me incredibly hungry. It's too early for whiskey anyway, so maybe the folks at the tavern'll fix me right up. Nice job, sir!