A Lumbertown Tale

The noon train brought in a flush of people across the way that drew no interest from Buck.  Not even when several men sauntered into the saloon in a loud and boisterous mood that even Charley quickly grew weary of.  They were all wearing hunting clothes… but new and expensive hunting clothes and they sported rifles in decorative cases, clung to as if they might have to break out the guns and use them in the saloon.  When Charley was slow to respond to their call, they swore at him in good humor and made fun of his shuffling ways.  Charley was about to show them the door, tired of their bravado and abuse, when one of the men broke open his wallet to reveal a thick wad of bills.  He made a quick assessment in his mind and decided there had to be close to five hundred dollars in this one man’s wallet, something the man was proud to display.

“Hey… beanstalk…” he said, speaking to Charley’s slim tall figure.  “Put that horse piss whiskey away and bring us some good stuff.”  Charley nodded and shuffled off quicker than usual to the back room for the best he had, certain it would not be good enough.  “I heard that good whiskey is strong against catching the grippe and I aim to dodge that bullet.”

Looking about the room, the man spied Buck at the table, quiet, yet formidable in his huge frame and big hands.  “Give the big fella a drink too,” he said.  “Might be he never tasted real whiskey before.”  Buck smiled.  Free drinks, even served with rudeness, suited him just fine.  Though not told to do so, Charley included Buck on the next round as well.

“Now this was more like it,” thought Buck.  His thinking improved drastically, even as his patience with these rude men grew thin.  He would see just how much more whiskey could be had under these circumstances.  In the meantime, he tuned out their boorish conversation.

In time, the men revealed to Charley why they were in Pratt.  They were deer hunters, after a trophy type buck and Pratt seemed as likely a place as any.  Charley even told them about the huge deer that Buck Johnson had taken, many years before, the head of which was sold to a traveling salesman for ten dollars.  Buck had gotten quite a laugh over that… there wasn’t much meat to be had from the head, as everyone knew, and Buck had no use for the horns.

“Say! That wasn’t Foster the jeweler was it?”

“Could be,” mused Charley.  “Was it Foster, Buck?” he yelled across the room.

“Yah,” grunted Buck not too interested in a deer from long ago.

“Why I got that head mounted in my saloon… the Victory… in Ashland.  That’s a magnificent trophy!” gushed the man.

“Well… that’s the guy who shot it.  Buck Johnson.  That’s how he got his nickname… Buck…”

“Well, I’ll be,” interrupted the man, rushing over to Buck.  “I’m Steve Bartlett, Mr. Johnson,” he said, holding out his hand.  Buck looked up more or less disinterested at first, but took the proffered hand in his own big paw.  Looking up into the man’s face, seeing steely blue eyes, Buck was suddenly overtaken with inspiration.  It wasn’t so much a plan as a vague idea.  And a smile came to his lips.

“Yew haf nice rifle?” asked Buck.

“Best money can buy,” bragged Bartlett.  “Come and see.”  Bartlett was already at the bar taking the gun out of the case when Buck walked over.  The men looked up at this huge stranger, standing taller and wider than all of them, and secretly marveled at his stature.  Buck took the rifle in his hands and felt the balance was very good… light but solid.  There were beauty marks all over the gun, etching and scrolling, good for looks but adding nothing to its accuracy or power.  Still, Buck could sense that it was a fine weapon.

“How does it shoot?  He asked holding out his hand for a bullet.

“You can’t s