Flushed, panicked, Mel burst through the swinging doors of the saloon. He made it to the back, overturning a half dozen of the poorly-constructed chairs and two tables.
“Did you hear what happened, Jake?”
Was this a trick question? Jake, the saloon owner who stood behind the counter, was hard of hearing. Very hard, even after flushing out his ears.
“JAKE, DID YOU HEAR?”
“I haven’t cleaned ‘em in a week, dammit.”
The owner pointed to his ears.
It was the West. The Wild West. Capitalizing on the time and place, Jake named the bar The Old Wild West Saloon, but everyone in town called it OWWS for short.
“Just a minute. Let me get my funnel, Mel.”
Bent, arthritic, Jake fumbled with the device that he used to water down bottles of home-brewed spirits fermented in his own casks and coffins. He was also the town’s coffin maker.
He stuck the tin funnel to his ear.
“THE WRONG WAY, JAKE.”
Mel was correct. The thing’s wide mouth covered the coffin-maker’s ear.
“BART SHOT THE SHERIFF. NOW HE’S COMING FOR YOU.”
“What’d you say, Mel?”
They didn’t have long to wait for Bart Crummley to burst through the swinging doors. There was no other way to enter the place than by bursting. Bart Crummley, large, grizzled, angry, armed. Bart, with a number of flies buzzing around his head.
“I’m gonna get you, Jake.”
“What?”
“I told the sheriff to arrest you.”
Apparently, the sheriff didn’t do it. Consequently, the shooting.
Had some of the townspeople called Doc Richards yet? The Sheriff begged them not to. Anyone but Doc Richards, he’d pleaded, as he lay in the dirt.
So, the Sheriff, representing the law, was in the street with a thigh wound, swatting away the midday flies. Doc Richards continued napping on his couch, oblivious to the insects. The crowd surged toward the OWWS.
They listened from outside, a brave few pushing the doors open slightly for a brief look at the men and disordered furniture inside.
“You killed my two brothers. You and that whiskey you served ’em.”
“What?”
Recognizing that the funnel was reversed, Bart now roared.
“AND YOU KILLED MY MOTHER, TOO, JAKE. YOU AND THAT COUGH REMEDY YOU SOLD HER.”
It was true. Jake sold elixirs and other tonics–some fairly deadly, but no more so than his whiskey. With the addition of a little red paint, Jake’s whiskey became cough medicine. Had he, or Doc Richards, contributed more to the cemetery?
Squeezed between the two men, Mel understood how ham might feel in a sandwich.
“Maybe I should be going, Bart, if you don’t mind.”
For the first time, Bart recognized Mel, so blindly focused had he been on the OWWS’ owner, the ‘Coffin King’, as he was also called.
“YOUR BURIAL’S GOING TO BE YOUR LAST, JAKE.”
It was a fierce fly season that summer, and the flies were doubly fierce around Bart. What fly doesn’t love a large, sweaty, unwashed head. Also, the OWWS was noted for its insects.
Jake realized his mistake. He reversed the funnel.
What a relief to hear, at least a little.
“What’d you say, Bart?”
“GET YOUR COFFIN READY.”
“A funeral? I’ll drink to that. And how about you, Mel?”
“YEAH, HOW ABOUT YOU, MEL? MAYBE I’LL SHOOT BOTH OF…”
Mel tried to figure. He thought it was his end.
And then… There was Bart, on the floor, gasping, writhing, gesturing wildly to his throat.
The flies were thick that Summer, and it was now a matter of flies. How many can a person suck in? In one breath, mouth and nose included? In Bart’s case, almost a dozen.
‘’Help him. Help him!”
Several women in the crowd of observers burst through the doors. Their fearful husbands stayed back, as usual.
Bart, unable to get up, kicking and pounding, was alternately red and purple. He stopped briefly to point to his discolored nose and throat, before pounding the floor to splinters again.
Now the men were in as well.
“Get Doc Richards.”
“Someone go for the Doc.”
Bart’s eyes were rolling marbles. He turned the floor to sawdust.
Mel looked to Jake. After all, he was the OWWS owner. Was it a question of liability for what happened on the premises?
No, Mel just thought that some cough medicine might help, what with the way Bart was now carrying on.
“Huh?”
“Cough medicine, Jake.”
He pointed to Bart, encircled by a woman.
“What? You know I haven’t washed out my–”
“SORRY, JAKE. BART NEEDS SOMETHING FAST. HOW ABOUT SOME COUGH MEDICINE.”
For a second Bart stopped, allowing his pupils to fill entirely his eye sockets. Disbelief will do that. Cough medicine? It must’ve been difficult to focus on the flies with their bulbous heads and green bodies.
“Medicine, Mel?”
“YEAH. COUGH MEDICINE, RIGHT NOW, FOR BART.”
“Cough medicine?”
It was no problem. Jake reached for a bottle of the red liquid.