Dry Gulch

Bloody Fingernail Jim rode his pale palomino toward the hitching post in front of Green’s General Store. He brought the ragged and worn out horse to a stop and dismounted. Bloody Fingernail Jim’s boots hit the ground with a thud and it caught the attention of the finely dressed townsfolk passing on the wooden sidewalks. A woman gasped and quickly shuttled her children away from the dirt covered Bloody Fingernail Jim.

The palomino wavered for a second as Bloody Fingernail tied the reins to the hitching post. She brayed a bit before collapsing to the street. Bloody Fingernail stood holding the reins in his hand, staring at the horse that had carried him some 300 miles through the desert and toward Mary. Bloody Fingernail dropped the reins and turned away from the deceased horse and headed toward the saloon. He felt a toast was in order for old Scotty. She was a good horse and deserving of some whiskey.

As his boots clomped loudly on the wooden sidewalk a bespectacled shop keep rushed toward Bloody Fingernail.

“You can’t leave that animal in the street like that”, said the little shopkeeper.

Bloody Fingernail Jim stopped and looked back over his shoulder at old Scotty and then to the little, balding, typical shopkeeper. The sun poked through the clouds and bathed the little town of Dry Gulch with thick shafts of sunlight. The light glinted off the hate in Bloody Fingernail Jim’s eyes as he stared at the shopkeeper.

“I’ll… I’ll see about getting that, ah, helping to see that your horse is taken care of Mister”, stammered the shopkeeper.

A church bell starting clanging in the distance and some of the townsfolk started moving back down the street toward the white clapboard house of God. The shopkeeper excused himself around Bloody Fingernail Jim’s frame and hurried toward the sheriff’s office. Bloody Fingernail Jim spit politely into the nearby spittoon and continued his walk toward the saloon.  

The saloon was like every other saloon in every other town Bloody Fingernail Jim had passed through on his way to Dry Gulch. In fact, it was the fourth town called Dry Gulch he’d been to. All those leads were dead ends, emphasis on the dead.

Mary wouldn’t get away this time. He’d get her and his most valuable possession back or set the world on fire. There was nothing else for him.

An Irish looking and sounding bartender asked Bloody Fingernail Jim what he’d have to drink. The saloon was nearly empty for so early in the day. A cowboy sat in the back, shuffling some playing cards, smoking a cigar. A lady of the night was primping in the $1000 mirror over the player piano. Bloody Fingernail Jim stepped toward the bar and took his leather gloves off and looped them through his gun belt.  He put his hands on the bar and looked at the bartender in the face. The bartender looked down and saw the red and raw fingernails on Bloody Fingernail Jim’s hands. They were blood red and seemed to be swirling as if a stiff breeze was blowing across their surface. There were smoky streaks of blackness billowing through the redness of his fingernails.

“You be Bloody Fingernail Jim ain’t ya”, asked the cowboy in the back.

“Two whiskeys”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim to the bartender. He didn’t take his eye off him.

“I asked you a question mister…”, said the cowboy as he stood from his chair, “I’m not akin to being ignored”.

The bartender poured the two whiskeys and placed them in front of Bloody Fingernail Jim. He started backing away toward the opposite end of the bar without asking for payment. The cowboy in the back had started walking toward the bar. The prostitute had moved toward the stairs slightly cowering behind the railing post.  Blood Fingernail Jim felt the floor boards under his feet shift and heard them creak as the cowboy drew closer.

Bloody Fingernail Jim turned from the bar to face the approaching cowboy. He hooked his thumbs on the buckle of his gun belt. The red fingernails seemed to sparkle like rubies and flickered across the cowboys face. The cowboy stopped about three feet from Bloody Fingernail Jim, his own hand hovering over the pistol grip of his revolver.

“Don’t”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim.

The cowboy licked his lips and let the flies in the air settle.

“Don’t do it”, said Bloody Fingernail Jim again.

The cowboy twitched toward his revolver and then felt a searing pain in his hand. Bloody Fingernail Jim had drawn and had shot the cowboy in the hand and had re-holstered before the cowboy could even register it. He looked down at his hand and screamed. His thumb was gone, blown off so fast the pain hadn’t even reached his brain yet.

Bloody Fingernail Jim turned back to the bar and took hold of the first whiskey. The cowboy rushed passed him toward the saloon doors and spilled out in to the street. Bloody Fingernail Jim sipped the whiskey. Mary would have to wait a little longer. Mary and Bloody Fingernail Jim’s daughter would have to wait.