Not A One-Horse Town
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The Dark Stranger's cowboy adventures at the Saltcoats Labour Club continue. The elaborate floor show has him at a loss for words.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Friday night ho-downs at the Saltcoats Labour Club were always a very special affair. The club bar did a roaring trade in tequila and whisky. For one evening every fortnight, downtown Saltcoats was transformed into Dodge City. The town’s shopkeepers, tradesmen, post office workers and bin men had the chance, for one night only, to become Cowpokes and Good time Gals. It was a safety valve mechanism; a fantasy journey into the wonderful world of the Wild West. Visitors to Saltcoats would muse over why the local bank managers and solicitors appeared to be clean shaven for only one week per fortnight. On ho-down nights, Clive Snodgrass QC became “Dirty Dingus McCann”. Police chief, Sgt Cameron Ferguson, was “Big Hoss Four-bellies”. In the female division, and taking on the collective name of the Good time Gals, we had local councillor, Jeanette Walker, masquerading as Mary-Lou Kittenlick. Elizabeth Reid, the local fish merchant’s daughter, went by the name of Daisy Buttercup. There were many more weird and wonderful names; the strangest, of course, being “The man with no name” - a cowpoke title picked by Bessie Tombstone’s son, Boaby. His mother chose to call herself Bessie as “Margaret” didn’t sound cowgirl enough. Tombstone, however, was her real surname. Perhaps that was the reason behind the seventy nine year old being voted in as club president year after year.
Boaby had a twin brother called Frankie. His mother had banned him from attending any ho-down nights as he suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome. This didn’t please Frankie as he was an avid movie fan and was desperate to join the club and recite his favourite cowboy movie lines. His spontaneous outbursts, though, would have been problematic, to say the least. The infliction hadn’t held him back in his career as one of the district’s traffic cops. He did have a tendency though to “reveal his presence” when he was on radar speed tracking duties. Rather than hiding away behind a hedgerow, he quite often jumped out into the middle of the road and brandished his radar gun like it was a magnum revolver. Not really a sight that the local drivers appreciated. He was also banned from attending any drama productions that were being shown in the town hall. The ban came about after an unfortunate incident during a very dramatic scene in “Anne Frank’s diary”. The last thing that the audience wanted to hear during that sensitive moment was, “She’s up in the loft!” being screamed from the back stalls.
Bessie pulled a chair across the sawdust covered floor and turned it around so that the back was facing the rest of the Good time Gals at her table. She sat astride the faded cushion like she was riding a horse. Ninety percent of the ho-down night revellers also sat this way. It was a very much “in vogue” way to be seated. The cowpokes loved this pose. It trained and fashioned their legs into that classic cowpoke bow-legged shape. Bessie pushed her ample-sized chest into the chair backrest spars, creating a line of little gingham cloth hillocks. There were four other Good time Gals around the table. Peggy Sue Carpenter, Jeannie Cow-hide, Mary-Beth Beauvais and Carla Bright-eyes. The combined age of the five “girls” at the table was somewhere up around four hundred years. Clint McGuire, AKA The Dark Stranger, felt slightly out of his depth. Bessie had strong-armed him over to join her pals, so he felt obliged to stay for at least a few minutes. It would have been bad manners to up and leave right away. He had never seen so many painted ladies in one place before. Carla Bright-eyes was well named. She had glued on a pair of extra long false lashes just for the occasion. The image that flashed though the Dark Stranger’s mind was that her face was being attacked by a very large pair of demented spiders. He could feel the air wafting towards him when she blinked her eyes.
‘He sure is a right honey bunny,’ Carla said to Bessie. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘On the steps outside,’ answered Bessie proudly. ‘I used my charm on the big chap.’
I still have the bruises! thought Clint.
Mary-Beth Beauvais was the next Good time Gal to speak, ‘So what do ya think of our li’l ol’ town, mon cherie?’ Mary-Beth felt the need to throw in the odd French phrase every so often, as she had opted for a French-sounding surname.
‘I’d say it is rather quaint,’ said the Dark Stranger. ‘It is not really like Tarbolton.’
‘So you stay up in the hill country then – non?’ said Mary-Beth.
‘Yip, my paw was a miner.’
‘A gold miner?’ asked Bessie, excitedly.
‘Nope – aint no gold in them thar hills,’ said Clint. ‘Jest coal. An’ now’days there aint even any mines no more.’
‘My, my! Your cowpoke accent is amazing for someone from Tarbolton,’ said Peggy-Sue Carpenter.
‘Why thank ye kindly,’ said the Dark Stranger, tapping the brim of his hat.
‘I knew a miner once from out that way,’ said Peggy-Sue. ‘I will never forget his words of wisdom when the last mine shut down - “How can we dae ocht when we’ve goat nocht tae dae ocht way?”’
The other Good time Gals at the table lapsed into a translation mode as they attempted to dissect Peggy-Sue’s quotation into comprehensible words and phrases. Clint McGuire said nothing, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed the fact that he knew and understood every syllable.
‘So . . !’ said Bessie rather too loudly. She had designs on the Dark Stranger, and she could smell the whiff of competition amongst her pensioner pals – especially Carla. She was batting her false lashes so much that the air was becoming decidedly chilly around the table. ‘Tell me, Clint,’ she said, ‘did ye bring yer horse with ye?’
‘My horse?’ he said bemused. This was totally unexpected. ‘You’re not serious are ya? You have horses in here?’
Bessie’s chest swelled with pride, snapping two spars on the chair’s backrest. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘This is Saltcoats, big chap! The Wild West - the best in the West, to be more precise. I told you that this club needed a right guid cowboy boot up its erse and that’s whit yours truly, madam president, has done. We do have horses in here. You will see them soon enough’
The Dark Stranger’s thoughts of leaving the table had subsided for the moment. He was mighty intrigued.
‘I am mighty intrigued,’ he said, ‘and when does the shootout competition start, Bessie?’
‘Around nine o’clock . . . just after the team display.’
‘Team?’ said Clint.
‘Yep, you were talkin’ about horses, big chap – well sit back and enjoy the “Saltcoats and District Equestrian team.”’
‘Dressage!’ piped up Mary-Beth Beauvais, seizing the opportunity to say something with a French accent.
Clint wanted to ask more questions. This was turning out to be a very useful experience; lots of new and refreshing ideas were forming in his head. He knew that the Tarbolton Cowboy club also needed a large cowboy boot up its erse. Of course, in the Dark Stranger’s mind the word was “ass”, not “erse”.
The questions were going to have to wait until later because the PA system in the hall heralded the arrival of the Saltcoats and District Equestrian team by playing the “Magnificent Seven” theme tune very loudly. The lights dimmed and a bunch of cowpokes made a dramatic entrance. There were twelve of them in total, (They couldn’t find theme music for twelve cowpokes) each one was immaculately dressed in two tone satin shirts; ivory for the most part and bright red across the shoulders. Their pants were a matching shade of red with diamantes sparkling on their cowboy boots. They looked more like Conway Twitty than mean cowpokes.
The Dark Stranger couldn’t remember the last time that he had seen a hobby horse. He must have been just a very young boy, but each member of the equestrian team galloped into the room holding one of these Victorian kids’ toys between their legs. The heads of the horses had been beautifully carved from solid wood. The shaft was made of a sturdy timber, and the little rubber trimmed wooden wheels cut through the sawdust on the floor with ease. The performing cowboys yelped, yipped and hollered for all they were worth. This whipped the audience into a frenzy. After what seemed like an aimless gallop around the dance floor, four of the troupe peeled off and lined up in front of the low stage. Lassos suddenly appeared from nowhere and the four cowboys kicked off an impressive display of lasso twirling. Working in unison, the lassos seemed to take on a life of their own as they enveloped each performer and then were jerked into the air, time and time again. This sequence continued for a full three minutes. The other riders set off at high speed into an intricate figure of eight gallop, missing each other in the centre crossing area by the width of a cowboy’s whisker. Each manoeuvre was greeted with cheers from the Cowpokes and Good time Gals.
‘Magnifique!’ cried Mary-Beth.
It was a well rehearsed set, involving lots of tricks and clever stunts. The finale was a flag-waving gallop around the hall. The deafening report of fifty or so pistols accompanied this as the audience un-holstered their guns and fired their blanks towards the ceiling. Even the moody Texas Ranger, who had been sulking in the corner since the Dark Stranger’s entrance, was up on his feet, whooping it up and firing off bullets from both his pistols.
‘Well, how impressive was that?’ said Bessie Tombstone.
Once again, the Dark Stranger was at a loss for words. He just smiled and nodded his head.
‘It ain’t finished yet, pardner,’ she continued. ‘We are due to see the Doc make an entrance any minute on his steed. He will declare the shoot-out competition officially opened.’
‘The Doc?’
‘Yep - Doc Hayride. He will be judging tonight’s proceedings.’
‘And will he be on one of those hobby horses?’
Bessie shook her head slowly, ‘When I said that he will be “on his steed”, I really meant that he will be up riding on a horse – boots off the floor and everything.’
‘Jeez’ said Clint, pushing the brim of his hat up and back.
Right on cue, Doc Hayride did indeed make a dramatic entrance on his steed. His boots were, as Bessie had indicated, well off the floor. He was dressed in white leather, with tassels dangling from his arms and chest. His moustache and beard were snowy white to match his suit. It was the horse that Clint couldn’t take his eyes off. He had been around farms and stables all his life, but he had never before seen a pink horse. Not only was it pink, but it also had helpings of large fluorescent green spots.
He leaned towards Bessie, ‘This – uh – this steed. Has it been at the . . .?’
‘Yep,’ said Bessie. ‘The Ayr Gaiety. The only weeks that we don’t have it is pantomime season.’
To be continued . . .
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The Dark Stranger's cowboy adventures at the Saltcoats Labour Club continue. The elaborate floor show has him at a loss for words.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Friday night ho-downs at the Saltcoats Labour Club were always a very special affair. The club bar did a roaring trade in tequila and whisky. For one evening every fortnight, downtown Saltcoats was transformed into Dodge City. The town’s shopkeepers, tradesmen, post office workers and bin men had the chance, for one night only, to become Cowpokes and Good time Gals. It was a safety valve mechanism; a fantasy journey into the wonderful world of the Wild West. Visitors to Saltcoats would muse over why the local bank managers and solicitors appeared to be clean shaven for only one week per fortnight. On ho-down nights, Clive Snodgrass QC became “Dirty Dingus McCann”. Police chief, Sgt Cameron Ferguson, was “Big Hoss Four-bellies”. In the female division, and taking on the collective name of the Good time Gals, we had local councillor, Jeanette Walker, masquerading as Mary-Lou Kittenlick. Elizabeth Reid, the local fish merchant’s daughter, went by the name of Daisy Buttercup. There were many more weird and wonderful names; the strangest, of course, being “The man with no name” - a cowpoke title picked by Bessie Tombstone’s son, Boaby. His mother chose to call herself Bessie as “Margaret” didn’t sound cowgirl enough. Tombstone, however, was her real surname. Perhaps that was the reason behind the seventy nine year old being voted in as club president year after year.
Boaby had a twin brother called Frankie. His mother had banned him from attending any ho-down nights as he suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome. This didn’t please Frankie as he was an avid movie fan and was desperate to join the club and recite his favourite cowboy movie lines. His spontaneous outbursts, though, would have been problematic, to say the least. The infliction hadn’t held him back in his career as one of the district’s traffic cops. He did have a tendency though to “reveal his presence” when he was on radar speed tracking duties. Rather than hiding away behind a hedgerow, he quite often jumped out into the middle of the road and brandished his radar gun like it was a magnum revolver. Not really a sight that the local drivers appreciated. He was also banned from attending any drama productions that were being shown in the town hall. The ban came about after an unfortunate incident during a very dramatic scene in “Anne Frank’s diary”. The last thing that the audience wanted to hear during that sensitive moment was, “She’s up in the loft!” being screamed from the back stalls.
Bessie pulled a chair across the sawdust covered floor and turned it around so that the back was facing the rest of the Good time Gals at her table. She sat astride the faded cushion like she was riding a horse. Ninety percent of the ho-down night revellers also sat this way. It was a very much “in vogue” way to be seated. The cowpokes loved this pose. It trained and fashioned their legs into that classic cowpoke bow-legged shape. Bessie pushed her ample-sized chest into the chair backrest spars, creating a line of little gingham cloth hillocks. There were four other Good time Gals around the table. Peggy Sue Carpenter, Jeannie Cow-hide, Mary-Beth Beauvais and Carla Bright-eyes. The combined age of the five “girls” at the table was somewhere up around four hundred years. Clint McGuire, AKA The Dark Stranger, felt slightly out of his depth. Bessie had strong-armed him over to join her pals, so he felt obliged to stay for at least a few minutes. It would have been bad manners to up and leave right away. He had never seen so many painted ladies in one place before. Carla Bright-eyes was well named. She had glued on a pair of extra long false lashes just for the occasion. The image that flashed though the Dark Stranger’s mind was that her face was being attacked by a very large pair of demented spiders. He could feel the air wafting towards him when she blinked her eyes.
‘He sure is a right honey bunny,’ Carla said to Bessie. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘On the steps outside,’ answered Bessie proudly. ‘I used my charm on the big chap.’
I still have the bruises! thought Clint.
Mary-Beth Beauvais was the next Good time Gal to speak, ‘So what do ya think of our li’l ol’ town, mon cherie?’ Mary-Beth felt the need to throw in the odd French phrase every so often, as she had opted for a French-sounding surname.
‘I’d say it is rather quaint,’ said the Dark Stranger. ‘It is not really like Tarbolton.’
‘So you stay up in the hill country then – non?’ said Mary-Beth.
‘Yip, my paw was a miner.’
‘A gold miner?’ asked Bessie, excitedly.
‘Nope – aint no gold in them thar hills,’ said Clint. ‘Jest coal. An’ now’days there aint even any mines no more.’
‘My, my! Your cowpoke accent is amazing for someone from Tarbolton,’ said Peggy-Sue Carpenter.
‘Why thank ye kindly,’ said the Dark Stranger, tapping the brim of his hat.
‘I knew a miner once from out that way,’ said Peggy-Sue. ‘I will never forget his words of wisdom when the last mine shut down - “How can we dae ocht when we’ve goat nocht tae dae ocht way?”’
The other Good time Gals at the table lapsed into a translation mode as they attempted to dissect Peggy-Sue’s quotation into comprehensible words and phrases. Clint McGuire said nothing, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed the fact that he knew and understood every syllable.
‘So . . !’ said Bessie rather too loudly. She had designs on the Dark Stranger, and she could smell the whiff of competition amongst her pensioner pals – especially Carla. She was batting her false lashes so much that the air was becoming decidedly chilly around the table. ‘Tell me, Clint,’ she said, ‘did ye bring yer horse with ye?’
‘My horse?’ he said bemused. This was totally unexpected. ‘You’re not serious are ya? You have horses in here?’
Bessie’s chest swelled with pride, snapping two spars on the chair’s backrest. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘This is Saltcoats, big chap! The Wild West - the best in the West, to be more precise. I told you that this club needed a right guid cowboy boot up its erse and that’s whit yours truly, madam president, has done. We do have horses in here. You will see them soon enough’
The Dark Stranger’s thoughts of leaving the table had subsided for the moment. He was mighty intrigued.
‘I am mighty intrigued,’ he said, ‘and when does the shootout competition start, Bessie?’
‘Around nine o’clock . . . just after the team display.’
‘Team?’ said Clint.
‘Yep, you were talkin’ about horses, big chap – well sit back and enjoy the “Saltcoats and District Equestrian team.”’
‘Dressage!’ piped up Mary-Beth Beauvais, seizing the opportunity to say something with a French accent.
Clint wanted to ask more questions. This was turning out to be a very useful experience; lots of new and refreshing ideas were forming in his head. He knew that the Tarbolton Cowboy club also needed a large cowboy boot up its erse. Of course, in the Dark Stranger’s mind the word was “ass”, not “erse”.
The questions were going to have to wait until later because the PA system in the hall heralded the arrival of the Saltcoats and District Equestrian team by playing the “Magnificent Seven” theme tune very loudly. The lights dimmed and a bunch of cowpokes made a dramatic entrance. There were twelve of them in total, (They couldn’t find theme music for twelve cowpokes) each one was immaculately dressed in two tone satin shirts; ivory for the most part and bright red across the shoulders. Their pants were a matching shade of red with diamantes sparkling on their cowboy boots. They looked more like Conway Twitty than mean cowpokes.
The Dark Stranger couldn’t remember the last time that he had seen a hobby horse. He must have been just a very young boy, but each member of the equestrian team galloped into the room holding one of these Victorian kids’ toys between their legs. The heads of the horses had been beautifully carved from solid wood. The shaft was made of a sturdy timber, and the little rubber trimmed wooden wheels cut through the sawdust on the floor with ease. The performing cowboys yelped, yipped and hollered for all they were worth. This whipped the audience into a frenzy. After what seemed like an aimless gallop around the dance floor, four of the troupe peeled off and lined up in front of the low stage. Lassos suddenly appeared from nowhere and the four cowboys kicked off an impressive display of lasso twirling. Working in unison, the lassos seemed to take on a life of their own as they enveloped each performer and then were jerked into the air, time and time again. This sequence continued for a full three minutes. The other riders set off at high speed into an intricate figure of eight gallop, missing each other in the centre crossing area by the width of a cowboy’s whisker. Each manoeuvre was greeted with cheers from the Cowpokes and Good time Gals.
‘Magnifique!’ cried Mary-Beth.
It was a well rehearsed set, involving lots of tricks and clever stunts. The finale was a flag-waving gallop around the hall. The deafening report of fifty or so pistols accompanied this as the audience un-holstered their guns and fired their blanks towards the ceiling. Even the moody Texas Ranger, who had been sulking in the corner since the Dark Stranger’s entrance, was up on his feet, whooping it up and firing off bullets from both his pistols.
‘Well, how impressive was that?’ said Bessie Tombstone.
Once again, the Dark Stranger was at a loss for words. He just smiled and nodded his head.
‘It ain’t finished yet, pardner,’ she continued. ‘We are due to see the Doc make an entrance any minute on his steed. He will declare the shoot-out competition officially opened.’
‘The Doc?’
‘Yep - Doc Hayride. He will be judging tonight’s proceedings.’
‘And will he be on one of those hobby horses?’
Bessie shook her head slowly, ‘When I said that he will be “on his steed”, I really meant that he will be up riding on a horse – boots off the floor and everything.’
‘Jeez’ said Clint, pushing the brim of his hat up and back.
Right on cue, Doc Hayride did indeed make a dramatic entrance on his steed. His boots were, as Bessie had indicated, well off the floor. He was dressed in white leather, with tassels dangling from his arms and chest. His moustache and beard were snowy white to match his suit. It was the horse that Clint couldn’t take his eyes off. He had been around farms and stables all his life, but he had never before seen a pink horse. Not only was it pink, but it also had helpings of large fluorescent green spots.
He leaned towards Bessie, ‘This – uh – this steed. Has it been at the . . .?’
‘Yep,’ said Bessie. ‘The Ayr Gaiety. The only weeks that we don’t have it is pantomime season.’
To be continued . . .
About the Author
Born in Saltcoats, Brian Morrison has a day job at the Hunterston Power Station. But in his other life he is well known as a caricaturist and comedy sketch writer. More recently, he has become a novelist and a writer of children's stories. His dark comedy, Blister, is available on Amazon.