The Dark Stranger
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Clint McGuire experiences the nastier side of Ho-down nights at the Saltcoats Labour Club. But help is at hand in the shape of a fair maiden.
_____________________________________________________________________
The stagecoach trundled down the shallow slope towards the centre of the town. Dark eyes in the doorways of the saloon bars watched with interest – constantly on the lookout for mysterious strangers. It was a Friday, around dusk. Clint McGuire ran his fingers over the barrel of his six-shooter. It was hidden deep in the pocket of his heavy overcoat. He was always in the habit of keeping it out of sight, but fully loaded. Slowly he pushed the brim of his stetson upwards, revealing his steely blue eyes. The time had come to let the driver know that he had reached his destination. Reluctantly pulling his hand away from his gun, he reached out and rang the bell.
‘Awright big yin,’ said the Stagecoach bus driver, ‘Ah knew ye wis getting’ aff at Saltcoats anyway. Whit’s happenin’ the night? Is it a country ‘n’ western ho-down at the Labour Club?’
‘Ye guessed right, mister,’ said Clint McGuire as he walked unsteadily to the front of the bus. ‘I aint from around these parts. Guess you could say that I’m a kinda stranger around here.’
‘Is that right, chum? Where dae ye come fae then?’
‘Tarbolton,’ said Clint.
The bus rolled to a stop. ‘Well mind how ye go, big yin,’ said the bus driver, ‘there are some trigger happy nutters in this toon, but keep yer heid doon an’ you’ll be awright.’
‘Reckon I will,’ said Clint. ‘Tell me one more thing, mister, would ya?’
‘Aye okay,’ said the driver. ‘Shoot!’ He then threw his hands up in the air in alarm. ‘Only kiddin’, big chap – only kiddin’!’
Clint didn’t appear to have gotten the joke. He screwed his eyes up in the best spaghetti western style that he could muster and slowly looked one way and then the other. ‘Are there any injuns around these parts?’ he said eventually.
‘The bus driver pushed a button on his dashboard and the doors slid open with a loud hiss. ‘Injuns? – well there is a no’ bad three-in-one jist aroon the corner, an’ there is a “sittin’ in” place in Hamilton Street . . . but fur ma money, the best wan is up at the tap end o’ the toon. It’s called The Spice of India. Some say that it’s the best chinky in the three toons!’
Clint needed a few moments to fully digest the last comment, but the bus driver had a tight schedule to run to. Before he knew what was going on, the gunslinger found himself on the pavement. The bus was gone in a flash, leaving behind a swirl of hot air that danced with his coat tails.
He was alone.
Clint McGuire sniffed at the air. He had been told that the Labour club was down near the sea-front. The unmistakable scent of raw sewage acted like a virtual signpost. Yip, he thought to himself, looks like it is down that-a-ways. Keeping his hands deep inside his coat pockets, he slowly walked down the middle of the deserted street, measuring each step carefully. He was convinced that he was being spied upon from behind the window blinds.
A ball of tumbleweed drifted across his path in the breeze. At least he thought it was tumbleweed. On closer inspection, he realised that it was hair . . . human hair.
‘Sorry, pal. Ah didnae see ye there!’
It was a female who had spoken. She was standing in the doorway of a barber’s shop, broom in hand. She closed the door of the establishment and returned to sweeping the floor. The stench of sewage was becoming increasingly stronger. He knew that he was nearing the beach. A voice spoke to him from the shadows. Even though the gunslinger was a stranger in this town, the voice seemed vaguely familiar.
‘Howdy pardner!’ it said. ‘I reckon that you aint from around these here parts, preacher.’
‘You would reckon right,’ said Clint, who was now in ‘High Alert’ mode.
With a slow movement, the source of the voice revealed itself as a shape – a rather portly shaped cowboy who sported a large ten Gallon hat atop his head. ‘Welcome to the Saltcoats Labour Club,’ he said, as he emerged from the shadow of a shabby looking prefabricated building.
‘This is it?’ said Clint in italics.
‘Afraid so,’ said the cowboy, ‘but it aint so bad inside. There’s a good sprinklin’ of cowpokes and a couple o’ decent Good time Gals too.’
The words had just left his lips when one of the Good time Gals appeared at the door. She wore a ribbon in her hair. (Yellow, of course) Her gingham blouse was tied up in a bow under her bosom, which just happened to be somewhere around her crotch area. The seams were at bursting point on her skin-tight Wrangler jeans. She spoke to Ten Gallon. ‘So this is where yer hidin’, ya wee bugger! Who’s this that ye ur talkin’ tae? Huv ye got a wee pal, son?’
‘Shut it, Maw!’ said Ten Gallon. ‘Ye ur embarrassin’ me!’
‘Don’t you “Shut it” me!’ said the Good time Gal. ‘Ah might be jist wan year aff ma eightieth birthday, but Ah’m no’ that decrepit that Ah cannae gie you a skelp across yer lug!’ She then had a second look at the gunslinger. ‘Oh my, you are a handsome big chap right enough. Whit’s yer name, pal?’
Clint McGuire made the slightest of gestures towards the brim of his stetson with his hand in a show of good manners. ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘the name is Clint, but they call me “The Dark Stranger”.’
‘Ooh nice!’ said the Good time Gal, ‘my name is Bessie.’
‘Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance, Bessie,’ said the gunslinger.
‘Likewise,’ said Bessie. ‘We don’t get very many good lookin’ Clints doon here these days! So . . . whit dae ye think o’ Saltcoats?’
The gunslinger hesitated. These folks were pretty friendly. He didn’t want to offend them too much by mentioning the smell of raw sewage. ‘It’s . . . um . . . kinda different!’
‘Ach ye get used tae the smell efter a while, don’t ye, Boaby?’ On saying this she kicked her cowboy son solidly on his shin with her pointed boot.
‘Christ, Maw! That wis sare! . . . and whit huv Ah telt ye aboot callin’ me by ma right name doon here? Ye ur supposed tae call me by ma cowboy name on Ho-down nights!’
Bessie’s reaction to this was to move closer to the gunslinger. She was a good foot and a half shorter than he was. She gazed up into the stranger’s eyes, but her comment was directed towards her wounded cowboy son a few paces behind her. ‘Why don’t ye tell this big handsome stranger whit yer cowboy name is then, Boaby?’
‘I am “The man with no name”,’ he said.
‘Mighty fine name,’ said Clint.
‘Ach don’t encourage him, big guy.’ said Bessie. ‘He jist called himsel’ that because he couldnae think o’ any decent cowboy names. He’s no’ the brightest cowpoke in the west, ye know! We hud a quiz in the club last Tuesday night. He pure embarrassed me somethin’ rotten! The question wis aboot the Helmand Provence. Do’nut there thought that that wis where Mayonnaise came fae!’
‘Gaunnie shut it, Maw?’ said the man with no name.
Bessie quickly made her next move. She slipped an arm inside of Clint’s and performed what can only be described as a wrestling move. Before the big gunslinger knew what was happening she had his arm well and truly locked around hers. She guided him a few paces away from the club entrance. ‘Pity it’s dark,’ she said, ‘Ah could huv shown ye a lovely view o’ the Arran hills. We at the club like tae call them “The Rockies”. They ur dead romantic tae look at. Maybe the next time, eh?’
‘Yep, I am sure that they are mighty pretty, Bessie.’ said Clint, who was feeling a little overpowered by this sprightly seventy-nine year old Good time Gal.
‘You know . . .’ she continued, ‘they say that on a clear day from this very spot ye can see Iceland.’
‘Really?’ said Clint.
‘Aye, it’s jist doon there next tae Aldi. They share the same car park.’
Her flow was interrupted by a cowpoke in a ten Gallon hat with no name. ‘Haw Maw,’ he called out, ‘they huv jist finished the spittin’ contest in the club. If the big chap wants tae be part o’ the shoot-out competition he had better get his big cowboy erse in there right noo!’
‘Ach gie me peace, will ye!’ said Bessie. ‘Ah’m workin’ ma magic here wi’ this big Clint.’
‘Er – maybe I should go inside,’ said Clint, ‘that’s why I came here tonight after all. I would like to try and win that competition. What’s the prize?’
‘The prize?’ Bessie laughed and in doing so coughed up a lump of phlegm that would have won the afore-mentioned spitting contest hands down. ‘The prize is usually a bit o’ cheap tatty crap that wan o’ the committee members huv picked up at the Saturday market. Last week’s winner got handed some obscure B-rated cowboy movie.’
‘I quite like those old flicks actually,’ remarked Clint.
‘Aye but this wis a video tape! Who has VCRs these days?’
‘What was the name of the film?’
‘The Magnificent Six. It wis a budget movie.’ Bessie could tell that she was on a loser . . . for the moment. She finally relented, ‘Okay then, big chap, Ah can see that ye huv got an itchy trigger finger. Let’s go inside. Ah want tae show aff tae the lassies anyway.’
The Saltcoats Labour Club may have looked small and shabby from the outside, but when Clint McGuire entered into the function suite, thoughts of Doctor Who’s Tardus came to mind. The committee had allowed the Country & Western brigade the freedom of the hall on Ho-down nights. The first thing that he noticed was the sawdust on the floor. Swinging saloon doors, suspended from portable posts, sat just inside the real doors to the hall. The toilets had been given temporary labels – ‘Cowpokes’ and ‘Good time Gals’. The attention to detail impressed the visiting ‘Dark Stranger’ from Tarbolton.
Clint made a mental note of all the paraphernalia. I could learn a thing or two from this set up. This would look mighty fine back home.
The best was reserved for the stage backdrop. A massive Confederate flag had been draped from one end of the hall to the other. Clint had been so taken aback by the interior of the hall that he hadn’t noticed the silence. He hadn’t noticed the seventy or so pairs of eyes bearing down on him. He had, however, noticed that Bessie, his new-found Good time Gal acquaintance, was no longer hanging on his arm. Her fat cowpoke son, Boaby, ‘The man with no name’, was also nowhere to be seen. The tension of the moment finally filtered down to Clint and he slowly surveyed the room. All eyes were indeed on him. Once again he entered into a ‘High Alert’ mode. He knew exactly what to do. Taking care to show that he had nothing hidden in his hands, he carefully undid the buttons on his heavy overcoat. It fell open as he outstretched his arms to the side. There was no gun belt showing, no holster or six-shooter evident. What they didn’t know, of course, was that the Dark Stranger always kept his gun hidden deep in the right-hand pocket of his coat.
The sawdust on the floor wasn’t enough to hide the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back. A mean and surly looking cowpoke arose and cast a menacing glare in the direction of the Dark Stranger. His fingers hovered tantalisingly over the two guns on his double holster belt. Clint reckoned that this mean looking critter came from Texas, because he had a lone star badge pinned to his Stetson and he was wearing a Rangers top. This threatening move aroused a fair bit of tension in the hall. Within seconds, the tension had escalated into somewhat of a commotion. A small group of Good time Gal pensioners screamed in shock. One of them passed out. Her Good time friend desperately attempted to revive her by fanning her face with a bingo card. At the same moment, a couple of the cowpokes felt a sudden urge to run to the toilet. The bartender, who was wearing a smart waistcoat and had garters on his shirt sleeves – nice touch, thought Clint – dived for cover behind the bar.
The mean Texas Ranger spoke at last, but not before spitting a semi-solid lump of mucus onto the sawdust covered floor. ‘Hey you!’ he hissed, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits. ‘Hey you - Lantern Jaws!’
“ “, said Clint, who was at a loss for words. He was caught off guard. His features were a picture of puzzlement. He then repeated the Texas Ranger’s last words. ‘Lantern Jaws?! . . . Did you just call me . . . ?’
Even although this mean looking cowpoke obviously hadn’t washed for a week or two, Clint could detect a blush appearing on his grubby cheeks.
‘What I meant was,’ continued the Texas Ranger, ‘Hey you . . . em . . . Hey you, you yellow-bellied, snake-eyed . . . em . . . em . . . wanker!’
A female voice that Clint recognised immediately interrupted the grisly proceedings. ‘No, no, no, Sammy Wilson. You’re gettin’ points deducted! “Wanker” is not a cowpoke word!’ It was Bessie. ‘Ah don’t know! A girl nips to the powder room fur two minutes an’ all hell breaks loose! Ah’ve told you before, Sammy, if ye cannie speak the cowpoke speak, then don’t speak at all! Any mare amateurish outburst like that an’ you’ll be oot the door!’
The suitably reprimanded Texas Ranger pulled his chair back into position and began a night-long sulk.
Bessie turned to Clint. ‘Sorry about that, big chap, but rules is rules. Some o’ these guys just don’t have whit it takes tae be a first class cowpoke.’
Clint was once again distracted. He knew that Bessie had just visited the toilet. There had been no need for her to announce the fact. She was displaying what can only be described as a “Toilet roll tail”. The line of tissue was flapping around in the breeze whilst she walked; the tail firmly anchored by her skin-tight Wranglers waistband.
‘We have it written into the club’s constitution, you know. Cowpokes must learn tae speak in the proper way before they can make any challenges on other members or strangers. Ah must say though that your cowpoke lingo is first class, big chap! Ah haven’t heard ye slip up yet.’
‘Yep, I am mighty pleased to hear you saying that, missy,’ said Clint, who was unconsciously counting the sheets of tissue on Bessie’s tail. Was it six or seven?
‘This club has been needin’ a guid cowboy boot up its erse recently, but noo that they huv elected me as Madam President, that is exactly whit it’s getting’.
‘Much obliged,’ said Clint. Yes it was definitely seven sheets.
Bessie turned and addressed every Cowpoke and Good time Gal in the room. ‘This here is Clint McGuire fae Tarbolton. He is also known as the Dark Stranger. There is nae need tae worry aboot him, ‘cos Ah personally gave him a right good friskin’ outside earlier.’ She turned and winked at Clint. ‘Didn’t Ah, doll?’
‘You surely did,’ said Clint, who was quickly realising that this seventy-nine year old Good time Gal was not someone to be messing with. Bessie’s announcement, however, gave him some cause for concern, because although she had her hands all over him outside, she had missed the fact that he was carrying a six shooter in his coat pocket.
Bessie grabbed his arm and applied the wrestling move that she had practiced on the steps outside the club. He was well and truly linked to her. ‘Let’s go over to the Good time Gal table. I want you tae meet ma girlfriends. Sorry about ma little outburst earlier. I am just a wee kitten really.’
‘Perhaps I should ask your son about that, Bessie. You were pretty tough on him outside.’
‘Ach it’s the only way tae really toughen him up. Anyone in here will tell ye – I am actually very fond o’ Boaby.’
‘Yep, I had already guessed that,’ said the Dark Stranger.
When they both reached the Good time Gal table, Clint was blowing his nose with some tissue paper.
‘Got a wee cold, big chap?’ said Bessie.
‘Just a little sniff,’ said Clint as he stuffed the seven sheets of toilet tissue into his pocket.
. . . TO BE CONTINUED.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Clint McGuire experiences the nastier side of Ho-down nights at the Saltcoats Labour Club. But help is at hand in the shape of a fair maiden.
_____________________________________________________________________
The stagecoach trundled down the shallow slope towards the centre of the town. Dark eyes in the doorways of the saloon bars watched with interest – constantly on the lookout for mysterious strangers. It was a Friday, around dusk. Clint McGuire ran his fingers over the barrel of his six-shooter. It was hidden deep in the pocket of his heavy overcoat. He was always in the habit of keeping it out of sight, but fully loaded. Slowly he pushed the brim of his stetson upwards, revealing his steely blue eyes. The time had come to let the driver know that he had reached his destination. Reluctantly pulling his hand away from his gun, he reached out and rang the bell.
‘Awright big yin,’ said the Stagecoach bus driver, ‘Ah knew ye wis getting’ aff at Saltcoats anyway. Whit’s happenin’ the night? Is it a country ‘n’ western ho-down at the Labour Club?’
‘Ye guessed right, mister,’ said Clint McGuire as he walked unsteadily to the front of the bus. ‘I aint from around these parts. Guess you could say that I’m a kinda stranger around here.’
‘Is that right, chum? Where dae ye come fae then?’
‘Tarbolton,’ said Clint.
The bus rolled to a stop. ‘Well mind how ye go, big yin,’ said the bus driver, ‘there are some trigger happy nutters in this toon, but keep yer heid doon an’ you’ll be awright.’
‘Reckon I will,’ said Clint. ‘Tell me one more thing, mister, would ya?’
‘Aye okay,’ said the driver. ‘Shoot!’ He then threw his hands up in the air in alarm. ‘Only kiddin’, big chap – only kiddin’!’
Clint didn’t appear to have gotten the joke. He screwed his eyes up in the best spaghetti western style that he could muster and slowly looked one way and then the other. ‘Are there any injuns around these parts?’ he said eventually.
‘The bus driver pushed a button on his dashboard and the doors slid open with a loud hiss. ‘Injuns? – well there is a no’ bad three-in-one jist aroon the corner, an’ there is a “sittin’ in” place in Hamilton Street . . . but fur ma money, the best wan is up at the tap end o’ the toon. It’s called The Spice of India. Some say that it’s the best chinky in the three toons!’
Clint needed a few moments to fully digest the last comment, but the bus driver had a tight schedule to run to. Before he knew what was going on, the gunslinger found himself on the pavement. The bus was gone in a flash, leaving behind a swirl of hot air that danced with his coat tails.
He was alone.
Clint McGuire sniffed at the air. He had been told that the Labour club was down near the sea-front. The unmistakable scent of raw sewage acted like a virtual signpost. Yip, he thought to himself, looks like it is down that-a-ways. Keeping his hands deep inside his coat pockets, he slowly walked down the middle of the deserted street, measuring each step carefully. He was convinced that he was being spied upon from behind the window blinds.
A ball of tumbleweed drifted across his path in the breeze. At least he thought it was tumbleweed. On closer inspection, he realised that it was hair . . . human hair.
‘Sorry, pal. Ah didnae see ye there!’
It was a female who had spoken. She was standing in the doorway of a barber’s shop, broom in hand. She closed the door of the establishment and returned to sweeping the floor. The stench of sewage was becoming increasingly stronger. He knew that he was nearing the beach. A voice spoke to him from the shadows. Even though the gunslinger was a stranger in this town, the voice seemed vaguely familiar.
‘Howdy pardner!’ it said. ‘I reckon that you aint from around these here parts, preacher.’
‘You would reckon right,’ said Clint, who was now in ‘High Alert’ mode.
With a slow movement, the source of the voice revealed itself as a shape – a rather portly shaped cowboy who sported a large ten Gallon hat atop his head. ‘Welcome to the Saltcoats Labour Club,’ he said, as he emerged from the shadow of a shabby looking prefabricated building.
‘This is it?’ said Clint in italics.
‘Afraid so,’ said the cowboy, ‘but it aint so bad inside. There’s a good sprinklin’ of cowpokes and a couple o’ decent Good time Gals too.’
The words had just left his lips when one of the Good time Gals appeared at the door. She wore a ribbon in her hair. (Yellow, of course) Her gingham blouse was tied up in a bow under her bosom, which just happened to be somewhere around her crotch area. The seams were at bursting point on her skin-tight Wrangler jeans. She spoke to Ten Gallon. ‘So this is where yer hidin’, ya wee bugger! Who’s this that ye ur talkin’ tae? Huv ye got a wee pal, son?’
‘Shut it, Maw!’ said Ten Gallon. ‘Ye ur embarrassin’ me!’
‘Don’t you “Shut it” me!’ said the Good time Gal. ‘Ah might be jist wan year aff ma eightieth birthday, but Ah’m no’ that decrepit that Ah cannae gie you a skelp across yer lug!’ She then had a second look at the gunslinger. ‘Oh my, you are a handsome big chap right enough. Whit’s yer name, pal?’
Clint McGuire made the slightest of gestures towards the brim of his stetson with his hand in a show of good manners. ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘the name is Clint, but they call me “The Dark Stranger”.’
‘Ooh nice!’ said the Good time Gal, ‘my name is Bessie.’
‘Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance, Bessie,’ said the gunslinger.
‘Likewise,’ said Bessie. ‘We don’t get very many good lookin’ Clints doon here these days! So . . . whit dae ye think o’ Saltcoats?’
The gunslinger hesitated. These folks were pretty friendly. He didn’t want to offend them too much by mentioning the smell of raw sewage. ‘It’s . . . um . . . kinda different!’
‘Ach ye get used tae the smell efter a while, don’t ye, Boaby?’ On saying this she kicked her cowboy son solidly on his shin with her pointed boot.
‘Christ, Maw! That wis sare! . . . and whit huv Ah telt ye aboot callin’ me by ma right name doon here? Ye ur supposed tae call me by ma cowboy name on Ho-down nights!’
Bessie’s reaction to this was to move closer to the gunslinger. She was a good foot and a half shorter than he was. She gazed up into the stranger’s eyes, but her comment was directed towards her wounded cowboy son a few paces behind her. ‘Why don’t ye tell this big handsome stranger whit yer cowboy name is then, Boaby?’
‘I am “The man with no name”,’ he said.
‘Mighty fine name,’ said Clint.
‘Ach don’t encourage him, big guy.’ said Bessie. ‘He jist called himsel’ that because he couldnae think o’ any decent cowboy names. He’s no’ the brightest cowpoke in the west, ye know! We hud a quiz in the club last Tuesday night. He pure embarrassed me somethin’ rotten! The question wis aboot the Helmand Provence. Do’nut there thought that that wis where Mayonnaise came fae!’
‘Gaunnie shut it, Maw?’ said the man with no name.
Bessie quickly made her next move. She slipped an arm inside of Clint’s and performed what can only be described as a wrestling move. Before the big gunslinger knew what was happening she had his arm well and truly locked around hers. She guided him a few paces away from the club entrance. ‘Pity it’s dark,’ she said, ‘Ah could huv shown ye a lovely view o’ the Arran hills. We at the club like tae call them “The Rockies”. They ur dead romantic tae look at. Maybe the next time, eh?’
‘Yep, I am sure that they are mighty pretty, Bessie.’ said Clint, who was feeling a little overpowered by this sprightly seventy-nine year old Good time Gal.
‘You know . . .’ she continued, ‘they say that on a clear day from this very spot ye can see Iceland.’
‘Really?’ said Clint.
‘Aye, it’s jist doon there next tae Aldi. They share the same car park.’
Her flow was interrupted by a cowpoke in a ten Gallon hat with no name. ‘Haw Maw,’ he called out, ‘they huv jist finished the spittin’ contest in the club. If the big chap wants tae be part o’ the shoot-out competition he had better get his big cowboy erse in there right noo!’
‘Ach gie me peace, will ye!’ said Bessie. ‘Ah’m workin’ ma magic here wi’ this big Clint.’
‘Er – maybe I should go inside,’ said Clint, ‘that’s why I came here tonight after all. I would like to try and win that competition. What’s the prize?’
‘The prize?’ Bessie laughed and in doing so coughed up a lump of phlegm that would have won the afore-mentioned spitting contest hands down. ‘The prize is usually a bit o’ cheap tatty crap that wan o’ the committee members huv picked up at the Saturday market. Last week’s winner got handed some obscure B-rated cowboy movie.’
‘I quite like those old flicks actually,’ remarked Clint.
‘Aye but this wis a video tape! Who has VCRs these days?’
‘What was the name of the film?’
‘The Magnificent Six. It wis a budget movie.’ Bessie could tell that she was on a loser . . . for the moment. She finally relented, ‘Okay then, big chap, Ah can see that ye huv got an itchy trigger finger. Let’s go inside. Ah want tae show aff tae the lassies anyway.’
The Saltcoats Labour Club may have looked small and shabby from the outside, but when Clint McGuire entered into the function suite, thoughts of Doctor Who’s Tardus came to mind. The committee had allowed the Country & Western brigade the freedom of the hall on Ho-down nights. The first thing that he noticed was the sawdust on the floor. Swinging saloon doors, suspended from portable posts, sat just inside the real doors to the hall. The toilets had been given temporary labels – ‘Cowpokes’ and ‘Good time Gals’. The attention to detail impressed the visiting ‘Dark Stranger’ from Tarbolton.
Clint made a mental note of all the paraphernalia. I could learn a thing or two from this set up. This would look mighty fine back home.
The best was reserved for the stage backdrop. A massive Confederate flag had been draped from one end of the hall to the other. Clint had been so taken aback by the interior of the hall that he hadn’t noticed the silence. He hadn’t noticed the seventy or so pairs of eyes bearing down on him. He had, however, noticed that Bessie, his new-found Good time Gal acquaintance, was no longer hanging on his arm. Her fat cowpoke son, Boaby, ‘The man with no name’, was also nowhere to be seen. The tension of the moment finally filtered down to Clint and he slowly surveyed the room. All eyes were indeed on him. Once again he entered into a ‘High Alert’ mode. He knew exactly what to do. Taking care to show that he had nothing hidden in his hands, he carefully undid the buttons on his heavy overcoat. It fell open as he outstretched his arms to the side. There was no gun belt showing, no holster or six-shooter evident. What they didn’t know, of course, was that the Dark Stranger always kept his gun hidden deep in the right-hand pocket of his coat.
The sawdust on the floor wasn’t enough to hide the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back. A mean and surly looking cowpoke arose and cast a menacing glare in the direction of the Dark Stranger. His fingers hovered tantalisingly over the two guns on his double holster belt. Clint reckoned that this mean looking critter came from Texas, because he had a lone star badge pinned to his Stetson and he was wearing a Rangers top. This threatening move aroused a fair bit of tension in the hall. Within seconds, the tension had escalated into somewhat of a commotion. A small group of Good time Gal pensioners screamed in shock. One of them passed out. Her Good time friend desperately attempted to revive her by fanning her face with a bingo card. At the same moment, a couple of the cowpokes felt a sudden urge to run to the toilet. The bartender, who was wearing a smart waistcoat and had garters on his shirt sleeves – nice touch, thought Clint – dived for cover behind the bar.
The mean Texas Ranger spoke at last, but not before spitting a semi-solid lump of mucus onto the sawdust covered floor. ‘Hey you!’ he hissed, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits. ‘Hey you - Lantern Jaws!’
“ “, said Clint, who was at a loss for words. He was caught off guard. His features were a picture of puzzlement. He then repeated the Texas Ranger’s last words. ‘Lantern Jaws?! . . . Did you just call me . . . ?’
Even although this mean looking cowpoke obviously hadn’t washed for a week or two, Clint could detect a blush appearing on his grubby cheeks.
‘What I meant was,’ continued the Texas Ranger, ‘Hey you . . . em . . . Hey you, you yellow-bellied, snake-eyed . . . em . . . em . . . wanker!’
A female voice that Clint recognised immediately interrupted the grisly proceedings. ‘No, no, no, Sammy Wilson. You’re gettin’ points deducted! “Wanker” is not a cowpoke word!’ It was Bessie. ‘Ah don’t know! A girl nips to the powder room fur two minutes an’ all hell breaks loose! Ah’ve told you before, Sammy, if ye cannie speak the cowpoke speak, then don’t speak at all! Any mare amateurish outburst like that an’ you’ll be oot the door!’
The suitably reprimanded Texas Ranger pulled his chair back into position and began a night-long sulk.
Bessie turned to Clint. ‘Sorry about that, big chap, but rules is rules. Some o’ these guys just don’t have whit it takes tae be a first class cowpoke.’
Clint was once again distracted. He knew that Bessie had just visited the toilet. There had been no need for her to announce the fact. She was displaying what can only be described as a “Toilet roll tail”. The line of tissue was flapping around in the breeze whilst she walked; the tail firmly anchored by her skin-tight Wranglers waistband.
‘We have it written into the club’s constitution, you know. Cowpokes must learn tae speak in the proper way before they can make any challenges on other members or strangers. Ah must say though that your cowpoke lingo is first class, big chap! Ah haven’t heard ye slip up yet.’
‘Yep, I am mighty pleased to hear you saying that, missy,’ said Clint, who was unconsciously counting the sheets of tissue on Bessie’s tail. Was it six or seven?
‘This club has been needin’ a guid cowboy boot up its erse recently, but noo that they huv elected me as Madam President, that is exactly whit it’s getting’.
‘Much obliged,’ said Clint. Yes it was definitely seven sheets.
Bessie turned and addressed every Cowpoke and Good time Gal in the room. ‘This here is Clint McGuire fae Tarbolton. He is also known as the Dark Stranger. There is nae need tae worry aboot him, ‘cos Ah personally gave him a right good friskin’ outside earlier.’ She turned and winked at Clint. ‘Didn’t Ah, doll?’
‘You surely did,’ said Clint, who was quickly realising that this seventy-nine year old Good time Gal was not someone to be messing with. Bessie’s announcement, however, gave him some cause for concern, because although she had her hands all over him outside, she had missed the fact that he was carrying a six shooter in his coat pocket.
Bessie grabbed his arm and applied the wrestling move that she had practiced on the steps outside the club. He was well and truly linked to her. ‘Let’s go over to the Good time Gal table. I want you tae meet ma girlfriends. Sorry about ma little outburst earlier. I am just a wee kitten really.’
‘Perhaps I should ask your son about that, Bessie. You were pretty tough on him outside.’
‘Ach it’s the only way tae really toughen him up. Anyone in here will tell ye – I am actually very fond o’ Boaby.’
‘Yep, I had already guessed that,’ said the Dark Stranger.
When they both reached the Good time Gal table, Clint was blowing his nose with some tissue paper.
‘Got a wee cold, big chap?’ said Bessie.
‘Just a little sniff,’ said Clint as he stuffed the seven sheets of toilet tissue into his pocket.
. . . 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.