Sarsparilla

Westtown was hot. The sun was hot on the dusty streets and through the dusty windows. Inside it was hotter.

At the second-best saloon in Westtown, Jackson Miller wiped a damp spot on the oak bar. The cloth was worn.

From under the brim of her weathered hat, she watched a stranger. He sat at the end of the bar. He was dusty.

She walked over. The floorboards creaked under her boots.

-So what’ll it be for ya, newcomer? she asked.

The stranger looked up.

-You got sarsaparilla?.

Jackson stopped wiping.

-Sarsaparilla? she asked. Ain’t heard anybody order that since the last greenhorn came through three summers back.

She leaned forward.

-We got whiskey. Good whiskey. Or beer so thick you could stand a spoon in it. That do for ya?

The stranger smiled weakly.

-You tryna get me drunk, woman?

Jackson laughed.

-Honey, if I was tryin’ to get you drunk, you’d already be face down in the sawdust, she said. That’s just standard hospitality.

-But no sarsaparilla, he said to himself.

She poured a shot of amber whiskey. She slid it across the wood.

-Drink up before the dust settles in it.

The stranger looked at the glass.

-I’ll take ‘er with a beer, he said.

He downed the shot. He slammed the glass on the bar.

Jackson chuckled. She pulled the tap handle. The mug filled with froth.

-Thirsty fella after all, ain’tcha? she said. That’ll be two bits. And try not to break my glass. Sheriff’s got enough to deal with without addin’ vandalism to his list.

He pulled coins from an inside pocket. He stacked them on the bar. Five bits.

-One more shot, one more beer, he murmured.

He chugged the first beer. He wiped his chin with a dirty sleeve.

Jackson poured the second shot.

-You drink like a man tryin’ to drown somethin’, she said. Her voice dropped. The Newcombe Boys ain’t payin’ you enough to die in my bar, are they?

Her hand rested near her waist, near her holster.

You were out of sarsaparilla, the stranger said. Don’t nobody pay me to die nowhere. I’ll keep on living if it’s all the same in the balance of things.

Jackson studied his face. Ugly.

-You drink like you got nothin’ to lose, she said. That’s either real brave or real stupid. Which is it?

-Is there a difference? he asked. Every scar, every knot and bump on me was brave and every one was stupid.

Jackson stopped moving.

-Now that, she said. That might be the truest thing I’ve heard all week.

She poured herself a half-shot. She clinked it against his glass.

-To the brave stupid bastards, then. May we live long enough to regret it.

He downed the second shot.

-They call me Tiny, he said. He burped.

Jackson laughed.

-Tiny, huh? Well Tiny, I’m Jackson.

She grabbed the empty glasses. Her fingers lingered near his for a moment.

-You best slow down though. Even brave stupid bastards gotta ride home eventually.

-My horse knows the way, Tiny said23.

-That’s what they all say ‘fore I find ‘em sleepin’ in my stables, Jackson said. Don’t get any ideas. My husband’s the sheriff, and he ain’t fond of findin’ strangers in my hayloft.

Tiny feigned indignation.

-Not the sheriff’s wife, he yelled. You gonna tell on me, little girl?

Jackson slammed the bottle down. The glasses rattled. She leaned over the bar.

-Little girl? she growled. I once shot a man for sayin’ less.

She snatched his glass away.

-Hey now, no Indian giving, Tiny protested.

He grabbed the glass. He grabbed her hand.

She fixed him with a look.

-That’s my whiskey, and that’s my hand, mister, she said. You’re makin’ a habit of takin’ things that ain’t yours.

-Little girl, Tiny said. It’s just what they call a “term of endearment,” the book word for it.

Jackson twisted her wrist.

-Book word manners don’t play too well out here, she said. Out here, we say what we mean. And I ain’t little.

Tiny looked her up and down.

-No, I suppose you ain’t, he said. -And I ain’t tiny, he said, but here I am.

She pulled her hand back and let him keep the glass.

-Fair enough, Tiny, she said. Now drink that proper before I charge you for it.

He finished the drink. He stood up. He tipped his hat.

-I reckon I will, ma’am, he said.

-You ride safe now, Tiny, she said. And next time... maybe we’ll have sarsaparilla.

She watched him push through the swinging doors.

-Damn fool better not get himself shot, she muttered.

Jackson poured herself another shot.

-That one’s gonna be trouble, she whispered.

The door creaked open behind her.

-Who was that stranger you was talkin’ to, darlin’? Mike asked.

Jackson didn't turn. She stared out the window.

-Just another thirsty cowboy passin’ through, Mike. Called himself Tiny, she said. Nothin’ to worry about.

Mike leaned against the bar. His badge glinted. He spat tobacco into the spittoon.

-Didn’t look like nothin’ from where I was standin’, he said. Saw you pourin’ him the good stuff. Free of charge.

He leaned closer.

-That fella ain’t just some drifter. Had the look of a man runnin’ from somethin’. Or toward it.

Jackson gripped her glass.

-Trouble walks into this saloon every day, she said.

-That fella, Mike snarled, he had the look of a man who’s already chosen his side. And it ain’t ours.

-His side ain’t my business, Jackson said. He drank his whiskey and rode out.

-I hunt what needs huntin’, Mike said. -And right now, the Newcombe Boys are itchin’ to make a move. Your Tiny rode out alone, straight into their territory.

The door banged open.

A young boy ran in. Jesse. He was out of breath.

-Sheriff! The boy yelled. That man! The one that just left!

-Where? she demanded. Where did they take him?

-They dragged ‘im into the abandoned livery, Jesse said. Saw ‘em myself.

Mike looked at the boy.

-What are you gonna do about it mister?, Jesse asked.

-I’m gonna do my job, boy, he said.

Jackson was already moving. She snatched her shotgun from under the bar. The barrels gleamed.

-You do your job, Mike, she said. I’ll do mine.