Act II
Scene 1
a one room saloonnary a breeze shifts clouds of
smoke from cigarillos
and a few pipes, oil lamps
barely outshining barely
translucent windows
clock on the wall, half past noon
a half full saloon
there were only two
bucking the tiger, although
the dealer was known
as a straight sort of fellow.
farthest from the door: a table
four men around it
cards, coins, whiskey before them
locals, flush with funds
dirty, hard work men
their money goes to whiskey,
women and faro
but today they play poker
a few hands in, the stranger
approached the table
tall, short blonde hair ‘neath his hat
pale piercing blue eyes
a deep red waistcoat
worn under charcoal gray suit
with gentleman’s hands.
he speaks in a genteel tone
lifted by a southern lilt.
he asks to join them.
reluctantly, they agree
he seats himself, pleased
losing ten straight hands
gently scolding lady luck
their warmth for him grows
then losing, straight, thirteen more
they were nearly overjoyed
“I must replenish
my funds from my hotel, if
you will excuse me.”
one local man said,
“he’s gonna come back and fleece
ya for all ya got”
the others chide him for his
fear, urge him to stay but he
takes his coins and leaves
so when the stranger returns
there are only two
the stranger returns
sees what has happened, decides
to sit down again
perhaps a bit more cautious.
without the locals seeing
he gently, smoothly,
calmly switches the card deck
with one of his own
that’s when suddenly
the southerner stops losing
quite so much money
then he stops losing at all
before long, the locals who’d
been sitting pretty
are now nearly bankrupt
and none too happy
“Jack’s right, you’re cheatin’”
a local stood up, angry
a knife in his hand
“that’s a strong accusation
to make against someone. I
don’t appreciate
having my honor questioned
and I take offense.”
“I personally
do not believe that money
is worth dying for.
however, if you care to
disagree I guarantee
you’ll be dead before
you get anywhere near me
with that blade of yours.”
the secessionist
looks calm, his soft hands silent
on the table top
his even drawl shows no fear
the local man looks to his
companion, who seems
to feel discretion is the
best part of valor
the smoky saloon
was still as the moments passed
the stranger sitting
as he was, the local’s breath
hard, whiskyed in his anger
his eyes are nervous
knuckles white on knife handle
sweating his options
then the gentleman
spoke, “if you’d like to consider
your accusation,
perhaps check the cards, which you
will find unmarked, then retract
your slander and we
can all walk out of here friends.”
he let this sink in
taking cards in hand
turning them once, he slides them
across the table
the local man sheathes his knife
takes the deck, scrutinizing
fails to see the marks:
tiny, hand-made, revealing
the deck’s royalty
“are you satisfied?”
he looks again, sees nothing
in the dim bar light
he grunts, throwing the cards down
turns without a word, stalks out
his friend sits, glances
at the cards, the gentleman
and quickly follows
the southern stranger
is relaxed, motions languid
winnings are gathered
the card decks are swapped once more
he strolls out of the saloon
to the sun-bright street
leaving a generous tip
at the long pine bar
adjusting his hat
he took in the yearling town
its fresh mining boom
dry street, few wooden buildings
some new since he had arrived
just a fortnight since
in three years it would double
in size or be gone
glad in that moment
he’s not explaining a corpse
to the town sheriff
but he’s still sullied the well,
word would get around real fast.
the next town beckoned
he’d heard new ones were blooming
in Colorado
Scene 2
with saddlebags packedhorse retrieved from the stable
riding out of town
a mile out, the road turning
away from the river’s edge,
he catches movement
from a sparse stand of trees just
as he turns away
quick, he spurs his horse
pulling the reins to the left,
draws the pistol from
the holster on his left hip
pulling back on the hammer
returning fire at
the coward who’d just missed his
chance to back-shoot him
time, to the stranger,
slowed. but as the gunshots fade
mere seconds have passed
the local man and two friends
convinced that revenge was sweet
now lay in the dust
the desert drinking their blood
eyes up to the sky
the secessionist
stands over the local man
sadly shakes his head
takes a moment to reload
holstering his two pistols
vaults onto his horse
continuing on his way
to Colorado
