Act V

Scene 1, Scene 2, Scene 3, Scene 4

Scene 1

the tall southerner
stands over the table, his
left hand grips the edge
a chair upturned behind him.
blue eyes cold, his breath heavy
a fresh bloodstain arcs
up his arm from the blade point
gripped ‘tween his fingers

the man who had sat
across the table but a
few moments ago
now lay on the saloon’s floor
grunting through his teeth, clutching
his arm as blood seeps
from beneath his fingers, his
fivegun on the ground

another man stands
at the bar, hand resting on
his revolver’s pearl
handle and his other hand
holds the southerner’s shoulder
a marshal’s star glints
on his chest. the piano’s
last tones fade away

the marshal clears his
throat and says, “Monty. enough.”
the secessionist
relaxes his hand, tosses
the blade onto the table
“have a walk around
and cool the hell off. come to
the office later.”

the marshal quickly
grabs the revolver laying
on the ground. “Bill, John
get this asshole to tha doc.”
“I can fucking walk,” spits the
wounded man, “nice job
Eason, don’t think to stop your
friend ‘fore he stuck me?”

“fuck yourself Cyrus,
maybe you should be happy
tha doc don’t gotta
dig a bullet outta ya.”
“well if tha apple of your
eye weren’t cheatin’
I wouldn’t had to draw on
‘im in the first place,”

the man named Cyrus
stands facing the marshal and
bleeds in the sawdust
Henry Eason thumbs back the
hammer on Cyrus’ fivegun,
“not smart to insult
a marshal, specially one
with a cocked iron.”

Cyrus turns towards the
door, stops and spits on the ground,
he glares over his
shoulder at Henry, shoulders
through the saloon’s swinging doors
the barkeep comes out
from behind the bar with a
pail of fresh sawdust

Henry sighs, places
the revolver on the bar,
“Sam, keep this behind
the bar for Cyrus, I’m sure
he’ll come here lookin for it.”
Sam just nods, spreading
the new sawdust with the toe
of his dull brown shoes

Henry stands out front
Sam Scarfield’s Fancee Saloon
on worn boards looking
out at the town of Lodeville
from this small side street. Main is
one over, now lined
only with “respectable,
good establishments”

the Lodeville Business
Owners Association
had seen to the change
a few years ago, before
Henry had rode into town.
the LBOA
is also the reason that
Henry has a job.

if he turned around
and had the power to look
through the back wall of
Sam’s he’d see most of Lodeville’s
various purveyors of
life’s best vices spread
eastward, turning into a
shifting shantytown

west, again with the
power to see through solid
objects, livery stables,
tailor, dry goods, Wells Fargo,
two banks, a barber, hotels
and honest to god
nice houses, and springing up
two or three churches

it is a story
that the West has seen before
small timers mining
for precious metal in the
wilderness. given enough
time, enough metal
and the mining companies
arrive on the scene

they buy out, bully,
rounding up as many claims
worth having as can.
they employ those miners who
trade their now for their future
the ones who don’t head
farther out, again looking
for claims in the wilds

‘civilization’
follows, people who want banks,
tailors and churches,
people who don’t want miners
and hoodlums shooting their guns
into the night air
‘civilized’ types willing to
buy law and order

people willing to
pay Henry Eason, one time
Federal Marshal of
Redd Hikke, Missouri, killer
of “Black Creek” Joshua Pike
a rider for the
Pony Express, shotgun for
Wells, Fargo & Co.

the LBOA
put together monies to
build a jail, then spread
the word Lodeville was looking
for a marshal. Henry’d been
between jobs, drifting.
he wired, they replied, “YOU’RE HIRED
STOP POST HASTE FULL STOP”

once here he’d done the
LBOA’s dirty work:
he had cuffed card cheats,
struck drunks with his revolver
taken holster belts, watched men
sweat delirium
tremens and settled petty
fights between neighbors,

even kicked the door
of an opium den ‘gainst
his better judgement;
no difference to him ‘tween
drinkin’ or smokin’ poppy;
fact is he prefers
those that chase the dragon, they
are easier cowed

so far he’d only
needed to kill but one man,
he figures this good.
killin’ or any of the
above don’t bother him much
it’s just a job, ‘twas
no Great Call to Justice in
Henry Eason’s heart

the Lodeville jail has
a plenty nice office by
comparison to
some others he’s worked out of,
a perk of a contract with
the Business Owners
rather than with the U.S.
Federal Gov’ment

Scene 2

Henry sits in a
leather backed chair, his boots propped
by the desk corner
Monty, no less ruffled for
his ‘stroll,’  paces the wood floor,
detouring around
the potbellied stove in the
middle of the room

Henry blows the steam
off a chipped cup of coffee
and lets Monty pace.
may be an hour passes
perhaps ‘tis a few minutes
neither man watches
the mahogany wall-clock, 
so they do not know

Monty relents first,
“I sincerely hope that you’re
not waitin’ for me
to apologize, because
I fear you’ll be waitin’ a
powerful long time.”
Henry holds his gaze and takes
a sip of coffee.

Monty decides to
switch tactics and leans against
the brick near the rack
of Winchesters and Henrys,
still quiet. the mug half drained
Henry sets the cup
on his desk, folds his hands ‘cross
his tan cotton vest

Henry chooses his
words and speaks in even tones,
mindful that Monty
is full of bad humors and
may rile easy, even ‘gainst
someone he calls ‘friend,’
“I’d ‘preciate it if you
stopped gettin’ in fights”

Monty’s voice is tinged
with rage, “I’m not startin’ the
damn things!” “That’s not the
fuckin’ point. Cyrus may be
ornery and stupid, but not
enough of either
to actually shoot you,
full of booze or not!”

Henry’s voice grows loud
as he feels angry heat build
behind his forehead
against his hard intentions.
Monty won’t harm him, but he’s
afraid he’ll cause harm
to a friendship that’s showing
wear ‘round the edges

Henry doesn’t let
Monty respond, speaking once
more in level tones,
“folks startin’ to grouse, that I’m
lettin’ you run wild ‘round town.
just tha rabble now,
not long for that spark to jump 
and light my bosses”

“maybe they jus’ give
me a talkin’ to, but they
might make me kick you
outta town or toss ya in
a cell.” he paused. ”I’d rather
not do either, so
I’m askin’ nice: suffer tha
fools you gather ‘round.”

as he speaks he can
see the anger drain slow as
molasses out of
Monty’s eyes, to be replaced
by their usual hardness.
he knows this is the
best sign he’s going to get,
says nothing further.

Monty lets go a
slow breath, “as you say, Henry.”
“I thank ya Monty.”
the tall southerner shifts off
the brick wall, walks to the door.
Henry cannot think
of any other parting
words, so gives up none.

Monty opens the
door and gives Henry a small
smile back over his
shoulder, to show no damage
done; least Henry hopes. after
the door closes, he
sits, still, in the heat of his
office for some time.

Monty heads straight for
the hotel stable at a
brisk walk. once inside
he searches for his horse’s
stall, finding it he works to
saddle him. a boy
comes trotting over to ask
‘can I help mister’ 

Monty gives him a
mean look that stops him right quick,
Monty tightens the
saddle’s girth strap and checks the
bridle. he mounts, rides out of
the stall, nearly knocks
the boy on his ass. he rides
fast out of Lodeville

Scene 3

Henry hears the next
day ‘bout Monty riding out
of town with nothing
but his clothes and revolvers.
this worries him some, ‘twas not
out of character
for the man, but worthy of
worry just the same

he did go ‘round to
Monty’s hotel room checking
that it was ‘safe’ ‘gainst
those that might wish harm on his
possessions. Henry told the
desk clerk, “anyone
wants in, tell ‘em to stroll by
the marshal’s office.”

it’s almost two weeks
later the altercation
occurs. Monty rode
back into Lodeville three days
after he’d left, saddle worn.
Henry asked nothing,
simply expressed pleasure at
Monty’s safe return

Monty offered up
no illumination and
the matter lay ‘tween
them. he seemed in a better
humor than when he left, though
Henry did not say
so. he did breathe easier
‘round his southern friend

the next week was hot,
‘specially for late May, folks
saying it didn’t
bode well for the summer months
ahead. none were farmers, weren’t
farm land for hundred
miles, but they liked to talk the
weather just the same

Sam, saloonist of 
Scarfield’s Fancee Saloon sent
a few local boys
up Mt. Johnson to scrape out
buckets of ice near the peak.
spent two days filling
the small ice shack he’d built in
the spring of last year

Sam had made back three
times over just last summer
selling ‘ice cold’ beer
to those not allowed inside
Lodeville’s ‘nice’ places; even
hit on the notion
of chargin’ extra for a
glass he’d stuck in ice

the heat’s got Henry
worried some. hot weather is
always bad for his
business, especially when
it comes on so sudden like.
any soul knows folks
get discomfortable when
the silver rises

Henry’d seen meek men
so sick of sweating through their
shirts they couldn’t think
else to do but lay someone
out cold. even worse on men
with meanness always
dancing behind their eyes, such
as Monty LeBlanc

all that week, with the
small shack near full of glacial
snow, Sam did a brisk
business, not that his business
was generally slow, but it
followed certain ebbs
and flows: night and day, the change
of shifts in the mines.

it appeared to Sam
his patrons had decided
that sacrificing
one or three days pay was worth
not having to struggle in
this early May heat,
this is fine by Sam even
though he’s exhausted.

he even hired
two local girls to work for
him. Beth washed glassware
in the small kitchen (only
used for washing and making
coffee); Janice moved
among the tables bringing
refills, taking coins

he’d need to hire
them before, holidays and
high summer, but was
unusual now. Sam watched
Janice as she worked
‘round the floor, watched for
the groping, pinching hands of
ill-mannered patrons.

some handling was
to be expected, but Sam
knew from first hand the
fearsome tongue lashing he would
receive from Susan, mother
of Janice, if those
hands grew bold and left any
marks on that pale flesh

over the winter
Janice had turned seventeen.
by weeks-end Sam and
his ill-mannered patrons have
noticed a change since they’d last
seen her, changes in
her body that any man 
would have noticed

Sam notices an
other change too, those patrons
whose toes are trod on
‘accidentally’ after
their hand enjoys the curve of
her ass too long, too
much, find out as well: she can
take care of herself

Scene 4

Wednesday is the 1st
of June, heat holding steady.
Monty steps into
Sam’s Fancee Saloon just shy
of noon to collect wages
at a poker game.
the room is full of the smells,
sounds of drinking men.
 
there are very few
tables with an open seat
and only one of
these would be worth his time to
sit down at. trouble was, this
one chair faced neither
the front door nor the mirror
above the long bar

wanting to weigh his
options and wait to see if
another table
opens up, Monty walks to
the bar. Sam hurries to meet
him, bottle in hand.
the bottle is from a case
reserved for Monty

for he has paid, quite
dear, to have it brought by rail
from the Dalton Bros.
Distillery in Franksburg,
Kentucky where they have been
crafting the finest
Kentucky bourbon for near
on a hundred years.

Sam keeps the case in
his store room, a fresh bottle
beneath the bar. Sam
grabs a glass on his way, fills
it, sets it gently in front
of Monty, who takes
the glass careful not to spill
any and downs it

he grimaces, the
first of the day always burns
“coffee as well, if
you happen to have some fresh,
Samuel.” he looks glumly back
at the one table
it’s one chair, not listening
to Samuel’s answer

“I think Beth’s got some
just comin’ to a boil now.”
he pauses looking
at Monty. “shall I, uh, have
Janice bring it to ya or
are ya, uh, standin’.”
in answer Monty grabs glass,
bottle, walks away

he’s an impatient
man in general, after a
quick assessment of
his funds this morning, he is
more restless than usual.
cards fan in his head,
odds unfurl piles of coins and
bills grow before him

with these thoughts in his
head Monty LeBlanc heads to
the one time-worthy
table in Sam’s Saloon to
sit down to a game of low
stakes poker on the
first day of July facing
nothing but a wall.

the men sitting ‘round
the table look up when he
approaches, two shift
in a way that speaks prior
knowledge of Mr. LeBlanc,
perhaps only by
reputation. but none stand.
Monty clears his throat

“excuse me kind sirs,
might I interrupt your game
long enough to join you gents
for as many hands as may
pass a few hours?” the faces
‘round the table show
resignation, confusion,
simple apathy

the men grunt, shrug. one
who’s still got his ma’s manners
raises a hand to
motion to the empty chair.
“I’m wonderin’ if any
of you gentlemen
might swap chairs with me,” Monty
smiles with all his charm.

he’s unsurprised to
see flat refusal on the
dirty faces. for
a moment he considers
threatening or beating the
seat out of one of
them. then thinks of Henry and
his promise to him.  

Monty grunts, pulls out
the chair. shifting his holster,
he sits. he plays. don’t
cheat neither, these four watch him
close, he just plays the odds and
easily reads the
lines in those dirty faces.
Monty LeBlanc plays.

the ebb and flow of
cards soothes him, tonic he drinks
slow as the bourbon.
the morning’s unease slowly
recedes. Monty does not win
every hand, he’s no
need to: the pile in front of
him grows steadily.

he does not take big
risks. if one of the men, say
the one in the crushed
blue billed cap, gets that look in
his eye, or a smile touches
the corner of his
mouth, then Monty folds. sure to
make a sour face first.

he’ll widen his eyes,
stifle a smile when all he’s
got a ten high. raise
until the others fold on
good hands. this is all much more
work than cheating, but
he can abide an honest
game once-a-while.

“patience a virtue,
young masta,” his mammy had
said when he threw a
tantrum over something he
wanted. he’d had her punished
for it once he was
old enough; his father beat
him when he found out.

of course he had learned
later in life that she in
fact had been correct,
patience was useful some of
the time. honest poker is
one of those times. To-
day is one of those times, he
has nowhere to be.

Cyrus McCall walks
into the Saloon almost
an hour later, he’d
watched Monty enter, then went
elsewhere for liquid courage,
steeling himself for
the task he’d set for himself
early this morning

the Colt, held in a
right hand that tremors as he
walks through the bat wings,
is six years old; it had been
converted to rim-fire shells
two years gone. looks like
it has spent most of it’s life
in a miner's pack.

the wood grips are scratched,
pocked. the metal shines but dull
in the brightness of
the day-filled saloon, the frame
has been nicked in one or two
places. yesterday
Cyrus fired a few rounds to
make sure it still worked.

the cylinder turns
a bit stiff, the wound in his
forearm thrums. but that’s
all fine and dandy. if his
not-to-well-thought-out plan works,
he figures he will
only need the one shot to
kill Monty LeBlanc

no one notices,
no one looks up as Cyrus
McCall stands inside
the crowded saloon shifting,
craning, scanning the faces
he sees there, nervous
and cold now the time has come,
this final moment

no one notices,
no one stares at the weapon
unsheathed, hanging limp
by his side as he now spots
Monty’s back. a look
of dumb elation
darts cross his face, moving towards
the poker table

Cyrus slowly pulls
back on the hammer of the
Colt as he walks. the
hammer locks, the cylinder
turns with a solid metal
click crushed by the noise
of the barroom, lost ‘neath the
plinking piano

Janice is at the
table with an earthenware
pitcher that sweats in
the heat. she offers beer to
the players, they nod and grunt.
as she fills their mugs
she takes the moment to look
at Mister LeBlanc.

she’d heard the gossip
around town about him and as
she had brought him cups
of coffee over the hour
she’d studied his face. his hat,
pulled low, shadowing
his pale blue eyes, frustrating
her careful study.

now his planters’ hat
is off, resting on it’s crown
at the edge of the
table beside him. she stares,
searching those blue eyes for the
danger she had heard
about, to see if she could
find a killer there.

Monty watches her
from the edge of his vision,
keeps his attention
focused on the game. Janice
sees Cyrus behind Monty,
thinks nothing of it.
Cyrus raises the gun to
the back of his head.

“die you soft-handed,
cheating, son of a whore.” he
growls low. his finger
tightens ‘round the Colt’s trigger.
hammer speeds forward, strikes the
firing pin. in
turn striking the rim of the
round in the chamber.

Janice’s eyes go
wide, her mouth drops to an O.
Monty looks fully
into her face a moment.
then hears the click only a
trigger makes and he
uselessly tenses against
the coming thunder.

none comes. the casing
is flawed. the rim crimped where the
pin strikes. primer does
not spark. powder grains do not
flash. there is no expanding
gas. the lead bullet
does not twist anti-clockwise
out of the barrel

Monty is moving
before he can think about
moving. he does not
register Janice’s scream
that cleaves the room’s noise in twain.
Cyrus barely has
time to comprehend the Colt’s
failure to go off

no more than three breaths.
Cyrus McCall sprawls against
a table and two
men enjoying themselves but
moments before. five bullet
holes in a gory
pattern and a spreading stain
of blood mar his shirt.

“five rounds! five Satan
spawned rounds!” Henry’s voice
rattles the thin planes
of the Marshall’s small office.
Monty’s countenance is still.
“why not pull both guns
kill the whoreson cur again
just for good measure.”

“maybe you’d have got
lucky, only struck one more
by-stander. ‘cause of
you I’ve got two men at Doc’s.
one’s probably gonna get
his God-damned leg sawed.
other’s gettin’ measured by
the undertaker!”

“how hard would it
have been to hit him, cut him
again or Hell slit his neck?
anything but shoot him five
times point blank you genteel fuck!”
Henry’s inches from
Monty, crimson. he retreats
‘fore he strikes his friend.

“he was trying to
kill me Henry. he would have
done so had his revolver
not chosen that moment to
misfire. I did not stop to
think about what I
was doing.” Monty’s voice is
tense, his face still calm.

“you could have just shot,
him one time, thinking or not”
“it has been my lack
of thought that has more than once
saved your sorry, ungrateful
skin if I recall.
so I’d not be so hasty
to judge where I you.”

“it’s nearly got me
broke, jobless, or dead more times
then I care to count.
I’d not laud that virtue, were
I you.” Monty takes a deep
breath, exhales. holding
Henry’s gaze steady,
choosing his words with much care.

“I apologize
my friend. I’ll pay the doctor
for his time and leave
some money for the two men.”
Henry knows it stings Monty
to utter those words
but his mind still seethes with the
mess that he has made.