Summary: Joe is a regular at the Silver Dollar Saloon, so let’s look at some of these moments from the view of Sam, the bartender.

Rating: PG   Word Count: 7400

In The Springtime

Chapter 1

I stand outside the Silver Dollar Saloon with my hands on my hips, watching the people come and go. The long winter is over, and the town hums with activity. Farmers and ranchers come to buy seeds, tools, and farm equipment.

I can recognize Joe Cartwright even from a distance by his slender figure and green jacket. He’s driving his buckboard team around the corner and down C-Street so fast that passersby dodge sideways, enveloped in dust. Nowadays young people are always in a hurry.

Little Joe nods at me with a grin and taps his hat when he draws level with me. The clatter of hooves and the rattling of wagon wheels almost drown out his cheerful “Howdy, Sam!”

In contrast to his more laid-back brother, Adam, and unhurried Hoss, the boy is always on the move. When he mounts a horse, he doesn’t use the stirrup as a sensible fellow would but swings into the saddle with an easy, fluid motion.

He will stop at the mercantile to pick up supplies, as he does almost every Wednesday. Then he’ll drop into the saloon for a beer, even though his father doesn’t want him drinking that early in the day.

I watch him jump off the buckboard in front of the store with a smooth leap. He takes the two steps in one and stops on the sidewalk. His bow furrows as he fumbles in his pockets. I have to smile when he finally pulls out a crumpled sheet, smoothes it, and hands it to the storekeeper.

When you’re young, your mind is on pretty girls, wild horse races, and parties with friends, and you don’t have time for trivial things such as supply lists.

Roy Coffee thinks he’s well-informed about what’s going on in the city, but the truth is it’s the bartender who knows it all. I’m a fellow nobody pays much attention to. I serve drinks and keep the guests comfortable. Sometimes, a drunken cowboy, miner, or drifter will come up and pour his heart out. I take Doc Martin as an example and keep people’s secrets to myself unless it’s criminal. There are times when a man needs someone to talk to, and he often finds it easier to confide in a stranger. Since I am interested in my customers, I am happy to help with advice or an encouraging comment.

With the saloon still empty, I walk down the sidewalk and sit on a bench. I pull an apple out of my pocket, rub it over my black vest until it shines, and bite the sweet, juicy fruit. From my seat, I have a good view of the main street and its big junction.

The hot sun burns my face and scalp, which is still pale from winter. I’ve never had a mane as thick as Little Joe’s, and now that I’m getting older, bald spots are starting to show.

The boy carries a flour sack out of the store and throws it on the back of the wagon. In a characteristic gesture, he wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then removes his jacket and tosses it over the back of the seat with a careless flick.

“Good morning, Sam!” Esther Wheat, Feed and Grain’s owner’s daughter greets me as she hurries, leaving a faint hint of orange. Her name is an ongoing joke among the farmers. The heels of her buttoned boots clatter on the wooden boardwalk, and she swings her hips. Since her parents’ house overlooks the street, I assume she sat at the window waiting for Joe. She wears a purple dress with tiny white polka dots, a matching hat, and a woven basket on her arm. Her black curly hair, always too unruly for a decent updo, and her pretty heart-shaped face with big dark eyes make any man’s heart beat faster.

I heave a sigh. I’ve never been married, and I probably never will be. With my thinning hair and girth, I’m not very attractive. Except for the saloon girls, no women come to my saloon, and I don’t go dancing. So, where would I get a wife?

Joe comes out of the store with a heavy wooden crate and drops it on the bed with a muffled groan. He usually has Hoss with him and lets him do the hard work while he flirts or pretends to be busy.

Speaking of flirting. Joe has caught sight of the approaching girl. I see him straighten his shoulders, adjust his holster, and casually undo another button on his half-open shirt. I can make out a shimmering film of sweat on his chest. Joe taps the brim of his hat. “Hey, Esther!”

“Hello, Little Joe!”

“Are you shopping too?”

“Yes, Mama needs apples for a pie.”

Joe maneuvers the girl to the store’s front, then rests his palm at head height beside her, giving her a deep look down his gaping shirt. “Will you go dancing with me on Saturday?”

Giggling, she strokes his cheek with her fingertips. “Sure! I’d love to, Joe! What girl would say no? You’re the most popular bachelor in Virginia City!”

‘And the one with the wealthiest father,’ I add to myself, but Esther is a fine girl and not after money. After all, her parents, the owners of Feed and Grain, aren’t penniless either. I think she truly loves Joe, but I also know she’s not very shy around men.

Joe takes a glance around. When he realizes that no one but me pays attention, he gives me a wink, then cups Esther’s face and leans forward, bending his head in a deep kiss.

To give the couple privacy, I avert my gaze to the street. I hear Esther’s girlish, pearly laugh like a brook rippling over stones and the chuckle of Little Joe full of life and exuberant spring fever. Oh yeah, I haven’t forgotten how it feels.

Simpson, the storekeeper, steps out of the mercantile. He has his hands on his hips and clears his throat. “I got your order ready, Joe!”

“Thank you, sir!” Little Joe pulls away from the girl with a regretful face and taps her on the nose with one finger. “Until Saturday! I’ll pick you up!”

I know Joe would stop by the Silver Dollar after buying his groceries. He always does. With a moan, I get up and stroll back to the saloon, waiting for the day’s first customer. The young man has his set habits.

When I hand Joe his beer, he slides a coin across the counter. He drinks half the glass at once and sets it down with a satisfied sigh. “This is good, Sam!”

“How’s the ranch going?”

“Same as always. A lot of work in the spring. But I ain’t complaining. Anything beats sitting around the house doing nothing. We were snowed in for weeks, and I thought I was going crazy! It was as if locked in one of Roy’s cells. Only the grub was better!” Joe lets out his crazy giggle. “God, I’m glad winter’s over! Hoss and I spent hours playing checkers, and I even started reading books out of sheer boredom.” He takes another sip and wipes the foam from his lip.

“Spring is my favorite time of year. The air is fresh with the smell of rain and fertile soil, the grass is sprouting, and the calving season has started! Best of all, I can race with Cochise across the range and ride into town to meet my friends for a beer or a poker game.”

“Yeah, Joe, I wasn’t always the old fat bartender. Once, I was young and handsome, and I remember how it was. Nature is awakening, and endless possibilities lie ahead!”

Joe leans forward in confidence, although he doesn’t need to because the saloon is still empty except for us. “Saturday, I’m taking Esther Wheat to the dance. And if her parents agree, I’ll invite her to a picnic on Sunday.”

“She’s a lovely girl. You two are a good fit.”

A smile spreads across Joe’s face, and I see the sparkle in his green eyes. “God, yeah. She’s beautiful! Every time I look at her, I can hardly believe my luck. Esther smells of oranges and roses …”  His gaze turns dreamy, and I realize Joe’s thoughts are far away.

With an understanding grin, I reach for a cloth to polish the already immaculate counter, giving the boy time to reflect. I have an idea of his heart pounding, the juice flowing through his veins, and the tingling desire to touch a girl’s silky, soft skin.

Joe blinks to bring himself back to reality. Embarrassed, he glances into his beer. Trying to get the voice down one note, he clears his throat. “Um, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t usually talk about this romantic stuff. I’ll be in trouble with Pa if I’m not back on time.” He finishes his drink, putting down the glass. “See you around, Sam!”

Chapter 2

“Evenin’ Sam, give us a couple of beers!”

“Howdy Hoss, Little Joe!” I see how stiff and careful Joe moves. He’s so full of youthful energy that he doesn’t care about his body. At that age, it’s not necessary. Young men can take a fall from a mustang or ten or twelve hours of ranch work without leaving any significant traces. Except for hauling kegs of beer or crates of whiskey into the saloon, I never did much physical work.

The brothers accept their drinks with a nod.

“How’s business, Sam?”

“Good, Joe. Good. I thought about offering steaks at night, but I have to figure out if it’s worth it or if there’s too much competition from the hotels.”

Hoss’s face brightens at the mention of food. Joe, always open to new ideas, gives a wide grin. “We can provide you with Ponderosa beef!”

He takes a swig of his beer, swirling it in his mouth before swallowing. “Another interesting business idea would be cool drinks. You know that cold storage tunnel where Mark Burdette and his men used to keep ice?”

I’ve heard of it. After discovering the Comstock Lodge, the people who flocked to Virginia City paid almost any food price, which a few ruthless men had taken advantage of.

“Remember what he asked for? Ten dollars a pound for antelope meat!” Hoss throws in.

“What do you reckon, Sam, you could charge for one cold beer?” Joe’s eyes sparkle, and I can see his mind working. I’m sure he’s already calculating how much he could make.

Checking for streaks, I hold a glass up to the light. “I don’t have a clue. You’d have to bring the ice down from the Sierras in wagons. I’d have to pay men to do it. It’s time-consuming and expensive. And I’m not sure people would be willing to spend more money for cold drinks.”

“Hoss could get the ice!” the words burst out of Joe.

“Forget about it, boy. Old Hoss won’t be drawn into another of your crazy ideas! Come on, let’s sit down at a table!”

The suggestion meets with little enthusiasm from Joe. “Sit down?” Grimacing, he rubs his butt with an exaggerated gesture. “My ass is one big bruise. I’m surprised I even made it into town!”

“Bronc busting?” I ask with a sympathetic tone.

“Yeah, all week long. Pa was merciless. He said all the horses had to be broken green before the weekend.” As he speaks, his gaze sweeps through the saloon, lingering on a table where a poker game is in process. But Hoss’ warning look, coupled with a frown or the thought of bringing his bottom into contact with an unpadded chair, makes him hesitate.

“Hello, Little Joe!” Fancy, one of the saloon girls slips her arm around Joe’s waist and puts his other hand on his chest, playing with his buttons. His eyes light up, and he flashes her that charming smile that melts the female population of Virginia City. “Will you buy me a drink, darling?” Then she brings her lips against Joe’s ear, whispering something.

I know she’s trying to get him to her room upstairs, and I also know she won’t succeed. Not with Big Brother by his side, who I’m sure has instructions from Ben to keep Joe away from too much alcohol, trouble, or soiled doves.

“Miss Fancy, my baby brother is too young for such things!” Hoss grabs Little Joe’s arm to make his point, causing the girl to pout.

“It’s all right, Hoss, don’t get upset. Ain’t nothing to it. I’m just buying Fancy a drink. Anyway, I got a steady girlfriend. I wouldn’t …” He falls silent, trying to tear his eyes away from the girl’s plunging neckline, where the beginnings of ample, creamy white breasts are visible.

Stifling a smile, I reach for the unlabeled bottle I hide under the counter, pouring Fancy a drink. I charge the price of whiskey, but she gets cold tea. It’s a common practice in saloons when the girls don’t want to get drunk or want to make a better turnover, but none of my customers know about it. The tea’s color resembles a whiskey shot.

“I’ll keep an eye on you!” Hoss slaps his brother on the shoulder, tucks one hand in his pants pocket, carrying his half-filled glass to one of the tables.

Fancy is not a girl who gives up quickly. Now that the chaperone is gone, she senses an opportunity. I see her palms slide down from the boy’s hip, and a mischievous smile flits across her face. For a moment, Joe lets her have her way, then he reaches back, catches her hand, and puts it back on his waist. “Sam, can we get another round?”

Since the miners’ shift ends, I only catch a few words from them, such as ‘San Francisco’ and ‘stagecoach.’ As usual, a group of tired men with grey stone dust on their faces and clothes jostle through the swinging doors and up to the bar. For the rest of the night, I’ll be busy serving customers. When the Cartwright brothers leave, I don’t even notice.

Chapter 3

Before Joe Cartwright enters, I hear his characteristic chuckle.

Surrounded by his friends Seth, Mitch, and Gary, he makes his way to one of the empty tables right in front of the counter, his whole body radiating the power and joy of life. It’s Wednesday night, and the saloon will be packed in about an hour, but it’s still quiet.

I prepare glasses and tap a new keg of beer in anticipation of the evening rush of thirsty customers. “Hello, fellas. Same as usual?”

“No, Sam. Bring us the best brandy you’ve got. I’ll take an entire bottle!” Joe calls out.

“A reason to celebrate?” I ask, placing the requested liquor and four glasses in the middle of the table.

The boys exchange smirking glances. “Esther has agreed to marry Joe!”

“Yeah, but her father still has to approve.”

Mitch squeezes his best friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just a formality. Who wouldn’t want a Cartwright for a son-in-law?”

“Tell us, Joe, how was the date?” Gary elbows young Cartwright and grins.

Joe enjoys being the center of attention. He pours each boy a drink, takes his glass, and eyes the rich reddish liquid before sipping. His mouth curls into an appreciative smile, and he nods in my direction. “Great stuff!”

“It has to taste good for the price! After all, it’s ten dollars a bottle.”

“What?” the boy croaks, but he quickly regains his composure. He puts his hat on the table, clasps his hands in front of his stomach, and leans back.

“After church, I took Esther to Lake Tahoe in the buggy. We went to my favorite place, you know, the one with the sand and the big round rocks by the shore.”

The boys are glued to his lips and nod their heads in agreement. Seth’s mouth hangs open. He’s almost drooling.

“I spread out the picnic blanket on the grass. Hop Sing prepared a delicious meal for us: fried chicken, wine, fresh bread.”

“Get to the point, Joe!” urges Mitch Devlin.

“Did you fuck her?” Gary asks, causing Joe to scowl.

“Don’t talk about Esther that way, okay? Otherwise, I won’t tell you anything.”

“All right, I didn’t mean it.” Gary swallows some brandy. “Hey, this goes down easy!”

“After we ate, Esther was a little drunk. We’d emptied the whole bottle of Californian wine. We were full and sleepy. It was hot, so I opened one more shirt button.”

“I don’t understand what girls see in your skinny, hairless chest.” Gary, whose dark, wiry hair covers his forearms like fur and threatens to burst the top button of his shirt, pokes Joe in the front with his index finger. “A real man must have hair. Take an example from your brothers!”

The fresh, clean smell of beeswax hits my nostrils as I pour wood polish on a rag and work the counter, trying to keep up an indifferent mine.

“Hey!” Joe slaps the hand away and closes a shirt button. “There’s nothing wrong with that! Esther loves that I have all this hair on my head and not on other parts of my body. She says it makes her shudder to think of men who look like monkeys.”

“Are you calling me a monkey?” Chair legs scrape the wooden floor as the black-haired boy jumps up, fists clenched, ready to strike.

“No, Gary, calm down. It was just a quote.”

I serve two customers who move to a corner table with their drinks and continue rubbing the cloth in large, even circles over the dark brown gleaming wood. I ensure everything is clean in my saloon, although most men don’t care.

“Esther bent over me and ran her fingertip feather-light over my face and neck. She wore a dark red, low-cut dress with frills. She said she liked to show off what she had.”

Gary laughs, indicating huge breasts. “She has a lot to show!”

“And then?” asks Mitch, bending forward to hear every word.

“She leaned in for a long kiss.” Joe touches his lips as if he could still taste his girl.

“Did you get her laid?” Gary gestures with his hands and stares at his friend with expectation. “She let you?”

Joe blurts out, outraged, “In fact, it was the other way around. I wouldn’t—” He finishes his glass with a grimace, giving me the impression that he regrets telling his friends about it.

“Don’t get upset. We all know you’re a decent fellow!” Mitch shouts, slapping his best friend so hard on the back that Joe gasps.

Gary sounds sarcastic. “And so shy!”

“Always in control!” Seth exclaims, and the boys roar with laughter.

I remember my first time with a barmaid as a lad of nineteen. Little Joe should be this age as well. A young man needs to let off steam and gain experience. You have to give him enough freedom. Sometimes, I have the feeling Ben is too strict with his sons. He runs the Ponderosa with a firm hand. Although he’s a loving, caring father, he keeps a tight grip on the reins. I wonder if that’s why Joe fights back like a horse with a too-sharp bridle or if he needs the fatherly guidance. I have no kids, so I can’t judge; all I know is that the Cartwright brothers are honorable, decent men.

With a good-natured grin, I place a tray of glasses on the counter and polish them with great care until they sparkle. I don’t intend to eavesdrop, but it’s not too loud here, and the four friends don’t bother to keep their voices down. They don’t need to. Usually, people in the saloon mind their own business and ignore what’s being said at the other tables. The men are among themselves.

“How was it?” Seth grabs Joe’s arm.

“No further details. Adam says a gentleman keeps quiet and enjoys.”

“Jeez, tell us some more,” demands Mitch.

“Is she going to have your baby now?”

“Of course not! You’re an idiot, Gary!” Joe punches his friend in the shoulder.

Mitch grins with glee from ear to ear. “As I see your pa, he’d put you over his knee and give you a tan of a lifetime if she had a baby!”

“And Mr. Wheat will be waiting with the bullwhip and shotgun when your pa is finished with you!”

“Thanks, Seth, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

I don’t interfere and struggle not to burst out laughing. Nobody wants people butting in on conversations uninvited. I’m happy to be in the background, serve drinks, and speak only when asked.

Joe puffs his cheeks and blows a breath, then changes the subject. “Let’s plan our hunting trip. Who brings what? Where should we go?”

“Up into the mountains? How about Bear Peak? There’s lots of game.”

“This time of year, there’s still snow.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll bring an extra blanket.”

“Okay, then it’s Bear Peak. Does everyone agree?” Joe asks, his eyes bright. The three boys nod. There is a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation in the air.

“Will you bring your harmonica, Joe? We can play some music by the fire.”

“I dunno. I’m not really good at it. How about you bring your guitar, Gary?”

“All right, let’s see if there’s room on the horse with all the other gear.”

“One more round!” Joe pours drinks for everyone.

I smile to myself. They’re decent fellows, and I’m fond of them. Sure, sometimes they get carried away and are boisterous, like all young people who haven’t found their place in life, but they’ve been brought up well. They don’t go around yelling and shooting, harassing people, or smashing up saloons.

Every once in a while, one of them loses his temper. Joe, in particular, is hot-headed. A word or a remark in the wrong place is usually all it takes for the fists to fly. It’s normal for boys to brag and go over the top, and as long as he doesn’t overdo it or hurt anyone, it’s fine by me. Even though he once broke my mirror in a fight, I’m never mad at him. Ben always paid for his youngest’s damage. Not without complaining, but he has paid.

Chapter 4

I can tell right away from Joe’s sluggish steps that he’s not feeling well. He lacks his usual bounce. His shoulders are slumped, and there is no trace of his cheerful laugh. Instead, I notice dark shadows under his eyes, and he looks thin. His voice sounds tired. “Hey, Sam. Who’s the new girl at the piano?”

“Howdy, Joe. Don’t waste no time, do you?” My joke fails to hit its mark and doesn’t bring out the smile I had hoped for. “Her name’s Dolly. She’s only worked here for a week.”

Without being asked, I tap Joe a beer and slip it into his outstretched hand. I know my customers and make it a game to remember what they drink.

Joe leans back with his elbows on the bar and listens to Dolly as she plays the piano and sings. Her voice floats through the room, soft as silk, and its melancholy sadness touches not only me but the boy as well. She sings about a young cowboy dying on the streets of Laredo.

I see Little Joe take a deep breath and blink several times. Then he mumbles something about “darn dust in the eyes” and wipes his face with his sleeve. Putting a hand on his forearm, I nod in sympathy. I know he must still be grieving.

“Want something stronger?”

Joe gives a nod. I guess he doesn’t trust his voice.

After throwing back the shot of whiskey, he starts to talk. I must tilt my head and lean in close to understand his soft, halting voice. Joe pays no attention to the partying, shouting cowboys around him who are laughing, playing cards, or holding a girl in their arms. He doesn’t notice the thick smoke of the countless cigars hanging in the air, the sweaty people’s smell, and the barmaids’ overpowering perfume. He is trapped in his painful memory.

“You’ve heard about it, Sam, haven’t you?”

I nod. We’ve all heard.

“Gary’s death is my fault.”

I save myself the comment because I’m sure he’s been told countless times that it’s not his fault. Resting my chin in my hand, I put my elbow on the dark, shimmering wooden surface.

“You want to tell me? It’s always better to hear things not third or fourth hand, but from someone who was there.”

“Gary, Mitch, Seth, and I were up on Bear Peak for a hunting weekend. One of them brought rotgut. Bad stuff that burns your stomach. We just wanted to have a good time. Have a few drinks, talk about girls, and our dreams. Gary wanted to start breeding horses on his father’s ranch. He’d saved months for this beautiful little Arabian stallion.” Joe pauses while I serve some folks. Without seeing anything, he stares at his hands, twirling his empty glass.

“Go on.”

“Of course, our conversation turned to horses. Seth had the idea of having a horse race since I always say Cochise is the fastest pony around.” Joe clenches his fist so hard that the tendons stick out. In his eyes, I notice grief and agony, still fresh and raw. They shimmer with moisture, and his Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows hard.

“I knew it was stupid. We’d drank too much. You know that narrow, steep arroyo? It was twilight, and the path was muddy from the melting snow. But I was too damned proud to back down. I wanted to prove that Cooch was the faster horse and I was the better rider.” Joe’s voice drops even lower, and I know he struggles to keep his composure. Though reckless and young, he’s a sensitive person, and I can see how the guilt weighs heavier than a fifty-pound sack on these shoulders.

“Racing down this arroyo, bent low over our horses’ necks, the mane and the wind in our faces was great. Cochise enjoyed it as much as I did. Seth and Mitch were cheering us on, and I felt invincible and alive.”

Joe bites down his lower lip so hard I expect to draw blood. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do when he’s upset or tense.

“It wasn’t about money. It was about being right, about being better. I wanted to prove how great Cooch and I were. Well, Gary and his stallion were faster. But at the end of the race, his horse’s hooves slipped. God, Sam, I’ve never told anyone, but the sound of his head hitting the rock haunts me in my dreams. I can’t get it out of my mind.” Sucking in deep, quick breaths, Joe falls silent.

I know it takes everything he has to control his emotions, but I can tell the boy is strong. He will get through this with time and his family’s help and support. Joe’s joy for life will return.

I brush against his forearm. “Have another whiskey. The drink’s on the house. It won’t help you now, but believe me, the pain of loss will ease. I speak from experience. Later, you’ll smile when you remember the good times together.”

Joe stares into space, scratching a notch in the wood with his fingernail. “That’s what Pa says. Thanks, Sam.”

Right now, I wish Dolly would sing a different song, not ‘Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.’ She has an incredible repertoire of sad songs about lonely cowboys far from home, abandoned girls, or unhappy relationships.

A thirty-something cowpoke seems to agree with me. Swaying, he rises from his chair and grabs the girl’s arm. He’s drunk and slurring his words. “Lady, play something cheerful, not about men dyin’!”

Dolly tries to shake off the hand that clings to her with white knuckles. “I’m going to sing what I want! Go somewhere else if you don’t like it!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joe tense up. A determined line appears around his mouth. His nostrils flare, and he presses his lips together. I know what it means; I’ve seen it countless times.

“No, son! Stay out of this. Dolly can handle herself! She’s got a derringer,” I hiss at him,  but he either doesn’t hear me or has decided to ignore my advice. Joe is a quick-tempered young buck who hasn’t learned self-control yet. He is a boy who flies off the handle quickly and sometimes has trouble restraining his temper, but you can count on Joe if someone is being treated wrong or if a man bothers a girl. He never fears, and he never shies from fighting.

The drunk man sticks a crumpled dollar into Dolly’s cleavage. “I’m the paying customer, and you play “Sweet Betsy of Pike” for me, got it?” He shakes the girl, causing her head to bob.

“Get out of here! You’re hurting me!”

That’s what Joe’s been waiting for. With three quick steps of his skinny legs, he’s at the cowboy’s side. He grabs a handful of his jacket and yanks him around. “You leave the lady alone!” His words are punctuated by a fierce warning glare from his green eyes.

“Why are you butting in, boy? This is between grown-ups. Go home to Papa. Are you even old enough to be in a saloon?”

Joe hurls his left fist forward, striking the man’s cheekbone. A startled scream escapes the cowpoke. The confusion on his face turns to fury. He lunges headfirst at Joe with a roar, reminding me of a mad bull. They both go down, quickly surrounded by onlookers blocking my view. Fights are always entertaining and exciting, but I don’t tolerate them in my saloon. Let the boys knock their heads in the street.

I’m not concerned about Joe. He’s agile and sinewy as a cat and has a surprising amount of strength for his size. He’ll have no trouble with this fellow, even though he’s half a head taller. A patch of green jacket flashes now and then. I reach for my shotgun, which I always keep tucked away behind the bar for such an occasion. Drunks usually come to their senses when they see a black muzzle. I hear grunts, gasps, the clinking of glass, the breaking of a chair, and then a yell.

“Watch out, Joe! He’s got a knife!”

The following scream is similar to a wounded animal. The jeering crowd falls quiet, and the dead silence sends chills down my spine. “Oh, God,” a young man mumbles, turning away, his face an unhealthy shade of green. Another bows his head in dismay.

“Let me pass!” In this case, my massive stature is an advantage. I use my elbows to push the men to the side, dreading the sight that awaits me. A ripped-open belly with guts spilling out? “No, God, please!” I pray to heaven, even though I’m not very religious. The sight makes me freeze, and bitter bile rises in my throat.

Joe lies on his side, eyes closed, face contorted. He pulls his legs to his body and presses both hands to his crotch, where the red of fresh blood is eating into the bright fabric of his pants.

My shotgun blast to the ceiling brings the dazed crowd to life. “Everybody, out!” I yell, “Get the doctor and the sheriff.” My gun barrel points to the drunken cowboy crouched among broken glass in a puddle of beer, the bloody knife still in his shaking hand. “You’re not moving!”

I can’t stand the sight of blood. Still, I must act. I throw the shotgun to the floor, drop to my knees beside the injured man, and touch him on the shoulder. Joe opens his eyes. I can tell by his dull expression that he is in great pain. His lips are white and bloodless, and he breathes too fast through his bloated nose. His face, which is otherwise so radiant and fresh, has a paper-white color. I don’t know what to do. Stop the bleeding? How can I? Where the hell is the doctor? My thoughts race as I run my fingers through my hair. Should I look for Paul Martin? No, I can’t leave Joe.

The boy lifts a bloody hand in search of me. His fingers find the fabric of my white apron and cling to it. “Tell Pa … tell …”

I bend to hear the whisper, drowned out by pounding footsteps on the wooden sidewalk. “Doc will fix you up. Everything will be fine. Take it easy,” I whisper, trying to look everywhere but at his pants, shimmering deep red and damp.

Two men burst into the saloon, and I only glimpse the sheriff grabbing the cowpoke by the arm and dragging him outside.

“Paul!” All my relief is bundled up in this one word.

Doc Martin is a capable physician. Although still panting from running, he wastes no time. He opens his bag and pulls out a thick bundle of white cloth towels. “Get him on a table. Grab a lamp.” His instructions are short and to the point, his movements are quick and efficient, and I’m glad to be able to do something.

Joe is a lightweight, not a hundred and fifty pounds of him. I scoop him up and place him on a cloth-covered tabletop. He’s too tall. Bent at the knees, his lower legs dangle over the edge. The thought of Hoss always calling him ‘Shortshanks’ forces into my mind. Little Joe’s right hand is still clenched to his crotch, the other clutched in my apron.

While the flickering light of the lamp brightens the scene, Paul pulls the boy’s arm aside and unbuckles his holster and belt, muttering under his breath. Ashamed and sickened, I avert my gaze as he unbuttons his pants with flying hands. I’ve seldom seen the doctor so frantic. “Heck. Hand me the cloth, Sam. Hurry!”

I press the bundle into the doctor’s outstretched hand. He will try to stop the bleeding. He must succeed! Swaying, I hold onto the back of a chair. The boy’s bloody fingers relax, let go of my apron, and his arm drops limp to the side. Paul looks at me with a severe face. “Sam? Get a grip on yourself! Would you carry him to my surgery while I keep pressure on the wound? He’s bleeding too badly. I can’t fix him here. I need my instruments and ether for anesthetic!”

“All right, Doc!” I slip one arm under the back of Joe’s knees and the other under his shoulders. His eyes are closed, mouth open, head dangling back. I avoid looking at his lower body, concentrating on his face. I avoid looking at his lower body and concentrate on his eyelashes, which stand out against his pale skin and damp, tangled hair soaked with spilled beer. Cartwright is a handsome boy. I can see why he’s so popular among women. If he survives, how will his future be? It’s a mercy that he’s unconscious. Is he still breathing?

It seems to be a long way to the doctor’s surgery, even though it’s only a few steps. As I lay the limp body on the examination table, beads of sweat run down my forehead and sting my eyes. Joe looks so young. If his boy dies, it will break Ben’s heart. And it is all because of this damned Cartwright honor code that doesn’t allow Joe to stand there and watch.

“Thank you, Sam. I can do it alone now,” Paul says, and I know I’m released. I can still see the doctor tearing Joe’s boots off his feet, tossing them into a corner, and grabbing a pair of scissors to cut open his trousers.

Cold dampness collects on my chest, and saliva is in my mouth. A coppery smell emanates from the blood clinging to my clothes and palms. Joe Cartwright’s blood, I think, feeling my stomach churn. Slamming the office door behind me, I stumble outside, where I vomit into the street, shaken by violent gagging.

As I step into my empty saloon, my stomach hurts, and the acid still burns in my throat. I let out a deep sigh as my eyes wander over the red-smeared puddle, broken glass and overturned chairs. I can’t leave this mess to the old swamper.

After putting the chairs back and disposing of the broken ones, I fill a bucket with water, kneeling on the worn wooden floorboards with a groan. ‘You remove blood with cold water,’ the voice of my long-dead mother rings in my ear. The metallic scent threatens to turn my stomach again.

Pull yourself together, Sam!

First, I sweep up the glass shards. Then, I wipe the blood pool again and again with a wet cloth until the sticky mass has gone. The vigorous scrubbing makes my knees ache, but only a faint stain remains. Nobody will notice.

The cleaning water has taken on a sickening reddish color. I look down at my white apron, still covered with Little Joe’s bloody fingerprints, and rip it from my body. With a disgusted sound, I crumple it into a tight bundle. If only I could remove the memory of what happened that easily.

The green fabric cover of the table where the boy lay is beyond saving. Grabbing a knife, I cut through the cloth, then yank it off in one swift motion. I’d love to put a bottle of whiskey to my lips and drink myself into oblivion, but I’ll settle for a cold glass of water. I look at my watch. The doctor will have done everything possible for Joe by now. A dull, throbbing pain builds up in my temples, and I shuffle exhausted to my usual place behind the bar.

I won’t serve any more customers tonight.

Chapter 5

Paul Martin seldom appears in the saloon. As far as I know, he doesn’t drink except for the occasional glass of brandy. His word for it is “medicine.” And the doctor takes discretion very seriously. I won’t find out anything from him. For the next few days, I’ll have to make do with the rumors that people tell each other over a drink or when they meet on the street. Everyone has a different story version, so I listen to the wildest tales, night after night. ‘Joe Cartwright is in a coma. He’s paralyzed. He’s lost his manhood or his leg.’

I listen and keep quiet. Of course, I’m anxious to know how Ben’s youngest is doing. I assume he’s still alive. Word would have spread faster than a wildfire if he had died. But how can he live with the injuries? What if he has permanent damage? How can a man deal with that?

The other fellow is in jail. His sentence will depend on how things go with Joe. Roy told me the next night on one of his usual rounds. A fistfight is one thing, but pulling out a knife and stabbing another man … I shake my head. It can happen so fast. I’ve seen it a couple of times. A man stands at the bar, laughing, holding a girl, drinking a beer. The next moment, he gets a bullet in his back or a knife in his gut because some fool has had a bad day or is just crazy or too drunk to know what he’s doing.

I let out a sigh, pouring drinks as usual. My hands do a mechanical job, but my heart is not in it. My mind is with Joe. I wonder if he’s all right. Sooner or later, one of the Cartwrights will stop by for a beer and fill me in. They don’t come to town at the moment. Ben will sit worrying at his son’s bedside, and Hoss and Adam will try to keep the ranch going. But I am a patient man. I can wait.

Chapter 6

“Howdy, Sam.” The voice makes me jump. I put the bottle of Red Eye I’ve just dusted off on the shelf behind the counter and turn to face the familiar figure. Little Joe limps through the batwing doors. Pale and stiff-legged, but with a grin, he grabs the first available chair near the door. His grimace as he stretches his left leg and lowers his butt onto the seat with a stifled groan tells me he’s still sore.

“Beer?”

“Sure! Join me in one drink.”

Sitting next to Joe, I place a pitcher of water and a beer on the table, as I never drink alcohol. Wiping my hands on my apron, I study the young man. I’m seldom at a loss for words, but I can’t find the right way to start a conversation today. How do you ask about this kind of injury?

“Sam, you saved my life!”

“Me? I did nothing. I stood by and didn’t know what to do.”  I pour myself a glass of water, spilling some, my hands shaking at the memory of kneeling beside the bleeding man, not knowing how to help him.

“You reacted quickly, sending for the doctor and chasing the people out of the saloon.”

“Can you remember?”

“No. Jacob, one of our ranchhands, told me later. He saw it all. As I lay there bleeding,” Joe points to the spot, takes a sip of beer, then pulls a face as he shifts his weight in the chair, “I didn’t realize much. Everything got warm, damp, and sticky, and my head was light. I thought this is what it feels like to die.”

“And Paul was able to, uh, fix everything?”

Joe flashes his cheeky grin and chuckles. “I was lucky. Very lucky! The knife missed my belly but hit my gun belt first. The point slipped off the leather and bored into my thigh. Half an inch lower, Paul says, and it would have sliced the big vein that runs down the inside of the leg. So, it just got nicked, and the Doc was able to stitch it up.”

Joe rubs his leg. “I’m still pretty stiff, and the scar tugs when I walk. Paul just removed the stitches.”

Voices can be heard from outside.

“Hoss, where is this brother of yours?”

“How should I know, Adam? I dropped him off at the Doc’s.”

“Pa told us not to let him out of our sight!”

“Let’s check the saloon. I got a feeling …”

“Hey Joe, there you are! Paul said you should take it easy!” Adam steps up to the table and looks at his little brother.

Joe rolls his eyes. “I’m just sitting here. I came to thank Sam.”

“There’s someone out there who wants to see you. She asked for you,” Hoss says with a smile that reaches his ears.

“She? Who?” Joe stands, stretching to peek over the swinging doors. A glow flickers across his face, and his eyes sparkle. “Esther!”

The young man runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his hat, and sets it at a bold angle on the back of his head. Tucking his crutch under his arm, he takes a step. Then he hesitates.

“I won’t need that anymore!” He tosses the crutch to Adam, who casually catches it. Without a word of goodbye, he limps out as fast as his injury allows.

Shaking their heads and exchanging amused glances, the two brothers stay behind.

“Come on, Adam, we’ll give the boy half an hour. Let’s have a drink in the meantime. Sam, would you give us a couple of beers?”

The End

Episodes referenced: Dead on Sun Mountain, written by Gene L. Coon

Quoted Songs: “Bury me not on the lone prairie.” The earliest written version of the song was published in John Lomax’s “Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads.”

“Streets of Laredo,” an old American folk song

*****

Author’s note:  Written for the “Just Joe Library” spring challenge 2024

Tags:  Sam the bartender, SJS