text: The stranger rode into town, stirring whispers about his gunslinger's jacket, and the revolver on his hip. He guided the chestnut mare past the gawking crowd, past the children pursuing a stray dog through the muddy street. He dismounted at the heart of town, secured his horse to a hitching post, and patted the beast on the neck before walking off toward the nearest building. The spurs on his boots rattled as they knocked against the half-rotted planks of the veranda. He pushed through two swinging doors and savored the smell of stale tobacco, sweat and booze. He loved smalltown taverns. He strolled to the bar and planted his elbows on the polished burlwood countertop. He slicked his stark black hair with sweat from his forehead and perused the tavern. Elderly folk ate hearty dinners while the farmers, craftsmen and cowboys mingled over whiskey and ale. He counted thirty people at most, and that surprised him. Half the population must have been there. A sightly barmaid appeared behind the bar, eyes puffy with sweat, wild hair stuck to her reddened cheeks. She seemed to the stranger overworked, and quite upset. She glared at him for the longest time, evaluating him. “What kinda man are ya?” The stranger blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “Ain’t gonna ask twice. Simple question.” “I . . .” He weighed his words for a moment. His eyes caught two unruly cowboys sitting at the far end of the bar, laughing like devils and making lecherous gestures toward the barmaid. He suddenly understood the question. And he realized her eyes were red from tears, not sweat. “I’m the kind of man you need.” “Please.” Without another word, he departed from the countertop and strode directly between the two men. His broad shoulders nearly shoved them off their stools. “What the fu-” “Afternoon, gents. How’s the cold drinks on this blistering day?” “Not that cold,” replied the smaller man. “Don’t talk to him, ya clod. He was just talking to Lucy over there. And he came right over here. Ya aim to protect her honor, mister?” The stranger turned and leaned backwards on the bar, facing the two men. “More or less.” The big man tottered off his stool and tensed his shoulders attempting to look fierce. It would have worked if he wasn’t swaying all over the place from being so drunk. “Listen, mister.” The man leaned in awful close. He wreaked of booze. “Ya can’t just waltz in here acting like ya’ve gotta big prick. This is our damn town. I think ya’ve over . . . overstay . . . overstayed your welcome.” “I’m not looking for trouble. I just want you to leave the girl alone.” “Why’s that?” The small man climbed off his seat and joined his companion. “Ya don’t even knows her.” “She asked me nicely.” “Is that so?” The big man snarled at the barmaid. She blanched and tried to look busy wiping down the countertop. “Tell ya something, stranger. She may have charmed ya with those huge eyes, but she ain’t got a lick of honor. Let a tramp be a tramp, I say.” “Leave her alone.” “Plow yourself. Now get the hell outta Appledown. Or else I’ll beat ya till your eyes fall outta your skull.” “I’d like to see you-” A fist went flying for the stranger’s face. He sunk to the floor as the big man missed and stumbled into a stool. The small man predicted the dodge and swung low, thudding the stranger just below the collarbone. A boot collided with the small man’s crotch, sending him howling onto the floor. The stranger pulled himself up, grimacing at the stinging pain in his shoulder. He hauled the big man off the stool and steadied him with one arm, pulling the other back to strike. “Big mistake, jackass.” There was a sickening crunch. A tooth ejected out of the big man’s bleeding mouth as he crumpled to the floor. The stranger rubbed his broken knuckle as he marched right up to the small man. He grabbed the bastard by the collar and slammed him against a support beam. “Got anything to say?” “Uh, I . . .” The small man was shaking like a leaf. “I . . . oh, please don’t hit me like you did Bert! I like my teeth, mister!” “Got anything to say?” growled the stranger. “I . . . yes! I’m sorry, mister. I’m sorry from the bottom--” “Not to me, Clod. Got anything to say to the lady?” “Oh, yes! Of course! Miss Lily, I’m ever so sorry for . . . uh, for everything . . .” “That wasn’t--” “It’s fine, mister.” Lily circled around bar and stood at a safe distance. “I know Sammy means it. I forgive ya, even though you’re an ass.” The stranger narrowed his gaze at the small man--Sammy--then released him. He fell flat on his rear, then scurried off on his heels, clutching his throat and gasping for air. “Thank you ever much, mister.” Lily fluttered her eyes and touched her chest. The stranger was dubious of her honor in that moment. “I wish there were more men like ya round here.” “It was a pleasure to help, miss. Now, I could sure use a drink.” “Naturally!” She drifted behind the bar and began filling a mug without asking his preference. “Ya know, I don’t even know what to call ya.” “Hal.” “Hal,” sighed the barmaid, as if savoring it. “Here’s your drink.” No sooner had Hal taken two steps toward the not-so-cold beverage, a familiar click sounded behind him. A frightening click, none other than the hammer of a gun. “Ya think you’re God’s gift to . . .” The big man--Bert--rolled onto his side and vomited blood, but kept his revolver aimed at Hal. He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand and spit. “. . .to the world. Well, today ya fucked with the wrong kinda man.” “You don’t want to do this, ‘Bert’. Trust me. You don’t want to do this.” “No, trust ‘me’. I wanna do this.” “Bert, no--!” Hal’s gun leapt from its holster. He turned on a dime, at an angle, as a bullet whizzed by and shattered a bottle on the countertop. He slapped the gun-hammer with his wrist. Once. Twice. A third time. He somersaulted behind an overturned stool, whipped around and narrowed the iron at Bert’s head. Bert’s head wasn’t there anymore. The room was dead quiet, save for the convulsing body slapping the floor over and over. Gore painted the walls, tables and chairs. A chunk of crimson rolled down a support beam. Bert was still clutching the gun. His body jerked, and the pistol fired. An elderly woman screamed and hit the floor, covering her head with an opulent, enormous purse. A bullet disseminated the purse with an explosion of fabric. The woman screamed again. “Stay down!” demanded Hal. “There’s still rounds in the cylinder!” Another projectile ricocheted then vanished. The air was still, thick with fear. An elderly man turned green as a pear, struggling to contain his hearty dinner. He didn’t succeed. Hal counted his breaths, one, two, three. Four breaths later, Bert’s corpse was finally peaceful. “Bert!” cried Lily. She flung herself at his grisly remains and clutched his forearm to her breast. “Bert, no . . .” “Sorry,” muttered Hal. “Sorry? You’re sorry?” She began to sob. “That’s all ya have to say?” “He was going to kill me.” “Ya . . . ya pushed him too far!” “I thought you wanted me to do something--” “I didn’t want ya to kill him! Ya son of a bitch! I was pregnant with his . . . with him . . .” Her face contorted with sadness. The wound reflected in her soaked eyes as she gazed up at Hal, with sorrow, with fury. “What kinda man are you?” Hal dabbed a small tear in the corner of his eye. He met Lily’s gaze with earnest, unsure what to say. She would hate him till the day she died. He said the only thing he could. “The wrong kind.” He turned without another word and exited through the swinging doors. He hated smalltown taverns.