New Harmony, Indiana
It was hot as a bonfire and twice as dry. Three men sat at a table in the saloon playing cards. One of them was named Bill Pitts, and he was one of the meanest men in the West. He played a rabid game of Poker, and he never lost. It was his turn, and he lapped at his drink in contemplation, when an unexpected form suddenly filled the doorway.
All conversation stopped, and people were drawn to staring at this newcomer, for not only was he a Mutation, but he was well-known locally as a ferocious bounty hunter with a nose made for catching his quarry’s scent. He was a biped, but covered in short brown fur. Beneath his hat was the face of a basset hound. He called himself Batholomew.
Bartholomew cast his baleful eyes about him until they rested on Bill, and it was clear to all that they knew each other.
“Well, lookie what the cat dragged in!” Bill laughed. “If it ain’t my best friend. Hey, come on over here, let’s shake hands!”
Bartholomew remained stoic. He held up one bandaged hand for Bill to see, and said, “You shot my paw.”
Bill nodded, still smiling. “Well, that’s what you get for stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong!” Now everyone at the table laughed. “Sorry to rub your nose in it, though, friend. Hey, come on, let bygones be doggones. Come on over and pull up a chair. We’ll fetch you a drink and you can deal.”
“Come on, Bill,” one of his friends spoke up. “Dogs playin’ Poker? Now that ain’t right.”
The hound stepped close to the table. “I’ll see you outside in ten minutes, or else you ain’t half the man I am.” With that, he turned and padded out the door.
Bill’s friends turned to face him. The one who had spoken earlier spoke up again. “You ain’t just gonna roll over, are ya?”
“Well, I can’t just lay down and take it. If I stay, I prove to everybody that he’s right. Nah, I’ll let him wait, and in five or six minutes I’ll step out.” He glanced outside at the carved sundial that was the centerpiece of their little town.
“Don’t touch that dial, Bill,” his other friend said. “Remember, it’s bad luck. Last three fellas who touched it got blown to smithereens faster’n they could shit.”
“Yeah, I ain’t forgotten. Come on, I winged that mutt last time we did this. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
His friends smiled again, but their smiles were less convincing than before.
At the appointed time, Bill sauntered out into the hot sun. He stood in front of the sundial, in the shade. That miserable mutt was being honorable, taking the side facing the sun. His tongue hung from his mouth as he panted in the heat, and fleas gathered around him in a small cloud.
“Whenever you want!” Bart barked across the expanse, which quickly filled with excited onlookers.
“Get ready to meet your master, mongrel,” Bill mumbled.
Bartholomew drew, and Bill did what he did the last time, drawing a split-second later to aim for Bartholomew’s good hand. He was quick, and a good shot...but this time Bartholomew was quicker. Bill hit the ground in disbelief. Pride had gotten the better of him. He thought there was no way some pretender good ol’ boy could outshoot him,but he’d been retrained, just in time to be put to sleep.
Bartholomew rode out of town, his tail wagging, his job done. Now it was time for a treat.
It was hot as a bonfire and twice as dry. Three men sat at a table in the saloon playing cards. One of them was named Bill Pitts, and he was one of the meanest men in the West. He played a rabid game of Poker, and he never lost. It was his turn, and he lapped at his drink in contemplation, when an unexpected form suddenly filled the doorway.
All conversation stopped, and people were drawn to staring at this newcomer, for not only was he a Mutation, but he was well-known locally as a ferocious bounty hunter with a nose made for catching his quarry’s scent. He was a biped, but covered in short brown fur. Beneath his hat was the face of a basset hound. He called himself Batholomew.
Bartholomew cast his baleful eyes about him until they rested on Bill, and it was clear to all that they knew each other.
“Well, lookie what the cat dragged in!” Bill laughed. “If it ain’t my best friend. Hey, come on over here, let’s shake hands!”
Bartholomew remained stoic. He held up one bandaged hand for Bill to see, and said, “You shot my paw.”
Bill nodded, still smiling. “Well, that’s what you get for stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong!” Now everyone at the table laughed. “Sorry to rub your nose in it, though, friend. Hey, come on, let bygones be doggones. Come on over and pull up a chair. We’ll fetch you a drink and you can deal.”
“Come on, Bill,” one of his friends spoke up. “Dogs playin’ Poker? Now that ain’t right.”
The hound stepped close to the table. “I’ll see you outside in ten minutes, or else you ain’t half the man I am.” With that, he turned and padded out the door.
Bill’s friends turned to face him. The one who had spoken earlier spoke up again. “You ain’t just gonna roll over, are ya?”
“Well, I can’t just lay down and take it. If I stay, I prove to everybody that he’s right. Nah, I’ll let him wait, and in five or six minutes I’ll step out.” He glanced outside at the carved sundial that was the centerpiece of their little town.
“Don’t touch that dial, Bill,” his other friend said. “Remember, it’s bad luck. Last three fellas who touched it got blown to smithereens faster’n they could shit.”
“Yeah, I ain’t forgotten. Come on, I winged that mutt last time we did this. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
His friends smiled again, but their smiles were less convincing than before.
At the appointed time, Bill sauntered out into the hot sun. He stood in front of the sundial, in the shade. That miserable mutt was being honorable, taking the side facing the sun. His tongue hung from his mouth as he panted in the heat, and fleas gathered around him in a small cloud.
“Whenever you want!” Bart barked across the expanse, which quickly filled with excited onlookers.
“Get ready to meet your master, mongrel,” Bill mumbled.
Bartholomew drew, and Bill did what he did the last time, drawing a split-second later to aim for Bartholomew’s good hand. He was quick, and a good shot...but this time Bartholomew was quicker. Bill hit the ground in disbelief. Pride had gotten the better of him. He thought there was no way some pretender good ol’ boy could outshoot him,but he’d been retrained, just in time to be put to sleep.
Bartholomew rode out of town, his tail wagging, his job done. Now it was time for a treat.
