Last summer I started writing again. I like to write things I like to read. I like a page turner, fast action, and pure pulp. I’m not trying to win awards, I’m trying to entertain.

I present chapter 1 of Lonely Loon Saloon.

The Lonely Loon Saloon

Chapter 1: Blood Bath at Dry Diggins

A man walked into the desert, scratched the hard dry dirt with the toe of his boot. “Right here.” he said, nodding to his compadre. Then they walked over to the back of the horse I was tied on to and pushed me off the back. They worked in silence, digging a hole, before one of these knuckle heads had an idea. “Hey Dale! Why don’t we make this lilly livered dog dig his own grave?!”

“Fellas, excuse me, but how ‘m I s’posed to dig when y’all got my hands tied?” I interjected.

“Well I guess we don’t care how long it takes if you’re doing the work!” Butch replied. “Now git to diggin’ or we’ll just shoot yer yella ass right here and be done with it!” Then he unceremoniously tossed me a shovel.

They didn’t untie my hands and since they planned to put a bullet between my eyes when it was done I figured it was in my best interest to take my time. I dug as slow as I could but fast enough to keep them from pistol whippin’ me.

About 45 minutes into it, they started getting real tired and were looking like they weren’t far from dozing off. The sun was beatin’ down on them fellas and the bottle of moonshine they’d been suckin’ on all day had made them good and tired. I watched for a minute, and started thinkin’ about how I might escape. I saw that despite the absence of my diggin’ and cussin’ that they had not taken notice of my contemplations.

Then, the funniest thing happened, and when I say funny I don’t mean “Ha Ha” funny, I mean funny as in odd. Somehow, someway, none of us had noticed a big old rattler had moseyed his way on down out of the brush and was baking himself on a rock mere inches from where I was employed in my labor. Well… I looked down at that snake and thought he might as well be sent by the Lord himself…sent from heaven to save my life. First I put my boot on his head, then I bent down real careful, and picked him up by placing my right hand firmly around his neck. The snake was calm in my hands, his black tongue flicked the air and tasted the dust.

“Hey Dale! Boy you better wake up now ya hear?” I shouted.

“What in tarnation are you yammerin’ about? I’m tryin to get me some shut eye!”

I still had my back to em, but he wasn’t more than about 3 feet from me when I woke him.

“There’s a HUGE rattler over here!”

“A RATTLER? WHERE?”

“Right here!” I said, and tossed that big ol snake right at him. His instinct was to catch it, which I’m sure in hindsight he’d admit was a poor course of action.

Dale hollered real good and loud and got even louder when that rattle snake sunk his fangs right into his cheek.

“GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!” He screamed. Two streaks of blood dripped down from the puncture, drops of blood landed on his boots and in the dry dust on the ground. That dang snake was latched on good. When Dale stood up, his colt dropped from his lap and onto the ground.

Butch roused from his own slumber got up and started trying to help him. Both of them were cussing me good, swearin’ and carrying’ on at length about all the ways they was gonna kill me. They were so caught up in their rage that neither of them boys noticed when I bent down and picked up Dale’s gun. Then I did what any sensible man would have done in that predicament, and I say this as the Christian pastor of Dry Diggin’s church, and as Sheriff of Dry Diggins… I pulled the hammer back on that colt and shot those rabid dogs dead. After a moment to reflect, I shot ’em both again to make sure they wouldn’t be comin’ after me once I rode off! I left Dale and Butch in the desert, but for those feelin’ unease, be assured I prayed over their souls before headin’ on back into town to finish what was started.

When I strolled back into town and in through the swingin’ doors of the Lonely Loon Saloon, people looked as if they’d seen a ghost. I must have been a sight to behold, covered in blood and bits of brain and skull, holdin’ a live rattle snake in one hand and a pistol in the other.