Serenity

1.Day One In The Spirit Of The West

Author's Note
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@Mrsdeemo

Bill Dawson stumbled up to the saloon with his trousers hitched up by a thick stretch of bailing twine. This was nothing new to the regulars at the 'Spirit of the West'. He grabbed at the swinging half-doors of the saloon and hiccupped, then scratched grubby nails across the tender skin of his scalp. The flesh there had long since turned a dark red under the glare of too many days in the scalding Arizona sun.

He burped, then cursed himself for giving away his condition so early in the day. The sun had barely set foot over the threshold of the morning skyline and he was already in a state of inebriation.

God damn those travelling whiskey salesmen.

And his abundant supplies. He'd made sure that he would never be without. Famine, floods, locusts, whatever the Almighty could throw at old Bill Dawson, he'd be ready, at least with a reasonable bottle of whiskey to hand.

"Mornin' Bill."

Clayton pushed the straw broom as enthusiastically as he could muster, muttering the words of welcome to the saloon's best customer.

Tall and lean, forty-five-year-old Clayton Samuels happened to be the best bartender this side of the Atlantic, and the rarest keen listener ever. His back may have started to bend under the never-ending trials of physical labour, but the blonde-haired man hung on to a legacy of faded good looks and charm.

Bill Dawson possessed neither charm, nor good looks. His wide, flat, nose had been broken so many times that he no longer remembered its original shape. His thick, bushy dark eyebrows served their purpose well and hid his occasional expression of interest in life beneath their brooding proximity.

No one really knew Bill. No one really cared. Why would they? People had their lives to lead, their children to raise, their ambitions to nourish. Why would they bother with chubby old Bill Dawson, the town drunk? Hell, he didn't recall a time he'd cared about himself let alone worry about what other folk thought of him. He'd given up that right to be worthy of anything except the bottle on the day he'd left his fellow miners to die.

Only Molly worried about Bill.

"Molly, Molly..."

While Bill muttered to himself, he swept a hand outwards and the saloon doors happily obliged by swinging open to allow their most esteemed clientele to pass.

Clayton took the opportunity to bend forward and rest his chin upon his broom handle for a few seconds. Early mornings were a killer, and Bill knew that sleep evaded Clay at the best of times, but lately he'd said that he'd been resting lighter and quicker. Perhaps the over-eager dawns of spring pricked them both into action far earlier than they found convenient.

Sighing, Clayton ushered him in with the swipe of a broad, leathery palm.
"Come on in, Bill. The whiskey and women are a waitin' on you." Then, probably considering his diminished profits of the month of May, Clayton skillfully added, "Think you can handle the latter this time around?"

Bill snorted, his full chin ducking into folds of stubble. He refused to lower himself with a reply and wobbled over to his stool at the bar. Second to last from the right hand side. Same as ever.

Clayton gave one last, pathetic push of birch sticks upon floorboards, then dragged the broom across the floor to rest it against the section of mould-ridden wall behind the staff flip-counter into the bar.

"I'm guessing that's a no then, Bill?"

Sixty-two-year-old Bill eased his large protruding belly between the oak bar and the steady, mahogany seat. He grimaced. His back twinged for the third time that morning, just there, below the shoulder blade on the right hand side.

Guess that would be the liver, if Doc Neilson was anything to go by.

Still, life went on. And luckily, so did the drink. Bill placed his sweaty palms down on the cool, sticky surface.

"Pour me my wake-up call, would ya, Clay?"

Grunting his acknowledgement, the barman reached up to the liquor shelf. Clayton caught sight of his own reflection in the tobacco-misted mirror behind the shelves. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, giving him the aspect of a warmed up corpse. Too many late nights. The new boss had been running him ragged. Bill almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

"Suppose I'll be looking at your ugly mug for the rest of the day as usual, hey Dawson?"

Bill raised an eyebrow as he was slid a small shot of brown liquor across the bar to his outstretched hand.

"That depends," he growled back, staring at the liquid as it rose and fell in the glass. The movements slowed with each passing wave and left a film of transparent arches clinging to the sides.
"On whether Hickey Harrison has anything to say on the matter."

Clayton snorted and poured himself a generous shot of the dubious whiskey. He slammed it down his throat, then banged the glass down on the bar in front of the seat next to Bill. The last stool to the right. His voice filled with sarcasm as he sneered at the empty seat.
"I'm taking a chance in saying that the late, esteemed gentleman would have to agree that your presence would indeed be an unfortunate necessity to today's state of trade. Am I correct there, Mr Harrison?"

Clayton then proceeded to cup a hand to his ear and lean his greasy head over the bar, closer to the empty seat next to Bill. He grinned at his customer before raising his empty glass in mock salute.
"Well there you have it, the verdict is in. As usual, old Hickey has nothing to say on the matter, so let's get your buzz going, and my till a-rattling. Down the hatch, Bill old boy."

Bill drained his glass and rested his elbows on the bar, his hands in his thinning grey flecked hair. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with the lack of respect for his oldest friend and sadly, he guessed it wouldn't be the last. He would find out the truth behind Hickey's murder. One way or another. It didn't add up and he could spit whenever his name was taken in vain. It still rattled him. He responded in a predictable manner, his words clipped but as yet untainted by alcoholic slurs.

"Have a care there, Barman. Hickey don't take kindly to a smart ass." 

Clayton spat into the spittoon behind the bar which regaled him with a satisfying ding.

The squeak of the saloon doors welcomed in the arrival of new customers, along with another day in the town of Serenity.