Western Omelette

Awaiting The Arrival

Hoke Easterly grimaced as he shifted his position on the rocky ground. Waiting and wondering just what his attackers might do, was becoming mighty uncomfortable – and annoying. About forty feet away, Horse, his aptly named Appaloosa, nibbled leisurely at some scrub, oblivious of its owner's discomfort.

Hoke sighed peevishly and fingered the hole in the crown of his hat, relieved, but surprised how the bullet responsible had missed his head inside.

Seemingly forgotten meanwhile, and paying little attention, were the three Mexican bandits that had surprised him with the expectation of stealing something valuable. At that moment they were shouting among themselves in Spanish, over the fact that his satchel held only some old clothes, a bottle of liniment for his horse, a small package of jerky, and an old book with the cover torn off.

He watched them, hoping that the one waving his gun around could be calmed down before any serious damage was done. The oldest looking member of the trio kept pushing the gun waver back, and eventually, the man spun away uttering, what Hoke assumed from his sparse Spanish, were profanities. Then he turned and spat in Hoke's direction before getting his horse and mounting up.

The older Mexican turned and pointed at him, forehead cramped in a serious frown, his sombrero bobbing in emphasis. "You are very locky Greengo theese time, Greengo." He tossed his head back, hands on hips, and jumped into his saddle with dramatic élan, pointing to his eyes and then at Hoke.

Hoke nodded, and pushed himself up from the ground, putting on his hat and rubbing his backside, as the bandits rode off. On top of recent events, this encounter really sucked, he bellyached to himself, while stuffing everything back in his satchel. He tied it to the saddle, thanked his horse for caring enough to stick around, swung aboard, and continued in the direction he was originally going.

Topping a rise, he halted, looking down at the road below. Off to the left, he could see the stage depot – his destination. A squeeze of his legs and a tongue click, and Horse started down the shallow incline. As he approached he saw the lazy curl of smoke coming from the tin chimney that stood at a rakish angle on the roof, and out front of the coral was a stone well, with a bucket hanging from a pulley under its sagging, weathered roof.

He stopped in front of the hitching rail and sat still, taking in the surroundings; the half dozen horses lazing in the coral at the side, the fading sign indicating that this was indeed, Twin Wells Stage Depot, the feed, and water troughs, currently empty, and beyond, miles of rolling hills. A clump of tired looking trees leaned into one another behind the depot, a scanty backdrop provided by a disinterested nature.

He climbed down, threw the reins over the rail and pushed through the door into the dim interior.

On the left were a few round tables with chairs, all well-used and abused. Lanterns stood on each one, a couple lit to give the interior some light. To the right was a pair of rooms with doors open, and the light of more lanterns hanging on wall hooks, revealed unmade beds.

Straight ahead was a counter, with a stubby, bald man watching him, at least he seemed to be watching him. It was too dim to really tell.

"Can I get a drink?"

"You got money?"

Hoke dug into his pocket and dropped some change on the counter. The man grabbed a glass and bottle from the shelf behind him, set the glass down, and slid the change off the counter before pouring the drink.
"How much is the drink, that was all my change?" He complained.

"Then that's the only one you get." The man put the bottle back on the shelf.

"You're right sociable, aren't you."