Tale of Turncoat

Cider Beam Springs was like a box of chocolates; chocolates enriched with those little fun snaps that pop when they hit the ground. Regardless of how the day had been going, someone was bound to cause a stirring. This night was looking to be incident free. The children were all in bed pondering the events in store for them at school tomorrow. The teenagers had their first days of work ahead of them to look forward to. The parents were either trying to enjoy the peace and quiet that the nighttime brought. The elderly...well, they never made too much noise. The vagabonds were either locked up, or done away with. As for the rest of the adults, they were either at home being single or at the local saloon trying to remedy that. If you listened hard enough, you could probably hear the tumbleweed that just bounced on by the old saloon. The tumbleweed came to a stop in front of a fairly large, all-black horse. Jack was perched on this horse outside the grungy tavern. He had been admiring the starry skies all night and decided it was time for a smoke.

Just as he reached for one of his hand-rolled cigarettes, a group of hooligans burst out of the doors stumbling over each other. Obviously drunk, they walked with high, intoxicated hopes for a chance to see the top lady at the whorehouse. She gained nation-wide renown for her services, and yet somehow managed to remain a complete mystery. The only piece of concrete information that anyone knew about her was her alias: "The Contact." Not to get sidetracked, the buffoons continually made many drunken appeals to gain entrance to her bedroom, although they stood no chance at getting in to see her. After about forty minutes of failed attempts, the rowdy, drunken bunch sulked back to the saloon, destined to stir up trouble. Lucky for them, a lone colored man walked in the tavern while they were being denied at the whorehouse. The Negro would also get his share of denial as the bartender claimed to not serve his kind. Years of pent up anger were apparent in his fixed, livid expression. He had done a pretty good job of making a scene before the ruffians returned, but it should be said that matters always have the opportunity to escalate.

"Fer' the last time boy" the manager behind the bar said, cocking his shotgun, "we don't serve your kind. Now get your monkey a-"

"Oh heeey there Ross, this darkie givin' ya a hard time?" One of the drunkards slurred, "Don't worry, the boys n' I'll take curr of em'.

"Yea, now be a good nigger n' git." Another one of the drunkards chimed in. The Negro stood his ground with clinched fists and gritted teeth. Deep down he knew the only way was to turn and leave, but now that he was a free man, he felt inclined to stand-up for himself.

As the boys closed in on him, the saloon doors swung open and Jack stepped into the saloon. His long jacket flailed with the strong breeze, revealing to everyone his artillery. His shiny sword was in stark contrast to his all black attire. There was an empty holster on his hip which was where he kept "Peacemaker." He removed his jacket and folded it over his arms, and proceeded towards the bar section. His narrow nostrils hardly flared as he inhaled while scoping the scene. All eyes were on him. He didn't look like Jonah Hex, but that was all anyone could think of. His face was a bit ghastly, yet there was an air of extreme elegance about him. His posture, gait, and mannerisms all exhibited his civil nature. His rugged facial features seemed to contradict his civility though, in fact, they were hardly more maintained than that of a hobo. The slick hair with the unkempt beard was just enough to let everyone know he had an equally brutal side to balance out his cerebral persona.

In a voice that took everyone but Ross off guard, Jack proclaimed "Confound it Ross! Can you not maintain order in this ragtag tavern? Alright gents, back away from the colored lad"

After hearing him speak, the boys were in good spirits.

"Laaad? You're a damn -hic- fool if ya think we bowin' out to a Brit." the drunkard said through hiccups.

Ross watched in horror as he was presented with the impending slaughter. After all, it was his shop's reputation that was at stake. He decided it'd be best to just serve The Negro and get Jack on his way. The men were about to spring when Ross chose to open his mouth. "Alrig-"he began, but never got to finish.

Jack flung his jacket at an unsuspecting drunkie and followed through with a thrust to his sternum. With a quick spin, he pulled the sword from the falling drunk and lodged it into the neck of another hell-bound soul. The last of the drunks was not even blessed by the sword. With another spin, he drew his pistol from its resting place inside of the sleeve of his shirt, and fired one right into his Adam's apple.

Jack then turned the gun on Ross. "I trust you no longer see a problem with serving this gentleman?" he asked with a smirk. With trembling hands and teary eyes, and not a single word, Ross managed to fix two shots of Old Crow. Jack pulled up two barstools and asked The Negro to sit with him. He obliged, shooting Ross the dirtiest look his face could muster up.

After a few drinks, Jack urged the man to be on his way. Taking heed, he left right away. Jack was also getting up to leave when he remembered his jacket. "Do make it a point to improve on your rather lousy customer service." he said while picking it off the blood-stained floor. "It would be a travesty if another incident like this were to occur." Jack turned and was ready to walk out the doors when he decided to impart Ross with one last piece of advice. With a wagging finger, he said "You must do better." and left.