D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
September 2009
 |
What would a writing contest in the Southwest be without at least one tale of guns and thievery? This story by Jean Roosenberg, another new winner, is set in today's Wild West — but it packs a twist worthy of O. Henry. |
One-Eyed Jack
Soon he'd give up bartending and hit the road. But first there was a dangerous customer to deal with.
By Jean Roosenberg
It was closing time at the Painted Pony Saloon. The neon clock ticked off 2:30 a.m. Jack, the bartender, had sent the last cowboy home. He was toweling glasses and thinking, Only a few more weeks until I retire. Trixie and I will hit the open road in our camper. He had just set a glass in its row and picked up another when a gust of windblown snow and a bearded man in black leather and metal studs burst through the door. Jack jumped back. His head hit the shelf holding liquor bottles. The glass in his hand fell, shattering into fragments like the stars firing in his head.
 |
Even though it was cold outside the New Mexico honky-tonk, beads of sweat glistened on the intruder's brow. Tightly gripped in his fist was a gun aimed directly at Jack. "Give me all your cash, old man." He spat the words through crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
Jack's heart hammered in his chest. He tried to clear his head. His thinning gray hair stuck to his neck in sweat-soaked clumps. A trickle of moisture trailed down his jaw. He raised his hands, hoping to distract the gunman while he moved his left leg. Slowly he slid the toe of his boot toward the alarm button. His mind raced. Got to get help. At that moment he thought of Trixie waiting at home with his usual cold beer. Will I see her again?
The thug motioned the gun menacingly. "Hurry up, old man!" He was opposite Jack with only the bar and cash register separating them.
Jack moved his hands slowly so the man could see he was going to open the cash drawer. "Okay, anything you say." His foot inched closer to the floor button.
The gunman's steely eyes never left Jack's face. Jack thought, If only this guy would glance away for a moment. I just need a second to hit the alarm and go for the gun under the bar.
Suddenly, the gunman lunged across the bar. He grabbed Jack by the shirt: "You're out of time, old man." He twisted Jack's shirt collar hard and rammed the gun into his chest.
Jack's face contorted. He felt tremendous pressure behind his eyes as blood vessels engorged. Cruelly, the robber twisted harder. A sickening "pop" and Jack's right eye fell from its socket. It bounced off the back of the gunman's hand, hit the wood floor, and rolled like a marble. The thug released his hold on the shirt. He stared in horror at the dark hole where the eye had been.
Jack grabbed the gun from under the bar. He fired a single shot, hitting the thief in his right shoulder. The gun fell from the thief's hand and spun across the floor. Jack dropped behind the bar and slammed his fist against the alarm button. His breath came in hard bursts. He heard scuffling footsteps. A sudden gust of cold air as the front door opened and closed. Squealing tires on the frozen ground sent a spray of gravel rapping against the building.
The bar was silent. Jack shuddered. He heard the wail of a distant siren. It grew steadily louder. Moments later there was the sound of tires on gravel. A car door slammed.
The saloon door burst open. "Jack!" Sheriff Berton Belding called out, "where are you?"
Still on the floor behind the bar, Jack swallowed, "Over here."
The sheriff took off his Stetson and leaned over the bar. "What-the-Sam-Hill are you doing down there?"
Jack warned, "Watch your step, Bert." He raised himself from the floor on trembling legs. "My glass eye is on the floor."
"I'll be damned." Bert patted Jack's shoulder, "I thought you were a goner. Guess that old eye trick of yours finally paid off."
Jack steadied himself, gripping the edge of the bar. "Bert," he said, "this time it saved my life."
Jean Roosenberg, who lives in Deming, first got the idea of being an author after a college career-interest test — but ignored it. Later, however, journal-writing and a creative-writing course at Mira Costa College in California nurtured that interest: "I developed friendships with other writers, many of them published authors, and several commissioned me to use my visual art skills to create artwork for the covers of their novels. I have also created illustrations for books for children."