The world is a strange place, except for the Lucky Nickel Saloon, where nothing much ever happens. Which is lucky, all in all, as us regulars like it tranquil.
Take Dan Murphy, for instance. A body expects Dan to ride in to Laramie now and then and pass the time of day telling whoppers. We always listened proper, for he told the best fish stories in Wyoming Territory.
But when he let on he'd caught a mermaid on the Medicine Bow, we gave him what for. The result, I declare, was not tranquil.
Dan didn't appear at the time in a tale-telling mood, but we cranked it from him. Looking back, I reckon he just dropped by to wash down some dust--he looked a bit road-weary--but we got to egging him on and he let spill. Telling tales was such a habit, it was hard for him not to. I could see he wanted to swallow the words back right off, but too late. First he allowed as how he'd been fishing, then "I got me this mermaid," he uttered, then looked like he said something he hadn't ought.
"Well, what kind of bait did you use?" Casper inquired, eyebrow wiggling above his eyepatch. "Worms, or did you offer to take her dancing?"
We all bust a gut laughing, including a newspaper fellow, Sam Something, who'd stopped to wet his whistle while waiting for a train to go back east. We could poke fun at Dan, we knew, being friends, even though at first glance you'd figure Dan for an ornery cuss, as he sported a perpetual glower on his dark, bearded face like he'd et something disagreeable or Mexican. He had one black eyebrow above beady black eyes. That and the fact that he and an ox could play teeter-totter made him a force to be reckoned with.
We took Dan lightly on this particular tale, which we soon found we ought not. Dan did not favor us with so much as a grin. No, he just scrunched over the bar, shoulders arched like a steel bridge, and glowered into his mug. Mick also didn't laugh as he never laughed at paying customers before they'd paid.
"Well, I knew a girl once who ate worms," Casper offered from over by the piano where he worried a gin bottle. "Boy howdy, could she kiss. But her breath left much to be desired." His attempt to lighten up the situation fell like a dead pigeon.
We intended our laughter to be good-natured, but Dan didn't see it. He took a lungful of a sigh, downed his brew in one gulp, wiped the foam off his formidable black mustache, slammed the mug down and stalked out, toward his wagon, hitched out front. He looked neither left nor right as he did so and he looked none too happy.
"Hey, Dan, old friend," Banky expressed in alarm as he followed the man to the batwing front doors, "what gives?" Dan had that red-eyed frowny glare which might indicate imminent gunplay on a lesser man.
"You figure Dan'll come back guns a-blazing, Tom?" Banky inquired of me.
Banky was a tolerable crack shot with his Colt which he always carried, and as Dan couldn't shoot worth diddly, it wasn't his life for which Banky feared when Dan stalked out. No sir. But Dan had had a snootful and when he did such, he was apt to strap on his rusty piece and ventilate the local woodwork. Dan couldn't shoot, but that wouldn't stop him from trying if he'd been righteous annoyed.
"Well, uh-oh," Casper observed. "Should we hightail it out of here and hide until the fireworks is over?"
Mick slapped down the mug he'd just pulled for Sam in front of the man with a solid smack and gave Casper a sternful eye. Our taciturn Irish host wouldn't close for man nor Indian, no matter how riled either was.
"Should we go after Dan and try to humor him?" I wondered.
Banky spat. Ping. "I reckon he's had time to repent, or arm himself, if he be so inclined." He unbuttoned his vest to facilitate more ready access to his Colt. The gesture was reflex, no doubt. As he and Dan were as tight as two mice in the same spittoon, he wouldn't kill Dan for firing first, but he'd no doubt fire a few rounds to scare Dan back into sober contemplation of more agreeable options.
"Maybe he won't come back," Mick suggested. "His tab is pretty steep."
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