Chapter Five
WOMAN PARTIES AT HER OWN WAKE
The Buckhorn Bar was the oldest surviving establishment in Gospel. Rebuilt after the fire of ‘32, and erected several years before Our Savior Jesus Christ Church, it also held within its rough-timbered walls a devout following. Wednesday nights were “twofer” nights until ten, and there weren’t many in the Buckhorn congregation who could pass up two beers for two bucks.
Perhaps the Buckhorn was so popular with the locals because, like them, it never pretended to be something it wasn’t. The Buckhorn was simply a place to tip back a few, play some pool in the back room, or two-step to Vince Gill. During the summer months, the regulars put up with the tourists the best they could, but no one was blamed if a flatlander had to be forcefully removed from a favorite stool.
The choice of music pouring from the new juke was country, strictly country, and loud enough to drown out the rattle of the swamp cooler. Last year, some smart-ass had sneaked into the bar after hours and switched George Jones with Barry Manilow. Barry had no more sung half of “I Write the Songs” before Hayden Dean picked up a barstool and put the old juke out of its misery. Now the stools were nailed to the floor.
The owner of the Buckhorn, Burley Morton, had never had a real keen eye for decor, but he did kind of like the way the new juke blinked to the sound of steel guitars and coordinated with the big Coors light behind the bar. Except for the poolroom in the back, walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a dimly lit cave. The denizens who called it their second home liked it that way.
Hope stood in the entrance, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. Although she could see little beyond shadows and glowing neon bar signs, the place reminded her of the bar in Las Vegas where she’d first met her inspiration for Micky the Magical Leprechaun, Myron Lambardo. It smelled strongly of beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and rough timber. That probably should have warned her to turn and run, but she was a bit desperate these days. She shoved her headphones into her fanny pack and took a few steps to the right so a big cowboy could squeeze past. Her shoulder came into contact with a large bulletin board, and she lifted her gaze to a flyer pinned to the cork. It was a sign-up sheet, inviting people to participate in the:
ANNUAL FOURTH OF JUL
Y
ROCKY MOUNTAIN OYSTER-EATING CONTEST
AND TOILET TOSS
Of course she’d heard of an oyster feed. When she was growing up, her family had often hosted seafood barbecues. A toilet toss? That was a new one, but, considering what she knew of the town, not all that surprising. In the five days she’d been in Gospel, she’d discovered some pretty strange things. Like the number of guns on open display. It seemed there was some rule that if you owned a truck, you had to have at least two rifles in the rear window. If you wore a belt, it had to have a buckle the size of your head, and if you had a pair of antlers, they must be nailed to your house, your barn, or your truck. The prevailing bumper-sticker sentiment could be summed up in one sentence: If you’re not a cowboy, eat shit and die.
Hope glanced at her sports watch and figured she had an hour before it turned dark outside. She hadn’t planned on coming into the Buckhorn at all, but she’d been jogging past and thought she should check it out. She hadn’t been able to write a decent article since the chicken-bone story. Walter had e-mailed her this morning and wanted something big. Preferably something to do with Bigfoot, or aliens, or Elvis. He was losing patience with her, and she hoped she might find a Bigfoot Elvis impersonator hiding inside the Buckhorn.
Once Hope’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she made her way to a vacant booth along the far side of the building. She was very aware of the stares that followed her, as if the people had never seen a pair of black spandex jogging shorts and a midriff sports bra. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore very little makeup.
She ordered a Corona, settled for a Bud Lite, and listened to the pool game in the rear. Over the whining of steel guitars from the jukebox, she could hear the couple in the booth behind her discuss something about flatlanders. The longer she eavesdropped, the more she gathered there was some sort of betting pool going on. It seemed that with the latest accident, Otis Winkler was now ahead with three cases of poison oak, two torn ankle ligaments, a broken thumb, and a cracked rib.
Hope listened carefully, then begged a pencil from the waitress. As she poured her beer into a red plastic cup, she grabbed a napkin and began to write:
ALIEN SABOTEURS HIDE WITHIN
THE HIGH MOUNTAINS OF IDAHO
In a sleepy town somewhat reminiscent of that television classic, Mayberry, aliens trick unsuspecting tourists…
Dylan hit the door of the Buckhorn Bar with the heel of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. He was absolutely not in the mood for this shit. Two of his deputies were dealing with a nasty two-car accident south of Banner Summit, another was on vacation, and Lewis was still half an hour away. That left it up to Dylan to strap his duty belt over his Levi’s, pin his star to the pocket of his plaid shirt, and come deal with the idiots at the Buckhorn.
The combined sounds of fists hitting flesh, shouts of bets being placed, and Conway Twitty’s “Hello Darlin‘ ” filled the bar.
Dylan pushed his way through the spectators and barely missed a roundhouse punch intended for Emmett Barnes.
Someone pulled the plug on Conway and flipped on the lights just as the other contender, Hayden Dean, delivered a blow to Emmett’s jaw that connected and sent him staggering into the crowd. Dylan wasn’t surprised to see Emmett involved. On a good day, Emmett was a mean son of a bitch with a little man’s complex, and this didn’t look like a good day. He stood five-seven in his custom-made boots and was built like a pit bull. Add alcohol into the mix, and Emmett was just one big beer muscle waiting to be flexed.
Dylan signaled to the owner of the bar, who grabbed Hayden in a big bear hug. Burley Morton hadn’t come by his nickname because he’d born small.
Dylan stepped in front of Emmett and put a restraining hand on the man’s chest. “Fight’s over,” he said.
“Get out of my way, Sheriff!” Emmett hollered, his eyes glazed with anger. “I’m not through kicking Hayden’s bony ass.”
“Why don’t you just calm down?”
Instead, Emmett smashed his fist just beneath Dylan’s left eye. The impact rocked Dylan’s head back, knocked his hat off, and shot needles of pain through his head. He blocked the next shot with his forearm and punched Emmett in the belly. The air whooshed from the other man’s lungs, doubling him over, and Dylan took full advantage of his position and slammed an uppercut to Emmett’s face that sent him to the ground. Without giving Emmett a chance to recover, he rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him behind his back. “Now, you just lie there and exercise your right to be silent,” he said as he patted down Emmett’s pockets and found them empty.
He stood, placed his booted foot in the middle of Emmett’s back, and threw a second set of cuffs to Burley, who had no problem slapping them on the much skinnier Hayden.
“Okay,” Dylan addressed the suddenly silent crowd, “what happened here?” He raised his hand to his cheekbone and winced.