thaiff carson ---"frontier justice".

a slow , dry wind pushed small breaths of dust across the browning prairie . what were now , dwindling patches of tenacious green , everywhere seemed forced into gradual retreat from the sun's relentless pursuit . it was very hot that day. nothing unusual for this season as the sun , an orange-white orb in the sky , showered down its disdain upon all beneath it , continuing to mercilessly bake the land. no rain for over a month in silvercreek , colorado-- population counted ,just four years earlier --during the mining boom , at 321 .

the young drifter peered into the "olympus" saloon scanning the place before making his entrance .his sharp eyes quickly made note of the faces and features of each person while drinking in the crucial details of the room .

as he briefly stood at the entrance , glancing at the scene inside ,the outside world once again for him completely faded away , totally absorbing all his attention into what was beginning to unfold before him .

he swallowed his fear and his rage as the natural actor in him now instantly donned its deceptively jovial mask in order to carry out the role that chance had driven him to play .

adjusting to the reduced light from the dirty windows of the drab building ,as always , tirelessly paying the closest of attention to details , he quickly focussed upon the stocky ,dingy shirted man behind the bar quietly pouring a shot of brown whiskey past his dark , bushy moustasche .


behind the bartender , an old portrait created by one member of numerous obscure legions of never-to-be-known painters , hung on the wall .

from inside the decaying painting , forever captured in the moment , shamelessly gazed a naked and very well fed woman.

a fan of feathers in one hand attempted to cover nothing as she posed reclining seductively upon a louis 16th styled cheap imitation couch .

a halo of unattended grime gathered around the edges of the picture's frame .


a solitary old man , in worn derby hat , frayed shirt ,and run over shoes leaned at the bar . in patched , checkered britches on spindly legs he slouched over an almost empty whiskey glass . his pot belly quietly rising and falling as if lingering near sleep.

in the far corner , a light coating of dust mixed with years of ash and old tobacco burns rested upon the scratched and battered wood of the unoccupied piano bench .

the piano's yellowed , chipped and broken keys had paused silently for over a year since that early spring when 'diamond' jack nulty , the last person left in town who knew how to play it -- fancy clothes smeared from mud and horse manure --was found laying dead and penniless-- face down in a puddle on main street after three days straight of whiskey , laudnum and whoring .

the fumes from years of trashy three-for-a-nickel cigars and glowing tobacco pipes held in the stained teeth of mouths too numerous to count imposed their presence upon the atmosphere . mixed in also , was the everpresent aroma of stagnant perspiration unsuccessfully masked by garishly sented "french" toilet water which seemed to coat the dismal ceiling and still hung in a thin cloud dryly in the air .


at a table in the corner opposite the empty piano sat an unshaven gambler in scuffed shoes , wrinkled light-brown trousers and paisley vest . the sleeves of a white shirt ,as dingy as that of the bartender, rolled up to the elbows . he fiddled with a silver dollar absentmindedly, rotating it along the back of his hand from finger to finger .

across from the gambler sat a drab-looking saloon girl with corpulent unpainted face .with no customers in view her attention seemed captured within the hand of solitaire that she was periodically cheating at .

at the next table sat what made the young drifter immediately step forward into the saloon .


he was a middle aged man in his 40s --old boots with dusty spurs , denim pants , light-blue muslin ,button-up , collar-less "grandpa henley" shirt . on his head rested a wide brimmed tan hat discolored by sweat . his beard --just beginning to grey .

from the closed breast pocket of the man's shirt, the glint from the hanging slender post of a fancy gold watch chain met the drifter's eyes and had confirmed his suspicions .


"how do" , said the young man to the startled bartender as he quietly walked in , turning also to tip slightly his hat towards the lady .

"howdy" replied the bartender routinely eyeing the kid from floor to ceiling .

the bartender , the saloon girl , and the gambler --all from habit , quickly noted and were clearly unimpressed by the , dirty boots , high waisted , mud-brown , v-backed , "duckin" trousers with canvas suspenders ,that were walking up to the bar.

the crumpled , over-sized , ranch hand's "frontier" drawstring shirt --pleated , coarse and loosely billowing around his too narrow ribcage , did little to reverse their estimate.

the old dog-earred hat atop the unkempt thicket of hair-- confirmed to them that there was no big-spender before them .

"what'll it be , young feller ?" the bartender asked , trying not to sound too disappointed .

"gimme a double whiskey" , the kid replied plunking a heavy coin on the bar . the sound of the money seemed to stir the derby hat old man from his slouch as he almost straightened and then turned to get a better look at the stranger .


from his table , the watch chain man shooed away one of the room's buzzing flies , sipped his beer and went on chewing at another slice of the saloon's tough, complimentary salted meats .

he was also carefully eyeing the kid ,and making note ,not so much of his clothing , atfirst , but instead , silently taking notice of the shortbarreled colt the kid wore --with less than a five inch barrel , a favorite of gunmen for its quick drawing abilities.

he also noticed the well crafted holster that it was carried in. the leg ties--leather strings that held the holster in place for quick weapon access were tied down. the hammer loop on the holster --the leather thong that helped keep the pistol in place and also helped prevent its accidental discharge --was off .

the older man felt , in the pit of his gut , at first , strangely uneasy about the kid , but looked again at the boy's ill-fitting clothes and tried to dismiss the discomfort he felt by wondering to himself how many wheel barrows of manure did "this hayseed" have to shovel in order to earn enough cash to pay for the expensive hardware and fancy holster that he was wearing ?