“Wilber, I done found the girl of my dream.”
“Archie, you find the girl of your dreams ‘bout every week. Who’s it this time?”
“You don’t know her Wilber. She moved into the old Parker place, down by the river.”
“You meet her at the Longhorn, like the last one?”
“I’ll bet it was at church,” Wilber said, grinning.
“Wilber, you know I don’t go to no church. She’s perfect Wilber. She’s got brown eyes, big tits, and can shoot the eye out of a crow at 50 yards.”
“What’s her name?”
“I ain’t really sure. I think her first name is Annie. Last name is a tree name.”
“Apple, prune, cherry?” Wilber offered.
“Ain’t a fruit tree.”
They both stopped talking while covering their nose and mouth from the dust the stagecoach kicked up. “Sure wish it would rain,” said Wilber.
“Oak,” said Archie, “her last name is Oak. She’s a big girl Wilber, near as big as me. I gotta go Wilber, she’s gonna teach me how to shoot a long gun.”
Archie was asleep. His chair tilted back against the
window sill of the Longhorn Saloon, his chin on his chest, his boots resting on the hitching rail.
“Psst, Archie” Wilber said, peering around the corner of the saloon. Wilber nervously glanced around, then stepped up on the boardwalk and touched Archie on the shoulder.
“Archie, wake up!” Wilber said.
“Huh, wha?” then his eyes focused on the long thin face of Wilber.
“Archie, you gotta see this. There’s a feller upstairs with Wilma. They’re gonna do the dirty and the window’s open.”
Not to miss some excitement in this sleepy town, Archie followed Wilber up the creeky wooden steps to a landing, where they peered into the window. The sun hadn’t reached overhead yet, but it appeared the drover was drunk all ready.
The drover was naked from the waist down, but had his shirt and hat on. He was holding his pecker in one hand and his pistol in the other, and was chasing Wilma around the bed.
“Whooee,” Wilber shouted.”That looks like fun.”
The drover, his shirt tail flapping, heard the voices from the landing and fired the pistol through the window. Wilber leaped backward, slamming into Archie. The combination weight of the two men shattered the guardrail and both men tumbled to the ground.
Mrs. Simpson, and her daughter Emily, were passing by at the time. Mrs. Simpson clapped a hand over Emily’s eyes and hurried off, tossing back the words, “Shameful Whore-sons.”
“Help,” Archie cried. One hand squeezing his thigh and the other feebliy waving in the air.
“Damn, that drover is pissed,” Wilber said, standing and brushing himself off. “Get up, Archie. That loco might take another shot at us.”
“Wilber, listen closely, you need to go get Doc Vincent. I think my leg’s broke.”
The next afternoon, Archie was sunning himself outside the Longhorn saloon. His leg in a cast, his crutch leaning against the hitching rack.
“Psst, Archie,” Wilber called from the alley. “Mable’s hanging her bloomers out back. You wanta come look?”