Saturday Night at the Silver Dollar Saloon

Wolf Creek started out as a trading post in the middle of nowhere, but halfway between almost everywhere else.  But one by one, folks with nowhere else to go, ended up here.  Eventually it became a stop on the Wells Fargo stage line, then the railroad came its way, then Wolf Creek really got to moving when a silver strike was made nearby, three years ago.

Some might call it a boom town, filled with prospectors who started out with little and probably would end up broke, filled with those people in life who make their living draining drunks and dreamers of their last few coins.  I call it home and a way to get from yesterday until tomorrow.

I was born with the name Francis John Callahan,  but now I live with the somewhat unfortunate name, Black Jack Callahan.  I got the name not because of my card playing ability, but because of my jet black hair, a gift from mother, and the unfortunate loss of my left eye in a bar brawl in Abilene.  The loss of the eye and my black eye patch gave me the look of the Jack of Spades.  I have to admit the resemblance is uncanny.  I tend bar now at the Silver Dollar Saloon, not a bad job except on Saturday nights.  That's when too many people with too much money come in and get too much to drink.

"Hey, Frenchy.  You ready for a wild night.  I can feel it coming."



The End

8 comments about this story Feed