Blaze Of Glory

         “You heard me, old man.  I said you were yeller.”
         The hubbub in the saloon quieted, voices swallowed by the yawning gulf of anticipation as the locals waited for the inevitable reaction. The man’s reply was even and measured, though his voice was a rasping growl – the legacy of a lifetime of tobacco and red-eye. It was pitched low enough that the spectators craned forward to hear it.
         “Think twice, son. You don’t want to do this.” The words were matter-of-fact but the implied threat was enough to start a commotion of shifting tables and stools, a space widening around the pair.  This kind of violence was as contagious as any fever and those that caught it weren’t apt to recover.
         The kid’s face was flushed, his cheeks gleamed with the rosy sheen of too much liquor and not enough good sense. He still held the bottle of whisky, snatched from in front of the old-timer. Puffing his chest out, he sloshed the bottle from side to side in a mocking gesture. “You want this back, y’old coot? You gonna’ have to fight for it,” he jeered, every word bitten off and hurled at his opponent like a gunshot. “If you ain’t got the stones for it, I guess you weren’t so thirsty after all.”
         The old man turned to stare at his tormentor. His face was a worn block of granite, a bleak testament to a lifetime spent facing hardship head-on. No emotion crossed the weathered features but deep within the creased folds around the eyes, two pinpoints of steel glinted coldly. Again, the deep bass rumble sounded from within the old-timer’s chest. “Last chance, kid. Put it down.” No anger could be heard in the voice, but no trace of fear either.
         A few of the patrons shook their heads and turned back to their card game. They had seen this show played out a dozen times and were all well aware of the ending.
         “Fuck you, old-timer. I’ll do what I damn well please!” The bottle sloshed as it was lifted to the kid's lips. Sipping whisky dribbled over a downy moustache and the first beginnings of a beard. Then the lips were parted to reveal a grin that leaked belligerence from behind its crooked teeth.. “I guess you go thirsty, old man.” The youngster held the empty bottle out at arm's length beside him. With deliberate slowness, he opened his fingers and let it fall. Many of the onlookers held their breath as it fell through the air and more than a few flinched as it smashed against the hardwood floor, the sound seeming as loud as a pistol retort. The old man didn’t react, his impassive gaze not leaving the young buck who taunted him.
         “You wanna’ do somethin’ about it, you old fart? You can find me out in the street.” The kid was jovial, as if his smugness stemmed from some belief that this little victory would somehow guarantee success in the business that would inevitably follow. He turned on his heel and swaggered out of the bar, spurs and gunbelt clinking with every step. The spectators watched him go, their eyes following his progress. Beyond that, the locals barely twitched. It didn’t do to make any sudden moves in this sort of situation. A fellah could find himself leaning up against a bullet going past. As the saloon doors closed behind the young gun, all eyes flicked to the old buzzard at the bar.
         “You hear what he said, Clete?” the old man asked quietly, without turning his head.
         “I heard him, Amos. As did all these gentlemen.” The barman turned toward the card players at the faro table, his thick brows beetling together like dueling caterpillars. The card players hurriedly nodded their assent and the barman snorted, blowing his drooping moustaches outward for a moment. “We all heard him. You go do what you gotta’ do.” The words were gruff but there was a note of pity buried amongst them.  That pity was reflected in the eyes of every drinker in the bar.
         By way of response, the old man squared his shoulders and picked his hat off the bar. An old Confederate officer's Stetson, the hat was too dusty for the southern grey to be seen. The silence eagerly drank up every heavy footstep as the man crossed the bar. He paused just before the saloon doors and those closest would later swear they heard him sigh. Then he pushed through the swing doors and stepped out into the blazing noon sunshine. Behind him came the sound of chairs being pushed back as the crowd surged toward the windows and door, eager to see the matter play out to its conclusion. At the back of the saloon, the card players continued to flop their cards on the green felt.
         “Kid takes after his pa, I’d say,” one of them declared, puffing noisily around a foul-smelling pipe. “His old man was the just the same at that age, as I recall.”
         Another player sighed and pushed his cards toward the dealer. “I don’t recollect his pa bein’ such a damn pissant jackass,” the man muttered, tossing a few chips to the dealer and paying the price for his poor hand. “He was raised to be better’n that.”
         The next player pondered the remark, shrugged and drew another card. “I don’t ‘spect it’ll matter much longer. Damn fool idiots tryin' to make a name for themselves.The old man’s done this, what? Dozen times now?”
         One of the other players nodded his head ruefully, then leant to one side and spat a brown plume of tobacco into the spitoon at the end of the bar. “It’s a damn shame, if you ask me. Amos always said he hoped his kid would take after his mother.” Around the table, the other players nodded in mute accord. “A damn shame,” the tobacco-chewer repeated sadly.
         From outside, there was the sound of a single gunshot.