Welcome to Tall Tales on The Gunpowder Trail, a return to larger-than-life frontier storytelling.  Whether it’s boasting in the saloon, braggin’ round the campfire, or whispers rollin’ in off the trail, these tales ain’t just stories, they’re the legends that built the legend.Tall Tales is cowboy sensationalism at its finest: brutal, biblical, and bigger than memory. Each tale expands the world of The Gunpowder Trail by peeling back the layers of its myth, revealing the rituals, reputations, and raw folklore that shape the lived-in world of our heroes and villains alike. This Tall Tale takes you to the old railroad roundhouses and is called:
"What'll It Be?”

Illustration by: Carl Bork

Written by: Victor Geremia

“What’ll it be?” the bartender said. He was looking less at the customer and more at the stubborn water spots on the mug he was wiping.

The thin mountain air swept dust across the creaky saloon floors — a wretched collage of stains from spilled drinks, vomit, and blood. Woodsmoke, stale beer, and body odor hung thick from a handful of miners drinkin’ their breakfast after the graveyard shift, and men too broke or too drunk to work. The piano player snored at his instrument, each rasp bouncin’ off the lodgepole pine walls and rattlin’ the oily, dust-caked windows. A faint tappin’ of a knife edge bounced off a table from a game of hand-stab between a Mexican and a Lakota, while a tired, scarred-up whore leaned lazily on the railin’ above — her smudged makeup failin’ to hide the wound.

“Red-eye. Make it mean,” the drifter grumbled. “Don’t you go waterin’ it neither.”

“Pepper in it?”

The drifter nodded, eyes scannin’ the room. The bartender finally looked up.

“Hell, son… looks like you need two.” The drifter didn’t respond. He was a tall, lean fella — a leanness not from labor, but from lack of it. The bartender had seen enough men run roughshod by the frontier to know the difference. A dog nearby started to bark. The bartender winced, rubbed his temples, then marched to the window in a huff.“Shut that God damn mutt up!” he hollered, then shuffled back behind the bar, still steamed, shaking his head in frustration. He reached below the bar and poured the drink subtly, addin’ a thin ribbon of tobacco juice before the whiskey so the drifter couldn’t see the sleight of hand. He slid the glass across.

The drifter caught it without lookin’, eyes still shiftin’.

“Everything alright, fella?”

No answer. He slammed the drink back and ordered another the moment the glass hit the bar.

“Make it a double. I ain’t sippin’.” The bartender went right to work.

“Ya busy last night?”

“Hell, son, we’re busy every night.” He chuckled. “Shit, we got miners tryin’ to numb a case of beat knee, timbermen blowin’ a winter’s stake, and cowboys tryin’ their hand at bein’ sportsmen.”He smirked and leaned in, the little squeaks from his scrubbing fillin’ the gap.“We’re always busy.” A miner belched loud enough to rattle the table he’d passed out on.“Yup.” the bartender turned back to the drifter, “Migrant workers, prospectors, even the occasional detachment of soldiers’ve been rollin’ through. More of ’em lately.” He bent back in on a fresh mug. “Probably tryin’ to stop all these yella-bellied lawmen from quittin’ every other week.”

“Mmhmm.” The drifter took another drink.

“So what brings you to these parts?”

“Just lookin’ for work.” His eyes finally settled.

“What kind of work?”

“Oh, this and that.” The dark rings under the drifter’s eyes seemed to lighten as his whole face became clammy. “Let me ask ya somethin’. You ever hear of a man they call the Deuce?” The knife-tappin’ stopped. The Mexican and Indian stood and left without a word — knife still in the table. The whore hitched her dress and hurried back to her room. The mug squeaking slowed as the bartender replied.

“Yeah, we hear of him,” he said, caution creepin’ into his voice. “What of it?”

“I hear he runs things in these parts…” The drifter stared straight ahead at his reflection in the bar back, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, well, we ain’t associated with his kind.” The bartender’s tone hardened. “We’re a legitimate business here.” The drifter raised his hands in mock surrender, whiskey glass pinched precariously between thumb and finger.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just askin’. I just come from one of his tryouts is all.” He took a sip, eyes still forward “Know anything about ’em?”

“Look, fella, I told ya — we don’t associate with his outfit.” His hand slipped under the mahogany, grippin’ the rawhide wrapped handle of a sawed‑off coach gun.

“I was just a looker-on,” the drifter said quickly. Just warming a bench is all. “I wasn’t tryin’ out or nothin’.” The bartender released the gun and grabbed another glass to clean, the drifter none the wiser.

“Yeah, I heard stories,” he said. “But hell, if I believed all the whiskey talk, bullshit that rolled outta every bunkhouse or boxcar, I’da been swindled blind twice over by now.”The drifter smirked.  “I hear all kinds of names for it,” the bartender went on. “The Roundhouse Reckoning. The Ironhouse Culling. The Red Lead Ring.” He scoffed, flipping the towel over his shoulder. “All sounds like tall tales to me.” The drifter didn’t respond but slowly nodded in agreement with a hollowed-out gaze looking through the barback mirror. The bartender leaned in. “You tellin’ me you just watched one?”

“Watched one, nah you don’t just watch something like that.” the drifter said, sippin’. His eyes blinked rapidly. The bartender shook his head, rolling his eyes. 

“No wonder you’re a little peaked. I heard nasty stuff happens in those things.”

“Nasty’d be puttin’ it light…” the drifter replied, scratchin’ his chin nervously.

“Well, hell,” the bartender said, pourin’ himself a little coffee with a splash of the good whiskey he kept hidden. “I’m tired of the usual stories — who’s cheatin’ who, fence-cutting, miners bellyachin’ about wages-” A thunderous fart erupted from the passed‑out miner. Both men looked over and shook their heads. The bartender poured the drifter a taste of the good stuff and slid it to him. “Hell, I’ll bite, what was it like?”

The drifter nodded in thanks, took a sip, winced from the heat of it, and began.

“Ya know those rail roundhouses?”

“Yeah — with the spinning top, where they service the cars?”

“Right. Now imagine one of those, only crammed with a hundred people. Felt like them stories about the old Roman coliseums. Like a damned human cock-pit.”

“A hundred people?”

“Maybe more—fellas pourin’ outta every crack and shadow in that place, hand to God. They call ’em crucibles. The barker said it was the 190th crucible-.”

“They got a Goddamn barker?” the bartender interjected, leanin’ in hard on his elbow off the bar top.

“Yeah — and this guy’d make Barnum and Bailey look like a one-legged, hurdy-gurdy man with a sick monkey and a broke box.” The drifter shook his head. “He gets that crowd whipped up in a flurry, I tell ya.” He paused, “For a moment you forget you're about to watch people butcher each other.” The bartender stared back in disbelief. “They say they have monthly crucibles, all kinds too. Roundhouse quickdraws are your regular one-on-ones, gangs vs. gangs where ya got 15 to 20 people per side goin’ at it.”

“No shit…” the bartender said, his head steadied on the bottle pourin’ another finger's width of the good stuff for him and the drifter.

“Yup, fella in the crowd was tellin’ me they use the crucibles to settle disputes, punish people — sometimes weed out weak factions of The Gate. Says they got all different secret names and degrees of ’em too.”

“Degrees?”

“Yeah. Blood Gate Trials are for your one-on-ones that a member of The Gate offers up for tribute. Muscle recruits, enforcers, that kind of thing. Anyone can vouch for someone, but if you keep puttin’ up losers, soon enough your ass is in the ring.” He took a shaky sip, “So it’s in everyone’s best interest to only put up good stock, if ya know what I mean.”

“God damn…” the bartender said, completely enthralled at this point. His forgotten laced coffee steaming away on the bartop, “What other kinda devilment they got?”

“How ya mean?”

“Well, ya said they have degrees— whatta mean by that?”

“Hard to say.” He shook his head “A lot of its only known by the initiated. Even then only the high muck-a-mucks know the full tally. They got crazy rituals and symbols for each of ’em. Probably why you was hearin’ a dozen different names for the same devilment.”

“Yeah, I swear I hear new names all the time. Part of the reason I thought it was all bunk.” He paused, “What was the one you were at like?” His curiosity still manning the reins.

“The barker was sayin’ somethin’ about it bein’ Second Trumpet — The Gate of Twelve.”

“Second Trumpet?”

“Yeah, like in the Bible.”

“Revelation?”

“Mhhhmm.”

“So there’s seven different kinds of these?”

“If my limited effort in my studies serves me—that is before I went to seed in this damned frontier.” He offered a shaky wink and a nervous chuckle. The bartender barely noticed as his eyes were skyward trying to piece it all together in his head. 

“That would explain all the rumblin’s of Seals and Bowls I've been hearin’ about. Must be seven of them each too.”

“I see you know your Good Book,” the drifter said as he tapped a line of tobacco into a slip of paper.

“Yeah, my daddy was a preacher.” He raised his empty glass up to the light, closin’ one eye, inspectin’ it for spots, “And a drunk.” He blew out a little bit of dust he saw at the bottom of the glass, “I took after the latter.” The bartender and the drifter chuckled. “I always wondered why the early mountain folk ’round here called the Gate the End Times Gang.”

“Yeah…” the drifter swallowed. The clicks in his throat sounded like action on a Colt. “And that ain’t the half of it.”

“I know I’ll probably regret askin’, but what exactly was this Second Trumpet, Gate of Twelve stuff?” The bartender asked. 

“Twelve-on-twelve gang warfare,” the drifter said, voice low. “From what I could gather, it was a bunch of gangs lookin’ to pay tribute and earn a place in The Gate. Some split off from the Kinney gang, others ran with Jesse Evans. Don’t know how much of that’s gospel, but they were the ones picked that night.”

“Picked?”

“Yeah, when that  roundtable stops rotatin’, where the nose and tail of that car is pointed — that’s who draws.”

“Unbelievable.”

The drifter leaned in, motionin’ the bartender closer with a crooked finger.

“I tell ya what — when that barker went up to the Deuce—”

“He was there?!” The bartender’s voice cracked like dry kindling, eyes dartin’ like the name itself carried a curse. The drifter nodded. 

“Yeah. More folks. More blood. The more the scuppers are running red, the more likely he holds court. And this one…” He swallowed hard, sweat beading. “This one was a real slaughter-pen.”

“No shit.”

“The barker climbed atop a battered railcar — the one mounted on the roundtable. Held up a rolled parchment the Deuce gave him, red seal gleamin’ like oxblood on salt flats. Had a symbol stamped deep into the meat of it.”

“What was it?” the bartender asked.

“The Roman numeral twelve, with two swords crossed in opposite directions,” the drifter said, pointing each of his fingers at each other to mimic the swords.

“Gate of Twelve,” the bartender whispered.

“I reckon. When he cracked that seal open — loud as a Derringer pop — everything goes quiet. Quiet as a snowy field at midnight.” cigarette smoke silked around his knuckles as his fingers nervously tapped the bar “Stays that way too, for a half minute. Always a half a minute.” He paused. “You could set your watch by it. But in the moment, it feels like eternity. Silence in the heavens I tell ya.”

“What the hell were they all doin’ in all that quiet?” The bartender clamored for answers, “And they all heeled? Outlaws followin’ rules?” he pressed.

“That’s the strange part. I ain’t never seen more than three outlaws in one place without mayhem. But here? Silence. Like they knew what was expected of ’em.”The drifter took a long drag, holdin’ it deep until he let the smoke curl from his nose.“Then it came — the whistle.”

“Steam-fed?”

“Yeah. Not no shriek though. A moan. Long and low, like death singin’ a lullaby. That roundtable — God, I can still hear it. When she groaned to life, the gears clanked and chains rattled. The railcar spun real slow-like, passin’ each stall like the devil was workin’ a roulette table. The crowd went ravenous. Sounded like some unholy matrimony of rebel yells and savage war whoops” he said, takin’ another drag. “The barker was atop that car, screamin’ like a mad-dog preacher, introducin’ each gang as they crawled out of the shadows of the massive stalls like demons. Cheers, boos, curses — all dependin’ on which sons of bitches filled the ranks. When he’s done, he tears up the parchment and fellas from The Gate hand it out to all the gang members at the maws of their stalls.”

“What goods parchment in a hell like that?"

“Who the hell knows — because they ate it!”

“They eat ’it?!”

“They eat ’it… and the loco shit don’t stop there.”

“Oh Lord…” the bartender said as sermons from his father crawled back to the forefront. 

“Each gang leader is marked with ashes on their right hand and on their forehead.”

“With what?”

“A Roman numeral two, best I can tell. Some say it’s the ashes of all who crossed The Gate. That Comanche medicine man the Deuce rides with supposedly stewards it.” He paused. “Who the hell knows…” he said, just as bemused as the bartender at his recollection.

“Well then what?”

“Well, the gangs was all waitin’ inside their stalls — hands on iron, the leather on their gloves creakin’. Couldn’t hardly see their shirts rise and fall from breathin’ neither.” Like I says, when the car stopped, its nose and tail pointed at two stalls — thems were the unlucky bastards who were up for the draw.“ That was the signal,” the drifter said. “No bell. No countdown. Just hell unleashed.”

“And?”

“Kinney gang was first on the draw. Must’ve been thirty shots before you could blink. Fourtyeight guns just barking in the night. Sparks lighting up the railyard like a hundred million fireflies. The smell of copper and cordite could choke a donkey.” He paused, “Fire and brimstone. Gunsmoke so thick it could hide the Rockies.” He took a quick sip,“Hell I couldn't tell who was screaming louder, the horses kicking against their pricks, or the fellas gettin limbs blown off.” He took another quick drag, almost missing his mouth “Two Evans boys dropped right out. Got filled with enough lead to sink an iron coffin. And funny thing was, they was the ones runnin’ their mouths most before it all kicked off — figures. Nobody liked them bastards anyhow. Few fellas dumped a few more rounds in ’em way after they was dead, ya know, for making sure.”

“Fire and brimstone…” the bartender mumbled. The drifter nodded. 

“Kinney boys rushed the railcar for cover. That’s when the Deuce — without even lookin’ up from his book, whistled. Loud. Louder than the train whistle, I kid you not.”

“He was readin’?”

“Ben-Hur. Like one of them fancy boys at a damn café. Calmer than a preacher’s mule he was.”

“What happened next?”

“Roundtable spun up again.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me…”

“One fella didn’t quite tuck in close enough — shotgun from under the train took his leg clean off at the knee. Deuce finished him from his seat, hundred feet if it was an inch. His Goddamn book still in his hand. Put it right between his eyes,” the drifter said, firmly tappin’ his finger between his eyes.

“Ain’t no way…”

“I wish I was foolin’, I tell ya what!” His voice was crackin’ as his recollection sped up. “I seen two maniacs charge at each other from each end of the railcar through a hailstorm of gunfire — wood splinters, cotton plumes, horsehair and sparks. Like a fuckin’ coffin gettin’ struck by lightnin’.” He dabbed a bit of sweat from his forehead where it was pooling. “I seen one poor fella so locked in on his target he fell in the service pit. Broke his leg. As he was screamin’ and hollerin’, doin’ his damndest, dodgin’ pot-shots from above, the damn turntable gears chewed him up.” The bartender winced in disgust. 

The driftter paused as his voice grew colder. “That’s when I noticed the Deuce startin’ to pay more attention.” His eyes locked with the bartender. “And let me tell ya, these men had enough ammo on ’em to sustain a regiment. Made Gettysburg look like Sunday School. Christ, some folks in the audience even got drilled by strays!”

“Get the hell outta here!”

“I’m serious. It was a fuckin’ nightmare.” He shook his head in disbelief of his own words. “Then reloads hit.”

“And?” The bartender was leanin’ nearly halfway over the bar.

“The Deuce whistled again, and Gate members started tossin’ in all manner of knives, old pickaxe handles, chains, blackjacks… all manner of skull crushers and throat slitters. No rules now. Just who’s brutal enough to join The Gate.”

“And the Deuce?” the bartender asked.

“Oh, he was at his feet now — hands behind his back, that grin of his… takin’ it all in.” The drifter’s hand trembled as he pinched down hard on the nub of his cigarette, eyes wide, desperate for one last drag. “Just when you thought shit couldn’t get crazier, the Gate started tossin’ random handfuls of different calibers into the ring — just as folks was settlin’ in on the short work.” He paused. “Chaos for the sake of chaos.” The drifter’s eyes got lost in his reflection once more.

Then came the smoke. Thick as sin. Screams bouncin’ off the corrugated tin. Hell, I seen one fella on hand and knee, scrapin’ up rounds in the black fog — only to find it didn’t fit his iron. Heard that hammer CLICK from across the yard… then they caved his head in with a rail spike.

One of the miscreants next to me swore he seen the Deuce light the whole ring on fire once. Said one match—some of the Gate was sayin’ that Bushwhacker of his was nothin’ without his guns.

That was a fuckin’ mistake.

He shuddered.

“He paused. “Son-bitch killed seventeen men with a mace he built out of all the rail spikes he kept from sabotaging union supply lines. Called it The Rebel Kiss.

“He knocked a whole crew into the fire pits with it. And they was the lucky ones.”

The bartender’s mouth hung agape.

“Gettin’ beat to death with a mace ain't no way for modern man to check out.” His head hung low. “They said the flames was fifty feet high—maybe a hundred. Some folks say they saw it from as far as Pikes Peak. Real lake of fire type stuff.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…” the bartender trailed off. A stray dog barked in the distance.The only noise shared between the two men for a moment. Neither bothered addressin’ it. The drifter nodded, takin’ another sip. “What’s the Deuce doin’ during all this?” The drifter’s head turned, lockin’ eyes with the bartender once more.

“He’s makin’ his way down the iron gangway into the heart of the damned battle. Musta seen twenty rounds skip off all around him. One hit right near his boot. He kept walkin’ like it was a cricket jumpin’ past.” The drifter slid his empty glass toward the bartender without even lookin’ at him. “Hell it was like the bullets were scared of hittin’ em!” He scoffed,  “But those last moments were the worst. I seen men drilled before — that’s hard enough. But when the clumps of hair start ripping, and the eye gouging starts, that’s a whole different animal.” The drifter's posture slouched from the graphic memory surfacing in his thoughts. “Worst part was, some didn’t just fight — they made sport of it. Had a taste for it. Got creative.”

“How ya mean?” The bartender asked, his mouth barely closing between words. 

“Oh, like it wasn’t enough to stick a man with a blade — they’d shoot ’em while doin’ it.”

“Why waste ammo in that kinda situation?”

“Don’t know. But I tell ya what I do know… Deuce liked them fellas most.”

The bartender stared back, speechless.The drifter continued, his voice as empty as ever.“At this point, the Deuce was ringside. Three Evans boys was all that was left. Last poor bastard — they finished a train wheel.” 

“A train wheel?” mortified beyond belief. 

“A train wheel.” He took another drink.

 “When it was all over, the Deuce and his four horsemen walked out to ’em.” Somethin’ about that crew.” His head slowly shook, “I ain’t never seen no one hold court like this.There was a kind of quiet that’ll remind a man of every sin he’s ever done.” He wiped the side of his mouth with his duster sleeve.

“They paraded out, Death Rider first. His pale horse wore a painted skeleton, bones as dark as old ash. People say they never seen that horse eat or sleep. It’s always waitin’ on its rider. He got the beast to prance real slow and fancy-like — not forward, not back, just dancin’ in place. One foreleg lifted high, hung there like a question, then set down soft. The other rose just the same. No rush. No stumblin’. Just rhythm. Haunting rhythm. Each step landed where the last one died, like the horse was tappin’ out an omen. It weren’t no jig or panic, it was control. Like the rider had strings tied to that horse's bones. The drifter’s fingers tapped the bar — slow, hollow. Echoin’ the hoofbeats of that pale horse. All while that rider lifted his dead head, pointin’ at each of ’em. “Hell, you’d think a string was liftin’ his arm if you didn’t know better.” He paused, shook his head.“On any other day, the beauty of the horsemanship would choke ya up — except when he done it, somethin’ goes cold in ya.”

The bartender sat stupified. 

“His Comanche comes next wearing the Gate’s mark — a bull skull with the blade through the mouth, snakes curlin’ from the eyes. Wore it like a priest wears a mitre. He danced to a spirit that only he could hear. His singing came from some place old, cut ya to the bone, like it remembered ya. Each step a heartbeat, each turn a prayer. He spread smoke around them fellas, wipin’ what was left of the ashes from their heads and hands. And that smoke, it didn’t drift, it hung around, like it was listening. Hovered round his back like a set of dark angel’s wings. The drifter spoke through the knot forming in his throat.  

“Then came that general and his butcher of a bushwhacker. General came carrying two things, a wooden box, and a bowl. Real formal like — like he was at some parade of demons. Then the bushwhacker takes the box and pulls out one of the prettiest Colt Navy’s you ever saw. Silver inlays ivory handle, intricate work. He points that thing at the winners and pulls the trigger.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK. 

Chambers was empty, but it hit all the same.

“Then he cracked open a bullet, dumped the powder into a bowl the General held steady—like he was holdin’ the world in his hands. Murderous hands. Hands with more blood on ’em than all the rest combined. They say he didn’t just fight battles — he ended lineages. Burned maps. Erased territories. He wouldn’t disable rail lines — he’d hit ’em like a twister. If he thought his men was gettin’ soft, he’d order a charge with no bullets. Just bayonets and scripture. Made General Lee look like some underage private.”

His breath quivered.

“Then comes the Deuce. He takes out a coin. Kisses it. Touches it to their right hand. Scrapes blood off the winners, dips the coin in the powder—presses it to their foreheads. Leaves the Gate’s mark in a bloody gray stamp—for all to see.”

“The bull skull with the blade through the mouth?”

“Mhhmm.”

“Snakes comin’ out the eyes?”

“That’d be the one.”

“That’s some kind of hell to go through for a coin.”

“The Mark ain’t no coin.” He paused. “It’s a key.” Not an inch on the drifter moved. He didn’t even blink. His cigarette smoke swirled around him as a stiff breeze crept through the saloon's squeaky double doors, as if the room had a say in the matter.

“A what now?” The bartender stopped polishing for a second.

“A key,” the drifter said. “To doors no one else knows is there. To places that ain’t on no map. And shit you only hear whispers of.” He tapped out the last bit of his cigarette just shy of it biting him. He let out a big bellow of smoke, like he was breathing out the last of the memory. 

“Well I’ll be...” The bartender said. As he came out of the spell of the story he looked around the bar. 

“Would ya look at that.” The bartender said to himself as he noticed the entire bar had emptied. No one remained. Not the piano player. Not the drunk miner. Nobody. Just him and the Drifter.

“So can I ask ya somethin’?” He asked, as his curiosity was still not satisfied. 

“Shoot,” the drifter said, sitting there like a draft horse with the yoke just taken off. 

“How do they get all these folks? You’re the first person I spoke with that was actually at one of these things. Everyone else, it’s just stories from a fella who heard it from a whore, and so on and so forth… that sorta thing, ya know.” 

“I guess they got an eye for talent.” The drifter said with a sigh. “Once they spot someone, they approach ’em. Ask ’em to do a ‘prove-it’ crime. They wanna see a man make his bones. That kind of thing.” The bartender nodded his head as he thought it over. His eyes skyward in thought.

“That tracks I suppose. I always heard stories about these gangs and their initiations.” He shook his head. “Crazy bastards, all of ’em.” He chuckled. 

The drifter began rolling another cigarette real slow.

“Yeah, for instance, if it was me, they’d probably notice I got a knack for seein’ things.” His tongue slowly glided across the rolling paper. “I notice what others don’t.” One last glide across the paper.

“Oh yeah?” the bartender said with a chuckle. “Like what?” He said as he went back to cleanin’ his glasses.

“Oh… like the fact that you been cuttin’ my whiskey with tobacco juice.”

The bartender paused mid clean-up, frozen like a deer. He turned to address the drifter who was now carefully rollin’ his cigarette.

“Now I wasn’t tryin’ to cheat ya, I just—”

“Or when a shotgun is bein’ pointed at my guts,” the drifter interrupted him abruptly without lookin’ away from his cigarette. “A shotgun you carelessly got too far away from…”He said, neatly packin’ his cigarette as he inspected it. “Maybe I noticed that you been busy for a stretch. So busy you needed a hair of the beast that bit ya,” he began reachin’ into his coat’s inside pocket, “means you haven’t run your money to the bank in a spell.” He pulled out a match, pinched between his hand and thumb, and brought it to the cigarette hangin’ low in his mouth. The bartender’s eyes began to water. The drifter flicked his thumb and struck an orange blaze from the match, and it released its pungent sulfur scent. “Fire and brimstone,” he smirked, carefully bringin’ his cigarette to life. His other hand came from his duster’s side pocket. He slammed it on the bar and slid it to the bartender before pullin’ it away. There on the bartop lay a Western Gate bull skull coin. 

The bartender stared at the coin. He found it funny how his mind fixated on it— like an old Roman piece, minted in the old ways, passing through the centuries. He couldn’t hear the stray barkin’ anymore. Something in him knew it still was. He chuckled nervously as memories of the old timers tellin’ him how the mind  plays tricks when the pale horse comes trottin’. A drop hit the bar — sweat or tear, he couldn’t tell. It made a singular tap. Snapped him out of the trance. His eyes drifted up and were met by the heavy blued barrel of a Colt Navy revolver, trained on his forehead.

“So I can ask you to go and empty that fat safe of yours.” He paused, “Or maybe I let ya go. Or maybe you get the drop on me with the gun you undoubtedly have stashed near your safe, for just such occasions.” The drifter smiled. “Who can say? Only one question left…

“What’ll it be?”