I Want My Money by Chris Bunton

I Want My Money by Chris Bunton

Saul Johnson sat in the corner of the Golden Nugget saloon in Deadwood, in 1878

His back was to the log wall, and his eye was on the door.

His Colt Navy was laid out on the table before him, because he waited to kill a man who had double crossed him.

The barkeep wiped the bar of roughhewn wood as best he could. His was a working joint for the miners, not one of those fancy places in Kansas City.

The floor was dirt. The tables were rickety. The outhouse trough outback stank. But the whiskey did its job.

The barkeep walked over and opened the door of a rusty potbelly stove and chucked in a few pieces of wood.

 He shut the door and went back to his bar, knocking down cobwebs with a flour sack rag.

“Are you planning to drink any whiskey? Or are you just gonna soak up the heat?” He yelled over at Saul.

“I’m waiting for someone.” Saul said.

“Maybe I should charge a waiting fee.” The barkeep said. 

He looked at Saul expectantly. Then walked over behind the bar.

“Ok, give me a whiskey.” Saul said.

 He reached inside his duster and fished a coin out of his vest. He placed the coin on the table beside him, well away from his pistol.

The barkeep brought over a double shot glass and a bottle of watered-down rye.

He set the glass down before Saul and poured the shot while glancing at the pistol.

“You plannin trouble?”

Saul looked him in the eyes.

“What if I am?”

The barkeep shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the bar, where he positioned himself right next to a hidden double-barreled shotgun.

The front door opened.

Saul laid his hand on the pistol, but it was only the preacher.

He brushed snow off his coat and stamped his feet on the muddy ground covered with straw by the door.

He looked around and saw Saul.

Saul removed his hand from the pistol as the preacher approached.

 “Saul, I know Pete owes you for that horse. But don’t do this. He’s your brother in Christ. We all go to the same church. He sits right down the aisle from you every Sunday.”

“Not next Sunday.”  Saul said, matter of factly. “That seat will be empty.” 

“Don’t do this, I won’t allow it. I will get in front.”

“I’ll put a bullet through both of you.” Saul said. “You know where I came from and what I can do. I ain’t some dirt farmer.”

“Don’t. ” The preacher said.

“If he pays me the money, we’re square. If not, you’ll be doing a funeral.”

“Saul, we are called to do better and let God help us to do it.”

“I’ve been shooting better, and God calms my shaky hand.” Saul said with a chuckle.

“We’re getting too old to be killing everybody who crosses us…” The preacher started.

The door opened and Saul grabbed the pistol and stood up when he saw it was Pete Hunter.

Saul raised the pistol, cocked it and took aim. 

Pete raised his hands, with the right one holding a leather wallet.

“I got your money Saul. Let’s just let this go.” Pete said moving closer.

Saul uncocked the pistol and lowered it.

“Glad you see it my way.” Saul said 

“Now Saul, the man…”

The front door slammed open, and a man charged in with a double barrel, followed by another drawing a pistol.

“You gonna kill my Daddy!” The shotgunner said, raising the scattergun to draw a bead.

“No son!” Pete yelled.

Saul moved, flipping up the plank table as the preacher covered his ears and crouched down.

The shotgun blast ripped through the table missing Saul as he cocked his pistol and moved to the side aiming and firing, then cocking again.

“Saul! It’s my boy!” Pete yelled, as his eldest went down with a slug in his chest.

Saul dropped to a crouch and fired again sending a slug into the other shooter who fired a shot into the roof.

 “No!” Pete yelled. “Andy!”

Pete drew his pistol and fired at Saul. Missing his head by an inch.

Saul cocked and put a slug through him.

The saloon was filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. The barkeeper peeked out from behind the bar, holding his shotgun, but not where Saul could see it.

Saul walked over to Pete’s body and picked up the leather wallet. He holstered his pistol and headed over to where the preacher was crouching still covering his ears.

Saul kicked the pastor’s boot, his ears still ringing from the gun blasts.

“Here pastor, I know you’ll do the right thing.” Saul said tossing the wallet to the ground in front of the squatting pastor.

“There will be four empty seats come Sunday. I’m pulling up stakes.” Saul said, as he headed out the door.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Chris Bunton 2025

Image Source: Marc Snailum from Unsplash