A Buckhorn Tale                    

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The Buckhorn Bar, a popular watering hole in this railroad town, (Laramie, Wyoming) favored not alone for the numerous mounted moose, elk and buffalo heads frowning in a line from the upper walls, but in the unwritten rule, generally accepted that male customers wear a hat.  from Hoople Bugknot’s WESTERN GUIDE

The hat requirement today is enforced with little more than a frown ~ ed note.

Dear Brother Dan, 

I'm writing to let you in on a few things you can expect at the wedding. First and most important, i've made a number of incredible exaggerations. I was drinking a lot back then, i wanted to entertain, you know me. I would appreciate you passing over without comment as casually as you can, any such outrageous stories if mentioned. This is the beginning of my new life. You know i've been through rough times and places, so have you, right? We do the best we can with what we're given. This time i would truly appreciate your cooperation, it would mean a lot to me. When you meet Jacqueline you'll know why.

So let me skip right to the big one, the first and biggest tall tale i told that made a big impression on Jacqueline. I’ve told it so much and not just to her that now it sounds true to me. It’s about how i took a bullet at the Buckhorn in Laramie. You heard that right; i got shot at the Buck. 

The story goes like this; you and i are there drinking (what else do you do in the Buck?) at a table by the window. A man at a table near us engages in a shouting match with a woman and storms around, shouting and threatening that “I will take care of you, witch!” (actually bitch but I’ve cleaned up my act and don’t use that word) We all hear the threats, the place is packed, there are catcalls, whistles and we're entertained mostly by her laughter as he stomps out into the snow choked streets. The mood swings back up, the Buck is crowded with the usual bunch; the pool players packed on one side so tight around the table they barely have room to make a shot but with plenty of room to shoot off their mouths, the bar and the tables in our section deep in smoke and talk. You know the scene. 

The time is about half past midnight, we've been drinking all evening and into the night with Dave. You remember Dave, the chemistry student? I tried to call him, by the way, to contact him and couldn‘t reach him. 

Fifteen minutes ~ half an hour after the screamer leaves, he is back and at first no one notices, then everyone notices because he draws a pistol and points it. In his hand a nine shot .22 cal. revolver, he yells at the woman and the blue steel rod of death he holds draws all eyes. The woman whimpers, faints and slides down her chair. As the clown with the pistol shouts and the crowd around him moves away a pool player, cue stick in a white knuckled grip, (sometimes in telling this tale i make this person a stout, tough looking woman, the type the Buck attracts, but you know she has a heart of gold big as the moon) steps up and tees off on the back of the pistolero’s head. It sounds like a home run, a ghastly thunk, a cinder block landing on a pumpkin.   

The fainted woman has hit the floor and corresponding to her arrival thereon and the bone crunching thunk is the sound of the pistol pop, 

louder over the dead silent crowd.

I feel that pop in my bones, my entire skeleton, i feel a tingling slither into my right leg that zips to the top of my head, instantly. 

A moment of complete silence, the breath of the crowd held tight, strangled and i know exactly what just happened. 

I was directly in the line of fire. You, Dan, were seated on the other side of the table and Dave had scooted toward you and turned around, having had his back to the action. I now feel strange, excited, at the center of the room and suddenly sober. The bullet passed over the woman and hit me in the right leg below the knee. 

The place erupts;  chaos, a customer gets the gun out of the shooter's hand and holds it up for the crowd and then passes it over to the 

bartender who stands on the bar holding his own revolver, an enormous long –barreled chrome .44. Some of the more timid in the crowd are easing out the door. The woman who fainted is administered brandy and looked after with thorough if rough care. I feel no pain as my right boot, warmer now than my left, is filling with warm fluid. The fluid is blood. 

"My God, i'm hit!"

"Man down! Casualty here! Corpsman! Medic!" shout faces in the crowd. 

Struggling to rise, pain closes over me. "I can make it!" i shout. Someone hands me a shot of whisky, i tip it back and, strange to say because you know i don't like whisky, it feels good going down.

All eyes were on me, i was the center of the action. You, brother, often told me that i do all i do just to get attention. This is a way of putting me down and i resented it, but this time you were a caring and supportive brother. If it weren't for you Dan, and Dave, i would never have made it out of there. The pitcher of beer we left on the table was valueless now. It would surely be taken care of by a customer, beer is never wasted in the Buckhorn; the important thing was to get me to the hospital. The pain was not yet hammering in full force as i walked out slowly with you and Dave on each side of me. At the door as the winter air struck me, dizziness and pain flooded over me. We were out in the snow, the temperature approximately nine degrees below zero, the streets and sidewalks lined with mountains of snow. I vomited in the snow and you picked me up and loaded me into Dave's old Chevy and on to the emergency room we wenr. Now that i think of it we could have got stuck in the snow and me bled to death, but i can’t end the story that way so we make it okay.

Pain and dizziness never completely overwhelm me. Even as this is happening i say to myself, “This will make a great story.” I was awake and mostly alert during the drive to the hospital, the removal of the slug with long curved pincers ~ refusing anesthetic so i can endure the pain and learn a harsh lesson of life, you know, bullet biting, but that Indian or Pakistani or whatever doctor chuckled, said, “You’re funny, eh?” and put me under anyway. I was released the next day in time for the victory celebration at Dave's. For the next few days i drink a lot, which i am not supposed to do, but i can’t get to sleep otherwise and even so nightmares thrust me awake again and again as i thrash around on my sweat soaked pillow.

The bullet, which just missed the bone six inches below the knee, was removed and given to me. I kept it on a leather shoe lace around my neck until i lost it skydiving. Yes, skydiving, but that's another story. When you hear of it Dan, just let it go by, if you don't mind, i'm talking about my future here. 

Dan, this Buckhorn fabrication is one that most amuses Jacqueline. I’m sure she’ll mention it. Skeet shooting is one of her passions so guns are nothing new to her. This story is from my ’difficult beginnings’ as she likes to call them so i’m asking you that if she mentions this tale or another bizarre story just laugh it off or tough it out  and let it go, nod and smile without elaboration because if you tell her anything different you will break her heart. In general i urge you to keep a lid on it. I may stretch the truth or in this case cut it up and put it in a grinder and rearrange all the details to feed my ego, but i am not malicious, i never do or say anything to hurt, steal or discredit reputations. Please do not, i repeat, do not mention any of this to anyone at the wedding and if anyone has questions refer these people to me. This is the rest of my life, Dan, i want to make a new, fresh start. Thanks for your cooperation. See you at the ceremony.

   He stopped, wedged the pencil above his ear and thought, ‘I’ll type this up and send it pronto, then maybe call just casually and say did you get it?’   

Oh my brother Dan, he thought sitting at the small table in the Florida room with a splendid view of the property. ‘I know this is going to be a strain. We competed too much, always pushed against each other, pushed to be better than the other. There’s no respect or love between family members engaged in this kind of one-up manship. It adds new meaning to the old saying that you choose your friends, not your relatives.’

“You wanted to see me?”  Jacqueline stood in the doorway.

“Come in and let me tell you about Dan. I think he’s going to be the only one from my side to give us trouble.”

She sat beside him. “Your brother, the unpleasant one?”

“Most unpleasant. If we don’t invite him he’ll come anyway and say something awful. He feels threatened by my abilities and talents and so he attacks. We all had it rough coming up, he was the roughest. We recognized his problem and try to help him live with it. We humor him, try to keep him balanced. He’ll accuse me of all kinds of things, lying and saying things that never happened. He enjoys tension. He’s what we call an 'emotional vampire.'” 

“We do know about those people,” said Jacqueline. 

“Yes, they like to upset people and feed on discomfort. It’s a control method. Sometimes i feel like just quietly sliding a knife between his ribs.”

   “Oh, no!”

    “But he’s family.”

“What exactly happened to him to make him like this?”

“Nobody knows, and i don’t remember doing anything to him. He’s older, maybe i didn’t kowtow like a younger brother is supposed to, maybe his inner life is dull and he needs pain to spark up. He’s not married, has no kids, no money, has no ambition for getting ahead. He rents. Sometimes i feel he was born to be a thorn in my side.”

"Well, i’ll talk to the crew and everyone and we’ll be ready for old Dan.” They spoke awhile longer about family and interests and preferences for accommodation. 

“Thank you, Love.” They embraced and almost kissed when she pushed him back and gently laughed.

“The pencil,” she said and pointed. He removed the yellow rod from above his ear and they kissed. 

“It’s going to be good,” she said.

She left him and he again sat and looked out the window at the forest encircling the house and a long driveway curving into it. 

  ‘Is there more i can write?’ he thought and picked up the pencil and paused. 

'When i say i do to her,’ he thought ‘i will, by God, stick to it this time.’ Aloud he announced, “It’s my last chance. I will stick to her, i will.”

   He saw before him her gentle eyes. “I’ll stick, this is my new beginning. I will never lie again, never ever lie again!” He gripped the pencil and the pencil broke. 

end of “A Buckhorn Tale.”                           

Where i come from (Wyoming) gun control is how steadily you hold your weapon. Sen. Allan Simpson (R)