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As weeks dribble by a few, usually unattached males, in various stages of rags, line up, all in need of what we have. What we will share for a price. To be sure, we have little but willing to exchange, trade. How they gained these “treasures” of no interest, only their value.
They arrive and announce, “I got a bundle of wood.” Or groceries, or silver, few had gold.
We checked the product out. If barter is a possibility, they waved the individual in (through a second gate). Security and sharpshooters on high alert. They would meet gate rushers with an unfortunate event. If the trade is not doable, we redirected them out.
If doable. Their horse, should they posses one, led to the stable to be fed and brushed. The product collected. The Guest taken to the main dining room. Enter. Stopped inside the doorway. Then directed to remove all firearms and/or knives. These items are to be placed on an adjacent table while agents watch then weaponry moved to a nearby room.
Visitors are upset. Complaint registered.
“What the f……, no one told me.” Now two security staff surrounded our guest, and the request repeated.
“Place you weapons on the table, we will return them upon your exit.” Always a tense moment. So many ways this could go south. Trust no longer carries any weight, just an archaic word. Moments pass.
Options limited, do or don’t. The plastic sheet covering the floor below has a purpose.
My treat, “pay” for the evening: bread/butter and peach cobbler.
Weeks pass and the word spreads. Before sunset, a line forms. Using this process, we quickly reach capacity. A guaranteed ticket, wood.
There are multiple points of conflict: the gate, the check-in, stabling the horse, and the entry where weapons quickly gathered and secured. Conflicts fortunately resolved, so far. Friendly welcome extended, physical warmth, perceived normality, a meal, interaction with people, time to relax. Always the question, “Can I stay?”
“No, we’re sorry, but stop by again.” Then sent them on their way with a treat, hope.
My week had arrived to serve at the entryway, greet and meet. The next guest approaches with a swagger. The hair on my neck stands up, adrenaline, a feeling? The guest, a young buck, had that look, cocky.
“Greetings, welcome.” I shared.
“Evening,” spoken while surveying the room.
“Please place you weapons on the table. Secured then, returned upon your exit.”
“No.” he replied without hesitation.
Silence. Waiting. Wondering his intention.
“Sorry, we cannot seat and serve you until you disarm, I assure sure you, we will return your weapons.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I will keep them, unless you think you can take them.”
There is a fine line between confidence and foolishness.
Why, during my week, would I get that one person who intended to choose to push back? He presented himself, determined, ready to prove a point at someone’s expense, mine. I expected the threat to follow. I knew he was faster. Speed was not my super power. Since ammunition limited, practice nonexistent.
“You noticed the two agents?” I said.
Here it comes. “You don’t appear to be all that handy, likely never used you gun, surely faced no one down.”
Not true.
“Well, for the last time, place your weapons aside.” Like that was going to happen.
“Better idea. I’ll let you move first, then I’ll drop you and the guy to my left, then right.”
“You’ll never know about these two.”
The room lacked sound, the few standing behind, slowly slipping away. I could invite him in. I could disengage. Confident that no one else would be intervening. Unlikely, the two additional guards were interested in stepping forward, here because they drew a slip of paper. Assigned to protect me? Did they just take a half step back?
Stood slowly. Duster was open. Pulled the left side open away from my hostler. Exposing my revolver. Slow, don’t show fear. Put right hand under the right side of coat, reached behind to pull the left side of the duster back away to clear the left side, use the left hand to push the duster back.
He adjusted his right hand. Twitchy.
Removed the strap of leather over the thumb break.
In one motion, I pulled a revolver from my back holster, SOB holster, aimed center mass, and squeeze the trigger, all to the surprise of the victim. It was over. Buckled at the knees, dropped to the floor, yet to move his hand. No expression, just fell face first onto the plastic, the floor, as blood oozed out, absorbed by his shirt.
You judge, was this self-defense or murder? I was still standing, shaken, and alive.
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