DelMonte’s spurs jingled, and dust billowed from his boots, as he pushed through the swinging door. He paused and surveyed the room, looking for any possible threat and when he was satisfied he made his way to the bar. He fumbled a bit with his duster as he pushed it back to ensure easy access to the ivory handled six-shooter he wore strapped to his leg. There was supposed to be a button back here somewhere that would keep it back and out of the way. That would keep his gun handle clear. When he finally found it he worked it through the button hole, shook his shoulders to ensure that it held and touched his piece, for luck.
The bartender hovered near, eager to attend but not too close. You never knew what would set off a man like DelMonte, gunslingers can be a touchy lot. He cleared his throat.
“What’ll it be Mr. DelMonte?” he asked.
“How do you know my name, Barkeep?” DelMonte asked, his hand resting at his side, poised to unleash lead if need be.
The bartender hooked his thumb over his shoulder indicating the poster that was tacked over the bar.
Wanted, Dead or Alive, it read, and DelMonte saw his picture smiling back at him. “What’s the bounty up to?” he asked the bartender.
“Twenty-five hunnerd dollars.”
DelMonte scowled and nodded his head. All he said was, “Whiskey. Make it a double.”
The bartender slid away, a man in his element, to fetch the drink.
An older show girl sidled up next to DelMonte and put her hand on his shoulder. “How ya doin’, Butch?” she asked him. She smiled and her tobacco stained teeth peeked out from beneath her painted red lips
He glared at her, “Damnit, Mom, what’re you doing in Idaho?” he growled in a whisper, “And, don’t call me Butch. My name is DelMonte.”
“What’s wrong with Butch?” she pouted, “I gave you that name. I like that name.”
“Not tough enough.” He said. “Listen, Mom, you gotta leave me alone or folks will figure out we’re related. I can’t afford for my enemies to know that there is anyone I care about. They’ll come after you.”
“Well, I love you too, I guess.” She stared at him for a moment. Waiting to see if he would respond, “I have to get ready, DelMonte. I go on in a few minutes.” She said to him and turned; heading backstage.
“It’s just not that simple.” He muttered to himself and slammed the palm of his hand down on the bar.
The bartender jumped at the loud report and grabbed a bottle and glass. He scurried down and set them in front of DelMonte, “On the house, sir.” His voice quavered a bit. The last thing he wanted was an angry gunslinger in his place.
Butch DelMonte reached for the bottle and pulled the cork with his teeth, staring at the bartender, watching him back slowly away. He smiled and his tobacco stained teeth peeked out from beneath his mustache.
39 minutes but I was interrupted by a phone call. Still probably a bit more than 25 though. Sorry.